"I suppose that horrid business last night was all planned?"
Angela's voice was sullen and uninspiring as we sat down to breakfast.
"Deliberately getting me drunk," she went on, "then all that nonsense about showers and suntan lotion? It wasn't at all nice."
"Felt okay to me," I replied, grabbing the marmalade which she seemed unwilling to pass. "Apart from the slight mishap with my bath-towel."
I hoped my light approach might have removed some of the tension, but it was not to be. Angela shook her head wildly, screwing up her face to shut out the world like a baby hedgehog. I reached for her hand, but she pulled it sharply away.
"Angie, sweetheart, listen," I pleaded. "Last night we did what we both thought would be okay, and I'm sorry if it upset you. I promise I won't ever let it happen again."
But it clearly wasn't a matter to be pursued. Angela was determined to remain aloof, so I changed tactics and asked when Alec was flying over.
Her expression brightened at once. "Oh, some time next week," she murmured, a glint in her eye belying the casual tone.
"Good," I said, but didn't mean it.
It didn't take Angela long to prepare for departure. There was no goodbye kiss, no promise of a next meeting. It was as if we'd both been on a business conference, our brief friendship now to be written off as a non-event.
I escorted her in silence to her car and waved a dutiful goodbye before returning to my lifeless flat. Would it ever feel like home again with no Angie curled up on the settee beside me?
In the spare room, I found Angela had made the bed as if her sheets would suffice for my next guest. The pyjamas which had cutely adorned her the night before lay neatly folded on the eiderdown. I picked them up and uncovered an envelope addressed to me. It seemed such a theatrical gesture I needed several minutes before I felt ready to read it. I poured myself another cup of coffee and studied the handwriting - small and neat, suggesting that her words had been well thought out before she put pen to paper.
"Dear Richard," it said, "I don't know how else to put this. After making a fool of myself in your bathroom I felt disgusted and humiliated. No doubt you meant well - men always say they mean well when they do intimate things to a girl - but I couldn't bear that ever to happen again. I wanted to come to your room last night and tell you in person, but I couldn't face you, not any more, in case you did even worse things to me. Richard, I admit I'm the one who's odd, not you, and I'm sorry if you feel let down, but that's the way I am, and you should realise that by now. I've told you enough times, I'm not the kind of girl you want, and I never will be. I'll always think well of you, in a sisterly way, but that's the only kind of friendship there can ever be between us. Love, Angela. P.S. Thanks for the loan of your pyjamas, I must buy some just like them when I can afford it."
My next move was spontaneous but predictable. I reached for the phone and dialled Betty's number, hoping for a word before Angela got there. But Betty had now equipped herself with an answering machine. Which of the girls would pick up my message first? I didn't want to embarrass either of them, yet I wanted them both to know how thoroughly dejected I was feeling.
"Hallo," I said wearily. "Betty, I'm sorry, but it didn't work out. Angie seemed so warm and friendly last night, it was great and I truly felt at last we were getting close. I told her everything, and she was very kind, bless her - and she looked so cute too in my oversize pyjamas. But it seems this morning she's changed her mind yet again. I've never known anyone so uncertain as to what she wants, but at least she's now made it painfully clear where I stand. She left a few minutes ago, like someone checking out of a hotel. No friendly goodbye, no nothing. Not even a thank-you note, though that may come later. Oh, God, Betty, I haven't felt this low in years. Perhaps you know the feeling yourself, my dear, in fact, we should meet some time and cheer each other up. God knows, Betty, I need cheering up. Anyway, thanks for what you did. At least you are still a good and reliable friend. Thanks for trying. 'Bye."
I expected a response all day, and when the phone finally rang in the evening, I leapt at it with the agility of a gazelle.
But it wasn't the call I was waiting for.
"Dickie, how are you? I've had the most lovely letter from your friend Betty - you know, the nice one."
"You mean the divorced one, Mother."
"Is she, dear? I don't remember. Anyway she was asking me whether she ought to return the dress we lent her - I'm sure you know the one I mean - so I've written back and told her it definitely wasn't mine. I advised her to ask you if it's to be kept or thrown away. Hope I did the right thing."
"Mother, you always do the right thing. What else did she say?"
"Nothing of interest to you, dear. Except, what's all this about some American man called Alec? I don't understand."
"Alec is her ex-husband, Mother, remember? Betty's the divorced one, I just told you."
"But she says she's thinking of returning to Massachusetts to live with him, Dickie. That can't be right, surely?"
"Why not? He is her husband."
"Nonsense, dear, he can't be, not if she's divorced. Didn't I say you'd get left behind if you didn't watch out? I suppose you're still hankering after that other weepy one, what's her name again?"
"I'm not hankering after anybody, Mother."
"Well, you should be, a lad of your age, unless there's some truth in what your sister keeps hinting. But I can't believe that, Dickie, I really can't, in spite of everything we know about you."
I was clearly expected to rise to this innuendo, so I ignored it, saying: "What's that? No, I'm fine, Mother. How are you?"
"Not too good, dear. I get so tired these days, and lonely too. When are you next coming to visit me?"
"As soon as I can persuade a certain young lady to join me."
"There's no need for her to return the dress, you know. Believe me, we don't want it back here."
"Then I'll suggest she takes it to America. I'm sure Britain will be a far healthier place once it's free from such contamination."
"So, will you tell her that, Dickie, or shall I?"
"I'll tell her, Mother Hen. She has an answering machine, so I'll be able to leave a message just as soon as you hang up."
"Don't leave a message, Dickie, you tell her, you hear me? And while you're at it, talk her out of this idea of moving to America. Ridiculous place to go and live! Whatever next?"
"Fine, I'll explain about America when I see her. 'Bye Mother! Thanks for calling."
I immediately thought of phoning Betty again, but realised everything had already been said. And what if Angela should answer? What was the point of saying anything to Angela? Even if she offered me her undying love, she'd no doubt retract it before nightfall. An on-going relationship has to be built on stability and trust, not on the quicksands of Angela Partridge's shifting emotions.
I had a relaxing bath, alone, with the light on.
A whole week passed before Betty phoned, and then her call lasted a bare ten seconds.
"Richard," said a desperately weary voice, "unless you've got company I'm driving over now. Is that okay?"
"Of course, Betty. You sound fed up - what's wrong?"
I caught a faint sniffle before the line went dead. Clearly she was in some kind of trouble, either over Alec or because of the unpredictable Angela. I quickly tidied my flat to an acceptable standard, and waited for the doorbell.
It took her twenty minutes. Betty stood at my door looking pale and exhausted, and wearing the dress that had once belonged to Dolores.
"Oh, God," she sighed, "I've done this before, Richard, made an ass of myself in your presence. Sorry, but I just need to ... I need someone to ..."
She came tumbling forward, her mouth twisted grotesquely, tears running down her cheeks. I stood and held her in my arms. Explanations weren't needed, not yet. After crying for quite a while, she finally broke free with a long, quivering sigh.
"No doubt you're wondering what that was in aid of," she breathed, "or does this sort of thing happen often here?"
"Nothing I can't handle," I said. "Can I get you a drink?"
"God, yes! If you guarantee to deliver me home in a bucket, Richard, you can get me plastered sky-high as the bloody moon. Oh shit, I'm sorry about this. Damned embarrassing all round."
"I've known worse," I said. "At least I'm wearing more than just a bath-towel. And I do admire your latest outfit. Is gin and tonic okay?"
"Go heavy on the gin. Sorry, Richard, I'm hurling myself at you like a penniless refugee."
"Don't worry about me, Betty. It's Saturday. The night is young and I've no appointments till Monday morning."
I gave her a strong gin and tonic and poured one for myself. Mine was barely half the strength, but it nearly blew my socks off. I recoiled from the first sip to find Betty had almost finished hers.
"Sorry again, Richard. Humility isn't my style, nor is blatant alcoholism. I didn't come barging round here just to get sozzled. The truth is I got damned near to taking fifty aspirins tonight. If you hadn't been in, bless you, I might have swallowed the entire bottle. I didn't, you'll be pleased to hear, but life's been a real bitch these last few weeks and today was the final straw. Glad you noticed the dress - at least someone has good taste."
"Alec?" I probed carefully.
She nodded, then shook her head wildly showing abject distaste.
"Oh, Richard, my good friend. Would the world were full of guys like you. I'll get to it soon, but for the moment I need the anaesthetic. It's not as lethal as aspirin, but the pain's beginning to shift. Cheers!"
"Cheers, Betty! Thanks for writing to Mother Hen, by the way, that was good of you - but there's no need to send the dress back. It looks fine where it is."
"Thanks. Angie told me some of what went on during her last visit, but I'd still like to hear the rest from a reliable source. I mean, I obviously can't know what else I don't know - does that make sense? This stuff works fast."
I told her I hadn't videotaped Angie's visit, but promised a detailed report if she had time.
"I have time, Richard, believe me, my saviour, I have time." Betty drained her glass and thrust it at me like a child wanting more. "Perhaps on the next ride we'll throttle back to half-steam, now the ship's under way. Oh, Richard, you are a brick!"
"Meaning I have a heart of stone?"
"You have a heart, Richard, which is more than I'll say for some. Oh, Richard, I must be the biggest, dumbest bloody sucker that ever crawled out of a swamp."
I refilled her glass as I saw fit.
"That doesn't sound like the Betty I know," I said, "but take your time. Sit down and relax - you're wound up like an alarm clock. Take a dozen deep breaths and ease yourself gently down to my level."
Betty lay back on the settee and stared at the ceiling.
"Oh Richard! What a week! Alec arrived on Tuesday into Heathrow. I suggested Gatwick, but no, Alec insists everyone uses Heathrow, so naturally Heathrow has to be better. Then he slept two solid days, except for visiting various local pubs. Angie wanted to keep out of the way - she even offered to stay in a hotel, but Alec wouldn't hear of it. And do you know why, Richard, my poor lamb? Because it's prim little Angie Partridge he came all this way to visit. That mixed-up, vulnerable, sweet-faced girl - just his type - he must have sized her up the minute we stepped off the plane in Boston. All this crap about starting over with me? Bullshit! Pardon my language, Richard, but I'm not in the mood for pulling punches. That scheming sod came over here with the sole purpose of screwing Angie. And you persuaded me to fall for it, you rotten devil."
"Now, Betty! I was very careful not to persuade you. I helped you to make up your own mind, that's all."
"Well, I offer you no gratitude for that. Anyway, the bottom line is that Angie and Alec are flying back to the States early tomorrow morning after spending the night together in some seedy West London hotel, and they bloody well deserve each other, that's all I can say. I'm not jealous - don't get me wrong. I'm just pig-sick over the way I've been trampled on and used, and then shoved aside like a stinking heap of manure once I'd served my purpose. They must have such contempt for me, those simpering twits. I'm trying to control my language here but it's ... oh, Richard!"
"Let it all come," I said as she slumped heavily into my arms. "Poor Betty, just cuddle up close for as long as you need. You certainly won't get trampled on here, so relax and let me know if there's anything else I can get for you."
I had a fair idea of how Betty was feeling - her bitterness and deep resentment. This innately good soul had fallen victim to a smooth-tongued philanderer who denied her the chance of giving motherly love to her own son, and now she was suffering betrayal by her best friend.
"You no doubt'll despise me for asking," she murmured at last, "but could I beg one final dose of the Prussic Acid?"
I remembered the special bottle I'd prepared weeks earlier, and I took delight in presenting it for Betty's amusement.
She looked vague at first, frowning as she read the words. Then she started laughing, a laughter soon mixed with tears.
"That wasn't meant to upset you," I said tamely.
"It didn't. I don't need toys to upset me, I get all the upsets I need from so-called friends. No, Richard, my angel boy, it shows you're human, which is a rare quality among those who invade my life. I guess you had that ready as a private joke the night we let you down? You see - I must have meant something to you even then, or you wouldn't have wasted time trying to impress me. Thank you, Dickie. Bless you! You know something else?" she slurred, looking up with earnest eyes. "I wish someone could explain to me just what it is about Angie that makes her so damned attractive to men like you. We're so different, she and I, yet I can't avoid the conceited notion that I'm the one who's normal."
She leaned back and smiled dreamily. "I know I'm gabbling away like a clockwork clown, but let me tell you a little fable, Richard - something I noticed over at your mother's place. On the wall in our bedroom were two decorative hats. One was a simple straw hat, covered with embroidery and a few ribbons. The other's far more ornate, far prettier, but made out of glazed pottery. To me that second hat depicts Angie, brittle, impractical, - attractive to look at, yes, and a very pretty ornament - but bloody useless at a hat. Me? I'm the plain straw job, nothing fancy beyond a few bits of ribbon, but I'm a real hat, Richard, not a ceramic fake. You could wear me comfortably on a sunny day."
I said I'd look a right jessie in a ribboned hat. Betty stared extra hard for a moment, as if debating whether to pursue a point I'd carelessly raised.
"Yes, you probably would," she nodded slowly. "Richard, tell me honestly about this dress. Did you once wear it yourself, my love, or what? Angie came home with such a strange story, and frankly I wasn't impressed by what she said, or the way she said it. I've nothing against human frailty, but she was wallowing in blatant gossip at your expense. She didn't have a lot of respect for you, I'm afraid."
"Few people do," I said. "I'm gradually getting used to it."
"She was mocking you, saying you could only make love if you had a life-size doll and dressed it up in all kinds of kinky clothes."
"The clothes were never kinky. I can't imagine where she got that idea."
Betty nodded. "I can. Her father encouraged her to wear some pretty outrageous outfits when she was with him - you know, French maids, leather, rubber and plastic, with dog-collar spikes - that sort of thing."
I refilled our glasses, and couldn't help giggling at the idea of Angela, strutting around her father's house in fish-nets and a rubber leotard - it seemed so totally out of character.
"Betty," I said, "what happened to me was quite innocent, though the family enjoyed using it to tarnish my reputation. To put it simply, I found this window-dresser's dummy. I called her Dolores and kept her hidden in my railway room. But after a while I felt embarrassed - with her standing there stark naked all the time - hence the clothes. I thought I had explained all this to Angie. It was an adolescent outlet in the days before I knew what true sexual feelings were, but I still see nothing wrong in it. I found a good silent companion, but I certainly have no life-long hang-up about needing sex with a full-size plastic doll."
"So you bought this dress for Dolores?"
"Sure - others besides, lots of things, underwear, everything. It was an ordeal at first, marching into a ladies' dress shop to ask for bras and tights, but I got used to it - I told them it was for my invalid wife. I knew they couldn't possibly imagine it was for me, not in size 12."
"But you used to dress and undress her yourself - surely that gave you some kind of a turn-on?"
"I won't deny it was more fun than playing with a chemistry set. But I assured Angela I treated Dolores with the utmost respect, just as I would anyone else. Your average male may long to rip off a girl's clothes and climb into bed for a quick one-sided thrill - but I never developed into quite such an animal. For me a girl has to be a friend first, someone I can care for, respect, and make happy. And if I fell in love I'd naturally want her to love me in return, not because I'm a gorilla in bed, but because I'm gentle and kind-hearted. The sexual side undoubtedly adds to a relationship, but it's no substitute for true love. I don't know though - perhaps after my experiences with Angela I'd be safer with just a doll."
"It can't be much fun loving a doll whose flesh is as hard as a rock."
"Dolores's biggest virtue was that she never uttered an unkind word. And if you knew my sisters, you'd know what a relief that was, to have a friend who always smiled back, and accepted my presence without making any catty remarks. I truly am grateful to Dolores, even if she was plastic."
"It's a loony thing to admit, Richard, but I'm envious. Genuine love is all too rare. So if you can spare any for a non-plastic doll who's also a size 12, I could use a whole bowlful of tenderness right now."
I assured Betty the supply was in no danger of running out.
"Good," she sighed dreamily, "because, unless you want to drive me back in my condition to an empty, friendless house, you may have to do as much for me tonight as you did for Dolores. You see, Richard, it's all very well getting the hots for a cute little girl like Muffet, all dainty and feeble, and sexy as a rabbit. But I agree with you - companionship is about two people knowing each other so well you sail through life with hardly any misunderstandings. I bet you felt you always had to be on your best behaviour with Muffet, eh? Hard to relax with someone like that. Isn't it just as important to have a real friend? Okay, if friends are of opposite sexes, then it makes for some extra fun and possibilities - but it's the unity of two spirits that counts with me, the sense of being one. I'm sorry, I'm rambling in a sort of hazy daze here, but I'd like you to realise I'm incredibly contented at this moment. Does that bother you?"
"Not at all, Betty. It gives me a sense of fulfillment."
"Except you don't find me the least bit sexy. You weren't at all keen on the idea of marrying me. Yet in the short time we've known each other, Richard, have I ever been dishonest or distant with you? What you see is what you get, I'm afraid. I've never manipulated anyone in my life and I'm not starting now. Perhaps that explains my downfall with Alec, I was too damned up-front. Richard, I feel so different with you. It's as if I've finally arrrived home."
"Maybe you have."
"Tell me, did you love Dolores enough to want to kiss her? In fact, why not try kissing her again now? You haven't held her in your arms for such a long time. She'll feel much softer now, I promise. So soft and much, much warmer. Sorry. I'm losing all sense of reality here, Richard, everything's spinning round. You're going to have to look after me. But please, whatever you do, don't take me off to a dark attic to pine on my own. Don't leave me, please...."
As Betty drifted into oblivion, I carefully unbuttoned her dress the way I'd unbuttoned it many times in my youth, and I carried her in my arms to the spare room and laid her on the bed. Her white slip made a very presentable nightdress. Anything else she could remove in her own privacy.
After making sure she wouldn't roll over onto the floor, I kissed her goodnight and crept out. It was still only nine o'clock, hardly time for bed, so I reached for one of my videos, poured myself a tame drink, and relaxed to the nostalgic sound of steam on the Settle and Carlisle.
Yet my mind dwelt on other things. What was so different between these two girls? Angela, the "weepy" one as Mother described her, the vulnerable one, the excitingly feminine one - and Betty, the one I trusted implicitly, a loyal reliable friend who pulled no punches and gave it all straight from the shoulder.
And it slowly dawned that, apart from the Sunday morning in Bourton, I'd never seen Betty in anything but trousers, whereas Angela spent most of her time wearing a dress.
Moments ago I'd held in my arms a much more feminine, more vulnerable Betty than ever before. Was it any wonder she'd done little for my hormones on our midnight walk, with her hair in dank strands from the rain, wrapped in my heavy overcoat, both of us standing within hailing distance of my Mother?
I crept into the spare room. Betty lay curled on her side, with her thumb in her mouth. The child without parents was giving herself the only comfort she knew, as perhaps she had done for thirty years. Self-sufficient but sad, self-confident yet bruised, Betty was now asleep in my flat where she felt totally safe and secure.
In the half-light I bent down and studied the sleeping form. Her complexion was soft as Angela's, her hair more natural in colour. Here lay honest goodness, abused by circumstances, used unkindly by ill-chosen acquaintances, a needy friend seeking a liberal dose of alcohol to blot out the hurt, enjoying a brief spell of tranquility and blissful peace of mind.
Dear, good Betty! She'd weathered her share of storms, and taken more than enough in hard knocks. She had put her trust in Alec who had twice betrayed her. She'd been loyal and considerate towards Angela who had repaid her hospitality shamefully. Now her bruised faith was placed in my care.
It may not have been a raging fervour, but at that moment I truly loved what I saw - a newly-awakened love that wanted Betty's continued trust and her friendship. I wanted her to know how deeply I cared. That much would suffice, for now.
In the kitchen, as I made myself a strong cup of coffee, I sensed someone creeping up behind me, someone who extended both arms over my shoulders and gently kissed the back of my neck.
"If there's enough coffe for two," said a husky voice, "your guest would welcome a cup."
I told Betty that for her I'd fly to Colombia and grow coffee beans myself if I had to. I asked how she liked it.
"Strong as the gin," she said. "Richard, I have to confess something before we go any further."
"Don't tell me there's a rat in your beer?"
"There'll be beer tonight in my ex-rat," she grinned, "but let's waste no more words on him. I need to be honest with you."
"Aren't you always?"
"I try. And when I'm not, I make quickly amends. Richard, I came here this evening, desperate for friendship and consolation. But when I said I wanted you to get me plastered sky-high, I had other thoughts in mind too - desires, in fact, yelling for you to use my body as a dishrag. I wanted to hurl myself on your mercy, hoping you'd get equally drunk and do what lots of men do. I wanted that, Richard, but I'm not proud of wanting it. And I'm not proud of asking you to soak me in booze till my dignity drains to the dregs. I've always known you as more an Angie fan than a Betty fan, but I was hoping I could change that. The confession I'm leading up to, Richard, is that I deliberately wore that dress this evening, hoping it might kick your hormones into action. Now I feel shabby and cheap, and I'll go on feeling shabby and cheap until I've made you realise how cheap and shabby I feel. End of statement."
I handed her some coffee and she headed off towards the spare room.
"Back to bed again?" I asked. She didn't reply, so I followed.
"Don't put light on," she begged. "Leave the door slightly open. I talk better in the dark. Will your conservative upbringing allow you to climb on the bed beside me?"
I had no problem with that.
"Just lie here, Richard, and hold me. Don't say anything. Just listen to what I have to say."
I lay and I listened.
"I woke in a blind panic just now. The light wasn't on and the door was shut. That's one of my worst nightmares, finding myself alone in the dark. Darkness I can take if there's someone with me, and I can cope on my own as long as I can see, but not both at once or I get terrified. I used to get so lonely, Richard, frightened that everyone had gone away. That's the main reason I welcomed Angie to my house. But perhaps you noticed, the moment she became a threat, I needed my light on. So, please, have you got a small night-light for this silly little baby?"
"I'll find something," I promised, "and you're not a baby."
"Oh, but I am. I was a bed-wetter till my teens. And if you want to know the real me, I still suck my thumb. You see, Richard, it's like when people go to a studio to get their portraits done. The photo they come out with isn't the real person, it's a shop window, a spit-and-polish image made for the world's inspection. Angie acts her way through life looking every inch the studio portrait. Me? I'm afraid I'm not half so good as Angie at disguising the real me."
"I think I saw the real Angie in the end," I said.
"We both did. Or maybe there never was a real Angie, not one she ever revealed to you or me. But even Betty needs to shut out reality sometimes, till she feels she can face it. Jonathan's death hasn't fully hit home yet, because it hasn't altered my daily life. But it will. In one sense I lost him years ago, but reality's bound to kick in soon, and when it does I hope you'll be around to help me, Richard, because I don't think I can face that alone. So in one sense, I'm not the real Betty either, not yet. I'm convinced there's no real Alec, just a wild and devious philanderer, a flirtatious bum, and a cunning, calculating liar. Is there a real Richard Bird in there, I wonder?"
"Yes," I said, "his name's Dickie. He's a sensitive little boy, and his sisters tease him mercilessly till he cries. That was their goal, seeing Dickie in tears. It served to reaffirm their female superiority."
"There's no difference, you know, between a man and a woman."
"Really? Have you been spreading this around?"
"I'm serious. We like to pretend there's a difference because we have different sets of names, different voices, different clothes. We're granted unequal salaries, we play different social roles, and our bodies are different. Otherwise we're practically the same. The world's divided not into males and females, but into winners and losers, the tough and the tender. I've played tough for years because that was my only ticket to survival in a tough world. I'll go on playing a straightforward game because I can't bear anyone to think I'm devious. But in place of the framed studio smile, if you want to spot the real Betty, see what comes crawling out of this room first thing in the morning. Richard, how long can I stay here?"
"There's no parking meter, Betty. No double yellow lines."
"I need a companion, Richard. I've spent too long living on my own. You live alone - is that from choice?"
"It's my freedom." Seeing two raised eyebrows, I added: "Freedom from Mother Hen, and freedom to enjoy my trains."
Betty sat bolt upright. "You have another train set?"
"No. Just videos. But they provide some of the pleasures I need."
"Would a resident companion get in your way?"
"Not if we gave each other enough space. We do get on well together, don't we?"
"You got on well with Dolores too. What other qualities did she have?"
"Many, but few of them ideal. Her opinions were useless. All she could really boast was a superb figure and a blissfully placid nature."
"Like me. Remember what you were saying to Angie about respect and dignity?"
"I didn't notice you behind the curtains."
"Angie isn't as discreet as some of her friends are, Richard. I reckon every word you ever said to Muffet was relayed to me, with embellishments that you'd hotly deny. Did you ever put your hand up Angie's skirt?"
I felt a hot blush of indignation. "Certainly not."
"Wishful thinking then, who knows? If a man behaves too freely with Angie she's down on him like a ton of bricks, but act the perfect gentleman and she'll soon grub up your reputation. She kept saying she found you nauseatingly too good to be true. I guess we can both say the same about her. A chap in our office like to preach that women are a snare and a delusion. I agree some are snares, many are delusions, but we few who happen to be neither just get shoved around."
"Betty, trust me - I've no intention of shoving you around, though I will try to be less nauseating."
"Don't take it to heart, my love. That was Angie's view, not mine. But some girls want that. If you don't shove them around, you're branded wet and weak - unlike the great Sir George. Richard, I told you I never gossip or break a confidence - a rule I've upheld nobly till now. But when I think how that little minx has leaned on me all these years... Richard, I'm going to tell you something else about Angela, something I've only just realised because I'm generally too dumb to see the bad in anyone till it's too late. Richard, our Angela is a practicing sado-masochist. I was getting her room back to normal last week, and quite innocently I glanced inside her wardrobe and saw an amazing armoury of paraphernalia hidden away, kinky gear she must have used for her father's bizarre sex-games. What I didn't realise was that she'd hung onto all this stuff and smuggled it over to my house."
"But why would she want to keep it?"
"You tell me. Myself, I'd have carted it to the tip weeks ago."
"And you really think that's the real Angie?"
"Why else would she hang on to all that clutter? So forget those pathetic tears and that innocent little-girl-lost routine. I reckon Angie's biggest blow after the old man's death was no longer having anyone who would go along with her fantasies and weird sexual practices she tried to camouflage as parental abuse. Want to know something else? The wardrobe's now empty. It seems her secret hoard is now on its way to the United States - if she can get it through customs. Sorry to shatter your dreams, Richard, but I've had it up to here with that girl. Today, your generous, reliable, independent Betty needs a fresh start. In that respect we are still very different, you and I. I need security more than ever now. You're still revelling in your freedom."
"You can have both, you know. Couples can enjoy freedom too, provided they both want the same thing."
"We both want to love and be loved, don't we? Dolores didn't offer you enough love, I'd say."
"She loved me enough not to hate me," I said.
Betty squeezed my hand hard.
"Clinging hard to my dignity, Richard, I love and trust you enough to hope you've just found yourself another Dolores, if you want her."
"What if I don't? What if I want the new Betty model instead?"
"Then we'll have to go on searching through skips till we dig one out, provided she's not too shop-soiled. I can always sponge her down if need be. Angie told me about the shower episode, and it set me thinking. Did you ever hear of those sudden flash floods in the American Mid-west? They get this tremendous deluge that lifts plants clean out of the ground, including what little topsoil there was. Next day the water's all gone, leaving nothing but devastation. Compare that with England's gentle showers that caress our plants, brighten up our gardens, and make things grow. I see Angie as a flash flood. Myself I see as good old drizzle. Your brief journey with Muffet was a roller-coaster ride, all ups and downs, uncertainty at every bend, and you still ended up back where you started. Me? Maybe I am just a simple round-the-town bus service, but I'm extremely reliable. But before you nod and tell me I'm built like a bus, I'd better go back to the shower analogy. Was that fun, showering with Angie?"
"At first."
"Until your hormones misbehaved. Whatever did you do to her? I think it'd be a good idea if you showed me - just so I understand. But you'll need to help me out of the rest of Dolores' clothes first."
"The rest are Betty's clothes."
"Not entirely. Your mother went to great lengths to describe the entire outfit, and I went and bought these specially. Hope you approve?"
"Betty, my love, the clothes don't mean half as much as the person inside them."
"Nevertheless, you chose well. Oh, Richard, my love! I want to try being your sort of girl, if you'll let me. At least we could give it a go and see how we make out. Your own advice, remember, about living with Alec? And later, if you think we may have a future together..."
"Then that's the time we tell Mother Hen, and not before, or we'll both find ourselves in very hot water."
"Let's run it pleasantly warm to begin with, eh?"
Above the soothing sound of gently cascading water we both heard the telephone ringing in the front room. And we both shook our heads and grinned. It rang and rang for two whole minutes. But I wasn't coming out of our private seclusion to answer it. Not this time. Not for anybody.
THE END
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