possible in person.
âHow are the children?â
âOh yes.â
âAre they in bed?â
âOh yes.â
Angel thanks God she is not standing in front of Gosha, as she might have to strangle her.
âIs Jem there?â
âOh yes.â
âWell, can I speak to him then?â
âOh yes.â
The pleasant myth that has run through their marriage was that Nick was the main wage earner and Angel a fluffy housewife. Now it is true, and it works as astereotype, particularly in London, where Angel has nothing to do except focus on Nick. He has been in town all week, mainly in Great Titchfield Street seeing suppliers, as well as talking to accountants and generally making himself busy. And unreachable. His phone was off every time Angel rang it, and she planned to bring this up over dinner. When they finally sit down, the need to confront him drains out of her. Is it worth it? She hadnât had anything important to say to him anyway. They order and begin trying to talk, but the conversation is desultory.
âI saw that article about Elastex in the paper today,â offers Nick with the main course, scratching a patch of dry skin on his arm. âTheir shares are up.â
âGreat.â Angel stabs a cherry tomato and forks it into her mouth, hoping it will block the stream of frustration rising in her throat and beginning to course through her. How can he be so â so NOTHING? How can he not have a life? How can he still have eczema?
How can he not have anything to say to her that a man should say to a woman, not even, âYour hair looks niceâ? Angel tries to feed him that line by telling him she had it cut that afternoon. For her this is a sensual experience, and her fingers return every few moments to comb through the silky coolness of its length.
Nick looks past her at the waitress standing by the bar and his eyes dart up and down her body. Angel follows his gaze with her own eyes and sees a ballet dancerâs poise in the slender back and waist, highbuttocks and long legs of the waitress. Her hair is tied in a long ponytail, and her shoulders are brown beneath a scoop-necked top. She is about nineteen, Coralâs age. Angel looks back at Nick and the pupils of his eyes are deep black wells of desire, a tiny ring of blue around them. He is still watching the waitress. Angel eats another tomato and examines in herself the feeling of lonely realisation. Nick would like to sleep with this girl. Right now he is lost in the fantasy of having sèx with her and Angelâs presence is forgotten. It surprises Angel that this hurts her so much. After all, she stopped wanting to sleep with him long ago, and now only does it to fuel her own occasional fantasy or because she knows she ought to. But human feelings are not always rational, or containable. Angel feels sick and drinks some water, and imagines Coral who is afraid of nothing, making a joke out of it.
âSheâs sexy,â she says, finally deciding that to ignore Nickâs behaviour is cowardly.
âMmm, I guess so, if you like the Eastern European model,â says Nick, reverting his gaze to Angel with a blinking, wide-open-eyed stare that she mistrusts far more than any amount of refusing to meet her eyes.
Walking home, Angel crosses the road before Nick to look over into the canal at the water beneath the lacy grace of a summer-green weeping willow on the bank just south of the bridge. Nick is behind her, fiddling with his phone; he pauses beneath a street lamp sending a text, not glancing in Angelâs direction.
âHey there, dude, what the fuck are you doing?â A teenager, not looking where he is going, walks into Nick, and recoils exclaiming. Angel is walking ahead now, and several of them surround her, passing her, jostling, hitching up their jeans to maximise their loafing gait. Nick catches up; he leans towards her and his breath is on her neck.
âDo you find this lot
âHow are the children?â
âOh yes.â
âAre they in bed?â
âOh yes.â
Angel thanks God she is not standing in front of Gosha, as she might have to strangle her.
âIs Jem there?â
âOh yes.â
âWell, can I speak to him then?â
âOh yes.â
The pleasant myth that has run through their marriage was that Nick was the main wage earner and Angel a fluffy housewife. Now it is true, and it works as astereotype, particularly in London, where Angel has nothing to do except focus on Nick. He has been in town all week, mainly in Great Titchfield Street seeing suppliers, as well as talking to accountants and generally making himself busy. And unreachable. His phone was off every time Angel rang it, and she planned to bring this up over dinner. When they finally sit down, the need to confront him drains out of her. Is it worth it? She hadnât had anything important to say to him anyway. They order and begin trying to talk, but the conversation is desultory.
âI saw that article about Elastex in the paper today,â offers Nick with the main course, scratching a patch of dry skin on his arm. âTheir shares are up.â
âGreat.â Angel stabs a cherry tomato and forks it into her mouth, hoping it will block the stream of frustration rising in her throat and beginning to course through her. How can he be so â so NOTHING? How can he not have a life? How can he still have eczema?
How can he not have anything to say to her that a man should say to a woman, not even, âYour hair looks niceâ? Angel tries to feed him that line by telling him she had it cut that afternoon. For her this is a sensual experience, and her fingers return every few moments to comb through the silky coolness of its length.
Nick looks past her at the waitress standing by the bar and his eyes dart up and down her body. Angel follows his gaze with her own eyes and sees a ballet dancerâs poise in the slender back and waist, highbuttocks and long legs of the waitress. Her hair is tied in a long ponytail, and her shoulders are brown beneath a scoop-necked top. She is about nineteen, Coralâs age. Angel looks back at Nick and the pupils of his eyes are deep black wells of desire, a tiny ring of blue around them. He is still watching the waitress. Angel eats another tomato and examines in herself the feeling of lonely realisation. Nick would like to sleep with this girl. Right now he is lost in the fantasy of having sèx with her and Angelâs presence is forgotten. It surprises Angel that this hurts her so much. After all, she stopped wanting to sleep with him long ago, and now only does it to fuel her own occasional fantasy or because she knows she ought to. But human feelings are not always rational, or containable. Angel feels sick and drinks some water, and imagines Coral who is afraid of nothing, making a joke out of it.
âSheâs sexy,â she says, finally deciding that to ignore Nickâs behaviour is cowardly.
âMmm, I guess so, if you like the Eastern European model,â says Nick, reverting his gaze to Angel with a blinking, wide-open-eyed stare that she mistrusts far more than any amount of refusing to meet her eyes.
Walking home, Angel crosses the road before Nick to look over into the canal at the water beneath the lacy grace of a summer-green weeping willow on the bank just south of the bridge. Nick is behind her, fiddling with his phone; he pauses beneath a street lamp sending a text, not glancing in Angelâs direction.
âHey there, dude, what the fuck are you doing?â A teenager, not looking where he is going, walks into Nick, and recoils exclaiming. Angel is walking ahead now, and several of them surround her, passing her, jostling, hitching up their jeans to maximise their loafing gait. Nick catches up; he leans towards her and his breath is on her neck.
âDo you find this lot
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