Angel Cake by Helen Harris Page A

to ask her all sorts of questions. Like, what were you wearing, not your fox, I hope? How old is he? What colour eyes? Exactly how long was it before …? But she found that she was being waylaid by her own digressions. She kept telling the story of herself and Leonard instead. It was, she conceded, a much better story, but she knew the ending. She couldn’t understand why it was, when she was so keen to find out about Alison, that each week she ended up talking about herself instead. It must be Alison’s fault, Alison who was so interested and grateful.
    She cut a sorry figure, Alicia thought. She wore such funny clothes and she didn’t wear any make-up. Alicia could have suggested lots of ways in which she could improve on her appearance, because she had the potential. But she didn’t feel she knew her well enough to venture a suggestion. She wasn’t sure that she should bother anyway, because every week when Alison had gone, she was always filled with resentment. Why had she given so much away? It wasn’t time which worried her, or the tea and cakes, but private information. What had led her to share so many of her memories? She had forgotten the slippery slope of conversation.
    When Alison had left, Alicia thought after her. She imagined her cycling back home to Holland Park, to her good-for-nothing Robert. She had difficulty in imagining Robert until the day she remembered a young workman she had once seen drilling a hole in her road. He had been dark and thick-set and powerful, wielding the heavy drill with careless muscles. Walking past, Alicia had realized with a shock that he was handsome, in spite of his filth and hishairiness. She had stopped beside the roadworks and, pretending she needed a rest, propped on her sticks, she had looked surreptitiously sideways to enjoy another glance at his manly torso. When she imagined Robert, she thought of the workman. For she had decided that Robert must also be handsome, in a coarse way. He was dark and well-built and looked a bit of a bounder. Just thinking about him in her empty front room, Alicia shivered. She saw brave little Alison going cheerily back into the sugar white house of her imagination where inside she, Alicia, knew the big bad wolf was waiting.
    Given the chance again, would she have let Alison in when she first came calling? Walking up to Mr Patel’s to buy some biscuits when the fancies were finished, she thought it over.
    Mr Patel welcomed her. ‘Back for more cakes, heh?’
    ‘Biscuits,’ snapped Alicia.
    Mr Patel’s kindly face tipped from side to side conspiratorially. ‘So many biscuits.’
    ‘I have a visitor,’ said Alicia.
    ‘Visitor!’ said Mr Patel. ‘That’s good.’ He gestured at his shelves of biscuits as though, Alicia thought angrily, he was inviting me to bloody help myself. She was annoyed with herself for having answered him. She didn’t have to give him an account of her actions. She smacked the biscuits down smartly beside the cash register and waited proudly in silence for him to ring them up. Really, she didn’t know what had got into her; she was starting to have conversations with people left right and centre these days.
    She was astounded when Mr Patel sadly picked up her biscuits and shook his head. ‘Biscuits are good,’ he told her, ‘but not always only biscuits. Vegetables are also good, eggs are also good, milk, milk products, pulses.’
    She was so astounded that she couldn’t answer him. But all the way back down the street she was fuming, thinking up what would have been crushing replies to his impudent sales talk.

*
    My first appearance in public with Rob, the first announcement to his friends that I had come on the scene, was typicallyenough also a party at Jean’s and Eddy’s. It was about a fortnight after our first night together. I was in a terrific turmoil. The euphoria over the reckless bravery of what I had done had given way to worry and uncertainty. Maybe, deep down, I actually hoped