Angel Cake by Helen Harris Page B

that Rob would then drop me; that would have confirmed my lifelong expectations. After all, the only other man I ever cared for, my father, also vanished. It would have confirmed my instinct, reinforced by my mother’s teaching, that men are not sound structures on which to build your life. But Rob seemed all set to continue. Everything he did seemed determined to disprove my black pessimism; he said why didn’t I keep a change of clothes in his wardrobe, he talked about what we could do together over Christmas. At Jean’s and Eddy’s party, he stood up for me.
    Jean and Eddy were not terribly taken with me. And since politeness isn’t part of their code, I could tell it. In fact, none of Rob’s friends seemed especially impressed by his latest conquest. It was my fault really. I hardly said anything because they intimidated me and I behaved like a dim, dumb appendage of Rob’s, just the role they would most condemn.
    It wasn’t only the age difference between us which daunted me, although of course that counted. I had never been in such a concentration of up-to-the-minute people. Here was a roomful of projects and pressure groups, movements and workshops, clothes of strident contemporary colours and hair cut in fashionable bristling shapes. Hung with my old jewellery and my flower-painted silk party shawl, I felt a little like the Ghost of Christmas Past. I told a tense blond man, Andy Ellis, that I worked in the Decorative Arts department of a museum and he said vaguely, ‘Oh, right, right.’ Then he drifted off and left me. Jean made a conscientious point of talking to me about toys and I suggested some lovely reproductions which I could easily have made for Adam Pluto, but she was disgusted by my suggestions. She didn’t want him to have such awful sexist role toys, she said, nor militaristic models.
    Rob stood up for me. Although he was among his friends and high on the sale of his third play and obviously enjoying himself, he kept coming back to me throughout the eveningto see how I was getting on, to help me out. He seemed oblivious to the obvious fact that none of them thought much of me. Perhaps he didn’t care. Of course, I thought miserably, I am only one in a long succession. What does it matter if they don’t like me, when I’ll soon have a successor too?
    But Rob hasn’t lapsed from that early dedication at all. A year later, he still seems as determined as ever that he and I should go on. When I wake in the mornings and see his back, with the two moles which we call ‘On’ and ‘Off’ beside me, I still can’t quite believe my luck.
    It’s been a funny time since his birthday, though. He’s having a lot of trouble with the last part of
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where the computers start to take control, and I think it’s getting him down. I suggested he took a complete break over Christmas and we went away together somewhere, but he told me he didn’t believe in running away from problems. He wanted to stay and battle it out. He didn’t even notice the tacit offer I had made of not going home to my mother for Christmas.
    A week ago, he came home early from his sitar lesson while I was out at Mrs Queripel’s. Usually, he stays and has tea with his teacher, Anand, but that day Anand had something on. When I came back, I was a bit flustered to find him there. I knew the moment I opened the front door that he was back because the Chubb wasn’t drawn, so I had the front hall in which to prepare myself, while he called from the living room, ‘Hi, where’ve you been?’
    ‘For a walk,’ I called back.
    ‘No accounting for tastes,’ he answered. (It was cold and drizzly.)
    I came into the living room. Andy Ellis was in there too. I was shocked that there had been nothing in Rob’s voice which told me there was someone else with him. I stood in the doorway and I must have looked disconcerted.
    Andy, who was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up, straight away went into one of his ‘rigid with