‘How’s Angelo?’ I wanted to keep her talking.

With his long, lank hair, gaunt face, dark clothing and multiplicity of tats, Anna’s partner wasn’t exactly Mum’s idea of the perfect son-in-law. (‘You wouldn’t want to meet that fella down an alley on a dark night.’) But he was great: compassionate, interested, sure of himself without being obnoxious. And no matter what Mum might mutter to herself, hot in an intriguingly ugly-beautiful way.

At first glance you might think, No. No way. But after two seconds of talking to him, you’d go, Waaaait a minute. Then you’d be full-on, Right! I get it! He’s far from typical and I love it!

Spacey but grounded was the best way to describe his unusual outlook on life. His energy (and he spoke a lot about ‘energy’) was wise and calming, which meant he was skilled at talking people down from ledges.

Now, he meditated—and, unlike me, he actually did. Twice a day, every day, for at least a decade and it seemed obvious that he didn’t spend each twenty-minute session worrying because he’d forgotten to take the curry out of the freezer for that evening’s dinner.

Considering he was the most non-pushy person you could imagine, it was a surprise that he worked as an art agent. New York art sellers tended to be total sharks. But instead of harrying people into buying things they couldn’t afford by inventing other fictional purchasers who were right outside, flinging handfuls of money at the door, Angelo was full-on ‘if it’s meant to be’. If a client was dithering over a painting, he’d say, ‘Why don’t you guys take it home, see if it works in your space? Nah, no need for a surety, you’ve good energy—honest energy.’

When Mum heard, she declared that Angelo was a complete fool who deserved to have dozens of paintings stolen.

‘Never happened,’ Angelo said. ‘Not once.’

‘Not yet,’ riposted Mum, who launched an immediate enquiry into his income, interrogating him until he admitted he earned ‘a fortune’. (Her words.) (He’d never be so crass.)

As Anna was an ex-spacer who had infiltrated mainstream society but still had floaty tendencies, she and Angelo made perfect sense.

‘He’s great,’ Anna said. ‘He’s always great.’

22

‘Roxy,’ I said. ‘As you’re leaving on Thursday—’

‘AWWW!’ Dennis bellowed.

I gave him a stare that abruptly shut him up.

He was looking better today, a lot cleaner and neater—because last night he’d persuaded several women to launder his clothes, to sew missing buttons back onto his shirts and to dab away the worst stains on his suit. He’d outsourced all the labour and it was a metaphor for his life—there would always be someone to save him.