‘Don’t she look a picture, Donny?’ asked Dora nervously, smiling, holding on to Angel’s shoulders.

Donny’s eyes were moving over Angel. She felt a shiver go through her as those cold eyes touched her skin.

‘Yeah,’ he said at last. ‘She looks lovely.’

Dora straightened, patting Angel’s shoulders. Then she turned and pushed past him in the doorway. ‘I’ll get the tea,’ she said.

She left Angel standing there in front of the mirror. Uncle Donny lingered in the bedroom doorway.

‘Christ, you’re growing up, aintcha?’ he said. ‘You’re not a little kid any more.’

Angel shrugged, feeling uneasy. ‘I’d better get changed,’ she said.

‘You know, I was there on the night you were born,’ said Donny. ‘Who’d have guessed then that you’d grow up like this?’

‘Well, I . . .’ Angel could feel herself blushing, she wasn’t used to compliments.

‘Looking like that, we ought to take you out somewhere. Celebrate your birthday.’

‘That was two weeks ago.’

‘Still. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

Being taken out? Christ, she never got taken anywhere. Of course she’d like it.

‘OK then. We’ll sort something out,’ he said.

83

It was hard for Angel to pinpoint the exact moment when Donny transferred his ‘affections’ – if you could call them that – from her mother to her, but the pink dress was in there somewhere, right at the start of it.

It caused Angel all sorts of conflict, this sudden attention from a man in his thirties, a handsome mature man – when all she had ever known were blushing boys with bumfluff on their chins, boys whose balls had hardly dropped.

Also, he was her mother’s man. Well, no – he wasn’t even that, not really. He was a married man, a father, and her mother was his bit on the side. Now, inch by inch, he was pushing Dora away and turning his attention to Angel.

They were getting ready for a proper meal out. This was unheard of. Dora was getting glammed up, smearing on too-red lipstick and too much mascara, which made her look even more like a hopeless old tart. Angel put on the pink silk dress. Donny arrived at the flat, ready to take them out, and then all at once he said: ‘Dora, you look tired.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ said Dora.

‘No you’re not. You’re worn out, you’ve been working too hard.’

‘No, I . . .’ started Dora.

‘So you ought to rest. Put your feet up. I’ll look after Angel. It’s not a problem.’

Angel looked at her mother’s distressed face. When had he last taken the poor cow for a meal out? Angel couldn’t remember when. And now he was saying Dora wasn’t coming.

‘Really, I’ll be fine, I’ll . . .’

‘No you won’t,’ said Donny in a tone that said that was the end of the conversation. ‘You sit yourself down, have a rest. Come on, Angel.’

Angel knew she should say something. She should say she’d like Mum to come. But she felt tongue-tied, felt the sting of her mother’s humiliation at being relegated, and also she felt a tensing, a nerviness set in as she thought of an evening alone with Uncle Donny. She wouldn’t know what to say to him. She wouldn’t know what to do.