But now he was ushering her out the door and it was closing on Dora, who was standing there, all done up, her face a picture of misery. Angel averted her eyes. Yes, he was a bastard. He was cruel. But . . . she felt the tug of him, just the same. He was so handsome in his tailored suit, and he smelled nice, of Old Spice aftershave, and the scent of it seemed to make her head spin.

In the enclosure of the car, it was even worse. She felt tongue-tied, inept. He parked up at the restaurant, came round, opened her door for her. He was treating her like a lady. Then he led the way inside, into a hushed red-carpeted interior with padded gold-coloured chairs. A piano was being played in the corner, beside a big gleaming bar. They were handed menus in the lounge section, and offered drinks.

‘Two Martinis,’ said Donny, not even consulting her. Angel had never had alcohol before. She wasn’t sure she wanted it now, she had seen what it did to her mother, but it was a done deal. He’d ordered it, and now he set about selecting what they would eat. When the waiter came back and took their menus and said he would call them when their table was ready, she sat there in a vast armchair, sipping on a drink that tasted vile and burned her throat when she swallowed, while Donny lounged back, one leg crossed casually over the other, and smiled at her.

‘What d’you think of it, Angel? Nice?’

He was talking about the drink. She nodded, not wanting to offend him by saying it was the worst thing she’d ever tasted. There was a round green thing on a stick stuck in it, too. She had no idea what that was, but she didn’t like the look of it.

‘Do you like olives?’ he asked her.

Angel shook her head. She’d never tasted one, and she didn’t want to start now.

‘I do,’ said Donny. ‘I have a bitter taste. I even like lemons.’ And he chomped the olive down to demonstrate this, spitting the stone out into his hand and dropping it into the ashtray on the table between them.

‘So – school. Going good, is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s OK.’

‘Did your mum tell you about the holiday I planned for us? Shame we couldn’t go. Pressure of work. You know.’

Angel looked at him. The bastard. Yes, Dora had told her about it. Cried about it. He had told Dora that they would be going abroad soon, Spain maybe, take a break. Dora had been excited about it, anticipating a rare treat. She’d started looking at clothes, swimsuits. She’d got hers and Angel’s passports all arranged. Then Donny had cancelled. Now Angel wondered if he had ever meant for them to go at all. Whether it was just another thing to torment Dora with. Dangle a treat under her nose and snatch it away. That was how his mind worked.