‘What’s your favourite subject?’ he was asking.

‘Art.’

‘That won’t get you far in life.’

She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t expect to get far in life, anyway. Not like his kids, who would no doubt go on to further education, university, and then carry on to rule the whole fucking world.

‘I like it,’ Angel shrugged.

‘Fair enough.’

Silence fell between them. The pianist was playing ‘Autumn Leaves’. It was a sad song, wistful, and it made Angel think of Dora, back at the flat, alone and excluded. She sipped her drink for something to do. She hated it. But the heat of it seemed to relax her a little. Then the waiter told them their table was ready, and they went through to the dining room, Donny steering her with a hand on her back. Treating her like a lady again. Like she was grown-up. Against her better judgement, she liked that. She didn’t like him, but she liked the way he was acting tonight, it made her feel special.

‘We’ll have to do this again,’ said Donny after he’d ordered the wine to accompany their meal. ‘Make a regular thing of it, Angel. Just you and me.’

She didn’t know what to say to that.

What about Mum? sprang into her mind. What about your wife?

But she didn’t say anything. She was too shy, too used to being the silent one.

84

After that first night out with Donny, Angel found herself drawn back to the house where Donny’s wife and children lived. Sometimes Tommy came with her, but more often she went there alone. Over the weeks that followed their meal together, slowly but surely Donny drew away from Dora and focused his attention instead on Angel. More dinners followed that first night, and Donny behaved impeccably, looking after her, treating her nicely, while Dora stayed home, alone.

It grieved Angel to see her mother’s disappointed face when she and Donny went out the door, and it grieved her even more when Dora looked at her with resentment, when she began to treat her coldly. Dora had never done that before. Always, even when drunk, she had been warm and caring with her daughter. Now, a veil of suspicion hung between them. Angel was half-waiting for her mother to accuse her of something, maybe of leading Donny on, of encouraging him to cut Dora out of things. But none of that was true. Donny made all the decisions, not Angel. She didn’t know how to object to anything he suggested.

She felt a sick sort of fascination when she stood across the road and stared at his other house, his other life. Inside, things would be nice, orderly; you could tell that just by looking at the woman Donny was married to. She was neat in her person and would be neat around the house, too. The washing would be done, and the ironing, and his meal would be on the table the instant he came home in the evenings. Inside it would be cosy, and the Maguire family would chat and laugh together, like proper families did.