His friends must know he was married. Maybe they also knew about Dora, being kept in that horrible old flat across town. She caught one or two smirking looks, like the men were thinking That dog Donny, look at the young honey he’s picked up now. She thought they admired him for it, and none of the girlfriends seemed to care much either, but some of the wives were sniffy toward Angel, snubbing her. At ten, with the orchid corsage rubbing and pinching her wrist, she told him she wanted to go home.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, holding her too tightly as they smooched around under the revolving glitterball to ‘Annie’s Song’ by John Denver.

‘Nothing! Just tired, that’s all,’ she said, trying without success to pull away. ‘Been on my feet in the shop all day.’

He looked at her, long and hard. ‘OK,’ he said at last, and then they had to do the rounds of saying goodbye to all his mates and the girls and the sour-faced wives.

When at last they were back outside in the open air and heading for his car, Angel felt like she could breathe again. She slipped the corsage off, stuffed it into her bag, rubbed at the reddened skin on her wrist. They got in the car and he drove them back to the flat in silence. He parked up outside and switched off the engine. Silence fell and they sat side by side, not speaking.

Then at last he said: ‘So what’s up, Angel? Really?’

‘I told you. Nothing. I’m just tired.’

‘That’s a lie.’

‘No, it . . .’

‘Come on. You’ve been moping about all evening. I think I deserve an explanation.’ Frowning, he glanced down at her hands, clenched together in her lap on top of her evening bag. ‘Where’s your corsage?’

Angel rubbed at her wrist self-consciously. ‘It was pinching. I took it off.’

‘Shame. You going to tell me what’s going on?’ He turned in his seat so that he faced her.

Angel shook her head. Her mind was whirling, turning over all that Dora had said. She’d heard the rows, heard her mother crying out in the night. With ecstasy? With pain? What? She thought of the times she had seen Dora emerge from the bedroom, dead-eyed, cringing away from Donny when he followed her out.

‘Come on,’ he said.

‘It’s just . . . well, none of this is right. It shouldn’t be me here with you tonight. It should be Mum.’ Or your wife.

In the pale wash of the outside lamplight, she saw his face harden. ‘Your mum’s a drunk.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘It’s the truth.’

Yeah, but maybe being with you drove her to that, she thought. Maybe you’ve been choking the life out of her, slowly but surely, for a long, long time.

Silence fell again. Then Angel said: ‘I . . . I know you’re married.’

Donny was staring at her. ‘You what?’

‘You’re married. I know about that. I know where your wife lives, I’ve seen her with your kids. I’ve seen you with her.’