‘You can send on my P45. Stick your wages. I don’t want nothing off you. I got better things to do with my time,’ said Angel, and turned on her heel and walked out of the shop.

What, though?

She really didn’t know.

‘God opens one door and he slams another,’ Dora had often laughed bitterly.

Poor Mum.

Now Angel didn’t even have a job, but she felt better for having given that horrible old cow a mouthful. She’d had it coming, that was for sure. She caught the Tube home to the flat, trudged up the stairs fishing her key out of her handbag – and stopped short.

There he was again. The blond rock god. Lenny Axelford. He was nearly obliterated by the vast bouquet of bright red, orange and lime-green flowers he held in his hand.

Angel stood there at the head of the stairs and looked at him. He looked back at her. Then she said: ‘That job still on offer then?’

He squinted at her. Seemed taken aback. Then he said: ‘Yeah. If you want it.’

‘Accommodation?’

‘What?’

‘Is there accommodation with this job?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Stuff you, then.’ Angel went to the door and stuck her key in the lock.

‘Hold on. I came here to give you these.’ He thrust the flowers into her arms.

Angel looked at them, then at him. ‘And?’ she said.

‘And what?’ This wasn’t going at all the way Lenny had expected.

‘And you still wanted to offer me a job. But I’ve said if it doesn’t come with accommodation, I don’t want it.’

Lenny started to smile. ‘You’re a mouthy little mare,’ he said in wonder. ‘Your cousin Tom is assistant manager, and even he don’t get to live in. So why would I be offering the bar staff a roof over their heads?’

‘You bring all your bar staff flowers?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘Oh do piss off,’ said Angel, and went into the flat and closed the door behind her.

99

Days later Donny came in, dumped a long parcel by the door, shrugged off his jacket, placed it over one of the chairs. Poured himself a brandy.

‘Christ, what a day,’ he said.

Angel sat there on the armchair and looked at him. She wouldn’t sit on the couch – she hadn’t, ever since finding Dora dead on it. Donny was very handsome, very appealing she supposed to most women. But he was a snake. A cobra, waiting to strike. He’d pushed Dora to suicide. And he would push Angel the same way, she knew it – if she let him.

What did he expect her to say? She wasn’t some Fifties housewife, there to mop his brow and cook his meals. He got that at home, didn’t he? Here, he expected a mistress. He expected glamour, entertaining chat, sexual gymnastics. That was the role he’d foisted on Dora, and Angel could see him already manoeuvring, herding her into the same way of life that her mother had suffered for so long.