John’s voice cut across her thoughts. ‘Had a good weekend?’ he asked, as she hung her jacket on the coat-stand. All the other staff were busy on the phone, including Ruth – thank God.
‘Fantastic!’ She had spent Sunday afternoon venturing into churches, hesitant at first, but gradually growing bolder as she discovered angels everywhere – in windows, statues, paintings and stained glass. How could she have ignored them all her life? It was like Mike and motorbikes. Before she met him, motorbikes were just noisy nuisances, but, slowly, under his guidance, she had begun to learn the subtleties; the vital difference between one machine and another – just as now she knew the difference between an angel and an archangel, a Dominion and a Throne.
Humming to herself, she sauntered into the kitchen, to check the supplies of tea and coffee and ensure the cups were clean. She had washed most of them on Friday, just before she left, but more had been dumped into the sink since then. She scoured them thoroughly, wiped down all the surfaces, then made a shopping list. Coffee-creamer, biscuits, sugar, were all in short supply, so she would buy those when she went out for lunch. She was used to running errands in her lunch-hour, because the other staff were often too busy to leave their desks and just grabbed a quick sandwich between interviews. In any case, why should they want to hobnob with the ‘dogsbody’?
Once she’d finished in the kitchen, she darted out to the office, to check that the consultants had everything they needed: time-sheets, notebooks, terms-of-business forms. Libby’s phone was ringing, unanswered on the desk, so she picked it up, smiling as she spoke, as John had taught her when she first arrived. (‘You can hear a smile,’ he’d said.)
‘Alangate Agency. How can I help?’ Usually, her voice went shrill with nerves, but with Michael’s sheltering wings behind her, she managed to speak assertively. Indeed, Michael’s power was so great, she felt ready to deal with anyone, even the grouchy area-manager.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Tucker, she’s away from her desk just at present. I’ll ask her to ring you as soon as – no, hold on, she’s here.’
As Libby emerged from the toilet, Carole handed her the phone. ‘It’s Rory Tucker – it’s urgent, he says.’
A moment later, she was summoned by Sandra. “Carole, get a cup of tea for Mrs Preston. Milk and two sugars, please.’
She scurried back to the kitchen, Michael in attendance, of course. Only now did she realize – and only because of Michael – that her role was vital here. Without her, the others would be lost. They relied on her to keep things running smoothly; to cover for them when they were on the phone or otherwise engaged; to buy their lunchtime sandwiches, and – most important – to greet the clients and the applicants, if no one else happened to be free. All that was crucial work, so they should treat her with respect. From this moment on, she intended to defend herself. If Averil was vicious, Ruth sarcastic, or Sandra patronizing, she would make it very clear that she didn’t intend to be insulted or exploited.
Her archangel wouldn’t stand for it, for one thing.
She sat back on the bench, gazing up at the stained-glass window, which showed a plumpish angel with a shock of yellow curls, weird blue wings and beseeching, big, brown eyes. He wasn’t in the same class as Michael, but she liked him, nonetheless. She also enjoyed this new experience of sitting quietly in a church, which she now did every lunch-hour, if only for five minutes. What it made her realize was how starved she’d been of peace – something completely lacking in her chaotic childhood home, and impossible in a busy office, with four consultants on the phone at once, and applicants coming and going all day long. But here in the church, she was cut off from both people-noise and traffic-noise and, because she had the place to herself, she could pretend it was her own new home – somewhere worthy of Michael, who was standing beside her, of course. (Angels never sat, she’d found.) He must feel in his element in such an awesome setting, with its brilliant windows glowing in the dim, dramatic gloom, and the stone arches soaring up so high, and those fancy golden candlesticks gleaming on the altar.
To her surprise, she’d discovered quite a number of churches, all within easy reach of work. Her favourite was St Cecilia and St Anselm, partly on account of its name. No one she knew was called Cecilia or Anselm – nor, for that matter, Rafael, Gabriel, or Uriel: the names of the other archangels. She wished her mother had called her Cecilia, instead of boring Carole, or even Uriel, which was definitely exotic.
She glanced at her watch – 1.30 – which meant she still had half an hour before she needed to be back. She’d completed all her errands – taken in Ruth’s dry-cleaning; collected Sandra’s theatre tickets; bought the Scotch for Averil’s VIP client – so there was just one thing left to do: make the call to Mike.
The very thought of speaking to him made her jerk up from the bench and start pacing along the aisle in an agitated state. He hadn’t called or texted her even once, which meant he might be mad still – or even have shacked up with the hateful Kath.
No, she couldn’t ring. Such devastating news would be almost like he’d died.
‘Take courage, Carole. I’m with you now, so you can rest assured that things will turn out well.’
Michael’s solemn voice seemed to be sounding in her ears and she could almost feel his protective wings brushing against her cheek. Had she forgotten he was there to fight her battles; lift her mood when she lost heart? And, in any case, she couldn’t break her word to Eunice. They had discussed Mike on the phone, last night, and she’d promised to get in touch with him – today, if possible. Nearly a fortnight had passed since the bust-up, so the old lady thought it was time to make a move. It still seemed quite extraordinary that a couple she had met through a chance encounter in the street should have become so involved in her life. Eunice was almost like a grandmother; someone who truly cared about her and was always on her side; someone who even prayed for her each day. She herself still hadn’t learned to pray. Frankly, she found it embarrassing – so much so, she gave a nervous glance behind her before falling to her knees in front of the statue of the Virgin. Ruth and Averil were safely in the office, so there was no way they could see her, yet she imagined their derisive laughter, as she clasped her hands, like Arthur had, and moved her lips in prayer.
‘Please, God,’ she began, uncertainly, but, as Michael nodded his approval, she continued with more confidence. Not only did he stop her feeling self-conscious, he even helped her find the words. And, once she’d said ‘Amen’, he led her from the church to a secluded spot behind it, where she could make the call in private. Best to try now, in the lunch-hour, rather than leave it till the evening, when Mike would probably be out drinking with his mates.
She slung her bag firmly over her shoulder, so that no one would nick the Scotch – not that there was anyone about; just her dazzling archangel, giving her the strength to dial. He even preventing her from losing her cool when she actually heard Mike’s voice, the first time in thirteen days. Those days had seemed like thirteen years and, without Michael’s constant presence, she doubted if she could have coped.
‘Hi, Mike,’ she said, impressed by her casual tone of voice – belied, in actuality, by the pounding of her heart. ‘It’s Carole.’
Even in the awkward pause that followed, she refused to be deterred. ‘I was wondering how you are.’
‘Er, fine.’
‘I’ve had time to think about what you said and, yes, you do have a point. I have been too clingy and I can see now how it might annoy you. On the other hand …’ She faltered. It was much harder to reprove him than admit to her own faults.
‘Don’t stop,’ Michael urged. She felt him move still closer; his wings a feathered firewall, shielding her whole body.
Before she spoke, she took in a deep breath, pausing, so that the words would come out calmly and not in a feverish rush. ‘On the other hand,’ she repeated, determined to make her point, ‘what you did was loads worse. Hitting me like that was—’ She was about to say ‘unforgi
vable’, but quickly changed it into ‘downright disgraceful’. Eunice claimed that nothing was unforgivable and had also supplied the phrase ‘downright disgraceful’ – one she would never have used herself because it sounded so extreme. Mike always resented criticism and might well explode with rage.
In the silence, she almost lost her nerve. Should she backtrack; tell him it hadn’t hurt that much?
But Michael shook his head in warning, so she waited, cowering, for the expected furious outburst. None came.
‘I … I’m sorry, darling,’ Mike muttered, at last, sounding genuinely ashamed.
Her relief was like a tidal wave. Both words were clearly Michael’s doing. ‘Darling’ meant the relationship was on still; ‘sorry’ meant that Mike admitted blame.
‘It was wrong,’ he grunted, ‘yes. And, to be honest, I feel rotten about it. Look, why don’t we meet, so I can make it up to you.’
Even more fantastic. But before she could shout, ‘Yes!’ Michael put a restraining hand on her shoulder. ‘Keep your composure,’ he advised.
So, when Mike said, ‘How about tonight?’, she bit back her instinctive ‘Great!’ and replied, with deliberate reserve, ‘Next week would suit me better.’
‘Monday, then?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘Brilliant! Wednesday. I’ll come round to the flat.’
Again, she took her cue from Michael, who was frowning at the suggestion. ‘No, I’d rather go out for a meal. How about that Italian place in Camden – you know, where we went for our first date? Shall we say eight o’clock?’
It felt extraordinary to be taking the lead, instead of letting Mike make the decisions, regardless of whether they suited her or not. But, when she’d admitted to Eunice that he rarely took her out to eat these days, as he’d done when they first met, the old lady seemed indignant.
‘Why should you settle for TV dinners every night, or a pizza on your lap? You say he spends hours in the pub – well, he ought to devote at least some of that time to spoiling you a bit. Arthur and I still go out several times a month, and we’ve been married nearly fifty years, so I reckon your Mike needs to buck up his ideas a bit.’
‘OK, darling,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll book a table at Antonio’s.’
She all but hugged herself in glee. Not only a second ‘darling’, but no objection to the expense. Antonio’s wasn’t cheap. And, when she glanced up at her angel, she was gratified to see that his normal grave expression had softened into a smile.
She slipped off her grubby office clothes and flung them on the bed, barely able to contain her excitement. Mike would be back tonight – back in this very bed. And, once he saw how self-reliant she was, their relationship would go from strength to strength. It wasn’t just in character she’d changed – she was in better shape, as well. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she was relieved to see that she could now fit into her skinny jeans, having lost a good half-stone. And they would go perfectly with the new sparkly top she’d bought yesterday at Top Shop. Michael had even helped her there. She’d had no idea that Guardian Angels would concern themselves with trivial things like clothes, until she had slowly come to understand that nothing which involved their charges could be classed as trivial. If it mattered to her, then it mattered to Michael, too; be it her body-shape, a new brand of blusher, or the latest bargain in the shops. Nor did she have to be shamefaced – as she had been at the outset – at the thought of him seeing her naked. Angels didn’t do embarrassment.
Indeed, Michael accompanied her to the bathroom while she showered and washed her hair; instinctively aware that she needed a non-stop confidence-boost this evening. He could pick up on her mood, even when she hadn’t said a word, so she didn’t need to tell him that, without his steadying presence, excitement might spill over into panic. He’d already had to persuade her to stop dashing around like a dervish, as there was plenty of time to get ready. He had planned that from the start, of course; insisting she made it clear to Averil that she wished to leave the office dead on six. And, miracle of miracles, Averil just said ‘Fine’, without the usual argument, or even the slightest objection. Since the advent of Michael, they all treated her with new respect. Sandra had actually paid her a compliment this morning, and even Ruth was less sarcastic and sharp-tongued.
Darting from the bathroom as she heard her mobile ringing, she picked it up with a sudden sense of dread. Suppose it was Mike, about to cancel? The very thought was—
‘Eunice here. I just wanted to wish you luck, dear. I know how much this evening means, so Arthur and I will both be praying for you.’
As she thanked her new ‘grandma’, she wondered how she had ever managed without the kindly pair. This coming Sunday, they had invited her to accompany them to Mass and then go back with them for lunch. It would be her very first Mass – the first of many, she hoped – and would also give her a chance to tell them, in person, all about tonight. And Sunday was perfect timing, since Mike was going to Tottenham to watch the match with Fulham.
‘Hey, Eunice, listen – Averil said I’m definitely in line for a pay-rise, after my yearly review. Apparently, they all think I’m doing well … No, it won’t be a fortune, but every little helps. In fact, I’d like to buy you a present, so can you think of something you’d like? … No, sorry – I insist. But, look, I’d better go. I’ve just stepped out of the shower and my hair’s dripping down my back!’
Once she’d dried it and removed any hint of frizz, she rifled through her drawer to find some sexy underwear. She had to admit she did feel distinctly awkward putting on her black-lace knickers and matching Wonder-bra, with Michael only yards away. But, with his usual tact and good breeding, he simply glided to the window, only turning back to face her again, once she was sitting at the mirror, about to do her make-up.
Even her complexion had improved since his arrival, and he’d undoubtedly made her worry less about the tiny hairline scar above her eyebrow. Friends had been assuring her for years that it didn’t really show, but only now did she believe them. In fact, she felt more attractive in general, as well as loads more confident. After all, if she was important enough to have the highest rank of angel as her personal attendant, she must be special, surely. Nor had it failed to impress her that a commander-in-chief like Michael was willing to ignore his warrior duties, in order to devote himself solely to her – an even greater sacrifice than when Mike gave up his ticket for the Tottenham/Man United match, to come shopping with her in Oxford Street, the first Saturday they’d met. Admittedly, it hadn’t happened since, but it would again – she knew. Michael had taught her two really vital things: first, you had to believe you were worthy of good fortune, and then trust that life would provide it.
She applied her blusher with careful concentration, glad she’d invested in a decent brand, since her healthy glow looked natural now, not falsely pink, like the Tesco one. Lipstick, next, which she blotted several times, to prevent it coming off on Mike. She still missed him terribly: his wild, insistent kisses; the way he gripped her body so tightly, his nails left deep red marks – marks she prized, as a reminder of their love-making.
Angels didn’t make love, she’d now found out; nor did they eat or drink and, if they needed to move from one country to another, on some angelic mission, or streak up to heaven and back, they could cover such vast distances in micro-seconds. Not only had she learned much more about them, she had also come to realize that it was extremely common for ordinary folk to experience their intervention, just as she was doing. Some of the stories were incredible: one woman, weighing a scant seven stone, had overturned a car with her bare hands, to free the child trapped underneath – all with the help of an angel. And a lonely old man, in the last stage of prostate cancer, had been comforted by an angel in the form of his long-dead mother, who sat holding his hand in the hospice. And angels didn’t balk at doing much more mundane things, such as finding their charges a parking-space, or a free seat on a crowded train.
W
hat she didn’t like were the commercial angel-sites, which sold such low-grade tat, they seemed an offence to Michael. Why should she want an angel fridge-magnet when she had a real-life angel – an angel who was part best friend, part an older, English version of Zac Efron, and almost a god in his own right.
Shit – her mobile again! Each time it rang, she was terrified it might be Mike: he’d gone down with some bug; had a ghastly motor-cycle accident; or been knifed by a drunken yob.
‘Hi, Carole! It’s Tracy. Sorry to ring you out of the blue, but—’
‘Tracy! Great to hear you! It’s ages since we spoke.’
This call was Michael’s doing. He must have realized, instinctively, that, however mad she was for Mike, she did truly miss her old Norwich life: the girly talk, the shopping expeditions, the sense of female solidarity. And now here was Tracy on the phone!
‘Why I’m ringing, Carole, is to let you know that me and Sue have decided to follow your example.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, lolling back on the bed.
‘We’re moving to London … Yes, honestly, it’s true! We’ve found this flat-share in East Finchley that needs two extra girls.’
‘Brilliant! We’ll be neighbours, more or less. East Finchley’s on the same tube-line as me, just a couple of stops further out. So when do you plan on coming?’
‘Quite soon, with any luck. We have to wait for Sue to find a job, but that shouldn’t take too long. I’m OK, because I can just transfer to the London office, which they’ve been wanting me to do for yonks. Anyway, it would be great to meet and everything, and we’re hoping you might fill us in on the best shops and bars and night-spots and all that sort of stuff.’
‘Yeah. ’Course. No problem. And we could even have a party, once you’ve settled in – maybe persuade a few of the others to come down for it, as well, if only for a night. But, listen, Tracy, I’m a bit pushed for time right now. I’m dying for a chat, so I’ll give you a ring tomorrow and we can gossip for hours, OK?’
I'm on the train! Page 19
