I'm on the train!

by Wendy Perriam

  As she snapped the mobile shut, she wondered how Tracy would react to the idea of an angel sharing her flat. As yet, she hadn’t told a soul, mainly because the crowd at work were such total cynics, they would regard her as insane. Yet, in point of fact, they were in the minority, by far. An online poll showed eighty-two per cent of respondents believed they had a Guardian Angel, while only a mere one per cent thought no such things existed.

  She rose slowly to her feet, feeling rather apprehensive about having to give her friends the lowdown on trendy night-spots. As yet, she hadn’t been out clubbing even once and, as for bars, the only ones she knew were those she went to after work with John and Ruth and co, and Mike’s favourite pub, The Antelope.

  The whooshing sound of Michael’s wings roused her from her thoughts. ‘It’s time to finish dressing,’ he prompted, moving from the mirror to the wardrobe. ‘We ought to leave in fifteen minutes.’

  She didn’t need an alarm clock. Michael got her up in the morning; reminded her of every engagement and gently intervened if she happened to be running late – and all without owning a watch. (Angels didn’t have possessions, despite the pictures showing them with harps and spears or whatever, which were simply artist’s licence.) It was undoubtedly convenient to have an in-house time-keeper, but that was a minor matter compared with the overwhelming fact that Michael had transformed her world entirely. She was no longer forced to cling to other people, because she believed she wasn’t good enough in and by herself. And all her usual dread about things going horribly wrong had been banished at a stroke.

  Indeed, when she finally left the flat – looking as good as she had ever done – she had total faith that the evening would be an unqualified success. And, as she set off down the street, with all-powerful Michael shadowing her steps, she knew, deep down, that she was worthy of all the good fortune in the world.

  ‘My boyfriend booked a table – name of Cartwright.’

  The waiter checked his list. ‘Ah, yes. Come this way.’

  He led her to a table in the corner – an empty table.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Michael soothed, folding down his wings to fit the crowded restaurant. ‘He’s probably been delayed.’

  Having drawn out her chair with a flourish, the waiter offered her a drink. Her first instinct was to wait for Mike and let him choose the wine, but, with Michael’s blessing, she went right ahead and ordered a glass of Chardonnay. Normally, she drank Diet-Coke, but Chardonnay was Averil’s favourite tipple, so presumably it must be cool.

  While she waited for the wine to come, she surveyed her fellow diners, most of them in couples, of course. In the ordinary way, she would feel distinctly awkward sitting on her own, or even imagine people pitied her because they assumed she had no friends. Tonight, it didn’t bother her at all. If they only had the eyes to see, they would realize that a superior Being was hovering in attendance.

  When the waiter brought her wine, she was tempted to offer Michael a sip, or at least pass him the bowl of olives, or a piece of crusty bread. It still seemed rather strange to her that he should have no appetites; had never experienced a sexual urge, or enjoyed the smell of garlicky prawns – now wafting in her nostrils as a waiter scurried past – or the taste of hot buttered toast. But perhaps her own enjoyment of such things only proved how far she was from being spiritual. She hoped, with the old couple’s help, to remedy that lack, and she was certainly looking forward to seeing their local church. All her life, she had regarded churches as dreary, even dismal places, but now she was keen to add some new ones to those she’d already discovered near the office.

  Despite Michael’s presence, it required an effort not to keep glancing at her watch. Her glass was already half-empty, yet there was still no sign of Mike. Instantly, however, Michael tuned in to her thoughts.

  ‘Remember that broken-down train at Camden? Well, it’s probably something similar. Just trust that all will be well.’

  ‘Trust’ was a word she distrusted, mainly because of her mother, who was always saying ‘Trust me, Carole’, only to betray that trust. Her childhood would have been easier altogether had she been aware of her Guardian Angel from the moment she was born – as Eunice and Arthur had. But at least now she had her beloved Michael for the whole of her adult life, and angels, unlike parents, were free of all human frailties. Dishonesty, unkindness, selfishness and unreliability were simply foreign to their nature. So, if her angel told her to trust, then trust she would, despite the fact that Mike was now eighteen minutes late.

  She stretched out her legs, glancing down at her knee-length, mock-croc boots. They pinched at the toes and the heels were crazily high, but Mike adored high heels and that alone made them worth the pain.

  ‘Try to relax,’ Michael advised, aware how fidgety she was. So she leaned back in her chair and made a deliberate effort to stop fretting; focusing instead on the thrill of her first date. They had sat at a corner table and she’d noticed several women eyeing Mike with interest. They envied her – that was obvious – and the waiters had all treated her with incredible respect, because they could tell he was somebody exceptional. Every detail of the restaurant had remained imprinted on her mind since then: the terracotta floor-tiles and rustic glass carafes; the posters on the walls depicting fabulous places like Venice and Verona; the romantic music and air of happy bustle; the blackboard with the daily specials chalked up in looping script. And, this evening, it was just as lively; a buzz of conversation competing with the Italian crooner pouring out his heart and soul on the sound-system; wild bursts of laughter exploding from the customers, and waiters darting to and fro, with trays of steaming pasta and exotic coloured ice-creams. Maybe she and Mike could come here once or twice a month, as Eunice had advised. After all, he earned a lot – far more than she did, anyway – and, once she got her pay-rise, she could even treat him, sometimes, if she saved up long enough. She could see their future stretching ahead in a glorious golden glow – the only problem being that he hadn’t actually arrived. Had something hideous happened? A fatal stabbing? A terrorist attack?

  Just as she began to panic, Michael bent his majestic frame a little closer to her ear. ‘Turn round towards the door,’ he whispered.

  Swivelling round obediently, she gave a cry of delight to see Mike hurtling into the restaurant, out of breath and clearly in a state – a very different Mike from the one who’d kept her waiting in the past and usually sauntered blithely in, without a twinge of guilt.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he panted, rushing up to the table and all but colliding with a waiter. ‘There was a signal-failure at Moorgate and it buggered up all the bloody trains.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Carole said, registering Michael’s impassive face. Angels never said ‘I told you so!’, but hers had every right to do so. How could she have doubted that her boyfriend would turn up, when Michael had assured her of the fact? But, mixed with the relief, was a sense of almost … shock. His changed behaviour was a blessing, but not the change in his appearance. However weird it sounded, he just didn’t seem the same – not as tall and nothing like as gorgeous. And he’d obviously shaved in a rush, because there were tiny spots of blood on his face and even a few stubbly bits he’d missed. Angels didn’t need to shave, which meant Michael’s chin was as soft as a fluffy summer cloud and, of course, he wouldn’t dream of swearing, whereas Mike was still ranting on about ‘the sodding underground’. His voice struck her as almost coarse, to be frank, compared with Michael’s hushed, celestial tones, which resembled the sweet pluckings of a harp. And she was so used to her angel’s lustrous eyes, with their piercing, otherworldly gaze, Mike’s eyes seemed plain insipid – blue, maybe, but the blue of faded denim, not the blue of heaven.

  ‘You look fantastic, darling!’ He stooped to kiss her – a full-on tongue-kiss that lasted so embarrassedly long, she tried to pull away. People at the adjoining tables might be offended by such public snogging and, anyway, she was distinctly worried about how Michael would re
act.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Can’t I kiss you, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Later, Mike, OK?’

  He pulled out a chair and plonked himself down. ‘Christ! I could murder for a drink!’

  She frowned in disapproval. Eunice had taught her not to say ‘Christ’ or ‘God’, unless she was actually talking about the Deity. Using such words in ordinary conversation was called ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain’, and was blasphemous, apparently. Even ‘bloody’ was wrong, so Eunice said, because it literally meant ‘By Our Lady’ and thus was just as disrespectful.

  Mike snapped his fingers at the waiter and, again, she was tempted to protest. The staff were rushed off their feet. Couldn’t he show a bit of patience; copy Michael’s graciousness and forbearance? Besides, he hadn’t even asked her how she was, but was still complaining about his ‘fucking awful journey’.

  ‘Mike,’ she said, more sharply than she intended, ‘let’s change the subject, shall we? You’re here now and that’s the important thing.’

  ‘OK, keep your hair on. I need a drink, that’s all.’

  ‘Fine. Shall we have that wine we had before?’ She knew nothing about wine, so she couldn’t remember its name, but what she did remember was how gloriously fizzy and bubbly it had been – a true celebration drink.

  ‘Which one do you mean?’

  ‘You know – the one we had on our first date. The waiter brought it in an ice-bucket and—’

  ‘No way!’ he interrupted. ‘That was a sparkling white and it won’t go well with steak.’

  ‘Who said we were eating steak?’

  ‘I did. I fancy a nice, thick sirloin.’

  She stole a glance at Michael, needing guidance in this matter – and immediately received it.

  ‘You can let the small things go, Carole, so long as you don’t compromise on more important matters.’

  ‘OK,’ she smiled, ‘red’s fine, Mike. But, before we order anything, I think we need to talk. It’s ages since we’ve seen each other and, on that last occasion, you behaved extremely badly.’

  He had the grace to look shame-faced; even reached across to grip her hand. ‘Yeah, as I’ve said already, darling, I feel gutted about that. I lost my rag – I admit it. But can’t we – you know – start again? I’ve missed you terribly – missed our shags especially.’

  Did he have to use words like ‘shags’, which must seem dreadfully vulgar to an angel? Besides, she hated the thought that it was just the sex he had missed.

  His hand strayed down her thigh; moved lower, to her crotch. ‘In fact, why don’t we skip dinner and go back to the flat right now? I’m dying for you, Carole, so let’s not waste precious time.’

  ‘No,’ she said, firmly pushing off his hand. ‘We need to discuss things first.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Our whole relationship – is it going to work or not?’

  ‘’Course it is. Don’t be stupid! We’ve always hit it off in bed. You’re the best lay I’ve ever had.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, and I’m not a lay. And, in any case, sex isn’t the only thing that counts.’ How had she ever found the courage to take so bold a line? That question didn’t need an answer – not with Michael standing by.

  ‘Oh, come on, darling, you know what I mean. Don’t be difficult.’

  ‘You keep accusing me of being this or that, when all I want is to get a few things straight.’

  He raked an impatient hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you. You never used to be so bossy.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of being bossy. What I’ve come to realize—’ She broke off as she saw a waiter making for their table.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’

  ‘Yeah. A beer – a large one.’

  ‘Mike, I thought we were drinking wine.’

  ‘You can, if you want.’ He gestured to her glass. ‘Fancy another of those?’

  Again, she looked to Michael for advice.

  ‘As I said,’ her angel whispered, ‘let the small things go. If a man prefers beer to wine, that’s hardly cause for a quarrel.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured, gratefully, then thanked Mike, as well, telling him that, yes, she’d love a top-up.

  ‘And let’s order, shall we? I’m famished. Hold on!’ he yelled at the waiter’s departing back. ‘I’ll have a sirloin steak – medium-rare, with chips.’

  ‘And what for the signorina?’

  Shouldn’t he have asked the ‘signorina’ what she wanted, before putting in his own order? And said ‘please’ to the waiter, rather than sounded so high-handed? ‘I haven’t looked at the menu yet,’ she pointed out, tight-lipped.

  ‘Well, buck up! I’m ravenous.’

  ‘I thought this was meant to be a nice, romantic dinner. Do we have to rush?’

  ‘Stop jumping down my throat, will you? Frankly, it’s beginning to piss me off.’

  ‘I’ll come back in a few minutes,’ the waiter said, making a tactful getaway as Mike’s voice rose in irritation.

  Once he was out of earshot, she said with deliberate calmness, imitating Michael’s tranquil tones, ‘Well, if you’re so pissed off, as you call it, why don’t we ditch dinner altogether?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Carole, you’re the one who wanted to go out. I said all along it would be best to meet in the flat.’

  ‘Best for you, maybe, but not for me.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, I’m not sure I want you in the flat.’

  ‘Bloody cheek! It’s my pad, more or less.’

  ‘In actual fact, we share it.’

  ‘In which case, I’m perfectly entitled to return to my own place.’

  ‘Fair enough. But I’m not coming with you.’

  Kicking back his chair, he slammed his fist on the table. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘If you listened for a moment, you might find out.’

  He sprang to his feet, all but knocking into Michael. ‘You’ve met someone else, I bet! That’s the reason for all this shit! I don’t see you for two fucking weeks and you sneak off behind my back and shack up with some other bloke!’

  She was in desperate need of Michael, to help her keep control. And, as always, he was there for her; his soft, melodious voice reminding her that any sort of altercation would demean her and gain nothing and that, whatever happened, she must refrain from shouting abuse. Yet her silence seemed to rile Mike even more; clearly increasing his suspicions.

  ‘So I’m right! You can’t deny it. You’ve been lying all this time, you two-faced cow! You soft-talk me into coming here; persuade me to wine and dine you on completely false pretences, because all you plan to do is give me the push.’

  It would be so easy to retaliate; call him names, in turn; tell him he was wrong – had always been wrong, in fact. But recrimination was pointless and undignified. Instead, she kept her gaze on Michael; breathing in his majesty and power. Only in an archangel would such sublime authority be combined with such true gentleness and grace. How refined he seemed; how distinguished; how effortlessly superior to all mere mortal men.

  ‘Go on – admit it!’ Mike was standing over her, fists clenched; his whole stance threatening. But beyond him there was Michael – Michael with his peaceable expression, his shimmering gold halo and luminous white wings; Michael in all his supernatural splendour.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, shifting her gaze reluctantly to Mike’s flushed and furious face. ‘There is someone else in my life – someone truly awesome who’ll be with me for ever.’

  BRIEF ETERNITY

  ‘Supper’s ready, Ian!’ she called.

  No answer.

  Well, what did she expect – with Tiger Woods playing in the Masters? She should have planned the meal for earlier, but then, whatever time she served it, her husband would have been too absorbed to eat. The entire evening, he’d been ce
mented to the sofa; first watching some interminable documentary, about baboons in Tanzania, and now, of course, the golf. She should really have dispensed with the formalities – years ago, as so many people had – and resorted to simply eating on their laps. But sirloin-steak-and-snooker, ravioli-and-rugby, fried-fish-and-football, didn’t exactly appeal. In any case, she liked sitting at a table, properly laid up, as she had done throughout her childhood. Her mother had insisted on maintaining decent standards; deploring those undisciplined women who allowed their families to eat in different rooms, at different times, or even graze on the hoof.

  Did she have to be so rigid, though, this evening? She and her mother were completely different people, after all. In fact, she had rebelled against her, fiercely, from the start, and been forced to knuckle under only by a bitter twist of fate. Best to put Ian’s meal on a tray, for once, and take it in to him, rather than keep it warm in the oven, where the vegetables would spoil and the meat soon shrivel up.

  ‘Thanks,’ he murmured, once she had placed the tray on his lap. His eyes, however, never wavered from the screen.

  She lingered by the sofa. ‘Who’s in the lead?’ she asked. Having been alone all day, while – needless to say – he was playing golf, she was as hungry as much for company as food.

  ‘Sssh! Angel Cabrera’s just taking a putt for a birdie.’

  ‘Sorry I spoke.’ She flounced back to the dining-table, where a glaze of grease had formed on her lamb chops. She cut into them with venom, as if attacking Ian. It was his fault they’d never had children – for her a cause of deep distress. Admittedly, it was hardly fair to blame a man for defective sperm but, if he had only agreed to adopt, or even foster, she might be surrounded now by a brood of four or five.

  ‘More peas, Suzanne?’

  ‘Good boy, Edward! You’ve finished all your carrots.’