13 Dates, page 17
Afterwards, we go to the cinema, for the matinée performance of the new Bond film, and while Angel points out this doesn’t exactly qualify under her ‘new experiences’ heading, as she’s been to the cinema before, I counter with the fact that she hasn’t seen this particular film, even though in the end neither of us see much of it due to a) the woman with huge hair who sits right in front of us despite the cinema being half empty, and b) the fact that we spend most of the film snogging.
On the way home, and in a rare public display of affection, Angel and I are walking along George Street arm in arm – then, suddenly, she lets go of me so quickly it’s as if she’s just realised she’s mistakenly grabbed someone else.
‘Hide!’
‘What?’
‘Quickly!’
‘Are we playing some kind of game?’
‘No. My mum!’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s over there. Across the street.’ I spin around, then rub the spot on my shoulder where Angel’s just punched me. ‘Don’t look!’
‘Why not?’
‘She might see us,’ says Angel, in a tone that sounds like the word ‘dummy’ belongs at the end of the sentence.
‘And the problem with that is?’
‘Because then she’ll want to talk to us.’
‘At the risk of repeating my earlier question . . .’
Angel glares at me, then grimaces as a loud ‘Yoo-hoo!’ comes from the middle-aged woman waving at us from the opposite pavement. ‘You’ll see,’ she says, waving reluctantly back, a look I’ve never seen before on her face.
‘Should we cross and . . . ?’
‘No, let her come to us. A speeding car might do us a favour and—’
‘Angel!’
As her mother crosses the road, I can’t help notice that Angel has taken a step or two towards the kerb, and is now standing a respectable ‘friend zone’ distance away from me. Still, it’s early days for the two of us, so I perhaps shouldn’t be too concerned about this, especially if I want ‘early days’ to turn into not-so-early ones, so instead I fix my best meet-the-parents smile on my face, and brace myself for whatever the next few minutes might bring.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Darling,’ says Angel’s mum, though her eyes are on me as she speaks, and I think about making a joke – maybe saying ‘sweetheart’ back – but it’s way too early for that kind of thing. She’s a short, attractive woman, with slightly less-defined elements of Angel’s features in hers, as if she’s a prototype model of her daughter – to be honest, it’s a bit spooky to see her, though if I were being selfish, I’d be looking forward to growing old with Angel if that’s how she was going to turn out. Although I probably won’t be growing old with Angel, I remember, and the thought stops me in my tracks. ‘What are you doing here?’ Angel says, in a ‘this town ain’t big enough for the both of us’ tone, but the inference seems to be lost on her mum, who just nods towards the House of Fraser department store on the opposite side of the street.
‘I need a new dress.’
‘Another new dress?’
‘For the golf club summer party.’
‘Since when do you play golf?’
‘I don’t, silly. But your father . . .’ Angel’s mum rolls her eyes.
‘He’s not with you?’
‘He’s off at the rugby. Some corporate jolly. Besides, his surprise that none of – and I quote – the “walk-in wardrobe-full” I bought last year were good enough, means that I haven’t told him what I’m doing. So here I am.’
As Angel’s mum smiles in a ‘what can you do?’ kind of way, Angel makes a face. ‘Well, don’t let us keep you.’
‘Angela, darling! You sound like you’re trying to get rid of me. Not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘No,’ says Angel flatly.
The three of us stand there for an uncomfortable moment or two, until I can’t stand it any longer.
‘Hi,’ I say, a little miffed Angel hasn’t introduced me yet. ‘I’m Noah.’
‘Noah?’ She peers closely at me, and narrows her eyes. ‘And you are . . . ?’
I frown. Has her mum got Alzheimer’s, too? ‘Noah. I just told you . . .’
‘No, I mean, and you are . . . ?’ Her eyes are darting expectantly between me and her daughter, as if waiting for a secondary piece of information to be delivered, something that will clue her in to my role in this awkward little threesome, but Angel’s remaining tight-lipped.
‘Well, I suppose I’m Angel’s—’
‘Mum!’ interrupts Angel, flashing me a look.
‘What, darling?’
‘Enough with the interrogation!’
‘I’m simply trying to take an interest in your life, dear. And seeing as how you never tell your father and me anything . . .’
As Angel glares at her, and evidently deciding her daughter’s not going to give anything else away, Angel’s mum turns her attention back to me. ‘So, Noah, how do you know Angel?’ she asks, trying another tack. And I’m beginning to suspect if she could shine a light in my face, she’d do that too.
‘Well . . .’ For some reason, I’m stumped. I met her in a coffee shop is actually how I know her, though the question’s not really meant to be taken literally, is it? It’s an enquiry as to my status, my definition, my place within Angel’s life. And I’d tell her, if something about Angel’s expression wasn’t giving me the strongest hint that I shouldn’t.
‘Um . . .’
‘Okay,’ says Angel suddenly. ‘Caught red-handed. He’s my fiancé.’
‘What?’ Angel’s mum stares at me, then at Angel, then at me again, then she repeats herself. ‘What?’
‘Noah’s my fiancé. We’re getting married! We’re just off to choose a ring.’
‘But . . .’ Angel’s mum looks like she’s about to burst, especially when she notices that, as luck would have it, we’re standing outside a jeweller’s.
‘We were going to elope, but just my luck we had to bump into you . . .’ Angel meets her mum’s stunned gaze, then all of a sudden, she bursts out laughing. ‘Your face!’
‘What?’ Angel’s mum is staring at me in astonishment, though to be honest, I’m probably mirroring her expression.
‘We’re not really getting married. Noah’s just a friend.’
‘Just . . . a friend?’ says Angel’s mum, just before I can.
‘That’s right.’
‘That wasn’t very funny, darling.’
‘Yes it was. And perhaps it’ll teach you to stop grilling every man you see me with.’
‘I was hardly grilling him.’ Angel’s mum smiles sweetly at me. ‘I was hardly grilling you. Was I, Noah?’
I realise I’m on dangerous ground here. Side with her mother, and I might earn some brownie points for the next time we meet – although given how uncomfortable this little encounter has been, I’d bet money on there not being a next time. Plus I’m also busy wondering just how many ‘every man you see me with’ means.
‘Trust me, Mum,’ says Angel, before I can say anything. ‘If I ever do decide to get married, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Well, third,’ I say, adding, ‘you know, after Angel and whoever it is she’s marrying,’ when her mum looks murderously at me.
‘Not that it’s ever going to happen.’
Though I’m sure she tries to cover it up, her mum’s flinch is easy to spot. ‘Angela, don’t talk like that!’
‘I mean, weddings are just . . .’ Angel shudders melodramatically. ‘And placing so much emphasis on finding someone good enough for your children to end up spending every other weekend with? I tell you – marriage, settling down, having kids is so . . . over.’
‘It worked out just fine for your father and me,’ says Angel’s mum. ‘Mostly.’
Angel opens her mouth as if to say something, then evidently thinks better of it. ‘Right,’ she says, after another moment. ‘Well, we have to go. Noah?’
‘Um, yeah. Sorry. Nice to meet you, Mrs—’
But I don’t get any further, as Angel’s grabbed me by the bicep, put her other hand firmly on my lower back and is escorting me away along the pavement like I’ve been arrested.
I’m a little stunned about what’s just happened: firstly, by not being introduced as her boyfriend, and secondly, by Angel’s relationship with her mum. It’s a side of her I’ve not seen before, and it’s too early to tell whether it’s a defence mechanism or they just genuinely don’t get on. Given how her mum seemed genuinely hurt, I’d guess it’s probably the former. Though a defence mechanism against what, exactly, I’m not quite sure.
But there’s something else, too, and it’s something a lot more worrying, and it’s probably my fault: I’ve agreed to all of Angel’s ‘conditions’ just like that, simply because I was desperate to get her back. But now, seeing what she feels about weddings, hearing her say out loud that marriage, settling down, having kids is ‘over’. . . Given those three things are what I want, I’m not sure that’s something I can get over.
So maybe, just maybe, I’ve been a little too hasty.
‘What was all that about?’ I say, once we’re out of earshot and Angel’s stopped peering over her shoulder to check we’re not being followed.
‘Noah, I—’
‘Are you ashamed of me?’
‘What? No! Not at all.’ She smooths the indentations her fingers have made in my sleeve, then lets out an embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m ashamed of her.’
‘Why? She seemed perfectly nice . . .’
Angel makes a face. ‘Oh, that’s how it starts . . .’
‘How what starts?’
‘My mum, and her “when are you going to settle down, get married, make me a grandmother . . .” Actually, she’s not so keen on the last thing, given how she’s been telling everyone for years that she’s ten years younger than she actually is. But you can imagine.’
‘I’m sure she just wants you to be happy.’
‘I’m sorry, Noah, but you’ve met her once. I’ve had this for almost thirty years, so I think I’m a little bit more qualified than you to . . .’ She stops talking, aware she’s getting a little loud, and her expression softens. ‘Okay, okay. It’s just . . . I’ve had boyfriends in the past . . .’
‘Really? I thought I was your first!’ I say in an attempt to lighten the mood, although it doesn’t seem to work.
‘And because of my thing, my mum’s always been keen to get me married off to them sooner rather than later, just in case later is, well, too late – as if marriage is something I mustn’t miss out on, even if it’s just for five minutes, metaphorically speaking, or even to the wrong person.’
‘Thanks very much!’
Angel gives me a look. ‘All I’m trying to say is, she seems to be forcing me to hurry down this route as if it’s something she needs to get done, rather than something that I might want.’
‘Maybe. Though think about it from her point of view.’
‘This better be good . . .’
‘Well . . .’ I hesitate as I run through the next few sentences in my mind, wary that they could cause offence. ‘Perhaps when you have an ill child, you’re always worried something’s going to happen to them. Then, the longer they survive, perhaps you start to believe that actually, it’s all going to work out, so you can’t help projecting—’
Angel lets out the briefest of snorts, but it’s enough to stop me mid-sentence. ‘More likely, she’s desperate to pass the responsibility of looking after me – and yes, I’m saying that ironically – onto someone else. Or maybe she’s looking for a replacement – you know, once I’ve gone, the poor old widowed son-in-law, so she can play the bereaved mother, and the two of them can—’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘Sorry.’ Angel sighs. ‘I guess I’m just fed up of people trying to tell me what’s best for me, that I should follow the path they’ve taken. Especially when, from where I’m sitting, what they have doesn’t seem that great at all.’
‘Is your dad the same?’
‘Yes and no. On the one hand, of course he wants to get me married off. But on the other . . . Well, no one’s ever going to be good enough for his little girl.’
‘He should be happy you have a boyfriend. Someone to look aft – I mean, out for you.’
‘I don’t need looking out for, Noah.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,’ I lie. ‘What I meant was, that you had someone . . . Well, just had someone, I suppose.’
‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’ Angel shakes her head. ‘But he generally ends up scaring them off. Which I suppose is fine. Saves me the job of dumping them . . .’ Angel grins at me in a ‘just kidding’ kind of way.
‘I’m sure your mum and dad just want what’s best for you.’
‘Best for me?’ says Angel incredulously. ‘How does anyone possibly know what’s best for someone else? I tell you, if I had a pound for every time my mum and dad mentioned the word “transplant” . . .’
‘They’re probably just scared of losing you.’
‘Oh, they’re scared, all right, but not in the way you’d think. My mum once told me her greatest fear was that I died having sex!’
I burst out laughing, then rein my amusement back in given Angel’s expression.
‘I told her that would be the best way to go, but all she could say was, “Think about the embarrassment for your father and me.” And that’s how it’s always been. Not about poor old me and how this stupid condition of mine affects my life, but how it affects her, how it might make them look.’
‘She just cares about you.’
‘There’s only one person my mum cares about, Noah, and that’s herself. All I’d get when I was growing up, whenever we’d have an argument, was her telling me I should feel sorry for her, because “no one should have to bury their own child”. Honestly, she says it like she’d be the one expected to dig the grave!’
‘Wow.’
‘Yes, wow.’ Angel shakes her head. ‘It’s almost as if from the moment I was born, I’ve ruined all the plans they had for me. Can you really blame me for not wanting to be around that? Not wanting to expose you to it, too?’
‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’
‘So yes, I’m sorry for not introducing you as my boyfriend, but knowing what they’re like . . . Sometimes, it’s easier to deal with your own negativity if you cut all external sources of it out of your life, and especially when the worst offenders are your own mum and dad.’ Angel pauses for a moment, and briefly, I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable before her guard goes up again. ‘Every time she looks at me, I can see the disappointment in her eyes, as if it’s my fault I emerged kicking and screaming from her womb with this . . . defect. As if it’s something I did on purpose. As if they resent me for not being perfect.’
Angel’s gritting her teeth, though whether it’s because she’s so angry or is trying to stop herself from crying, I can’t tell. And although I want to tell her she is perfect – that I think so, at least – I can’t. Because if you’re being precise – technically, at least, she isn’t.
‘Hey,’ I say, putting an arm around her. ‘Don’t worry. I completely understand.’
But the weird thing is, given the prospect of losing her, the possibility that we won’t ever get married and the probability that things won’t work out the way I want them to, I completely understand her parents too.
17.
It’s the following Friday, and after a fabulous (tenth) date at the theatre, we’re back at Angel’s flat on the sofa (and each other, if you get what I mean), and even though, apart from at the cinema, we haven’t been ‘physical’ since Margate, Angel’s showing no sign of pulling away. (I only tell you this because of what happens next – don’t think this is suddenly going to morph into some sort of Fifty Shades-type story.) But as I reach up and place a hand on her breast (my right hand, and her left breast, in case you liked Fifty Shades and you’re trying to picture it), all of a sudden, there’s a loud beeping sound, and I sit up in surprise.
‘Have you got some sort of bra alarm?’
‘What?’
‘Hey – that’s not a bad idea. A bralarm . . . Imagine how many we could sell to fathers of teenage girls! We’ll be rich . . .’
It’s a pretty good joke, I think, and I wait for Angel to jump on me – aren’t women supposed to find a sense of humour attractive? – but instead, she wriggles out from my grasp, reaches into her handbag (which, I now realise, is where the beeping’s coming from), pulls out a beeper and smiles at it.
‘Anything urgent?’
Angel presses the ‘Cancel’ button and drops the beeper back into her bag. ‘Nope,’ she says, reassuming her earlier position.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes!’ she says, a little exasperatedly, then for added emphasis she grabs my hand and puts it back where it was, only for the beeper to go off again.
Angel keeps kissing me, and I do my best to ignore the sound, but eventually I have to pull away. ‘You’re sure you don’t need to get that?’
‘Yes, Noah, I’m sure.’
‘Not someone desperate for a score?’ I say, jokingly implying she’s a drug dealer, though ‘desperate for a score’ kind of applies to me too right now. Especially when the beeping doesn’t stop, and Angel jumps up from the sofa.
‘Oh, for f— Hang on.’
She reaches back into her handbag, retrieves the beeper, hits ‘mute’ again, then walks across to the bed and hides it under her pillow. I’m a little miffed, as I’d hoped that was where we were going next, but just as I decide the sofa will do, the beeper sounds a third time. Frustrated, I haul myself back upright.
‘Who is that?’
‘Harefield,’ says Angel matter-of-factly.
‘The hospital?’
‘No, my great uncle Harefield. He’s paging me from the Dickens novel he lives in.’
It takes me a moment to realise Angel’s being sarcastic. ‘Um, if it’s the hospital, then shouldn’t you answer it?’
‘Not really.’
