Angel (21 page)

The dinner was amazing. Cal was obviously a
man of many talents, because he had been
responsible for it all: a delicious asparagus soup,
followed by a seafood risotto that impressed even
his foreign team-mates, and home-made mango
sorbet for dessert (
blimey
, thought Angel,
is there
nothing this man can't do?
). Cal showed them all into
his huge living room where he poured out brandies
for the boys and Baileys for Gemma and Angel.
Poker-up-the-arse Simone demanded camomile
tea.

Despite Angel's best intentions, she and Gemma
were now feeling slightly tipsy and sat on one of the
large cream sofas, gossiping quietly.

'I bet Cal was gutted when Tony walked in on
you and him. It was probably the closest he's been
to getting a BJ in ages! Madam probably worries
about the calories,' Gemma whispered cheekily.

'Ssssh!' Angel told her, smiling in spite of herself.
She sipped her Baileys and realised that she was
enjoying herself. But it was a feeling that was shortlived
as she overheard Simone's conversation with
Antonio and Jean-Paul.

'No, I'd never even consider it!' she heard
Simone say emphatically. 'Anyway, I don't think I
need them, do you?' She showed off her cleavage to
the men's obvious admiration, and took a pointed
sideways glance at Angel.

'I think there's something rather cheap about
them, and Cal doesn't like them. Do you, darling?'

'What's that?' Cal had been on his way to top up
Gemma's and Angel's glasses and half turned to
look at Simone.

'Implants, darling, you don't like them, do you?'

'Um,' replied Cal, avoiding Angel's eye, 'I've
never really thought about it.'

Immediately Angel felt her hackles rise. How
dare Simone be so obvious in her put-downs. Did
she really think that not having silicone implants
made her a better person than Angel?

'Bitch,' murmured Gemma.

'More Baileys, girls?' Cal asked.

'No, thanks,' Angel replied coolly. 'I'd better go,
actually, it's been such a long week.'

'Sure?' Did she imagine it or was his tone
disappointed?

She nodded, said her goodbyes and even
managed to give Simone an air-kiss, quite an
achievement when really she longed to slap her
smug face.

Cal showed her to the door.

'Thanks so much for asking me,' Angel said,
looking into his eyes for the first time that night. 'I
had a really nice time.'

'I'm glad you could come, and I'm really glad
you made it up with Tony,' Cal answered.

He opened the door and just as Angel was
leaving he kissed her lightly on her cheek. She
paused in the doorway, summoning the courage to
say the next thing.

'Cal, I wanted to apologise for that night. I feel
awful about what happened. It was the drugs – I
would never behave like that usually,' she
mumbled, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

Cal bowed his head. 'Don't worry, I've already
forgotten all about it,' he said. And then he gave her
an incredibly cheeky smile and added, 'Though
some of it I remember quite enjoying!'

Angel's cheeks burnt even hotter, but suddenly
Simone's shrill voice came from the living room
and the smile was wiped off Cal's face. 'Goodnight,
Angel,' he simply said. 'Take care.'

Angel had turned off her phone while she was out
and when she got home she discovered several
urgent messages from Mickey. She was still in a
good mood from the evening and called him back
right away. He sounded agitated, totally unlike his
usual laid-back self.

'What's wrong?' she asked. 'Is everything all
right?'

'There's a story coming out in the paper
tomorrow,' he gabbled. 'I wanted to let you know,
but it's not true, I swear. Nothing ever happened.
She made it all up.'

'Hey, slow down,' Angel said, starting to feel sick
inside. 'Who made what up?'

Stuttering and stumbling over his words, Mickey
finally told her that a girl he'd met when he was in
Germany had sold a story to the paper saying that
they'd slept together.

'But it's not true, babe, I promise. She had a few
drinks with us in the bar, that's all.'

'Are you sure?' Angel asked coldly, remembering
only too well Mickey's odd behaviour when he
returned from that weekend in December, and how
he had accused her of seeing someone else.

'I swear on my life, Angel. I love you, I would
never be unfaithful to you. You have to believe me.'

'I don't know,' Angel replied slowly. 'I need to
see you.'

'I'll drive down first thing tomorrow, I love you.'

She barely slept that night, unable to stop
thinking about what Mickey had told her, and,
much as he had protested his innocence, she really
wasn't sure she believed him. She had seen for
herself how much he loved getting attention from
his female fans and she could just imagine how he
might react to some fit bird coming on to him,
especially if he'd taken a little too much coke.

She tossed and turned. What was wrong with
her? Why wasn't she enough for Mickey? She felt
empty and hollow.

But that was nothing to how she felt the following
day. The press were already camped outside her flat
at seven the next morning and she woke up to them
ringing her buzzer. 'No comment,' she shouted
down the entry-phone, then disconnected it to stop
them ringing again. Desperate to read the story, she
called Gemma, told her what had happened and
begged her to get a paper and come over. While she
waited for her friend she paced round the flat,
feeling more and more wound up as the minutes
ticked by. Finally Gemma arrived, looking grim.
Silently, she handed Angel the paper. It was the
front-page story.

Angel read it, the words swimming in front of
her as her eyes filled with tears. According to the
paper, Mickey and the girl had met in the bar of the
hotel the band were staying at. Mickey had been
eyeing up the girl all night, then finally approached
her and suggested she come up to his hotel room
for a drink. He'd filmed her doing a striptease, then
they'd taken coke and drunk champagne. The girl
claimed she hadn't wanted to sleep with him, but
Mickey had promised her it was the start of
something more, so she'd given in. They'd had sex
three times that night, twice the next day . . .
Apparently, Mickey couldn't get enough of her.

Even though it was written in typical lurid
tabloid style and could be exaggerating what had
actually happened, it seemed to Angel that it could
well be true; the detail about him filming what
they'd got up to made it all too believable. She
finished reading and looked up at Gemma. 'I'd
only just started going out with him when this is
supposed to have happened. What's wrong with
me?'

'Oh, for God's sake!' Gemma exploded. 'One –
it's probably not true. Two – if it is, then it's about
him being a total fuck-up. It's not about you!'

'I thought he loved me.'

At ten, Mickey called her and, protesting his
innocence again, begged her to meet him at
Claridge's, where the press couldn't bother them.
Angel was all set to leave her flat dressed in her
tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, with no make-up,
when Gemma stopped her.

'Come on, don't be a victim! You've got nothing
to be ashamed of. Put something on that makes you
feel good, and I'll do your make-up.' Reluctantly,
Angel changed into a pair of skinny jeans, a tight
black T-shirt and pumps and she allowed Gemma
to do her face. Then she put on the largest pair of
Chanel sunglasses she owned.

'That's better,' Gemma told her as she prepared
to leave, giving her a hug. 'Now go and get the
truth out of him.'

The two of them had to elbow their way through
the scrum of journalists shouting questions at
Angel. How did she feel about what Mickey had
done? Was she going to stand by him?
'Come on,
Angel, talk to us, we'll make it worth your while.'
Flashes
were going off in her face and Angel felt cornered,
hunted. She could sense the start of a panic attack
coming on, but somehow she managed to push her
way to the taxi and shut the door on the shouts and
the cameras.

As soon as she walked into the hotel suite, Mickey
rushed over and tried to embrace her. 'I'm so sorry,
babe.'

She pulled away from him. 'I just want to know
the truth, Mickey,' she said coldly.

'I told you, I swear that nothing happened! Yes,
I met the girl, yes, I probably flirted with her, but it
was nothing more than that.'

'So you didn't ask her up to your hotel room?'
Angel demanded. 'You didn't have sex with her?'

Mickey's blue eyes looked pleadingly at her. 'No,
babe, I swear. She's made it all up.' He sounded
genuine, but Angel didn't know what to think. Her
head was spinning and she felt sick.

'I love you!' Mickey told her. 'I'd never do
anything to hurt you. I know I've been really crap
lately because of the tour, but I'll make it up to you,
I promise.'

He took her in his arms and this time Angel
allowed him to hold her.
I do love him
, she told
herself.
I do, and the papers are always printing things
like that. The girl probably just wanted to make some
money.
But suddenly she had a thought. 'If it's not
true, then why don't you sue?' she said slowly.

Mickey looked uneasy. 'I already suggested that
to my management but they said no, it looks bad
and creates bad feeling with that paper, which
means they might stop running positive stories
about the band.'

They spent the rest of the day and night holed up
in the hotel room, ordering room service and
watching TV to pass the time. It was more time than
she'd spent with Mickey in ages, but all she could
feel was trapped and caged in. She longed to get
out, but she really couldn't face seeing any more
journalists. Carrie called her, wanting to know the
truth about the allegations, and when Angel told
her they were all lies, she asked if she'd do a story
saying that she was standing by Mickey.

'No,' Angel said firmly. 'I don't want to talk to the
press about this – it's private.' Carrie tried to argue,
saying it was all good publicity, but Angel was
having none of it.

'I've got something to cheer us up,' Mickey said
when she got off the phone, and he pointed at the
two lines of coke he'd laid out on the bedside
cabinet. 'Make you feel better, babe.'

Why not?
Angel thought. It couldn't make her
feel any worse. She took a line. And, yes, she did
feel better. Lounging around on the hotel bed, she
and Mickey drank champagne and took several
more lines of coke and eventually, Angel didn't care
about anything much.

Early the next morning, Mickey had to rejoin the
band for the rest of the tour. He said all the right
things when they kissed goodbye, that he loved her,
would miss her, and he promised they would go
away when the tour had finished.

The press interest lasted a couple of weeks. Angel
couldn't go anywhere without several journalists
pursuing her and trying to get her to talk. It got her
down. But Mickey couldn't have been more
attentive: he phoned and texted her whenever he
could, telling her he loved her, and he sent her
flowers every other day until she begged him to
stop because she was running out of places to put
them and people to give them to. Her friends told
her they were sure that Mickey was telling the
truth, but she didn't think they really meant it. She
kept remembering the way they had warned her
about Mickey when she first started seeing him.

'How would you feel if a story like that came out
about Tony?' she asked Gemma, when they were
out one night.

'Tony's not famous, so it's not likely to be in the
press, is it?' Gemma replied evasively.

'Okay, well, what if someone told you something
like that about him, what would you think?'

'I'd know it wasn't true,' Gemma replied. 'I trust
Tony one hundred per cent and I know he'd never
be unfaithful. Why are we talking about this again?
I thought you said you believed Mickey.'

Angel sighed. She so wanted to believe him, she
just wasn't sure. 'I think I do. What do you think?'

She wanted Gemma to reassure her, but Gemma
never said things she didn't mean and her answer
wasn't what Angel wanted to hear.

'It doesn't matter what I think, it's what
you
think
that matters. Anyway, I thought you wanted to talk
about tomorrow.'

Angel nodded, trying to put the whole thing with
Mickey out of her mind. The next day, she was
finally going to see Tanya, her real mum and she
was feeling very apprehensive about it so had asked
Gemma for a drink.

'Yes, you're right, sorry. I've got her address and
she knows I'm coming, but the social worker said
she was still using drugs and that I shouldn't expect
too much.'

God, I'd hate to live somewhere like this
, Angel thought
to herself as she walked swiftly through the rundown
South London council estate on her way to
her mum's tower block. Everywhere she looked, all
she could see was concrete and graffiti. She felt a
wave of claustrophobia grip her as she got into the
grey metal lift that stank of piss and the door slid
shut.
Please don't let me get stuck in here
, she thought
anxiously, as the lift started moving. She got out on
the fifteenth floor and slowly walked towards
number 55. It was hardly home sweet home – the
windows in the hallway were boarded up and there
was an iron gate in front of the door. Angel took a
deep breath. She could walk away now or she could
go ahead and meet her mother.

After a moment's hesitation, she reached through
the bars and rapped on the door. It seemed like ages
and Angel had to resort to shouting 'Hello' until she
heard the sound of bolts being undone. The door
swung open and she was face to face with her mother.
It was the moment she'd been waiting for ever since
she'd found out she was adopted, and she was filled
with both hope and fear; but not even the social
worker's warning had prepared her for the shock
when Angel saw her. She knew that her mother was
only thirty-six, but the woman in front of her looked
much closer to fifty. Her face was deeply lined, her
skin looked sallow and her eyes, which were the same
colour green as Angel's, looked blank and defeated.
Her lank brown hair was scraped off her face in a
ponytail. She was wearing a black hoodie and black
tracksuit bottoms that hung off her.

Angel tried to muster a smile. 'Hi, I'm Angel.'

Her mother stared at her for a few seconds
suspiciously, then said, 'You'd better come in,' in a
flat South London accent.

Angel followed her into the flat. It was dark, dirty,
barely contained any furniture and there was no
carpet on the concrete floor. Her mother shuffled
her way into the lounge, where there was one grotty
floral sofa, a cheap-looking table and a TV. No
pictures on the walls, no photographs, and the
wallpaper was peeling off. The room stank of stale
cigarette smoke and sweat. Angel stood awkwardly
in the middle of the room, feeling claustrophobic.

'Got any fags on you?' her mother asked hopefully,
lowering her skinny body onto the sofa.

Angel shook her head. 'Sorry, I don't smoke.'

Her mother tutted, then took the last remaining
cigarette from her packet. She lit it and inhaled
deeply, then turned to look at Angel, who had sat
down next to her.

'Couple that had you, they looked after you
okay?'

Angel nodded. 'Yeah, they did.'

'I reckon you did better than my other kids, they
all ended up in care.'

'Oh,' said Angel, 'I've got brothers and sisters?'

'Two brothers, but you've all got different dads.'

Her mother's voice took on a more self-pitying,
whining tone. 'I really tried to get off the gear when
you was all born, but it was hard for me, I didn't
have no one to help me.'

'What about my dad? Who was he?' Angel asked,
thinking,
Do I really want to know
? Her mother was
in a far worse state than she could ever have
imagined. God knows what she would find out
about her dad.

She thought of Frank and Michelle, the home
they had created for their family, how hard they
had always worked to give her and Tony what they
wanted, and how they loved their children and
would have done anything to protect them.

'I reckon he was Robbie. I met him when I was
working in a pub. He was a photographer, I think.
Nice lad, but it was never serious and then he
moved away and I didn't know where he'd gone,
so I could never tell him about you. I thought I
might be able to keep you, but then it all got too
much . . .' Her voice trailed off.

Don't expect me to feel sorry for you
, Angel thought
bitterly.

'What was his second name?'

'No idea, darling. D'you fancy making us a cup
of tea? Three sugars in mine. Ta.'

Angel got up and walked into the kitchen. She
was no fan of washing-up herself, but her mother
seemed to have abandoned it altogether – the sink
and surfaces overflowed with dirty crockery. She
looked in vain for clean mugs in the cupboards,
then resorted to rinsing out two of the least stained
mugs. She thought with a pang of Michelle's
pristine kitchen, made the tea and walked back into
the lounge.