Angel (3 page)

But Angel couldn't sleep; she kept replaying what
had happened over and over in her mind and each
time her feelings of humiliation and rejection
intensified. At four, her mobile phone beeped; she
had a text message. She reached for it on the
bedside table.

It was from Cal. For a delirious moment before
she opened the message she thought he might be
apologising, then she read it.

Angie please don't tell anyone about tonight. I was
pissed and it shouldn't have happened, sorry. Cal.

She switched off her phone and buried herself
under the duvet, curling up in the foetal position.
Think of all the good things,
she told herself,
think
about going to art college, think about getting your own
place
. But it didn't work. The tears silently streamed
down her cheeks as she pressed her face into the
pillow. Finally, at six, she fell into a fitful sleep.

At nine in the morning, Jeanie brought the girls tea
and toast in bed and laughed at the exhausted pair.

'Too many Bacardi and cokes, I'm guessing,' she
said, misreading Angel's pallor for a hangover.
Angel nodded and forced herself to smile.

'It's a lovely day,' said Jeanie, pulling back the
curtains and letting the sunlight stream in.

Gemma groaned and pulled the duvet over her
head but Angel sat up.

'Jeanie, I know I've asked you this before but
why do you think my real mum gave me away?'

Jeanie looked surprised. 'What made you think
of that again, love?'

Angel shrugged. 'I suppose birthdays make me
feel sad. I wonder if my real mum thinks about me.'
What she didn't add was that her encounter with
Cal had left her feeling so hurt that she longed for
reassurance.

'All I know from Michelle and Frank, and I'm
pretty sure it's all they know too, is that your mum
was only a teenager and she couldn't cope, so she
had you adopted when you were six months old.
She wanted a better life for you, Angel, it's not that
she didn't love you.'

She can't have loved me that much
, Angel wanted to reply,
if she gave me away
, but realising this conversation was only going
to depress her even more, she changed the subject and asked, 'Would it be
okay if I went riding?'

'Course, love, if you think you're up to it.' Jeanie
had taught Angel to ride when she was eight years
old and always let her borrow her horse, and over
the years Angel had become a very good rider.

Gemma was in no fit state to join her, so Angel
cycled up to the stables on her own. Gemma lived in
a large Victorian house with a huge garden in an
expensive area in Brighton. Bill ran his own building
company and that, along with Jeanie's successful
beauty salon, made them comfortably off and a lot
wealthier than Angel's family – not that that ever
bothered the two girls. Angel lived five minutes away
in a small terraced house with a tiny patio, but she
liked the area as it was only ten minutes from the city
centre and the sea. The narrow streets were lined
with brightly painted houses, except the Summer's
house. Frank refused to paint their house anything
other than white, even though as a child Angel had
begged him to paint it pink or at least blue after
Chelsea, the football team she supported.

The stables were at the top of a particularly steep
hill near the racetrack. Angel loved the stunning
view across the whole of Brighton and the sea.
Once she arrived, out of breath from cycling, she
tacked up Storm and set off. It was a beautiful
morning and as she galloped across the fields she
shouted out, 'I don't need him!' startling Storm so
he went even faster. It was often her therapy to ride
and talk to herself, sing and shout – sometimes she
felt so full of emotion she just had to let it out. An
hour and a half later, she trotted back to the stables,
hot and sweaty but slightly calmer. But as the
stables came into view her peace of mind was
shattered for there, leaning against his car, was Cal.
Angel bit her lip and forced herself to look calm.
She acted as if she hadn't seen him, rode up to
Storm's stable and dismounted.

'You didn't reply to my text,' he said, not looking
at her.

'I didn't think I needed to,' she replied,
addressing her comments to Storm as she
unbuckled his saddle and heaved it off.

'I just didn't want it to go any further.'

'It won't.' And somehow Angel found the
strength to add, 'To be honest, Cal, I can't even
remember what happened, I was so pissed.' She
finally raised her eyes and looked at him. He looked
momentarily annoyed, as if she had insulted him by
not remembering every detail of his embrace, but
then the shutters came down and he shrugged. 'So
we're cool then?'

Angel nodded and carried on untacking Storm.
Just keep busy
, she told herself,
he'll be gone soon
.

'Okay, see you around, Angie.' Cal got into his
car and Angel willed herself not to look at him
drive off. When she was certain he couldn't see her
she buried her face in Storm's neck, willing the
humiliation and hurt away.

'Did you have a good time last night, Angie?'
Michelle called out to Angel as she let herself into
the house.

Bollocks
, she thought, she was hoping to slip
upstairs to be on her own. She didn't want to talk
about it – the memory was still too raw. But she
forced herself to go into the living room. Her mum
was curled up on the sofa. Angel took in her pretty
face, pale and drawn and un-made-up her long,
blonde, highlighted hair in need of a wash and her
shapeless T-shirt and scruffy jeans in place of her
usual well-coordinated outfits.
Oh God, here we go
again
, she thought.

Her mum was having one of her blue days.
Michelle had these regularly and they always
happened around this time of year, as her own
baby daughter had died on May 25th – three days
before Angel's birthday. When Angel was feeling
particularly bitter about being adopted she wished
her mum and dad had been given another baby,
someone with a different birthday.

'It was okay,' Angel replied, and then, keen not
to continue the conversation, added, 'D'you want a
cup of tea?'

Michelle nodded and Angel, glad of an escape,
wandered into the kitchen.

'I'll have a cup if you're making one,' Frank said,
coming in from the patio.

'Dad,' Angel turned to Frank, who was washing
the soil from his hands – he'd been planting up pots
for Michelle – 'can't you get Mum to go and see
someone, she's really down again.' Angel felt she'd
had this conversation a million times before.

Her dad sighed. 'I've tried, you know I have.'

Maybe not hard enough
, Angel couldn't help thinking.
Her mum had been on anti-depressants for as
long as she could remember, but even with medication
she still suffered bouts of depression. It made
everyone in the house feel as if they were walking on
eggshells, especially Angel, who hated seeing her
mum so unhappy and felt powerless to help her.

Angel made tea, then went upstairs to her
bedroom with a slight feeling of guilt. But she was
feeling bad enough herself without having to deal
with her mum's depression.

In contrast to the rest of the house, which had
magnolia walls and neutral carpets, Angel's room
was a riot of colour and clutter. Every inch of wall
space was covered with pictures. Her own artwork:
huge oil paintings of stormy seas, calm seas, the sea
at sunset (Angel had a bit of a thing about the sea);
pictures of the men she fancied: Brad Pitt (in his
younger days, before being a dad took its toll); Jesse
Metcalfe, the hot gardener from
Desperate
Housewives
; the footballer Freddie Ljungberg and
Mickey Waters from the boy band Wanted. She
didn't think much of his music but she thought he
was fit. There were photographs of her and Gemma
pulling faces in photo booths, horse riding aged
nine, dressed as vampires for trick-or-treating,
dressed outrageously in identical red tutus, their
hair dyed red for Comic Relief.

There were photos from her family holidays.
Every year the Summers went to Malaga in Spain
and stayed at Jeanie and Bill's timeshare villa and
every year, until he was seventeen, Cal came too.
She, Tony and Cal had had the best times together –
hanging out on the beach, swimming, water skiing,
hiring pedaloes, playing frisbee, sneaking out to
bars, the boys ordering beers and smoking when
they knew Frank wasn't around. But by the time the
boys were fifteen, they didn't think it was cool having
eleven-year-old Angel tagging after them, so she was
left to her own devices while they tried to chat up
girls their own age. Unfortunately for Angel, Cal was
always successful and at some point in the holiday
she'd be confronted with him locked in a passionate
snog with some English girl he'd met.

Now, that her glance fell on a picture of him
that she'd taken as he walked off the pitch with Tony
after a match his team had won, thanks to Cal's
three goals. She remembered calling out his name
and how he'd looked straight at her, smiling. It was
one of her many fantasies about him to imagine that
he was smiling just for her. But now as she flung
herself down on her bed, disturbing Prince, her
chocolate-brown Labrador, and reached for her
iPod, she didn't want to see him.
Screw you, Cal
Bailey.
She pulled the photo off the wall, intending
to rip it up and chuck it in the bin, but found she
couldn't, so she stuffed it into her bedside cabinet
along with all the other things she could never
throw away – tickets from gigs and programmes
from football matches, and several horoscopes torn
from magazines which suggested that Geminis and
Scorpios might be the perfect match (she was a
Gemini and Cal was a Scorpio). Wanting to vent her
anger at him somehow, she ripped up the glossy
pages and threw
them
in the bin.

There was a knock at her door.

'Come in,' she called and Tony wandered in.

'Hello, lover boy,' she teased. Tony looked both
embarrassed and pleased with himself.

'I'm going out for a drink now with Gemma, and
I wondered what you were doing.'

Angel shrugged. 'I've got coursework to do.'

'I just wanted to check that you weren't going
out, because you know Mum's in one of her moods,'
Tony said.

Angel sighed. 'No, I'll be here.'

'Maybe you could make dinner? I don't think
Mum's eaten anything all day.'

Even though Tony was right, and the two often
took it in turns when Michelle was feeling low,
Angel could have done without it.

I'm not feeling so good myself
, she wanted to say, but
as that would have involved an awkward
explanation about Cal, she simply agreed to make
pasta. Frank was a disaster in the kitchen.

'Thanks, Angie,' her mum said wearily as Angel put
a bowl of spaghetti bolognese in front of her, 'but
I'm not hungry.'

'Come on, Mich,' Frank urged. 'You've got to eat
something.'

'I'm going to bed,' Michelle said, getting up from
the table. 'Thanks for making it, Angie. I'm sorry to
be so useless.' Her voice trailed off into tears as she
shuffled out of the kitchen.

Frank and Angel looked at each other. This was
all too familiar. They could expect the next two
weeks to be like this. Michelle would have to be off
work from her part-time job in the florist's and the
whole house would be subdued until she went to
the doctor and had her medication adjusted, or
something just clicked back.

Frank cleared his throat. 'Had any more
thoughts about what you're going to do when
you finish next month?' Angel was at the local
FE college taking art A-level and a BTEC in
performing arts, neither of which would have been
her dad's choice of subject for her.

Angel groaned inwardly. Having a conversation
with her dad about her future career prospects
was about as pleasurable as having a Brazilian
bikini wax.

'I still want to do art.'

'I know you're good at painting and stuff but
what kind of job will you get at the end of it?' Frank
persisted. He'd always had his life mapped out –
football was his passion but he was never good
enough to be a professional, so when he got too old
to play in the Saturday league, he took up coaching
and worked for Bill's building firm.

'I don't know,' Angel answered, pushing her
pasta round her plate, her appetite gone. 'Fashion
design, maybe. I think if I go to art school it will
help me make up my mind.'

Frank tutted. 'Bloody expensive way of finding
out.'

Angel knew exactly what was coming next: the
Frank Summer lecture. 'We can't give you any
money, Angie. If you did something like Tony,
something where there was definitely a job at the
end of it, you know we'd help you. But I can't
afford giving you a loan and you not being able to
pay it back three years down the line, when you've
got no job.'

'So it's got nothing to do with the fact that I'm
not your real daughter but Tony's your son?' Angel
burst out suddenly, sick and tired of having to hide
her emotions, and feeling hurt because Frank had
helped Tony out with his course fees.

Prince heard the edge in her voice and sloped
over to lay his head on her knee.

'Don't be so stupid,' Frank exclaimed angrily.
'And keep your voice down, I don't want your mum
to hear you. She's upset enough as it is.'

Angel bit her lip to stop herself shouting back.
Why did her feelings always have to take second
place to everyone else's in the house? It wasn't her
fault that their baby daughter had died; she hadn't
asked to be adopted by them. She got up from the
table, taking her plate with her and dumping her
uneaten spaghetti in the bin.

'I've got coursework to do,' she said, leaving the
kitchen and going back upstairs.

She grabbed her portfolio and pencil and made
a start on her drawing, but it was hopeless, she
couldn't concentrate. She threw down her pencil in
frustration, then opened her jewellery box, searching
for her birth certificate. She opened the pale
pink document, staring at her real name – Angel
Adams. When Frank and Michelle finally told her
she was adopted, on her sixteenth birthday (what a
great one that turned out to be –
not
), and after
she'd stopped crying and shouting, she told them
that she wanted to be called 'Angel'. She could tell
that her mum didn't have a problem with it, but
Frank said it was a bloody daft name and that he'd
still call her Angie as that's what she'd been to him
for the last sixteen years, a comment which Angel
had never really forgiven him for.

The bombshell about the adoption confirmed why
she'd always felt like an outsider in her family. She
was so different from the others. They were practical
and seemed to know what they wanted, whereas she
was passionate and needed more reassurance. And
however much her parents said that they loved Tony
and her equally, in her heart she didn't believe it.
Tony was their real son so they must love him more.
She reached for her mobile, about to text Gemma
and find out what she was up to, then she
remembered she was out with her brother.

'Bollocks,' she said out loud, her bad mood
worsening. She was stuck here for the rest of the
night. It was at times like this she longed to meet
her birth mother. Maybe when she met her,
everything would make sense; she would find the
love she had always longed for and she wouldn't
feel alone anymore. But she knew she couldn't look
for her until she'd left home as Michelle would
never be able to deal with it.

She lay back on her bed listening to her iPod,
deliberately selecting songs which fitted her blue
mood, starting with Mariah Carey's 'I've Been
Thinking About You' (no change there then), 'We
Belong Together' (yes, Cal, when are you going to
wake up to that?), Christina Aguilera's 'Beautiful',
Alicia Keys' 'Fallin', Sugababes' 'Too Lost In You'
and Whitney Houston's 'I Have Nothing'. Finally,
when even she was ready for a track that told her
she'd survive, she chose Sugababes' 'Stronger'.

And all the time, thoughts of her family and Cal
chased round her head. What was it with Cal and
her birthdays? It was on her sixteenth that they'd
ended up having a furious row, just after she'd
found out she was adopted. It had been such a
huge shock to her and had left her feeling
vulnerable and emotional, and furious that she
hadn't been told before. Unfortunately it was Cal
who received the brunt of her anger. The two of
them had ended up alone in the living room and
Cal had said, 'I heard the news. You're so lucky,
Angie. I wish my mum had had me adopted. I'd
have loved parents like Frank and Michelle.' Angel
had looked at him, not believing her ears, and
suddenly the anger she'd been trying to contain
had reached boiling point. She'd sprung up from
the sofa and before she'd realised what she was
doing she'd slapped Cal hard across the face.

'Hey, calm down,' Cal said, clearly surprised by
the force of her reaction and holding a hand up to
his face, where a livid red mark was already
showing. 'I was just trying to help.'

'Well, don't bother,' Angel had shouted. 'Fuck
off back to your fucking perfect girlfriend and leave
me alone!'

A year on, the memory still had the power to
make her squirm.
Yes, Angel
, she said to herself,
you
should give tips on how to get a man – hit him and then
tell him to fuck off . . .

But one thing was certain, she decided, trying to
push that memory out of her head – whatever
Frank said, she was going to go to art school. She
was going to get a job and save up and when she'd
finally got enough, she'd move out and get a place
of her own, maybe with Gemma, and then she
could finally start living her life and stop feeling
that she could never be herself.

'How are you feeling about Cal now?' Gemma
asked Angel as the two girls walked out of college.

'I'm still really pissed off about what happened,'
Angel admitted. 'And I really want to hate him for
what he did, but the worst thing is I just can't, it's
doing my head in.'

'I know what you mean,' Gemma said sympathetically.
'What you need is some retail therapy.'

Angel laughed; shopping was Gemma's answer
to everything and usually she would have said no,
but she was feeling reckless, she needed a change.
She was sick of all her clothes. That Saturday night
had been like a wake-up call. So she agreed to hit
Gemma's number-one favourite destination –
Topshop.

Gemma was like a Tasmanian devil, rushing
round the store and grabbing garments that caught
her eye. When she was happy with her selection the
two headed off for the changing room and
squeezed into one of the cubicles. She had Angel try
on shirt-dresses, flirty little skirts, sexy halter-neck
tops, shrugs, low-rise cropped jeans. With every
item she tried on, Angel felt a surge of confidence.
She wasn't being vain, she really did look good.