‘You don’t get cut like that being jostled. Who the hell were you jostled by?’
‘Didn’t see their face.’
‘Well, I s’pose you should sit yourself down while I dig out the Savlon.’
The bruise on her cheekbone started to fade, from red to purple, shading yellow. We kept the cut clean – fresh plasters every day and regular Savlon. She didn’t go out again, even kept away from lifting the nets at the window, which was frustrating because I was feeling pretty claustrophobic as it was.
‘Hotel’s on tonight,’ I said to her. This was on 16 December – about ten days after she’d had the shit kicked out of her. She had the telly on. I noticed when I popped up from working in the shop that there was a lot of daytime telly being watched – Bargain Hunt, Escape to the Country, Come Dine with Me, A Place in the Sun. Angel seemed genuinely interested in the price of haciendas in obscure parts of Spain.
‘Angel?’ I said.
No response.
‘What d’you fancy for dinner? Thought I’d get burgers and buns. Or would you rather have M&S lasagne or microwave turkey dinner?’
I knew what she really fancied for dinner was a couple of vodka Red Bulls. She was staring at the screen, legs hoisted in the recliner chair as if they were strapped in splints.
‘Thought I might get a Christmas tree from Poundland,’ I added.
I’d been thinking a lot about a tree – wanting one of those ready-decorated pink plastic ones. I noticed how having Angel staying made it worthwhile getting one, when in the past it seemed a childish indulgence just for one. Of course I had a cardboard box full of tattered foil accordion chains for the shop, but they never meant anything to me. At the same time, I hoped she’d hop it before Christmas Day, so I could really let myself go – watch telly all day and not say a word to anyone. Except I usually opened up the shop – people really need to get bladdered on 25 December.
‘Right, won’t be long,’ I said.
Kilburn High Road was heaving with shoppers picking up all the unnecessary detritus that goes with Christmas: boxes of baubles from M&S, reindeer-antler deely boppers from Poundland, and garish green tinsel and bulk boxes of cheap chocolate like Kinder and Oreos.
I got back to the flat with my Sainsbury’s bags and she was still there, watching the telly in the recline position. I’d seen some mince-pie-flavoured liqueur on offer in M&S and I picked up a bottle for her, mainly because I wanted to have a taste. I mentioned to her that I’d bumped into Nasreen and had a little chat and that Nasreen, as usual, had questioned me closely about all aspects of my existence, looking for ways in which she was winning in the game of life. I’d mentioned, by way of a little boast, that I had a house guest this Christmas.
‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ Angel said, pushing into upright but initially failing. The chair is strong. ‘I’ll have to leave now.’ The drama of her flounce, however, had suffered at the hands of the DFS recliner.
‘Why?’
‘Because they’ll know where I am, thanks to you.’
‘They? Who’s they? Nasreen? She’s not very dangerous. Boring and competitive, yes. Criminal mastermind? Hardly.’
‘Dark forces.’ But she was already a bit bladdered, so it came out ‘ark forshes’.
I snorted at this. ‘You’re paranoid,’ I said.
‘Paranoid maybe, but alive.’
She’d got up off her chair and was marching about collecting her stuff, throwing it into her holdall. I’d spent all this time wishing she’d hop it, but now that she was going I felt panicked.
‘What about the burgers?’ I said, following her towards the box room and standing in the doorway while she balled up her pyjamas and stuffed them in her bag. She stopped, gave me a weary look, then carried on packing.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘aren’t you better off being with someone? No one’s going to hurt you with me in the room. If it is “ark forshes” as you say, then they’ll already know where you’re hiding. They’re not going to call Nasreen at the cash and carry for confirmation. At least together, we can keep an eye on each other. Stay tonight at least, and see how things are in the morning.’
I wanted to say, ‘And anyway, you’re half cut.’ But she was well sensitive so it was best not to mention it.
She looked towards the window. It was already dark, the traffic roaring along wet tarmac, the winter night cold and long. She saw that she’d picked an impossible moment to storm off. Perhaps her thoughts ventured towards the burgers and that evening’s episode of The Hotel.
‘Put the chain on the door,’ she said.
We moved around each other, making the burgers. They spat on the grill pan, bubbling and filling the kitchen with the smell of meat fat. Angel was squeezing ketchup onto the burger buns, saying, ‘You can get a bar and a house in Spain for under ￡100k.’
‘Is that what you’re going to do?’ I said. ‘Move to Spain? Shall we have some orange barley water?’
I think my favourite moments in the whole experience of living are just before a feed. The moment the crisp bag is opened. The moment the burger patty is laid on the bun. The way a roast potato tumbles gently from spoon to plate. The splintered bridge of crispy duck across a pancake. When you’re young you think happiness might be some kind of perpetual state of orgasm, but later, once the joints go, you realise it can be simulated with some cheese and a cracker.
‘I’ve got this fantasy,’ Angel said. ‘A quiet place – dark inside, just a few regulars. Hot, dusty streets – you know, deserted during siesta. Trouble is, I don’t speak any Spanish.’
‘I speak Spanish,’ I said and she looked surprised. ‘I know – who’d have thought it? I was very good at school, as it happens.’ I was filling two pint glasses at the tap. The water bubbled like soda on the surface.
‘Why don’t you come with me then? Sell up here – leave the rain and the dark. I’ve never run a business before. Could do with your help.’
She was shooting from the hip, just came out with it, and after that we were both quite awkward with each other, as if she’d blurted, ‘Let’s get married!’ and now she couldn’t take it back. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves.
I loved the idea.
Not moving to Spain. I’ve never been one of those people who fantasises about moving country. I think it’s just a ball ache, all the bureaucracy and not knowing where the nearest chemist is or when the bins are emptied. I know in my heart that when life feels like a big disappointment (i.e. most of the time), it’s not going to feel any less so in Alicante. It’ll just feel disappointing and also irritating because you won’t know the Spanish for pile cream.
No, I loved the idea because I realised, after the prospect of her leaving, that I wanted the companionship that Angel had given me these last weeks, and because no one had asked me to move to Spain and run a bar with them before. I’ve never had a joint enterprise in my life.
I persuaded her to look at a hair salon for sale in Fuengirola for a mere ￡50k.