The Angel in the Corner - Monica Dickens [10]
Could Helen be her mother? She was so restless that it was impossible to imagine her ever being in such a bovine state as pregnancy. Virginia looked at her dispassionately, appraising the well-kept figure and the square face, whose ageing skin and captious lines were successfully disguised by candlelight under the careful make-up. Out of doors, in daylight, cosmetics could not do much more for Helen. It would not be very long before even kind lighting would be too cruel to mask the legacy of the discontented years.
Virginia tried to imagine how Felix felt. She remembered from childhood the odd feeling of being jammed up against the firmly-bouncing bosom of the dance mistress. Dancing with Helen would feel like that. Virginia imagined herself as Felix, and felt the supported, rubbery resilience pressed against her chest. But of course it would not feel revolting to him. It would feel pleasant. That was why men held you closely when they were dancing, so that even though they were comparative strangers, they could experience, with perfect propriety, a sensation normally reserved for intimates.
That was why Felix held Helen so close; closer, it seemed to Virginia, peering through the candle shadows, than he had held Helen’s daughter when they danced. Or was Helen holding him? Virginia knew that ever since her father had walked out, her mother had been looking for a man, had found several temporary ones, and at forty-eight, had not yet abandoned the search.
Back at the table, Felix talked with impartial politeness to Virginia and her mother. In the taxi going home, he sat on the little seat opposite them with his knees discreetly drawn away, and spent most of the journey with his head turned to the window, watching the streets.
They stood on the cobbles outside the entrance to the flat. The ping of the taxi meter and the small rattle of its engine sounded very loud in the deserted mews.
‘I hope I’ll see you again before too long,’ Felix said.
Virginia opened her mouth to answer, but Helen said quickly: ‘Of course. Please do feel free to come up to the flat whenever your industrious friend turns you out. Thank you so much for a very charming evening. It was extraordinarily kind of you. The club is delightful, and you were the best of hosts.’
When her mother had finished being debonair, Virginia tried to express her thanks, but Helen had used up all the phrases.
‘It’s for me to thank you,’ Felix said. ‘You were good to come out with me. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.’
He lifted the unbecoming hat to the two of them standing in the doorway. Which one was he looking at – Virginia or Helen?
*
‘A nice evening, didn’t you think?’ Helen said the next morning, when Virginia brought the tray to her bed.
‘Yes, it was all right.’
‘A charming man, I thought, and clever too. Did you know he was on the staff at Westminster? They don’t give those posts to just anybody, though one might be forgiven for thinking that they did, judging by the treatment one gets in some hospitals.’ She slit an envelope with her little brass paper-cutter. ‘Of course, he’s much too old for you.’ She said it in a detached, superior way, as if it were indisputable.
Virginia put her hands in her coat pockets and stuck her head forward. ‘Maybe. But he’s much too young for you,’ she said.
Helen looked up. The hair-net and lack of make-up gave her a peeled look. ‘But, dear heart,’ she said, refusing to take offence, ‘don’t be absurd. As if I would dream