Just Another Angel by Mike Ripley Read Free Book Online

pregnant; not these days – she would have come round to play out the big scene. But then I never give out my address after just one date. (Rule of Life No 23.)
    Come to think of it, I never give out my phone number either.
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    It seemed like only a couple of minutes later that Frank woke me to remind me that I was doing a job for him, but in fact it was after 9.00 am. Frank knocked once, came in and selected a Zappa tape from the collection near the stereo and started it at full volume, then left. You can tell Frank’s woken me up before.
    I was reaching across the bed to turn the volume down to a dull roar when Salome, Frank’s wife, came in with a mug of coffee. This was always Phase Two of Frank’s plan, and the bit I looked forward to most.
    Salome was wearing a white shirt and black tie and a red-leather trouser suit with the trousers tucked into short, red-leather boots.
    â€˜Just what does it take to get you up, Fitzroy?’ She busied herself clearing old copies of Melody Maker , paperbacks and empty Chinese takeaway containers from the drop-leaf table that formed approximately one-third of my furniture.
    â€˜If you hadn’t called me that, and if Frank wasn’t so much bigger than me, I’d invite you in here and answer that.’ I patted the duvet, which had apparently attempted to strangle my legs during the night.
    Salome smiled back ravishingly and put on a puzzled expression. She held her right forefinger, long and red-nailed, to her chin.
    â€˜You know, Angel,’ she said huskily, ‘I think you have something there.’
    â€˜Really?’ I wished that I’d brushed my teeth.
    â€˜Mmmm. Yes, you’re right.’
    â€˜I am?’
    â€˜Yeah. Frank is so much bigger …’
    She squealed with laughter as I threw a pillow at her; she caught it and flung it back hard, and then was out of the door and clacking her heels up the stairs.
    Frank and Salome Asmoyah were what I called Black Anglo Saxon Upwardly Mobiles. BASUMs – though I never said this to Salome when Frank was around. He was a trainee legal beagle in Holborn, one of those who don’t have enough cash to buy a round of drinks for three years and then one day they’re phoning you from their customised Porsche. Salome was the big earner of the partnership. She was an analyst in a City stockbroking firm specialising in the leisure market, which meant free holidays put down as vital research and the possibility of a six-figure ‘golden hello’ should she be good enough to be poached by a rival firm. Still, she worked hard for it, starting at 8.00 every morning and having lunch every day at La Bastille or Le Gamin.
    They had taken the day off together in order to work on their new flat in Limehouse, for which they were mortgaged up to the hilt as they had found it only after Limehouse became trendy. I had been hired to act as transport for an industrial floor sander that Frank had rented for the day before realizing that it wouldn’t fit in the back of their VW Golf.
    Frank also needed a hand carting the damn thing up four flights of stairs, partly because it was heavy and partly because Salome couldn’t risk getting oil on her leather suit. She was there not to do any sanding, but to make cups of tea and consult very expensive books on interior design by people with names like Jocasta. The renovation of their flat was to be a shared experience, they said, and so far they had been sharing it for six months. The mortgage, you see, was so much that they could only afford to do things piecemeal. At the moment, the bathroom was the only room worth visiting, but today we were converting the largest empty room into a lounge smart enough for Salome to have the sort of dinner-party she wouldn’t invite me to.
    I plugged in the sander and showed Frank how to work it. Being multi-talented, intelligent, good at sport and physically attractive to women, he was, of course,