Just Another Angel
would give a toss one way or the other about it.
    The patrons did, though. Oh yes, Champnas was an ‘in’ place. So in, you got a choice of decaffeinated coffee even if you weren’t having a haircut. In fact, having a haircut seemed to be just a rather tedious consequence of enjoying the experience of being there. It was a unisex salon (do they still call them that?) with the requisite number of nubile 16-year-old Youth Opportunity girls called Sharon or Cheryl (they’ll be Dianas and Sarahs soon) to wash your hair and massage your scalp before the bossy ones called Shirley or Jeanette turned up to snip away for half an hour and charge you 20 quid. Looking around at the Sharons and Cheryls, I was glad Bunny was elsewhere, as I was having trouble controlling myself, but I made a mental note to bring him here one afternoon as a treat.
    I said I was waiting for someone, and they accepted that, so I settled down to flip through Motor-Cycle News – it was either that or Good Housekeeping – thinking I was early. Then a body emerged from a chair that could have doubled in a dentist’s surgery and a pair of jeans you’d have thought were sprayed on moved towards me.
    â€˜Hello, Jo,’ I said, recognising the electric-blue shoes, though nothing else seemed the same. She’d been cropped somewhere between a Grace Jones and an Annie Lennox, circa 1984 – short, square and spiky – and her make-up flared red up her cheekbones. Apart from the jeans, she was wearing a batwing-sleeved grey shirt and no bra. And it wasn’t even Easter.
    â€˜Thanks for coming,’ she said, and I bit my tongue.
    She paid her bill and asked if we could have two more coffees, which sent one of the Cheryls scurrying off, and sat down beside me. I watched closely to see if the jeans split, but somehow they didn’t. Whatever she had to say, she was going to say in the foyer of her hairdresser’s. I felt relaxed. It wouldn’t be that crucial. I couldn’t be that wrong.
    We kissed. Just briefly. I appreciated the fact that her lipstick probably wasn’t dry, and I got the impression that it wouldn’t be dry for a while yet. But then, her knee came to rest near mine and she didn’t move it. Sometimes I rate knee-contact as a surer sign than anything else.
    â€˜You didn’t keep in touch,’ she said, but it was non-accusatory.
    â€˜And you never wrote but then I never expected your sort would you just take what you can and disappear into the night I know your sort …’ There was more, but you get the flavour. Attack is the best form of etc.
    She laughed and it was a good laugh and could have been the first one she’d had for a time.
    â€˜You’re worse than I was told,’ she smiled, ‘and yes, I’ll have one of your horrid cigarettes if you’ve got one.’
    I dug into the pocket of my leather jacket for them. It was a friendly old jacket that I’d had since university, and though they said that distressed leather was okay to be seen in, this was so distressed it was paranoid.
    We lit up. She looked around and saw nobody was in hearing distance, but just to make sure, she waited until the duty Cheryl had brought us some coffee, which she paid for with a fiver.
    Then she said, ‘I’m in trouble.’
    â€˜Well, blow me,’ I said. ‘No, on second thoughts, tell me about it.’ And at least it raised a smile. ‘But we can go somewhere else if you prefer it.’
    â€˜No, it’s got to be here and now. I might not get … away again.’
    She drew on the cigarette and then she watched the smoke as she exhaled. For what seemed like an awful long time, she said nothing. It got to the stage where perhaps she wasn’t going to say anything, so that part of me that is really a knight in tinfoil armour blew it all by jumping up and speaking out.
    â€˜Look, Jo, we’re not old friends. We’re not

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