Angel Touch Read Free Page A

was much the same as mine, except their compact midi system couldn’t hold a candle to my ginormous Pioneer speakers (which can set heads banging in Tottenham on a clear day) and I don’t have shares in Laura Ashley. But Frank and Salome wouldn’t have to put up with me for much longer. Like the good BASUMs (Black Anglo-Saxon Upwardly Mobiles) they were, the Asmoyahs were on the move, having spent nearly a year converting a flat of their own in Limehouse. Goodbye rent book, hello mortgage relief.
    So as this was likely to be Salome’s last birthday in Stuart Street, I’d got her something special.
    I’d always had a soft spot for Salome. Well, strictly speaking, it was a bit of a hard spot, but any serious attempt at Naughties was out of order because I quite liked her husband and anyway he was about ten percent bigger than me and two hundred percent fitter.
    But I have my limits, and they were well strained that morning when she opened the door to my knock. So was the purple satin slip she was wearing. Strained, I mean.
    â€˜Angel! It’s 6.30. What the hell are you doing up?’
    I produced my trumpet from behind my back and did a double tempo version of ‘Happy Birthday’ accompanied by a basic soft-shoe shuffle. And that’s not as easy as it sounds; it’s a bit like trying to smile and whistle at the same time, like they used to tell Boy Scouts to do.
    At least it made Salome smile, until she suddenly remembered the other residents and dragged me into the flat by the elbow.
    â€˜You crazy man, you’ll wake everybody in the street!’
    I kept playing, but pointed to the mute in the trumpet bell. ‘You might wake Lisabeth,’ she said seriously.
    I stopped playing immediately.
    A very wise man once said that you should try everything in life once, except incest and folk-dancing. I fully agree with that, but I would add waking Lisabeth, who lived in the flat below with her girlfriend Fenella. (I’d also add: country and western music, driving a Lada, piano lessons from Richard Clayderman, Pot Noodles and a whole bunch of other stuff.)
    â€˜Okay, killjoy. Happy birthday to you, Happy …’ I sang quietly, then reached into my jacket to produce her present as suggestively as I could.
    â€˜What have you got in there?’ Salome being coy was almost as cute as Salome being proud and imperious. Or Salome mixing concrete, come to that.
    â€˜Birthday girls have birthday presents, just as soon as I can whip it out.’
    â€˜I’ll take the parcel instead,’ she chirped, grabbing the package and wriggling by me into the living-room.
    There was a birthday card propped up on her coffee table, which was of the sort that are designed to amputate shins. The card showed a gorilla beating its chest and bore the legend ‘I’m Your King of Kongs.’ I filed that away to use in evidence against Frank some day.
    â€˜My goodness … it’s …’
    â€˜Just what you’ve always wanted?’ I offered.
    â€˜No, I can’t say that. It’s …’
    â€˜Something to put the magic back into a jaded sexual partnership?’
    â€˜No, it’s just plain bloody rude! Anyway, who says I’m jaded?’ Dangerous ground here, so watch yourself son. Don’t let on that you’d noticed the absence of creaking bedsprings for the past four months. At one point in their marriage, you could set your watch by them, as long as you set your watch on Tuesdays and Fridays, that is.
    â€˜Just presuming, my dear. You busy busying in the City all day, Frank in training as a legal beagle – or should that be eagle? – and then both of you over in Limehouse every evening doing up the flat. All work, no play.’
    â€˜And this will help?’
    â€˜I guarantee it. Wear it at the office, especially when you have an important meeting and there are lots of old fogeys clocking you something rotten. They