ANGELA Read Free

and the combination makes her look like a frog on stilts wearing a bag. She looks over at the boxes, now just boxes again, and feels the old ache return. She climbs up on a little plastic stool, taking a box marked “FIONA, 1987” from the stack. She lifts the hair net from the top of the bundle of clothes and holds it to her face. It still smells of her.
     
    She arrives at the restaurant at 7:40pm and hears their laughter before she sees their faces. They are stood at the bar, all of them, twenty five of the people she works with, their drinks two-thirds empty, their cheeks too flush to have just arrived. They see her over the room and Veronica does her regal little wave, beckoning Angela to her side. She makes her way over, through their shoulders and backs to Veronica's side, the place where she is most comfortable.
     
    “Veronica, I thought you said quarter to eight?”
     
    “Do you want a drink Angela?”
     
    “Yes, I’ll have a Bacardi and Coke please Veronica.”
     
    “Diet?”
     
    “Yes, Diet Coke, thank you”
     
    The room crackles and hums as workplace dynamics reorganise themselves through alcohol and repression into something vaguely dangerous. She sips sweet black tar through a pale pink straw and watches. Their laughter makes their eyes wide and their lips curl back. Angela sees white teeth and white eyes, fingers pointing here, there, everywhere. Jewels of sweat form beneath the sequins in the folds of her back and she feels them coalesce and run in rivers down her canyons, tickling and shaming her till they soak into her tights. The smell of her own fear rises up, bitter and shameful, kissing her face as a sign shines in red above a fake door and tells her that it is not an exit.
     
    “I need to visit the ladies, Veronica”
     
    “Excuse me, can I get past. I said excuse me, please I just need to….”
     
    In the toilet cubicle she hitches up her dress around her neck and dabs herself off as best she can with what tissue is left on the roll. It is too hot in here. She hates the heat. She hates it. The music from the bar rises and falls through the opening door as girls come and go, touching up and talking and peeing. Young high voices, full of malice and life.
     
    “What is that hair about!??
     
    Laughter.
     
    “1988 called. It wants its dress back”
     
    More laughter.
     
    That could be about anybody. It could be about anybody.
     
    Dried off and rearranged she’s back in the bar which is almost empty now apart from those couples out on a Wednesday night for whatever reason. A girl with kind eyes says, “Are you with the party?” from behind the bar, and she says yes and wants to cry. “They’re through there”, the girl says and points round the corner to the dining area at the back of the building. Angela notes her name badge. Maria.
     
    Ah yes, she can hear them again. Their voices come to her around the angle.
     
    Move it! I don’t want her!
    Do you want her Sheila? Aaahahahahahaha!
    Veronica you have her.
    No, I have her all bloody day! Jeremy?
    Fuck off!
    Hahahahhaaaaa Ahhh, Jeremy…
    NO WAY.
    Ok fine, put it here next to me, I’ll have her, AGAIN! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…….. .
     
    It takes effort for her to turn that dark corner, out of the relative peace of the bar area, with the quiet couples and down turned eyes and into the unbridled electric maelstrom that boils just out of sight. She considers just going home, but makes herself stay. Yes, it hurts here, but it would hurt at home too, and at least here the voices she hears aren’t pre-recorded, or in her head.
     
    She turns the corner and pretends to be looking in her bag as they pretend not to see her and tumble on with their rabble and rouse.
     
    “Janet”, she says. “Janet, I was in Leeds last week and got you this. I know you’ve got one but…”
     
    “Oh, thank you Angela. You didn’t need to do that but thank you.”
     
    “Not sure it’ll be your size. Probably too small for you because