Angel of Death

She had friends, the right sort of friends. She no longer had a husband; he had thoughfully died, leaving her enormous sums of money. She had squads of hopeful men friends, none of whom would ever get to first base because she had no intention whatever of marrying again. A husband merely cramped your style, although a girl like Nicola must marry young, get it over with, get a good divorce and then really start to live with lots of money and lots of freedom to do as you please, get what you want, never have to compromise or do anything for anyone else.

That much Nicola had learnt over the last few days, listening to Aunt Eloise talking in her brittle, lively way.

The life she was being urged into was not what Nicola had dreamt of; she did not want to turn into Aunt Eloise, to be enamelled and self-obsessed, drifting over life endlessly without ever experiencing any depths or experiencing anything fully.

‘Certainly not, you cannot go and this . . . this what-ever.’

‘Sean.’

‘Don’t even say his name. Don’t think it. Forget you ever heard of him.’

‘I love him.’

Aunt Eloise had opened her mascara-ringed eyes, her dark red mouth a circle of distaste. ‘After what he’s done? Sweetie, where’s your self-respect? He was cheating on you with some shop girl and got her pregnant, then killed her. He’s a bastard. You can’t still love him.’

Nicola did, though. Oh, she had been shocked and horrified by what she had been reading in the papers. Their home had been surrounded by press, cameras flashing, men jostling on the London pavement, ringing the door bell, banging on the door. Every time it opened to let Papa in and out, to admit visitors, or permit them to leave, the men outside had surged forward, tried to force their way inside. They had shouted Nicola’s name but had caught no glimpse of her because she was upstairs in her bedroom, weeping on her bed, or spending hours in the bath, where at least she could avoid Papa’s preaching and later Aunt Eloise’s talk, talk, talking.

Nicola had read all the newspapers, curled up on her bed, staring at the grey photographs of the girl whose body had been fished up from the sea by Japanese fishermen.

Why? Why had Sean ever done it with her? What had she got, this flashy looking blonde?

He hadn’t taken Nicola to bed, had said they would wait until they were married. If he wanted to sleep with someone, why not her? Why go elsewhere for what she would have given him eagerly?

Hadn’t he ever loved her? Hadn’t he fancied her, hadn’t he wanted to sleep with her?

Bewildered, hurt, aching with frustration and wounded passion, she had needed to see him, ask him, get him to tell her . . . why? Why, why, why?

But her father and Aunt Eloise would not allow her to visit him in prison, so she had to escape and get her own way. Aunt Eloise kept proclaiming the importance of getting your own way, after all.

The press had given up hanging around. Nicola was able to slip quietly out of the front door and got a taxi right outside; pure luck. She would have walked to Hyde Park Corner, nearby, and got on a bus, if she had to, but a taxi was better. She went to Oxford Street and bought herself some inexpensive jeans and a cheap little thin white sweater, changed into them in the restroom at the Savoy, put the green Dior dress she had been wearing into a bag and left it to be collected. She could pick it up sometime before she left. After all, how could she visit a prison wearing a dress that had cost over a thousand pounds? The quality stood out a mile, just as the cost of the clothes she was wearing now were getting some sideways looks from the staff in the foyer of the Savoy.

But this was one occasion you had to dress down for. She didn’t want to stand out, or attract attention, at the prison. She had also bought a cheap anorak with a hood which she could pull forward over her head, disguising her blonde hair and hiding her face.

All the same, she got stared at by the other prisoners as she waited for Sean to come and sit opposite her.

He looked astonished as he saw her, his face going red.

‘Hello, Sean,’ she whispered shyly, not quite meeting his eyes.

‘Hello, Nicola,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t ever think you’d visit me, in here – your father’s solicitor came, told me the engagement was over and I wasn’t to try to see you again, or write, or anything.’

‘He doesn’t know I’m here. He didn’t want me to come, but I had to see you.’

He shifted uneasily. ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK? I won’t give you excuses, there aren’t any. But I am sorry.’

‘Did you ever love me?’ The question was quiet, but even someone as selfish and dim as Sean could have heard the pain burning behind it.

He swallowed, audibly, looking at her. ‘Yes, yes, more than I realised, myself, and before you ask I never loved her. I just needed to . . . do it, right? I couldn’t with you. I knew that. I respected you too much. But I’m only human and I’m a man. And she was there, and offering. But that was all. It was just sex.’

Her small, pale, delicate fingers twisted together. Sh

e looked at him through her wet lashes. ‘I wish I could believe you.’

‘I wish you did, not that it makes much difference now, it’s too late, I know.’

She kept looking at him, tears dropping from her big blue eyes. ‘You look different. Thinner. I don’t know . . . different in other ways, too. Older. Sad. Oh, Sean, it’s all such a mess.’

He groaned softly. ‘I know. But I do love you, Nicola. I wish to God none of it had ever happened. Honestly. If I could go back . . . I got scared when she said she was going to have a baby. I must have been mad for that one minute. And now your dad will never let me marry you, even if I get out of here, if I’m not found guilty, say. Even then he wouldn’t let me marry you. It’s all over for me.’