have time to get back to you, but I’ll try my best.”
I should have expected that. I waited for the tone and then I spoke.
“Peter, it’s Jimmy Clarenden. You remember me, the mug with the bullet holes. I know you’re busy, but I was wondering if we could possibly meet up, like we talked about.” Then I left my number and hung up. The chance of a callback seemed pretty slim. If I wanted to find out more, I was going to have to do my own legwork.
I stood and was about to grab my hat and coat when there was a knock on the door. I opened it and a woman stepped in. Suddenly, my dimly-lit office was bathed in a surreal glow. A glow that, of course, emanated directly from my newly-arrived visitor. It was the third angel, Jessie.
She had medium-length, reddish-brown hair that descended in waves over a pale, slightly freckled face. Her eyes were soft brown, but her mouth was pulled into a tight frown. The robe she wore was long, its bottom swishing against her feet. Unlike at least one of her fellow angels, she clearly subscribed to the virtues of modesty, though as far as I could tell from the outline through the robe, she had nothing to be modest about. All in all, she cut a highly appealing figure. Not stop-you-in-your-tracks, knock-you-down-in-the-street, and rip-your-eyes-out-of-their-sockets attractive like Sally, but highly appealing nonetheless.
I showed her to a seat and went back to my desk. As she sat arranging her robe about herself, I quickly adjusted the Venetian blinds I’d just hung over the windows, attempting to restore the office to its previous state of gloom. Presently, she spoke.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am, Mr Clarenden.” Her voice was soft. I had to strain my ears to catch it.
I said, “I can’t accept your apology.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because, to my knowledge, you haven’t done anything you need to apologise for.”
She looked down for a moment.
“Or are you apologising in advance, for something you’re about to do?” I continued.
She looked up again. Then she smiled. Just a small smile, for a fraction of a second, but it made a difference.
“I’m not apologising for anything I did,” she said. “I’m apologising for the way Sally treated you yesterday. It wasn’t right or fair.”
“You don’t have to worry about that—it was all my fault. I didn’t realise I’m supposed to be nice to her.”
“You’re a kidder,” she said. “But you don’t understand what you’re saying. You don’t really know Sally.”
“Are you going to tell me more about her?”
“I’m going to tell you to be very careful of her.”
“I’ve already learnt to be careful of her. She could skin a man alive with that tongue of hers, and as for those legs—”
“You think it’s a joke.” Jessie was staring at me with her head held high, but underneath the bravado, I could see how tightly her hands were clenched, and the slight tremble in her shoulders. There was no doubt this was an angel who was terrified of something. Or of someone.
“I don’t think anything is a joke,” I said. “When anyone warns me about someone, I listen. But I also wonder about the real purpose of the warning. Is there any reason I should be as frightened of her as you seem to be?”
Jessie looked away. Her eyes scanned the room, eventually alighting on the large picture frame I’d placed in the middle of the desk, from which the face of a young woman gazed out wistfully.
“Who is she?” she asked.
The change of subject took me by surprise. “She was my wife.”
“She’s very pretty. She must be missing you.”
“I doubt that very much. She left me for a smooth-talking shoe salesman many years ago.”
“A shoe salesman?”
“That’s right. She said she could never love a man with fallen arches.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.”
“There are no wounds to open. A man in my business has to take the bad with the bad. But you didn’t come here to
I should have expected that. I waited for the tone and then I spoke.
“Peter, it’s Jimmy Clarenden. You remember me, the mug with the bullet holes. I know you’re busy, but I was wondering if we could possibly meet up, like we talked about.” Then I left my number and hung up. The chance of a callback seemed pretty slim. If I wanted to find out more, I was going to have to do my own legwork.
I stood and was about to grab my hat and coat when there was a knock on the door. I opened it and a woman stepped in. Suddenly, my dimly-lit office was bathed in a surreal glow. A glow that, of course, emanated directly from my newly-arrived visitor. It was the third angel, Jessie.
She had medium-length, reddish-brown hair that descended in waves over a pale, slightly freckled face. Her eyes were soft brown, but her mouth was pulled into a tight frown. The robe she wore was long, its bottom swishing against her feet. Unlike at least one of her fellow angels, she clearly subscribed to the virtues of modesty, though as far as I could tell from the outline through the robe, she had nothing to be modest about. All in all, she cut a highly appealing figure. Not stop-you-in-your-tracks, knock-you-down-in-the-street, and rip-your-eyes-out-of-their-sockets attractive like Sally, but highly appealing nonetheless.
I showed her to a seat and went back to my desk. As she sat arranging her robe about herself, I quickly adjusted the Venetian blinds I’d just hung over the windows, attempting to restore the office to its previous state of gloom. Presently, she spoke.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am, Mr Clarenden.” Her voice was soft. I had to strain my ears to catch it.
I said, “I can’t accept your apology.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because, to my knowledge, you haven’t done anything you need to apologise for.”
She looked down for a moment.
“Or are you apologising in advance, for something you’re about to do?” I continued.
She looked up again. Then she smiled. Just a small smile, for a fraction of a second, but it made a difference.
“I’m not apologising for anything I did,” she said. “I’m apologising for the way Sally treated you yesterday. It wasn’t right or fair.”
“You don’t have to worry about that—it was all my fault. I didn’t realise I’m supposed to be nice to her.”
“You’re a kidder,” she said. “But you don’t understand what you’re saying. You don’t really know Sally.”
“Are you going to tell me more about her?”
“I’m going to tell you to be very careful of her.”
“I’ve already learnt to be careful of her. She could skin a man alive with that tongue of hers, and as for those legs—”
“You think it’s a joke.” Jessie was staring at me with her head held high, but underneath the bravado, I could see how tightly her hands were clenched, and the slight tremble in her shoulders. There was no doubt this was an angel who was terrified of something. Or of someone.
“I don’t think anything is a joke,” I said. “When anyone warns me about someone, I listen. But I also wonder about the real purpose of the warning. Is there any reason I should be as frightened of her as you seem to be?”
Jessie looked away. Her eyes scanned the room, eventually alighting on the large picture frame I’d placed in the middle of the desk, from which the face of a young woman gazed out wistfully.
“Who is she?” she asked.
The change of subject took me by surprise. “She was my wife.”
“She’s very pretty. She must be missing you.”
“I doubt that very much. She left me for a smooth-talking shoe salesman many years ago.”
“A shoe salesman?”
“That’s right. She said she could never love a man with fallen arches.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.”
“There are no wounds to open. A man in my business has to take the bad with the bad. But you didn’t come here to
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