The Vent

Chapter II

Angel Angel

If you saw her on the Heath you'd definitely think she came up the hill from the flats and lived on benefits.

Its what she wanted

The mistress of allusion, with her shades, hoody and tracky bottoms, her pit bull called "lashes" and her muddy trainers, all leading you somewhere else.

Thin, waif like. Early twenties with a habit?

Mab "lashes" was there to keep the deals sweet?

No she was 36, with a 13 year old son at public school and a daughter 18 she couldn't bear to look at.

The wife.

Angel.

Angela Willard that woz.

Jane Birkin in her prime might give you a handle; Angel dark brunette with delft blue eyes.

Intoxicating package when revealed in the flesh.

She'd had a bit of work done, discreet expensive embellishments that made her more comfy in her own skin apparently.

All done in the best possible taste.

Not the tits

Her tits were tiny but crowned by the most glorious nipples

and areola that you might ever be lucky enough to see.

A small adjustment to the nose.

It was still real though, long, menacing, ready to sniff out trouble when the nostrils flared.

She'd had the bump out. A bit of work to her teeth, wisely waiting till she had the money and time to do her homework.

And the feet.

Her toes, she loved them.

Lots of years on pointe had taken its toll.

They'd cost the most.

At the age of four she'd been dragged along with her sister Penni, 3 years older and 2 years in a tutu already, to the church hall on Saturday morning.

Penni 7 and Angie 4, the Willard girls. Excellent for the posture, Mrs Willard knew.

If you asked anyone with exposure, "Both gorgeous in their way, Penni and Angie."

Tended by their mothers fastidious care at their presentation and their fathers income, they glowed.

Like most of the people that lived on one of the massive estates in Dagenham they got their wages from Ford Motor Co. Maurice's wages were better than his neighbours and a lot of other people.

He liked where they lived, spending his money on what gave him pleasure.

They could've moved to be with other management types, Mrs Willards wish, but Maurice wouldn't have it.

He'd worked his way up the ladder to run the "Transit Specials", bespoke Transit Vans, it was only a little splash in the output of the company but it got occasional press, it had quedos and a fatter paypacket than the people Maurice mixed with.

Penni's old leotard and tights swamped the waif.

Angela made such a fuss about going to that first ballet class, kicking, screaming, tears the works.

Maurice wasn't going to put his hand in his pocket for a new outfit if she was gonna behave like a vicious tomboy.

After Mrs W cried and Maurice cajoled, Angie capitulated, Penni radiating goodness.

They arrived 20 minutes late, Maurice seething, punctuality a pride.

Penni full of bonhomie; like a brook of pure mountain spring water.

The fairy from the Xmas tree greets the mistress of the dance at the front of the class with proud parents sublime.

Jill wasn't your average ballet mistress, a size16 instead of a 0; she loved to dance.

She'd only worked as a professional dancer once, now a mother to a daughter who took after her father with no concept of movement apart from fitting bumpers to Escorts all day.

Jack and the Beanstalk in Eastborne, but work as a choreographers assistant, including Arlene Phillips, had kept her close to her greatest love.

Must have been very hard, technically brilliant at tap, modern jazz and The Ballet and the body of an all in wrestler.

Pas de deux out of the question but her eye seeing all.

Penni greeted by the cliché and mistress, beamed.

Angela stood in front of her parents, head high, breathing deep from the skirmish, eye balling her new teacher with every fibre in her muscular little frame.

Mrs W gently ushered, Maurice prodded the shoulder, but Ange stood defiant, shoulders down, neck extended, focussed on the prey.

Jill crossed the hall with hand and smile outstretched.

"Hello, I'm Miss Carpenter"

Nothing.

A gentle prod from Maurice.

Nothing.

A small intake of breath from Mrs W.

A whisper of a courtesy, graceful extension of the open hand to the four year old Angela in baggy black nylon from Ms Jill Carpenter and...."Please join us"

The grotesque swan took the angry little signet by the hand and led her to another world.

Miss Jill Carpenter knew.

Little Angie standing there in front of her parents in 1st position, getting ready for the leap; a Prima Ballerina in the making.

Wot joy, every teacher loves natural promise.