Free Beggar Bride by Gillian White Page A

prince to Cinderella!’ Angela Harper laughs at her own little joke. It is important that she be seen conversing with someone else, in case Fabian Ormerod or any of his party spots her. She will have to be tolerant and humour this person, and he could come in useful at the interval. Could he be here alone?
    She is glad she took such pains with her hands, and the rings she chose from Selfridges look perfectly real in this glittering setting, no one would question their value on a woman so obviously chic and well-heeled. Now Aaron Teale has the temerity to take one of her hands in his own.
    ‘Meet my sister, Annabelle.’ He turns back to Ange with a kind of slobbering leer. ‘Who did you say you were?’
    ‘I didn’t actually,’ says Ange. ‘But I’m Angela Harper.’
    But Annabelle’s vacant blue eyes are searching the crowd for somebody else. Ange has only a photograph, and a badly crumpled one at that, if only she could know what Fabian Ormerod looked like in person. It’s only when you know someone well that you can recognise them from behind. And who will he be accompanying tonight?
    It hadn’t been hard to guess, as a man labelled patron of the arts in Who’s Who, that he would be interested in Covent Garden. She was jerked into this realisation when she noticed a copy of Opera House sticking out of somebody’s dustbin. She’d stopped in her tracks, she’d stared at the magazine for a good five minutes before the idea registered and she took it, carefully looking about her, for fear someone might think her a tramp.
    Her days of delving in dustbins are over.
    Why shouldn’t she label herself as a ‘Friend’? Surely the list of members would be too long, it wouldn’t be worthwhile keeping a check on every phone call. She’d dialled the number, giving the strong impression she was in regular contact, enquiring about available boxes. ‘I thought Cody/Ormerod had that box on that night,’ she attempted the casual remark, hands gripping the receiver like claws as she spoke.
    ‘No, let me see, Cody/Ormerod have the first Friday of every month…’
    Ange let the girl witter on before she quietly put down the phone. And then it was merely a matter of contacting Fabian himself.
    Not such a simple task when she put it to the test.
    Undaunted, she argued her way through a barrage of officials before finally reaching the great man himself. He was perfectly charming, a kind man, concerned.
    And from that telephone call she gathered that he would be there himself. A real stroke of luck. She wouldn’t have to work her way up through his underlings and their wives to reach him.
    ‘This is barmy,’ said Billy, as he watched her prepare, angry when she told him how much she’d risked to acquire the jacket. She mouthed at herself in the cracked mirror, glad of her talent for mimicry.
    ‘They were risks you should never have taken,’ he shouted, carrying on alarmed. ‘I ought to have known there was something up, all this going off on your own all of a sudden. Why, Ange? Why didn’t you tell me?’
    She looked at him, ruffled and pink from sleep. Dozing in the daytime like an old, worn out man. ‘Because you would have stopped me doing this.’ She compressed her lips to a tight line over her lipstick. ‘I didn’t want the hassle,’ she said.
    ‘If we’d flogged that coat we could have got out of here.’
    ‘Yes. Exactly. And we will, don’t you see?’
    No, he couldn’t see. Billy can’t see further than the end of his sodding nose. ‘Oh bullshit, this is a game, Ange, nothing more than a fantasy. Nothing’ll come of it, can’t you see? OK, you’ve got this far, I’ll give you that, you’ve got a chance to meet this turd. And you’ve got all the gear to tart yourself up in. But now what, Ange? What’s he going to do now? Fall at your feet? Bollocks.’
    ‘Why can’t you have some faith in me, Billy? Just for a change?’
    ‘Oh? It’s that way round is it? Sorry! Sorry!’ He paused as his