The Angel's Cut Read Online Free Page B

ceiling—all silk, but faded with wear, and stiff, the soap not fully rinsed out before they were draped there to dry. Most of the chairs in her house were covered with a mix of clean laundry and clothes she’d worn too few times to need a wash.
    That the place was untidy inconvenienced no one but her. She still got out looking presentable, and kept herself fed. But she never had a big clean-up, only kept as much order as was required to stay on the edge of comfort, and in a state of sufficient hygiene. If she cleaned Flora knew she might get the notion to invite someone special around—to plot her own pleasure, rather than just entertain whoever turned up.
    Gil and Flora had been together for just over a year a couple of years before her accident. Flora was the girl his family had approved. If he had to have an actress, Flora was better than many, a ‘quiet country girl’ in their estimation. But she and Gil hadn’t worked. He was too much the gentleman to let her feel she’d let him down—stirred him,but not satisfied him. And he was kind, too kind to show her how disappointed he was in himself. After Flora, Gil had gone on through starlets and showgirls. He was ostensibly playing the field. But really, Flora knew, he was like one of those dreamy kids who can’t concentrate, or catch a ball, the ones who volunteer to go stand in the long grass of the outfield but then still miss the fly balls. If Gil lost interest in a woman then his loss of interest explained away his problem. He could always get women, he was attractive, polite, well-spoken, successful. He had a string of two-reelers to his name, and a hand in several of his more famous older brother’s feature films.
    At that time in Hollywood there were two Conrads whose names you could bank with—Conrad Crow and Conrad Cole. Gil’s brother was always arguing with his producers, and breaking contracts, but moviegoers liked his stories, which were stuffed with adventure and detailed portraits of the lives of men working in dangerous businesses—mining, logging, deep-sea fishing. Flora had cut one film for Connie Crow, and had loved working for him. She did not, however, enjoy working for her rescuer, Conrad Cole. Cole was self-financing, a king of the grand splash, and something of a star-maker, but he was difficult and litigious and there were people in the business who fervently hoped he would tire of Hollywood and go glory-seeking elsewhere.
    Gil Crow was someone in Hollywood, he had pedigree, was always a good catch. Gil got women and, Flora guessed, did what he had with her. When they were together Gilstayed out late, drank too much and, when Flora laboured over him—with discouraging results—he always blamed the drink.
    However, a year ago, Gil gave up the showgirls, and got married. His marriage had come as a great surprise to Flora. And she hadn’t held out much hope for its happiness.
    Flora went into the kitchen to get ice. She’d forgotten ice, had been in too much of a hurry to get that first drink down. She pushed a stack of dishes into the sink, wiped the draining board, set an ice block down and went to work with her ice pick.
    It was a still, hot night and for hours the skin at the rims of all her scars had been itching. The scars didn’t sweat, and the border of damp skin and dry scar was often irritated. Flora would have to wait until tomorrow for relief. This was the last of her ice. Tomorrow the iceman would bring another block, and the milkman her usual three pints. She would put the ice in a basin and pour milk over it—she would soak a sheet in the icy milk and wrap it around her hips and thighs, then lie in the hallway, the coldest part of the house, her hips on a pile of towels and her head on a cushion. No one would come to her door. The movie she was working on had stalled again. Flora didn’t mind. Everyone whom Conrad Cole thought he might need was still being