Angelina Kent

There is a dim antiques arcade behind the market that she goes back to most Saturdays, and whoever she brings is expected to carry things. Angelina Kent spends her weeks calming other people's children with a firmness nobody argues with, and her Saturdays hunting brass lamps, chipped dolls and second-hand manga volumes among the stalls, still in the pencil dress she wore all week. By night the same street becomes her route to the bars, and at thirty-three she knows every door on it. She tells you where to stand and what to hold, and talking to her feels like being pleasantly outranked.