Unlike a Virgin (10 page)

‘Bloody love it.’

‘That was a stupid question really, considering that you spent years touring with bands and now do karaoke in your pub.’ I gasp. ‘Oh, Anton, I took you away from your karaoke.’

‘Urgh,’ he shudders. ‘Some of my favourite songs being massacred by the drunk.’

‘Did you sing?’

‘I did, yes.’

‘What did you sing?’

‘Oh, I sang with a friend of mine.’

‘What?’

‘A Simon & Garfunkel number. Way before your time.’

‘What song?’

‘“The Sound Of Silence”.’

‘Oh, I love that song.’

‘I have it on CD. No random radio required,’ Anton says, reaching towards the stereo.

He puts on ‘The Sound Of Silence’. I hear the familiar guitar chords and soft voices of Simon & Garfunkel, and it sounds warm and familiar, like I’m being welcomed back to an
old home. Dad loved this song. I’ve never taken this to the cemetery to play to him. How could I have forgotten it? Dad was going through a Simon & Garfunkel phase the summer he died. Shortly before the accident he drove me to a singing competition in Chester. He had a tape of Simon & Garfunkel playing live somewhere and we sang along to it all the way there. ‘The Boxer’, ‘Scarborough Fair’ and a song called ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’. Oh God, I hope Anton doesn’t play that one. Dad sang it so beautifully in the car that day, and he played it again when we parked at the theatre, before I had to go in and register. I remember him singing the words: ‘Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way’. And as I kissed him and got out of the car, he smiled and said, ‘All your dreams are on their way, Grace. Knock ’em dead, Silver Girl.’

It’s a bit sick, but I find myself pretending I’m not sitting here with Anton; I’m sitting here with Dad instead. I’m pretending I’m fifteen and we’re on our way to a singing competition. Yes, I know that makes me a freak, but I’ve just had a bang to the head. I close my eyes.

Anton starts to sing along. Wow! He can really sing. His voice isn’t dissimilar to Dad’s. It’s the same key and the same gentle style; he doesn’t push the song at you, he just sort of lays it gently at your ears.

I know it’s crazy to pretend that a pub landlord is your dead father, but it’s also blissful. Oh, so blissful.

The next song is ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ and I can’t bring myself to ask Anton to turn it off. Instead I keep my eyes closed as he sings the first lines to me: ‘When you’re weary, feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all.’

‘Your turn,’ Anton whispers, in the musical refrain in the middle, exactly as Dad would have done.

‘You swine, I get the belter notes,’ I would whisper back, because Dad always used to split songs so I got to sing the hard bits.

Anton sings the song just like Dad did, and I feel as if Dad’s talking to me. He’s saying that things will be all right.

‘You shine, Gracie Flowers,’ Anton says at the end of the song. But I can’t look at him because – and I know this is crazy lady speak – it feels like my dad is saying he’s proud of me. Even though I don’t think Dad would be. Not really.

‘Thank you,’ I sniffle back.

Then the police lady opens the car door and a blast of cold air hauls me abruptly back to the present.

‘Oh, Gracie Flowers, it’s no use. You look like someone’s put foundation on a plum.’

I sigh sadly at my reflection. Covering up the bruises hadn’t worked, so I’d put a scarf around my head to hide the dressing and now I look like a fortune-teller with an abusive husband. It’s taken me forever to get ready this morning. Even longer than the morning after Wendy’s last birthday, and I didn’t think anything could be worse than that. I was sick four times.

‘Today so wasn’t supposed to be like this. I should be Lady Boss, not Scabby Mess,’ I groan. ‘What to do, Gracie Flowers? What to do? Your twenty-seventh year doesn’t seem to like you much. Talk about bad birthday weekend. Although I did enjoy the bit in Anton’s car. Now that is sad,’ I say, pointing at my reflection. ‘The highlight of your birthday weekend was sitting in a car waiting to give a police statement about your assault. Sort yourself out, girl.’

But the truth is, for some reason I loved the time I spent in Anton’s car last night. I don’t know why, but I felt happier there than I have done in a long time. It’s ridiculous. I’m a happy person. I’ve got Danny, a job, a flat. It must have been those painkillers. I should find out what they were and see if I can get some more.

I step back from the sink, take three deep breaths, straighten my back and look myself in the eye. ‘What’s the plan?’ I say loudly. My bruised face looks back blankly, then my shoulders slump forward because I don’t really know what the plan is and I’m tired.

I’m tired because I only had three hours’ sleep. I went to Casualty and had my head stitched after I’d made a statement to the nice policewoman. I should have asked the nurse at the hospital if they had any of the morning-after pill, but Anton was with me the whole time and I didn’t think he’d want to be acquainted with mine and Danny’s problematic two-minute Saturday-morning quickie. So, I still haven’t taken that stupid pill and those pesky little sperm are probably having a right old time.

‘The plan is to get Posh Bloke out of Make A Move quick. Show him and Lube and everyone that you are the man for the job. Grow some balls, Flowers!’ I cringe. I’d hate to have balls. ‘That’s what you’re going to do, Grace, work hard. Work harder than everyone else! WORK HARD, GRACE, AND GROW SOME BALLS!’

My eyes flit to my new five year plan, which is sitting empty on the wall, waiting for me to fill it in. I pick up the felt tip I’ve left here expressly to write my next mission. I take the lid off.

In one year I will have …

In two years I will have …

In three years I will have …

In four years I will have …

In five years I will have …

‘Will have what, though?’ I whisper. ‘What will I have done?’ And for the first time in so long, I don’t know.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Grace, babe, I’ve got to go.’ It’s Danny and he sounds desperate.

‘Coming,’ I shout back, but I don’t move. I’m still staring at the blank space I need to fill.

‘Grace.’ Danny bangs on the door again. ‘We cannot leave it to chance that I will be able to keep clenching.’ He sounds in pain. I’ll have to let him in. I put the lid back on the felt tip and look at my blank five year plan one last time before unlocking the door.

There are two things in my life that I’m proud of. The first is that I have never been in debt. Actually, let me clarify that, I might have owed the price of a bar tab because I’d forgotten to settle it on the night, like I did at the weekend, or borrowed a tenner off Wendy and paid her back a few days later, but I have never been in debt to the bank or had to pay a bank charge or interest. It’s a trait I clearly don’t get from my mother.

The other thing I’m proud of is something that’s very close to my heart, because I spend a lot of time doing short trips in my car. I have never parked illegally. Nope, never. Not even a quick double park while I run into a shop to get a pint of milk. This is because I believe that if we all start bending the rules on the road there will be travel chaos. Holding such strong beliefs is vexing in London, though. Take today, a tosspot in a Porsche Boxster has parked on the red route outside the office with his hazard lights on. This meant I had to wait for a
lull in the traffic to get round him in order to park in my legal spot around the corner. So tosspot Porsche driver has made my slow morning even slower, thus causing me to be late for work. Well, not late, but not as early as I like to be. I love being first in the office, especially on a Monday. It’s a chance to put the kettle on and get my head around the week. It works in my favour, too, because lots of potential clients call before 9 a.m., when they’re on their way to work and spot one of our signs. And we all know the motto: whoever speaks to the client first, keeps the client.

I get my Make A Move key out and put it in the lock, only to find it’s already open. This never happens. I walk into the office. It’s him. John Posh Boy Whatsit, and he’s on the phone already. He looks even more attractive than he did on Saturday. In fact, he looks sun-kissed. He’s probably got a yacht. Rah rah. Pull that rope, Jeremy, rah! A badminton racquet leans against the side of his desk. Badminton. He’s such a twat.

‘Four bed, you mentioned,’ he’s saying.

He’s only gone and got a four bed already this morning. Four beds are ‘show me the money’. I feel like picking up the phone and screaming down the line, ‘He doesn’t need a four bed. He’s probably got a butler!’ but I don’t. Instead I pick up my phone and dial the number for Transport For London and ask to be put through to their parking department.

‘Hello,’ I say to the woman. ‘There’s a Porsche Boxster parked on the red route on the Chamberlayne Road, London W10. Yeah, I know. Tosspot. Driver doesn’t deserve a Boxster,’ I tell the lady. She agrees and thanks me for my call. I walk into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and when I
return, Posh Boy is off the phone and looking flustered. He’s flapping about his desk looking for something. Eventually he shakes his jacket, hears some keys, mutters, ‘Thank heavens for that,’ (because he’s so posh), pulls them free, runs outside and gets into the Porsche. When he comes back a few minutes later, he walks straight up to my desk. I keep the straight back of one who has the moral high ground and brace myself for hostility, but his face looks more concerned than anything.

‘Grace …’

‘Do you want tea?’ I ask, polite but frosty.

‘No, no, I’ve got a coffee.’

I turn back to my computer. I offered him tea! Why did I offer him tea? That was far too nice of me. Don’t do it again, Flowers. Remember your balls.

‘Grace,’ he says again, ‘you don’t have to tell me what happened, but do you want a day off?’

It takes me a moment to work out what he’s on about, but then I remember the Halloween look I’m sporting today.

‘No, of course I don’t want a day off.’

My words come out sharply, and when I replay them in my head it reminds me of how my mother talks to me. Now I feel guilty. I’m rubbish at being mean. I need to get better at it if I’m going to let Posh Boy know who’s boss. Balls, Grace, balls.

He’s still standing in front of me with that concerned expression, and he’s trying not to look at my face. I soften. He’s far more sensitive than the other blokes who work here. They’ll all be like, ‘Hi, Mr Potato Head, have you seen Gracie?’ I must say sorry for sounding like a cow. I’ll feel bad
about it all day if I don’t. I’ll say sorry this once and then I’ll get back to behaving as though I have the biggest balls in Britain.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I was mugged last night.’

‘Jesus, Grace, you poor thing.’ His voice is kind. Bloody posh but very kind.

‘No, I’m OK.’

‘Where?’

‘The Harrow Road. They only took my bag.’

‘But … did they? They didn’t punch you?’

‘No, they sort of pushed my head into my car.’

‘Bastards.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Where on the Harrow Road?’

‘The dark bit opposite the cemetery. I’d just pulled up at the late-night chemist.’

‘How awful.’

‘I’m fine. My face looks worse than it feels,’ I lie.

‘It’s still a lovely face,’ he says and smiles. ‘And at least you’ll be better for our paintballing team-building event in a month’s time.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘A paintballing, team-building event.’

‘Paintballing? Team building?’ I repeat slowly, with undisguised disgust.

He nods.

‘You seriously expect me and Wendy to run about in the grass getting pelted with paint by a load of mental blokes?’

‘You’ll be all right,’ he says, and starts to walk back to his desk. But then he stops and turns and smiles, a funny little shy
smile. ‘I’ll protect you,’ he says, but he mouths the words as though it’s a secret.

John Whatsit is flirting with me. Urgh! I feel sick.

‘Oh, there’s your family,’ he says, nodding to the door. I took my eye off the door! He unnerved me with all that ‘lovely face’ stuff. Lucky they’re my people coming in or I might have missed out on some new clients.

God, he’s so annoying.

The second best day of my life was the day I made my first sale at Make A Move. I felt like I was drunk on fizzy wine at lunchtime. I was giddy and smiley and I wouldn’t shut up. But it wasn’t just me who was happy, everyone involved was thrilled. Lube, obviously, because property prices were sky high at the time and he made a tidy sum from my efforts, but it was the faces on the people who’d sold their flat and the people who had just bought it from them that made it all worthwhile for me. The property was a three-bed garden flat near Ladbroke Grove. The couple selling were academic types in their early sixties, who’d raised a family there but had decided to retire to Chichester and enjoy crab sandwiches and sea walks, and they had sold to a gorgeous young newly married couple who couldn’t wait to start a family. It sounds silly, but something about the transaction said, ‘This is the right order of things.’ It wasn’t about the money, it was about a home being passed carefully from owner to owner. It was
about love and laughter and memories and hopes for the future.