Unlike a Virgin (24 page)

‘Um, what I meant – oh, gosh – well, I mean.’

He’s still laughing.

‘Can I take out a loan?’

Still he laughs.

‘Please.’

Now he’s choking. I hope he doesn’t die.

‘A loan,’ he says, finally pulling himself together. ‘I’m sure
we can arrange that with your impeccable history. How much did you want to borrow?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘Grace!’ he chokes with surprise. ‘You’re supposed to bank with us. Not us bank with you.’

‘Um.’

He’s laughing again. I think it was a joke. I smile. This is nothing like the
Guardian
article.

‘I’ve completed the paperwork,’ I say, sliding over the forms I’d neatly filled in.

‘Right, now, you’re a home owner, is that right?’

‘I am,’ I say proudly. ‘I have a maisonette.’

He looks like he might laugh again but holds it in.

‘Well, to borrow a sum of that scope we would need some collateral from you, i.e. your home.’

‘Yes,’ I swallow.

‘And how quickly do you want to repay the loan?’

‘Very quickly.’

‘Good. Say forty-eight months at nine point nine per cent interest and the repayments on this loan would be five hundred and six pounds, twenty five pence a month.’

The blush has gone and I feel like I’m turning pale. The words, loan, interest, and five hundred quid a month can do that.

‘Yes,’ I say, but I feel a bit sick.

‘You have to be sure you can make these repayments, Grace, or you could be forced to sell your maisonette to cover them.’

‘Yes,’ I say again.

‘Well, let me take those forms. You’ll hear from us in about
a week whether we’ve approved it, but I shouldn’t think it will be a problem.’

‘Really? You really think it won’t be a problem?’

‘I really think it won’t be a problem. The money should be in your account soon, but you must keep up the repayments. Or it can get … messy.’

‘I don’t want messy.’

‘I’m sure you don’t.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and I get up.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘A motion on the table! Haven’t laughed like that in years.’

I wish I could smile back, but the thought of borrowing twenty grand makes it hard. Banging my head repeatedly on a table whilst howling the word ‘arse’ would be easy, but smiling’s hard. It’s just so much money. I will do this for Mum, though, I think as I stand up on shaking legs, but this has to be the last and only time.

I think my bladder’s shrunk. Seriously, in all the times I drove to Wales with Danny I never once needed to stop for a wee, and sometimes we were stuck on the M4 for hours. Mine has always been a bladder of steel, but not any more. I only went an hour ago and now I need to go again. Like really, really need to go. I’m not sure what the protocol is when you’re paintballing. How am I supposed to indicate a ceasefire in a war zone? As predicted I haven’t taken to paintballing. I don’t know why it’s called team building as I’ve never hated my work colleagues more. I couldn’t care less whether we get the other team’s flag, and I hate guns even if they’re only firing paint.

I’m not even on the same team as Wendy as she’s on Lube’s Green Team. The Green Dream he called it when he gave them their rallying address, complete with
A Team
theme-tune der der ders. I am on John’s Blue Team. Although I look terrible in green, so perhaps there’s a positive about being on
the blue side. John gave me a cushy job – probably because I’m a girl – but I refrained from doing a feminist rant because I really don’t want to be running around on account of the fact that it poured with rain last night, so every time you step into the ‘combat zone’ you go arse over tit in the mud!

I’m currently crouched in a wooden hut, ready to fire at anyone from the other team who comes near our flag. Maybe I should just pull my overalls down and wee in here. No one will come in. There’s grass beneath me so it should disappear into the ground, and if there’s a smell of wee I’ll just blame it on a boy. I’m going to have to do it. We’re out here until someone gets the other team’s flag and that could be hours yet. I take off my Darth Vader hood – oh, that’s so much better – unbutton my overalls – my boobs look gigumbous in this vest. I feel as though I’m in someone else’s body at the moment – pull down the trousers, then my leggings. Oh damn, there’s someone outside; I can hear them running. Talk about timing! Shit, I’d better defend the flag. I pick up my paint gun and follow the figure with it. I fire, I yelp, I miss. I shuffle to a better position – it’s not easy to move, though, as my leggings are around my ankles – and fire again. I miss again. Oh God, he’s charging towards me, so I just keep firing. He comes right at me into my hut.

‘Argh!’ I scream, scrambling to pull up my trousers, but stumbling over into the mud. I slide around as I try to haul my leggings up, but before I can the figure lurches into the hut and dives on top of me.

‘Don’t shoot, it’s me, I’m on your team!’ the figure pants. It’s John. I hadn’t noticed he was wearing blue as well.

‘Whoops. Sorry. Get off me, you bugger.’

We appear to be lying down in the hut. That’s not really the odd part, though. The really ‘is this paintballing etiquette’ weird point is that we seem to be entwined – I believe spooning is the technical term – and my trousers are around my ankles. John’s gripping me and I can’t get out of his embrace. Well, perhaps I could if I tried, but it’s not unpleasant being held in strong arms, although it would be preferable if my bottom wasn’t out, my bladder wasn’t full and it wasn’t Posh Boy whose arms I was being held in. I attempt to wiggle free and pull up my leggings, but he grips me even harder. I hear his breath in my ear. My heart is thumping, which is strange because I’ve done absolutely nothing cardiovascular. He keeps one arm firmly around me, and with the other he pulls off his Darth Vader helmet. His hand is resting on my tummy, on the baby. There are three of us here at the moment. If Danny had stayed, would he have held me and his baby like this? I close my eyes and imagine for a moment that he did.

Posh Boy lobs his helmet on the ground and gently pushes me back to the floor. I’m very pleased I didn’t wee in there. He leans over me. His breathing is quick, too, but then he has actually been doing some running. He moves my hair from my face and touches the skin on my cheek. He’s stroking it and looking at me, and I know I’m panting, too. My chest is heaving up and down, which is quite unnerving considering the current size of it. He slowly moves his fingers from my cheek to my lips and ever so tenderly he touches my lips with his finger. And – oh feckeroony – he’s leaning down with his lips slightly parted. His lips land on mine. My boss is kissing me, but that isn’t the worse part; the worse part is that I’m
kissing him back. This so isn’t Estate Agent of the Year behaviour. His lips are warm and soft and gentle. After heavy paintball combat in freezing conditions this feels as warm and comforting as a cup of tea. Fruity tea. He stops for a second and looks at me again, making an odd little groaning sound.

‘Grace,’ he murmurs. ‘Grace, I can’t stop thinking about you.’ Then his hands are in my hair and his lips are on mine again and it’s urgent. It’s like we’re in a war zone and this may be the only kiss we’ll have before we’re bombed into extinction. Although that could be the screaming and paint firing going on outside. I feel like a Bond Girl. The world’s shortest Bond Girl with a very full bladder. But John could easily be James Bond if he was an actor and not an estate agent. He’s tall, handsome and looks delicious in a suit.

‘Grace,’ he pants in my ear. This is full-on movie-star kissing. I’ve never kissed anyone other than Danny, and I’m beginning to think he wasn’t much cop. My insides are all excited, but then suddenly I remember that the man I’m kissing is John, Bain of my Life, Twat of the Year, and the realisation causes me to pull away from his kiss and knee him in the gonad area. It’s more a case of two knees to gonad area, on account of the fact that my leggings are still around my ankles, so both knees move together.

‘Argh!’ screams Posh Boy, although he doesn’t look quite so posh rolling on the floor and clutching his groin. There’s a loud sound of cheering outside.

‘I think they just got the flag.’ I giggle. ‘We’d better move,’ I say, deftly pulling my trousers back on and standing back up.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he cries. His eyes are watering.

‘We work together, that was bad …’

‘No. We
work
together, you and I, Grace. Or we could work really well together if you’d be a bit kinder to my manhood. Now,’ he says, getting up. ‘Act along with me. I’m going to pretend my trainer came undone, and I just popped in here to do it up, away from the paint fire. And if you’re nice to me I’ll refrain from telling the team that I found you in here with your trousers round your ankles!’

And with that he walks out of the hut.

I have a cunning plan regarding Posh Boy. It involves ignoring him forever. Snogging him put me off my post-paintballing ploughman’s lunch. I didn’t think anything could put me off a ploughman’s. The pairing of Branston pickle and Cheddar has never in my whole life let me down, until today when I just couldn’t swallow it. I did manage a selection of home-made ice creams afterwards, though, so thankfully it wasn’t all silent starvation. At lunch, I made sure I sat as far away from John as was humanly possible without being in the toilet. And now that we’re on the coach, I’m sat next to Wendy and he’s at the back with Lube. I haven’t told Wendy yet about the snoggage because I know she’ll make loud whooping noises.

‘Wend, I’m going to say something in a second, and I need you to put your hand over your mouth as I say it, and promise me you won’t make a sound.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

She does.

‘Now promise me no screaming or whooping.’

She nods.

‘I’m serious!’

She nods again.

‘Posh Boy came into my hut during the paintballing and we snogged.’

She gasps.

‘HAND!’

We sit for a little while until Wendy has processed the information.

‘That is so cool,’ Wendy hisses at me eventually. ‘Was it good?’

‘NO!’ I exclaim. ‘I kneed him in the goolies afterwards.’

‘Seriously? I always thought he’d be a good kisser!’ Wendy exclaims.

‘Wend, voice down.’

‘What a waste. I thought his lips had kissing potential. He’s got good full lips for a bloke.’

‘Well,’ I humph. ‘He was all right.’

‘Admit it, Flowers. He was a good snog.’

I shrug. ‘Quite.’

‘I knew you loved him really,’

‘Oh pur-lease.’

‘We have to do the Love Test.’

‘No, Wend. We definitely don’t need to …’

‘Close your eyes.’

‘No.’

‘Do it!’

‘No!’

‘Please, please, I am your best friend in the whole world. Please, please.’

‘OK. But this is the most wasted Love Test ever.’

‘Ooh, I love, love, love doing the Love Test.’

‘Wend, keep your voice down, if the blokes hear this it will be Mick Take Nation.’

‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘OK, right.’

She sits up, straightens her back and coughs. Wendy takes the Love Test very seriously.

‘OK, are you relaxed?’

I roll my eyes, then nod.

‘Now, close your eyes.’

I close my eyes.

‘Very good. Now, take three deep breaths.’

I roll my eyes again, but take the breaths to appease her.

‘Very good. Now, I’m going to ask you to visualise various things. I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say, and take your time. We’ll take it nice and slow.’

Wendy has modelled her Love-Test voice on Paul McKenna’s hypnosis CDs. She speaks in an American accent, as though she’s underwater.

‘So, first of all, I want you to imagine his face. Start with his hair, then his eyes and his nose. Now, his mouth. Imagine his lips. His teeth. He’s smiling at you. Blimey, Grace, you’re doing a gooey smile already.’

Damn. I forgotten that part of Wendy’s comprehensive scoring system takes into consideration how much you smile. I try to straighten my mouth, but it’s hard, because in my head he’s smiling at me, and he does have a nice smile.

‘Now, enjoy his face in front of you for a little while longer.
OK, he’s still in front of you, but now he’s not alone, he’s with another girl. She’s pretty, this girl, and she looks nice. And he’s kissing her. A real “I love you” kiss. They’re really into each other. Ooh, ooh, there might even be a bit of hand on boob. How do you feel?’

‘Um.’ I swallow. ‘I just hope she’s worthy, really.’

‘Now, get rid of the girl. Throw her away. It’s just him again, but he’s old. He’s like eighty. He’s got old hands and an old, crotchety face and maybe a mole with a hair coming out of it.’

‘Wend! I’d tweezer the mole hair for him.’