Unlike a Virgin (25 page)

‘Shh. So he’s old and wrinkly. Now, I want you to imagine kissing him. Whoa, Grace. You’ve still got that sappy smile on.’

I straighten my face again.

‘Right, now it’s your wedding. Everyone is there. Me, looking absolutely stunning with Freddie, who’s changed his shirt. OK, now it’s your first dance as man and wife. What’s the song?’

‘“Annie’s Song”.’

‘“Annie’s Song”, as in the one your dad sang to your mum that made grown men blub.’

‘Yep,’ I open my eyes. ‘Funny thing, but with Dan, the first dance was always an issue in my head. I mean, the only song he ever really got pash about was Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome To The Jungle”.’

‘Yeah, well that says it all.’

‘You know what, Wend? I don’t miss him any more.’

‘No, I bet you don’t.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, he was never really there, was he, Danny?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, he was always there somewhere – on the computer or in the pub or watching telly – but he was never really there, was he? Never really present. He didn’t bring much to the table.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘The thing is, some women like to have a man like that – a quiet bloke who’s just there – but I don’t think that’s you really, deep down. I think you want a man to rock your world. Like your dad did.’

‘Hmm, like Anton.’

‘No, like Posh Boy. You just got full “I love Posh Boy” marks in the test.’

‘It wasn’t Posh Boy I was imagining when you said all that stuff.’

‘You what?’

‘It was Anton.’

‘What, those big smiles and “Annie’s Song” were for Anton?’

‘Totally.’

‘Grace, he’s like twice your age.’

‘He’s about the same age as George Clooney,’ I say, affronted.

She laughs as though I’m joking.

‘Can I interest you in a Freddie update?’

‘Yes. In depth, please.’

‘Well, Freddie is being very nice to me. As he frigging should be after be called me a slut.’

‘He didn’t call you a slut.’

‘Slag then, whatever, the meaning was clear, even though
he’s been with far more girls than I have blokes since we’ve known him. Obviously, it’s fine for him to put it about, but not me. So, anyway, he’s being lovely now. Kind, sweet, attentive.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m ignoring him.’

‘Oh no, Wend. Don’t play games, that’s so not you.’

‘Hang on, not proper ignoring him. I’m
politely
ignoring him. I smile and nod and respond if he says something, then I say, “Nice to see you, Freddie, but will you excuse me while I just go and talk to so and so.”’

‘And?’

‘And it hurts to say it, but he’s sniffing around me like I’m a dog’s arse. Years I’ve spent lobbing myself at men – I’m getting a bit of a tennis metaphor going here. Right, so I’m the tennis ball. Bouncy, bouncy. Wendy of old used to hurl herself forcefully at a man, but New Wendy is a tennis ball that bounces across the ground and is impossible for a man to catch. When he tries the ball falls out of his hand and he stumbles about like a pillock. You know what I mean, don’t you? You can’t catch.’

I smile at her.

‘Yes. Wendy, I know exactly what you mean.’

‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah!’ I scream, dancing about the office. Finally, something positive has happened. I’ve just got an offer on Claire’s flat. ‘Who’s the daddy?’ I scream.

‘What is she doing?’ Posh Boy asks Wendy.

‘That flat with the sanitary-towel child. She’s got an offer. Asking price.’

‘Oh.’

‘Hallelujah! I’m going to tell Claire in person,’ I say, grabbing my keys from my desk.

‘I’ll come, too.’

I freeze. What if he tries to kiss me in the car? What if he thinks I’ll be doing office nooky from now on?

‘No, you’re all right, I’ll go.’

‘No, I’d like to.’

‘Um, but …’

‘Come on, stop polluting the silence with your voice.’

‘You should really think about getting your own lines.’

‘Come on, stop dithering. We should get going.’

‘Righto,’ I say, grabbing my keys. GAH! Shoot me now. I just said ‘Righto’!

‘You should really think about getting your own lines,’ he taunts proudly, following me as I power walk to the car. I get there speedily, but then have to wait for him. If he’s going to come along he’ll have to climb in my side. Eventually we belt up and I start the engine.

He waits until we’re at the first set of traffic lights before he speaks.

‘You, er …’ he starts.

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ I say, pretending to concentrate on the road.

‘I, er …’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Grace.’ He puts his hand on my knee.

‘Don’t, please.’

‘No?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘Oh, absolutely not?’

‘Hmm.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘Well, it’s not a good idea. It’s a really, really bad time for me and we work together.’

‘I thought we were made to kiss each other.’

I’m parked now, but I don’t look at him; I undo my seatbelt. He puts his hand on mine.

‘It’s a really, really bad time for me.’

He strokes my hand and I look up, and suddenly we’re
kissing again. Oh, damn! It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with my mouth, then I push him away.

‘See, made to kiss each other,’ he says softly.

I have to admit that the kissing’s good, but there’s more to it all than kissing. I wouldn’t want to sing to Posh Boy. I wouldn’t want to lie in his arms all night. I wouldn’t want to wake up next to him for the rest of my life. I know that. Although the kissing is good. The kissing is really rather lovely, actually.

‘Let’s get back to the constant abuse and me outselling you eight to one without the snogging, OK?’

‘I’m not choosing to have this crush on you, Flowers, believe me! I’d much rather have a crush on someone who was nice to me. Someone who offered me the odd kind word or look. I’m not choosing to have a crush on Big Balls Woman who’s made my life a living hell since I took this job and kneed me in my own big balls.’ He sighs. ‘How about we have one night of passion to get it out of our systems.’

‘I’ve got nothing in my system to get rid of,’ I tell him. There’s a knock on the window on my side. It’s Claire, so I open the door.

‘I wondered who was in my spot, then I saw it was you two,’ she says, a tiny baby propped on her shoulder. She’s not crying, which is positive. ‘The twins are at Tumble Tots, do you want to come in for a cuppa?’

I look at John to see if we’ve got time.

‘Do you have biscuits?’ he enquires formally.

‘Freddie the Frogs and Hungry Caterpillars.’

‘Sold.’

‘We’ve got good news,’ I say, getting out of the car.

‘Oh?’

‘An offer. Asking price. This morning. Banker. No chain. He’s been renting, so should be quick.’

‘Oh.’ She looks so happy she might cry.

‘Shall I take the wee one?’ I say, holding out my arms for the baby.

‘Thank you,’ she says.

She places the tiny warm bundle into my arms.

‘Oh, you’re so precious,’ I whisper into the baby’s head. ‘Oh you’re so precious,’ I say again. ‘How old is she?’

‘Two and a half months.’

‘Look at you, broody,’ Posh Boy says, having finally extricated himself from the car.

‘Grace’ll make a lovely mum,’ Claire says warmly.

‘I think so,’ agrees Posh Boy.

‘Just don’t leave it too late.’

I don’t say anything. I just sniff the tiny baby’s head and imagine how it would feel if she was mine.

My loan has been approved! Mum will have the money in her bank account by the end of next week. I’ve come round tonight to tell her. She doesn’t know the good news yet, but she’s already in a peculiarly good mood. I’m watching her closely. She’s making cauliflower cheese. Now in essence this is a wonderful spectacle, because I love cauliflower cheese, but my mother has never made it before. The main problem with cauliflower cheese, for my mother, has always been the cheese. My mother doesn’t encourage cheese in the house. Occasional tubs of Philadelphia Light might make an appearance once a month, and there has been one lone sighting of some feta, but Cheddar! Not on your nelly. She didn’t even make it for Danny, and she loved Danny.

‘Is Danny working late?’ she chirps from the cooker as though she’s been reading my mind.

Do I tell her now? Do I risk trampling on her rarely spotted
mirth? Yes, I suppose I have to. At least I have good news about the loan to chase it with.

‘Mum, we split up.’

She spins round. She was always very good at turns. Her mother spotted her turns as a toddler and took her straight to dance classes.

‘Oh, Grace.’ Her face has fallen. ‘Oh, Grace, how are you?’

‘Oh.’ I hadn’t expected her concern. ‘I don’t know really.’

‘Do you want to talk to me about it?’ This is so odd. This is normal mother behaviour.

‘Um, well, I dunno. He’s moved to Canada for a job.’

‘Oh, Grace,’ she says. ‘Oh, Grace.’

She places her hand on my back as I sit on the table. It’s physical contact from my mother. I close my eyes. We stand still like this, as though a painter is before us doing a mother and daughter tableau, until Mum screeches the word, ‘Bugger!’ and rushes back to the cauliflower cheese.

‘Ew, it’s stuck to the pan,’ she says, stirring it furiously.

‘Never mind, the crunchy bits are nice.’

I’m in a daze. I’ve fantasised about having girly chats like this with my mum for a decade.

‘I haven’t had this for years,’ she says, peering inside the saucepan with a clenched jaw before continuing. ‘I never thought he was good enough for you.’

‘But you doted on Danny.’

‘Because he was there. He’s always been there, and that counted for something. But if I think of you, I see you with someone stronger, more creative, someone more like your dad. Mind you, I never would have thought you’d be an estate agent, Grace. I thought you’d be a singer. I thought me and
your dad would have been at Ronnie Scott’s listening to you by now.’

‘Yeah, well, we both know why that didn’t work out.’

‘Do we? Anyway, I don’t want to upset you. I have some good news, which is why I wanted to cook you something nice,’ she says, wincing at the cauliflower cheese. ‘Our money troubles are over. I took some advice and borrowed some money. A loan.’

‘Oh, but that’s my news. I got you a loan. It was approved today.’

‘Well, I don’t need your loan; I got my own. I waited until it was in my bank account to tell you.’

‘But you have to pay loans back.’

‘Grace, I’m not completely stupid. I’ve been on the planet a lot longer than you.’

‘But—’

‘It’s fine. I’m sure I don’t need all the money I’ve borrowed. I shall pay off all the debts and I’ll still have enough to live on, and then I’ll get a job.’

‘What sort of job?’

‘Something I can do online.’

‘Like what?’

‘Don’t say it like that, Grace. I thought I could make and sell dresses on eBay.’

‘Well.’ I wonder what to say. I’m so used to sniping at my mother that I find myself searching for something negative to say, but actually it’s a good idea. Ricardo mentioned borrowing money against the house, that must have been what she’s done and he’s obviously very good with cash. Mum can make amazing dresses, she could do very well. Best of all, it means she
doesn’t need the graveyard money. It also means I don’t need to borrow twenty grand. ‘Well done, Mum. That’s a brilliant idea.’

‘I thank you,’ she smiles and does a perfect curtsy.

I smile.

I put my hand on my tummy and look out of the window. Someone has mowed my mother’s lawn. I don’t ask her who because I’m thinking about something else entirely. If I no longer have to support my mother, could I support a child? It’s a ridiculous question to ask myself really, as I’ve got an appointment at the hospital tomorrow to organise the thingy.

I wonder whether you can have an abortion and put it away in a box in the corner of your mind? Or does it come back to haunt you in every baby’s face you see? Wendy says that one in five women have them. Do they all feel sad? I expect so. It’s hardly laugh-a-minute stuff. You don’t hear many girls saying, ‘What are you up to today?’ ‘I’m off to Topshop. You?’ ‘Having an abortion.’ ‘Oh, wicked!’

I’m having a scan to check my dates and so I can see it. I’m lying down on a gurney in the clinic, my tummy is covered in slime and I can see with my own eyes what’s going on in my tummy. It’s being shown on a screen next to me. There really is something there. I can see a tiny, growing, moving thing, a little him or her. I wish Dan was here, holding my hand, and that we were discussing names. Not that I’d let him have a say, Camilla for a girl, Camille for a boy, although I’d shorten it to Cam so he didn’t have the total mick taken out of him at school.