Unlike a Virgin (9 page)

‘Oh?’ I’m trying to be casual, which I think most people would find tricky under the circumstances. ‘What did he say?’

‘He’s worried about you, Grace.’

‘What? About me wearing purple?’

I see my mother’s perfectly aligned back go rigid. This is what my mother does to ward off confrontation. She tenses various parts of her body, mostly her back and her jaw, but sometimes you’ll see an arm suddenly stiffen or a hand quickly clench. The latter can be disconcerting. The first time Dan saw the hand clench, he ducked.

‘No,’ she says tightly. ‘Sit down at the table, Danny. Perhaps you’d open the wine.’

‘Of course, Rosemary,’ says Danny. ‘Oh, these flowers are nice. Have you got an admirer?’

I glance quickly at him. He’s pointing to a large vase of fresh flowers on the table. I haven’t seen fresh flowers in this house for years.

‘Who gave you … ?’ I start, but Mum ignores me.

‘He’s worried about you.’

‘What’s he worried about?’ I say, following Dan to the table.

‘He thinks you should start singing again.’

I roll my eyes. What is it about this weekend and people conspiring to make me sing? I’ve been quite happily
not
singing for years.

‘Why?’

‘He thinks you’re too talented.’

‘Oh, does he?’

‘And so do I.’

‘Come again?’

‘I agree with him.’

‘Oh, of course you do.’

‘Don’t be facetious.’

‘When did he say this?’

‘This morning.’

‘Mum …’

‘Grace …’

‘Dad’s dead,’ I say softly, and I walk towards her and try to put my arms around her, but she’s rigid and I feel like a cow.

‘I did get the letter from the cemetery.’ My mum says the word cemetery so quietly that it’s barely audible. It’s the same way she says all words that are in any way associated with Dad’s death.

‘Oh! Brilliant. Where is it?’

‘I replied.’

‘Oh right—’ I start, but something in the way she looks at me makes me stop. ‘What did you say to them?’

She doesn’t reply; she just walks calmly over to the knife
block and pulls out a carving knife. She’s pointing it at me when she speaks. Not deliberately, as though she’s about to stab me, but it’s still pretty macabre.

‘Mum, what did you say to them?’

‘I told them they could have the land,’ she says, and she starts to carve the beef.

And so another terrible meal at my mother’s has begun.

I drop Danny off outside the pub. The karaoke has started and I can hear two girls murdering Girls Aloud. Not literally. That would be disturbing. I really like Girls Aloud. I don’t listen to the radio, so I know absolutely nothing about pop music, but Wendy always buys me Girls Aloud CDs because they remind her of the girl band we formed at school with another girl. We were called Destiny’s Baby Sister. I know – dreadful. But we were fourteen, and we were definitely better than these girls in the Carbuncle tonight.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Danny says. I’ve let him out my side, and now that I’m back in the car, he’s crouching down beside my window.

‘About what?’

‘About your dad’s grave.’

I close my eyes and sigh.

‘Dunno.’

‘You look shattered.’

‘Cheers, smoothy. You won’t be getting no action from me. Oh, babe, I’ve got to go. The pharmacy shuts at ten and I’ll just about make it.’

We have a quick kiss and then I drive off.

Sometimes I wish I had a brother or sister. Actually, that’s a complete falsehood: I
always
wish I had a brother or sister. I’ve been playing my own fantasy sibling game for years. I used to fantasise about having a younger brother called Charlie or Rufus, or something quirky like Felix. He would be two years younger than me and would completely adore me, obviously, because I was his big sister, and I would have trained him from an early age to know that I was always right about everything. I would teach him about girls and help him shop for clothes, and spoil him rotten at Christmas. I would introduce him to everyone as my ‘baby brother’ and that would make him blush a bit because he’s quite shy. Mum would adore him as well, which would be good because then we’d have something in common. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t be nearly so mental if I had a baby brother.

However, I’m split fifty-fifty between Felix Flowers, the little cutie, or a nice, big, sensible sister who had an amazing ability to sort everything out. Wendy’s got the perfect older sister. Her name’s Lucy and she’s thirty-three, married with two children and she does things for Wendy like email her to remind her of family members’ birthdays. She even offers suggestions of what presents to get them. I’ve modelled my fantasy older sister on her. She’s called Alice and would be a maternity nurse. Alice is extremely capable. She would have noticed that Mum had stopped leaving the house way before I did and she would know how to make Mum happy. She
would have stopped Mum spending thousands on her credit card, and best of all she would have twin girls, called Camilla, after dad, and Ginger, after Ginger Rogers, and I would babysit them and Mum would love them. And when we were together we would be a big, laughing happy family.

It would be lovely to know there was someone I could talk to about Mum, because I don’t know what to do about her. I haven’t known for ages. It’s become much worse since I left home two years ago. Fifty per cent of me feels guilty that she’s on her own, but then the other half of me knows I have to get on with my life. I can’t fade away in that mausoleum with her. I did it for long enough and I dreamed of the day when I would get out and breathe and live. It would be easier to deal with if she was nicer to me, but she’s not. And I don’t know why. I know she doesn’t hate me, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like me. I always get the feeling I’ve done something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.

This issue with the graveyard will be the biggest falling-out we’ve ever had. How can it not be? She can’t give my dad’s grave to a building company. What’s she on? And how did she get in so much debt? Somehow I’ll have to bail her out. The really infuriating part is that if I’d got that job I would be on much more money and would be in a far better position to help her.

‘John Whatever Your Stupid Name Is, I hate you!’ I mutter as I look for somewhere to park. There’s a bus stop outside the chemist, but I’d better not pull in there. In the past, people have commented that I’m anal about driving misdemeanours, but I prefer the term ‘sensible’. One of my most largely exercised rants is against people who park in bus stops, because
then the bus can’t pull in and has to stop in the middle of the road, thus holding up the traffic. My heart beats faster just thinking about it. Anyway, if I were to park at this bus stop and someone who knew me saw my car there, I’d get proper ribbed, like those ultra pleasure condoms, for weeks after. It’s about two minutes to ten and I need to find somewhere quickly, so I turn off the main road and pull up in the side street.

‘OK, bag, money,’ I say, quickly making sure I’ve got everything. I get out of the car and lock it – no one would actually want my car, but I’d be completely lost without it – then throw my keys in my handbag.

‘ARGH!’ I scream as something knocks into me. I fall into the car’s bodywork with a crash and someone grunts behind me as my arm is wrenched away from me. I try to turn my head to see who’s attacking me, but as soon as I do I feel someone’s fingers in my hair and then my head is slammed into the car. I feel dizzy, like I’m going to throw up, then suddenly I’m released. I hear running footsteps and look up to see two figures, one swinging my bag as he runs across the road. I take a step forward but my legs buckle as if I’ve never used them before and I fall to ground. As I steady myself I notice a tear drop onto the pavement. I peer at it. It looks so strange. I haven’t cried in years, but as my eyes focus on it I realise it’s not a tear. It’s blood – my blood. I feel my face. There’s a cut at the top of my nose and a big hot bump forming on my forehead.

Someone’s taken my bag. Yet again I don’t have any money to buy this pill thing. Someone somewhere must be having a laugh. I get up slowly and walk tentatively to the
chemist, hopefully they’ll take pity on me and let me use their phone to call the police. I reach the chemist, but a metal grille has been pulled down over the glass frontage. It’s closed.

‘
Ferme la porte
,’
I say quietly, which is a bit weird as I didn’t think I could remember any French. There’s a phone box on the corner of the next block and I make my way, unsteadily, towards it, dial 999 and ask for the police. The lady I speak to sounds concerned that I’m on my own and tells me someone will be with me shortly.

I hope she’s right. I really don’t want to be here alone. The street suddenly feels very hostile. The bastards might come back. They’ve got my car keys. They could come back and take my car. There’s a spare key at home. I dial 100.

‘Hello, operator.’

‘Oh hello, I’ve just been attacked and someone has taken my money. Can you help me? Can you put me through to the pub where my boyfriend is?’

‘Yes, we’ll reverse the charges. What’s the name of the pub?’

‘Oh, thank you.’

‘What’s the name of the pub?’

‘Oh sorry. It’s called The Festering Carbuncle, London W10.’

‘Right, and what’s your name?’

‘Grace Flowers.’

I hear a ringing tone, then a really loud din and an Australian accent shouting, ‘HELLO!’

‘I have Grace Flowers on the line, do you accept the charges?’

There’s a short pause when I can hear pub noises and then what resembles the amplified sounds of someone retching.

‘ANTON!’ the Australian voice barks.

There’s another short pause and I realise that the retching sound is someone trying to sing Elvis Presley’s ‘All Shook Up’.

‘Anton speaking.’

‘Hello, I have Grace Flowers on the line, do you accept the charges?’

‘What? Grace. Yes. Yes, of course.’

The operator hangs up.

‘Anton, I’ve been mugged. I’m waiting for the police. Can you—’

‘Where are you?’

‘You know the pharmacy on the Harrow road. It’s at the far end, opposite the graveyard.’

‘I’ll be five minutes.’

‘But—’

He hangs up as a police car pulls over and a policeman and woman get out. I walk slowly out of the phone box, feeling like I’ve just stepped into an episode of
The Bill.

Anton didn’t bring Danny or my car keys. His presence here is entirely unnecessary, but I’m so ridiculously glad he’s here. He came with his dog, Keith Moon, and even though Keith is the daftest dog on the planet and wouldn’t hurt a cauliflower, I feel much safer with him next to me.

It’s all happening now. There are three police cars in total. One has stayed with me, one’s been driving around to see if they can catch the bastards and the other one has gone back to the pub to get my spare car key from Danny after I’d called him on Anton’s phone. He sounded pretty wankered, so I told him not to come. The last thing I need is a drunken Danny smoking rollies and telling me repeatedly how much he fancies a kebab. I can’t be cross. I take full responsibility for his drunkenness because he didn’t have much to do except down glasses of wine while I argued with Mum this evening.

The first police car radioed an ambulance, so I got to sit in a real ambulance while I was cleaned up. It was very
Holby
City,
although the novelty wore off when they taped a big bulky bandage to my forehead. That’s not the worst of it, though. The rest of my face looks pillaged. My chin and mouth are normal, but everything above them is sporting a shade from some grisly Gothic eye shadow palette. At least it doesn’t hurt at the moment because the ambulance people ‘gave me something for the pain’.

The rest of the time I’ve been sitting in Anton’s racing-green jaguar with Keith Moon on my lap.

‘Shall I put the radio on?’ Anton asks, reaching for his knob. Not his ooh-er knob, the one on the radio.

‘Oh, do you mind if we don’t?’

‘Do you not like music?’

I chuckle at the thought of not liking music. ‘I love music. I just hate the radio.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t like the randomness. I want to know what I’m going to listen to,’ I tell him.

I’m not messed up at all about my dad dying, but there’s this one little personality trait that’s developed since the accident. I don’t think it’s that bad and it doesn’t make me a complete freak, I just don’t listen to the radio, that’s all. I haven’t for years and years. I know why it is. It’s because my father gave me music. Literally. Nearly every day of my childhood he introduced me to a new song. He did it delicately, excitedly, and always with a reverential smile. I loved those daily gifts. When I tried to play Nina Simone to other eight-year-olds they said she was revolting, and perhaps I would have thought so, too, if I hadn’t been introduced to her by my father. But then he died and the music started to hurt. There
always seemed to be a song coming from somewhere, hurling a new memory towards me, and it made me feel out of control with grief. One minute I’d be functioning and doing fine, and the next I’d walk past a shop and hear the strains of a song he’d sung to me, or we’d sung together, and the sadness would feel like it was strangling me and I’d want to cry or scream or just curl into a ball and hide. Radio was the worst. It was like a trauma lottery. Why would I do that to myself? I haven’t listened to the radio since then. ‘Do you like music?’ I ask Anton.