The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green (8 page)

How could he be so normal, she thought, when I'm having a meltdown? ‘It was okay. Did some hair. You?'

‘Dreadful,' he said, plonking himself down on the seat next to her. That was another thing, she thought, he didn't seem to have any personal-space issues. Surely if you were about to embark on an intimate journey with someone, you'd at least have the decency to be a little distant at first? ‘A lawyer broke down on me, the bus was disgustingly sweaty and now I'm being forced to converse with a statue.'

‘I don't think I can go through with…'

‘Fine. Have a drink, eat something,' he said, with his mouth full, waving his fork at the feast.

It was as if he'd waved a magic wand instead because she began to defrost with her first bite. And after half-an-hour of his company, she had relaxed a little.

‘I'm so sorry about earlier,' she said, clearing the plates. ‘This is just really alien to me.'

‘Oh, I do this all the time… not!' he said, smiling. ‘This is why I'm here tonight, nutjob, to work it all out.'

He was right – neither of them had done this before and she needed to trust him or there was no point continuing.

‘But if you want to back out…?'

Frankie had been waiting for this – she knew there'd come a moment when she had to commit herself either way. She needed to move on, like Jason was clearly doing, and she needed to prepare herself should he come back. It was like having to take some nasty-tasting medicine. Well, actually it might be a really tasty spoonful. It might just be a bit humiliating and cringey in the build-up to swallowing it. But she had to do it regardless. ‘Not at all,' she said, clearly.

‘Me too. But the first thing we should be clear on is that we can stop this at any time if either of us wants to,' he said. ‘We'll need a safety phrase too – for example, I dunno, say Custard Creams – should anything happen mid-clinch that we're not happy with.'

‘Like what?' she asked horrified, being reminded of Jason's handcuffs. ‘Because I'm not doing anything kinky. If you're a pervert, you better tell me now.'

Floyd cracked up laughing and then regained his poise. ‘I'm not. It's just, sometimes people say stop in the heat of the moment and they don't mean it. It's like acting.'

Frankie didn't think she'd ever done that with Jason, but she nodded anyway.

‘You want to add anything?' he asked.

‘Neither of us should be involved with anyone else. It'd be too complicated, grubby, if anyone else was involved.'

‘Totally,' he nodded, kindly, unaware he resembled a child with noodles down his front.

‘And could we make sure we always have a cuddle?' she said. ‘Because I don't want it to feel dirty, and we're mates so…'

‘Fine. Now,' he said, rubbing his hands, ‘you got a list then of what you want to do?'

Oh lordy, this was the gift that kept on giving her a red face. ‘Well, I've had a few thoughts,' she said, rifling in her pocket for a piece of paper she'd scribbled on last night. The task had taken hours; she'd had to get over her embarrassment first, which led to a crisis of confidence. If she baulked at confessing sexy thoughts to herself, how was she going to cope in front of Floyd? Then, once she'd got over that with a stiff reprimand and a biscuit dunked in tea, she had encountered the hopelessness of her naivety. Her to-do list was all so basic – it was as if she needed L plates. The only way to get over it, she decided innocently, was to do a search of ‘female fantasy' and ‘best positions' online. But she was completely unprepared for the never-ending pop-ups which seemed to appear faster than she could delete them. In a daze, she had to mute her laptop in case one of her neighbours heard either the moaning or the language. And now, eek, she was expected to put her inner most insecurities and desires into words.

‘Ready, Frankie?' Floyd said encouragingly as Leonardo slunk in to see what was happening.

‘Do you want to read them or shall I say them out loud?'

‘Fire away,' he said, ‘I'm all ears.'

The sun-bleached streets passed in a blur as Em gazed out of the window on her bus ride home.

As usual, her feet were killing her, having spent all day marching around the store. But it was this tiredness, this fatigue, she was unused to.

A bump in the road made the bus jerk, and before she knew it, her hand shot to her stomach. She shut her eyes and wondered how she'd become such a slave to instinct. It betrayed what she had always prided herself on – her ability to box up emotion and apply common sense.

The jolt made her want to get off. It was only when the number forty-two had pulled away that she realized she'd been on the completely wrong bus and she had ended up the other side of town. What was up with her? And to compound matters, she was bursting for the loo. She'd have to go to Letty's place which was just round the corner.

Usually Em would have sauntered through the gentrified delights of Letty's neighbourhood of Pontcanna, where the streets were lined with bistros, delis and gift shops. But thanks to her brimming bladder, she broke into a trot, like a demented chicken.

Please, God, be in, she thought, finding Flat One on the list of buzzers. ‘Desperate,' she said by way of hello as Letty invited her into the shared hallway of the grand old building. Em rushed into the ground-floor flat and found the loo, from where she shouted: ‘You've got damp in here, you need to get the landlord to do something about it.'

‘Well, thank you, Kirstie Allsopp,' Letty said, stirring something that smelled good as Em reappeared into the kitchen. ‘Have you thought about opening a charm school?'

Em hung her head, feeling ashamed. ‘I'm so sorry, I just worry, and thank you for letting me use your loo. You've got a lovely place,' she said, much more stylish than Em's, which was strictly Ikea flatpack.

Letty had turned the blank canvas of magnolia walls, scuffed wooden floorboards and cobwebbed high ceilings into a chic show home, the kind you'd see in an interiors magazine. Sumptuous throws, candles, rugs and lamps dotted the lounge-diner, which had a vast grey L-shaped sofa and a gorgeous dark blue feature wall. Her bedroom resembled a boudoir with its four-poster bed, and she'd turned the box room into a bijou walk-in wardrobe. While she could do nothing about the shabby kitchen, she'd perked it up by painting the wooden cabinets a high-gloss white, and she'd created an extra ‘room' in what was once an overgrown yard with gravel, pots and a table and chairs. But Em wasn't envious, she basked in her friend's special touch, which covered everything she touched in glitter. Letty, now out of her work stuff and in tight green joggers and a vest, even managed to make dressing down look good.

‘That's okay, babes,' Letty said, she never stayed cross for long. ‘Want some dinner? Pasta's ready.'

‘Yes, please. I'm starving.' In fact, when wasn't she? Her appetite had always been healthy but now it was Olympian. Porridge with blueberries and honey on toast for breakfast, oat cakes for elevenses, jacket potato with everything at lunch and then the nosedive into doughnuts on her afternoon break followed by a big dinner. Then cheese and biscuits before bed. With pickled onions, big craving handfuls of them, which before this baby, she had never liked.

‘Good, plenty here,' she said, jumping from the hob to the fridge, ‘Will be two minutes. Hey, would you do me a favour, by the way?'

‘Of course. What is it?'

‘I've got this idea that I want to talk to my boss about,' Letty said, her eyes firing with enthusiasm. ‘A social media thing for the company. I need your eyes on it. Would you have a look for me?'

‘I'd be honoured. I love a presentation.' And Em dearly wanted Letty to be recognized as someone who had brains not just breasts.

‘Fab! Cheers, babes. I'll email it to you. Right, this is just about ready,' Letty said, dishing up.

Em shovelled in a big twisted forkful of creamy spaghetti. ‘It's gorgeous. What is it?'

‘A little something I learned from an ex,' Letty replied, winking. ‘He was a shit but at least I picked this up! It's carbonara with blue cheese added right at the end with the egg.'

Em's mouth seized up, recalling the advice she'd read about foods to avoid in pregnancy. Soft cheese was fine as long as it had been cooked through. But it didn't taste hot. And the egg was still virtually just cracked.

‘Bit of wine in it too, just to make it… What's the matter?' Letty looked at her, confused.

Em gulped and lay down her fork. ‘I'm just not all that hungry,' she said quietly.

Letty nodded slowly with hurt in her eyes, then carried on eating in silence.

It was no good, Em realized. Not shouting about her private life was one thing but offending her friend was unacceptable. Letty didn't deserve this. She launched into it – there was no other way.

‘I'm having a baby. It's Simon Brown's.' She didn't dare stop. ‘I haven't told him yet. I feel a complete fool, not least because of the lectures I've given you in the past about being careful. But there we are. So, now you know,' she said, awaiting a quite justifiable performance of dramatics by Letty. Who surprised her actually with an outpouring of sympathy.

‘Oh, you poor love,' she said, getting up to give her a
cwtch
.

‘Feel free to tell me off,' Em said into her hair.

Letty pulled away, gripped her by the shoulders and spoke firmly. She would never do that, she said, everyone's human and there for the grace of God went she. ‘What's important is that you're okay. Are you feeling okay?'

‘Well, no. And yes,' she said, explaining how she felt constipated, sick, knackered and weepy. But weirdly, she'd never had a single doubt about what she was going to do. ‘I've always wanted kids. Always. They're just so… straightforward. I also realize I'm thirty-one, I have a dreadful romantic track record and I'm an oddball.'

Letty leapt in to protest. But Em was adamant.

‘I'm not like you or Frankie or anyone. This might be my only chance to have a baby. By the time I meet someone, I might be menopausal. And I've worked it all out: I can afford to take nine months off and if Mum and Dad can't help then I can dip into my savings. Go on, you can tell me I'm mad.'

‘Well, it'll be hard, really bloody hard. But it looks like you've thought it through. And I don't know anyone as capable as you. So I think you should go for it. Just as long as you're certain.'

‘I am. And once Floyd had got over the shock – mostly that I'd had sex at all – he said he'd be hands-on, changing nappies and stuff.'

‘Me too. Auntie Letty will do whatever she can to help. Although I've never held one or anything. But, whatever! I'm in awe of you, I am.'

But Em didn't feel awesome – she felt as if she was floundering. Her life plan had been her crutch; her way of exerting control over uncertainties. But now it had red pen all over it. And there was the question of telling Simon Brown. If she did at all. It was the next question on Letty's lips.

‘I know he has a right to know,' Em said, ‘but there are circumstances.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We're not together, so it doesn't matter.'

‘Imagine if he finds out – and he will, guaranteed. You never know, this might be the trigger that makes him declare his love. You don't have to tell me how much you like him. I can see it on your face.'

Cringing at her feelings being laid bare, Em said: ‘That's just it. He won't come running.'

‘How do you know?'

She wanted to scream BECAUSE I JUST DO and stop this conversation right now. Within a matter of days, her life had been turned upside down; she was already sick of confessing things, because it went against who she was. Yet, much to her dismay, in that time she had seen how being pregnant was affecting her. The knowledge that she was up against unscheduled sobbing which could strike at any moment, made her face up to the fact she was vulnerable. No longer the self-sufficient island she'd always been. The pain of admitting out loud why Simon Brown couldn't be involved wasn't just because it was hurtful and a bruise to her ego – it was also because it was out of her jurisdiction. But if she wanted back-up, and she would need it, seeing as she was going it alone, she had to spill.

‘Because,' she began, flinching as she took herself back into the pain, ‘…he's got a child already, a six-year-old. He's divorced and penniless. They were only going out a few months when she fell pregnant. She was terrified and considered anything other than marriage an abandonment.'

Em remembered how she had woken up the morning after the night before, expecting her head to bang from the whisky. But the only thing thumping out of control when she had turned to see Simon Brown facing her, sleeping beside her, had been her heart. Right now, as she sat with Letty, she could still taste the exhilaration of finding it hadn't been a dream.

There, in the half-light of her bedroom, she had watched him, admiring his steady even breathing and the perfect curve of his shoulder, the stillness of his eyelids and the rise and fall of his symmetrical lips; he had looked composed and peaceful. As if he had meant to be there. She'd had to go to the loo, so she'd sneaked out with her dressing gown not wanting to disturb him. Then she had begun to make coffee; she had wanted to take him a cup back into bed where she imagined they could've held onto the moment – and planned their next. But he had stirred while she was in the kitchen and walked in, wearing his unbuttoned shirt and black boxers.

‘Hey,' he'd said, his smile matching the spring sunshine which was flooding the room, and he'd taken a seat at her breakfast bar. It had been the most natural thing in the world and she had known, she still did, that both of them felt no self-consciousness.