Unlike a Virgin (12 page)

‘What’s up with you?’ asks Wendy. ‘Why are you pulling that face?’

‘What face?’

‘That turned-up-nose face.’

‘Oh, I was just thinking about Posh Boy.’

‘Big crush.’

‘Hardly, I was just thinking that I can’t stand the bloke.’

‘That’s denial. It’s Massive. Huge. Like a big glass of orange crush but with John in it. Have you had a dirty dream about him yet?’

‘Wend!’

‘Oh my God. I was just joking, but you have, haven’t you? Oh, my frickin’ shoes! Tell all now.’

She moves her swivel chair niftily towards me, nudges my client chair out of the way and leans forward onto my desk.

‘Hello,’ – she puts on an upper-class accent – ‘I’d like a penthouse apartment as close to Portobello as possible, money no object. I shit the stuff! Oh, and do you have the particulars on the wanton dream you had about your posh boss?’

‘I bloody hate you!’

‘You love me. So did you really have a fruity dream about him?’

I nod sadly. As if he’s not annoying enough in life, he’s entered my dreams as well.

‘Oh my God!’

‘But I can’t talk about it,’ I hiss. ‘It made me feel proper nauseous when I woke up. And what about poor Danny lying next to me while I had a sordid dream about Posh Bloke!’

‘What do you mean, not fair on Danny, blokes get lob-ons all the time for girls that aren’t their girlfriends. So what happened in the dream?’

‘Just … you know … stuff.’

‘Oh, I know stuff!’

‘Wendy, stop it now, please.’

‘Was it good? Did you wake up all sweaty and turned on?’

‘No, Wend, I woke up feeling ill. But it was weird, I was being chased by something or someone bad, and he was helping me. And we ended up having to sleep in this derelict place on a mattress and then, you know …’

‘Yes, I do bloody know.’

‘That’s all you’re getting.’

‘It’s so sweet.’

‘It’s so not sweet. I feel dirty. I don’t like him. He’s really annoying.’

‘He has a big-time crush on you, too.’

‘He does not.’

‘Grace, shut up. He does. I mean, most blokes get all gooey round you because you’re short and blonde and have big boobs, but his eyes sort of …’

‘Sort of what?’

‘Watch you.’

‘No,’ I say, but I know they do because I feel them.

‘I’m with Danny,’ I say firmly.

‘I know, and he has girls phoning for him all the time, it’s just biology, I guess.’

‘Oh my God!’ I gasp. A Range Rover with an SJS Construction motif on the side has pulled up outside the office. An old man is in the driver’s seat. ‘SJS Construction. SJS Construction. I’m sure that’s what Len said.’

They’re the evil graveyard destroyers. And this chap has parked on the frigging red route! I push my seat away from my desk, smooth down my dress and walk outside. I’m panting slightly. Gracie, don’t get cross. I repeat the word ‘calm’ in my
head as I walk towards the car. I knock on the passenger window and the old man opens it.

‘Yes?’ he barks. I feel about six years old in front of this man. He’s huge. His head is nearly touching the roof. He has a big Michael Portillo nose, lots of silver hair and a wide older-man girth that the seat belt is stretched taut over. He’s obviously got a lot of money, but something about his face and big gnarly hands tell you he worked very hard for it.

‘I wanted to ask you something about the construction plans you have for the graveyard.’

First he groans, then he fixes me with the meanest stare I’ve ever seen. Whoa! This man looks like a proper bastard. I’ve never met a proper bastard before. It would be quite exciting if I didn’t think I was going to wet myself.

‘It will not affect the graveyard.’

‘But your company’s written to my mother. My father’s buried there, and it’s his grave you want to remove.’

‘Who’s your mother?’

‘Rosemary Flowers.’

He smiles and opens his arms as though I’m an old friend.

‘A lovely woman. I had no idea she was
the
Rosemary Flowers, the ballroom dancer. She still looks as youthful as ever.’

‘You met my mother.’

‘Yes, I received her letter and dropped by to thank her for her cooperation. We had a most pleasant chat. Nice little windfall for her. You should be pleased.’

‘What?’

‘The money we’re offering is substantial.’

‘You’re bribing her?’

‘No. Offering compensation.’

‘Did … did you give her money?’

‘No, but we will. When they all agree.’

‘They won’t all agree.’

‘Young lady. You’d be surprised what money can buy. Your mother’s looking forward to that money, don’t be selfish and ruin it for her. And,’ he stops here and smiles again, ‘please do send your mother my love.’ Then he looks into his rear-view mirror and pulls away.

‘BASTARD! BASTARD!’ I shriek after him.

‘Grace!’ It’s John, striding across the road towards me. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, don’t get me started,’ I say, breathing deeply to calm myself down.

‘What?’ he says, gently putting his hand on my shoulder. I nearly relax into his touch, but I can’t forget that horrible man in a hurry. I wiggle free from Posh Boy’s touch and go back into the office for my coat and car keys.

‘Grace. What’s this about?’ He doesn’t sound so smitten now he’s seen me swearing at a car in the street.

‘I’ve got a viewing,’ I say, pushing past him to the door.

It wasn’t a lie. I do have a viewing. A few viewings, in fact, at Claire’s flat. Or my unsellable flat, as I’ve started to think of it. Although I mustn’t think that or I’ll never sell it. I’ve never wanted an offer on a flat so much and I’ve never had less luck getting one. It’s not helped by the fact that Posh Boy enquires how I’m doing with it about three times a day.

‘Oh, yah, Grace, any luck on that messy three bed?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘Righto, keep it up. I would have thought you’d have had an offer by now. Ha, ha.’

Really, one of these days I’m not going to be responsible for my actions and there will be an accident involving a violently thrown hole punch to his groin area.

I feel so sorry for Claire and I want to get her a good offer so she can move out of that place. It holds so many bad memories for her. Her husband was having massages in their bedroom – and saying yes to the happy ending. One afternoon
she walked in there to fetch a baby monitor. She said she knocked three times first. I can’t believe a man would do that in his own flat while his wife’s in the house.

I’ve only shown the flat once. I’ve tried to take other clients to see it, but Claire always cancels, gently telling me it’s not a good time. Anyone in her position would find it hard to keep her home fresh and tidy for potential buyers to look round, so I’ve arranged a block of viewings and am going over to help her have a spruce up before they arrive. Today is the big day – six viewings. It’s a bit of a risk, I admit, but I’m desperate for an offer, not only to help Claire, but also to wipe the self-satisfied look off Posh Boy’s face.

‘Grace, hello. PATRICK, PUT THAT DOWN!’ Claire says, opening the door and simultaneously taking another sanitary towel out of her son’s hand. At least Claire’s dry-eyed today – that’s a big bonus.

‘Sorry.’ She sighs. ‘He’s obsessed with them, so I just give in and let him have them. I’ve started buying them specially. I’m hoping he’ll grow out of it. I’ll keep them out of sight when people are here.’

‘Hiya,’ I say, walking inside. ‘Hello, beautiful boy, are you being good?’

‘I eees ha sishe.’

I have no idea what he’s trying to say.

‘Ooh lovely, that sounds like fun,’ I exclaim. I look to Claire to translate, but she’s started crying. Already. Oh, dear.

‘Are you all right?’ I mouth.

She takes a big breath and attempts to smile.

‘Patrick saw his daddy last night, didn’t you, darling?’ she says in a crazy, ‘I’m trying to be happy’ tone that sounds
completely on the edge. ‘And Patrick’s going to have a little brother or sister.’

My mouth drops open as I look at Claire, but then I turn back to the child.

‘Oh, Patrick, that’s exciting. I wish I had lots of brothers and sisters, like you,’ I say, picking him up. ‘Now where’s your twin sister, shall we go and say hello to her?’ I walk into what Lube describes on the particulars as the large multi-purpose living space, but which is really the lounge/dining room/kitchen/playroom/nappy-changing area I secretly call the Room of Doom. Inside I find Patrick’s twin sister, Daisy, staring at an old episode of
Murder She Wrote.
I hear Claire sob in the hallway.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I say to her. I put Patrick down and he walks straight over to his sister and belts her with a plastic digger.

‘Patrick! You don’t hit people.’

Daisy starts to cry. Brilliant. Our first viewers arrive in twenty minutes and she’s bawling as the side of her face starts to go red.

‘Oh, poppet,’ I say, giving her a cuddle. ‘Bruises are very in at the moment.’ She puts her little arms around me and sniffles into my shoulder. I close my eyes for a second. Baby cuddles are so lovely. When I eventually open them I see that while she’s hugging me she’s also pinching Patrick. I flick her sticky hand off him.

‘Ah, that’s nice,’ says Claire walking into the room and seeing the cuddle while missing the violence.

‘How do you want to do this? One of us could take these terrors out for a walk and the other could tidy if you want.’

Claire’s eyes open wide.

‘Would you mind?’

‘What, tidying?’

‘No, taking them out in their buggy for a walk. That would be amazing. The baby’s asleep, so it would be peaceful.’

‘No, not all.’

I smile at her, feeling sad that she’s so thrilled by the thought of fifteen minutes to herself, even if those fifteen minutes involve industrial-level cleaning.

I strap the children into the double buggy and bolt out of the door.

‘
Weeeee
!’
squeals Patrick.

I hope he’s referring to the speed I’m going at and not to actually needing a wee. We’ve no time for that.

I want to pick up something from the picture framers. It’s a present I’ve brought for Anton to thank him for being so kind on the night of my accident. I’ve been meaning to fetch it for over a week now, but I’ve been bottling it as it’s a bit wet as presents go. All right, very wet. It’s a picture I found in Portobello: a little drawing of a bridge over a rocky stream. That’s not the wet part, though. The really damp bit is that I wrote in my best writing beneath it, ‘Thank you for being my bridge over troubled water, Grace x’. It’s quite unlike me to do something like this. I’ve never given Danny anything this soft, but I kept thinking about how safe I felt in Anton’s car, and then I saw the picture and had a compulsion to buy it. I put it in to be framed, but now I’m worried that because I’ve had it framed he’ll feel he has to display it. I’ve been getting in a bit of a tizz about it, to be honest. Perhaps I shouldn’t give it to him after all. Maybe I’ll get him a bottle of nice wine instead.

‘Just get the frigging picture and give it to him,’ I mumble, striding purposefully towards Ladbroke Grove.

The twins smack and pinch each other for the entire journey, and by the time we get to the framers I’m exhausted and I’ve only had them for seven minutes. The buggy is too wide to enter the shop, so I have to shout to the bloke, ‘I’m picking up a picture, it’s a little pencil drawing of a stream and a bridge.’

‘Oh the “Bridge Over Troubled Water”. For your fella, is it?’

‘Um, no. Just a friend.’

The bloke raises his eyebrows.

‘Here you go, love, looks lovely.’

I look at it and smile. It may be wet, but it does look nice.

‘Thank you. That’s great.’

‘Very romantic. What did he do?’

‘Nothing,’ I exclaim.

‘I’m joshing you, love. That’s twenty quid.’

I give him the money and wend my way back. Now I’m not only worried that my present is wet, but that it may also look like a come on. Who’d have thought giving a present could be so problematic. I’ll be sticking to M&S vouchers from now on.

At some point on the return journey the twins stop attacking each other, and when I take a peek at them they’ve dozed off. Result.

I put my finger to my lips when Claire opens the door, and she smiles and puts her thumb up. I walk in, leaving the buggy in the hall. The Room of Doom is looking positively feng shui.

‘Brilliant,’ I tell her.

‘Excellent team work.’

‘Dream team.’

‘You’ve got the knack with the kids.’

I pull a funny face, because all I did was run them quickly along the uneven pavements of West London.