Unlike a Virgin (14 page)

‘I’ve got money coming in, Mum. I’ll sort out your debts
and I’ll give you money each week. Maybe not enough to buy luxury juicers on the internet, but enough to get by. We’ll work out what you need.’

‘I need at least the twenty thousand pounds that he’s offering.’

‘I’ll get you twenty thousand pounds,’ I say, even though it gives me palpitations to say it. ‘I’ll give you twenty thousand pounds so you don’t have to sell my dad’s grave.’

My mum doesn’t say anything, we just stare at each other. Not angrily, not frostily, but curiously, as though we’ve just met for the first time but look familiar.

‘I’m going to open that box of letters in the study now, Mum. I’ll work out how much you owe and call some of them up. Let’s see if I can get a handle on your financial situation.’ I walk to the door. ‘And if you’re making yourself a cup of tea, or thinking about a gin at any point—’

‘You’re very strong, Grace,’ my mum says quietly, and I may be wrong but I think I detect a note of admiration in her tone.

I look at her and smile.

‘I love you, Mum,’ I say.

She doesn’t say, ‘I love you, too,’ but she nods and looks at me as though I might not be as bad as she’d previously feared.

‘Oh, love, that’s your phone,’ she gestures towards my mobile, which is vibrating on the kitchen table. I pick it up. It’s a text from Danny:

Need to have a chat to Dad about something.

Getting a train to Wales. Got Monday off. Back late

Monday night. Call you later. XX

‘Everything all right?’ Mum asks as I pull a strange face. Danny never goes to his parents’ house without me. Why didn’t he call? Why tell me I’m not going to see him all weekend by text?

‘Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. It’s just Dan,’ I say.

And as I walk into Dad’s study and turn the light on, I feel I might have turned a vital mother/daughter corner. Well, maybe not actually turned the corner, this is Gracie and Rosemary Flowers after all, but at least put the indicator on. It’s a start anyway. ‘You’re very strong, Grace,’ she said. It’s the nicest thing she’s said to me for so long. I wish I felt it, though. Instead I feel like an emotional liability at the moment. I must be due on.

It feels so weird going out without Danny, even though I’m only at the pub. You’d think I’d be more comfortable as the pub’s my second home and most of the time that I’m here with Dan he’s either outside smoking or droning on to other blokes about football, but I have this strange feeling I’ve forgotten something. It could be my handbag or my knickers, but it’s actually my six-foot-three boyfriend. I’ve had a good evening, though. Wendy and I are sitting in the restaurant part of the Festering Carbuncle, where we treated ourselves to deep-fried Camembert because there’s nothing like deep fried cheese to start off a meal. We followed it with coq au vin. It’s an old recipe of Anton’s French grandmother’s, which is unbelievable and comes with mashed potato – after extensive research, I can comfortably say that their mash is the best in the world – then for afters we shared an apple and rhubarb crumble.

Anton’s not in the kitchen as it’s his night off. I was looking
forward to seeing him again, but it’s probably for the best that he isn’t here. I dropped the picture in this afternoon after I’d visited Mum. I came over all nervous and a little sweaty, so rather than ask for him, I gave it to a member of staff, told them to pass it on and then bolted. Freddie, Anton’s son, isn’t here either, so Wendy and I have spent a large part of the evening talking about how Wendy wants to marry him. Wendy’s obsession with Freddie is very strange. In much the same way as I walked into the Festering Carbuncle for the first time and thought, Oh yeah, this is home, I want to live here, and made an offer on my maisonette, Wendy said, ‘You see that bloke there, with the freckles and a half of Guinness. He’s perfect.’ I do worry about Wendy, though, because although she sleeps with quite a few men and flirts outrageously with them all, she’s unable to form coherent sentences around Freddie. I think that might be a problem, coherent sentences being, on the whole, a good thing when you’re trying to pull.

‘Mmmm,’ I say, spooning the last of the ice creamy crumbly bit from the bowl. ‘Shall we share some cheese now?’

Wendy doesn’t answer; she just stares at me and raises her newly threaded eyebrows.

‘What? Your eyebrows look amazing now the red’s gone down by the way.’

‘Are you up the duff or something? You never eat this much. Normally you’re brilliant to share pudding with because you only have one mouthful.’

Now it’s my turn to stare. I raise my monobrow at her. Mine haven’t been threaded.

‘What?’

‘Don’t say that!”

‘Oh.’ She giggles and shares out the end of our bottle of white wine. ‘I forgot about all that. Have you not had a period?’

‘No.’

‘Do you feel … you know, preg?’

‘Wend, how do I know? I’ve never been pregnant.’

‘Oh, yeah. Well, my sister cried all the time when she was pregnant.’

Massive monobrow raise.

‘I keep wanting to cry. Like everyday. And you know me, I don’t cry,’ I admit.

‘Yeah, but with all this stuff at work and your dad’s grave and you being mugged, you’re bound to be emotional. And you did take a shed load of hormones.’

‘Oh, Wend, man, I so don’t want to be pregnant,’ I say with a large sigh. But she’s not looking at me; she’s looking towards the door and licking her lips.

‘Is it Freddie?’

‘Yep, Freddie and Anton have just walked in,’ she whispers.

Now normally if Wendy spots someone she knows she gets up on her seat and shouts, ‘Oi, hiya, come and join us, bring us a tequila en route!’ But as it’s Freddie, the object of her desire, she remains seated and looks the other away. It’s Anton who spots us first as he walks towards his kitchen.

‘Good evening,’ he says warmly.

‘Anton, we had the most brilliant meal,’ Wendy tells him.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek and then turning to me. ‘Grace,’ he bends down to kiss me, too, and when he gets close to my ear I hear, ‘Thank you for my picture.’

I nod, blush stupidly, kiss him on both cheeks and manage to inhale a lungful of Anton’s lovely smell.

‘Oi, Wendy, Grace,’ says Freddie. ‘What are we drinking?’

‘My son,’ Anton says, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

‘Um, really, thanks.’ Wendy sounds shy, which is so not her. ‘I’d like a vodka tonic, if you’re sure.’

‘No worries,’ Freddie calls. ‘Grace?’

‘I quite fancy some red wine, I was going to have some cheese,’

‘Cheese and red wine, a lady after my own heart. Coming up,’ says Anton, striding off.

Wendy’s eyes are fixed on Freddie at the bar, while mine follow Anton into the kitchen, watching how he smiles and greets each of the chefs in turn.

‘He’s such a magic man,’ I mutter to myself.

‘You what?’ shrieks Wendy.

‘Anton. He’s such a nice man. Everything’s all right when he’s around.’

‘My future father-in-law. And here comes my future husband.’ She gazes dreamily at Freddie.

‘They’ve called last orders, the sods.’

‘No way,’ say Wendy and I in unison.

‘How did it get so late?’ I ask.

‘Nah, it’s all right. We’ll get a drink, but we’ll have to go upstairs. Is that OK?’

Wendy smiles. Actually, she beams. In fact, I’m a bit worried she might literally beam herself up, Scotty.

‘Follow me,’ he says, and we both get up.

‘Dad!’ Freddie shouts to Anton. ‘They’ve called last orders, so we’re going up.’

‘Just coming,’ Anton replies.

We walk behind the bar and through a door.

‘Cool.’ Wendy giggles.

It is. It’s cool o’clock! I’ve always wanted to see what the upstairs of the pub looks like. Downstairs is decorated simply and rustically, leaving the old Victorian fireplaces and corniced ceiling to speak for themselves. It’s a beautiful building on the outside, so you get the feeling that the two floors above the pub will be amazing, too. Or could be, if they’d been looked after. We walk up a narrow rickety staircase and through a door.

‘Oh, wow!’ Wendy whispers. ‘Nice pad.’

I don’t say anything. I just smile to myself. It’s a huge open-plan space. There’s a long wooden table surrounded by chairs on one side of the room, while the other side is taken up by big brown leather sofas. It’s the same simple style as the pub below, only cosier. On one wall there’s an assortment of photos, all in different frames, and on another there’s a huge floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Wendy walks over to look at the photos and I walk towards the bookshelves to see if I can spot
The Five Year Plan.
I know, I’m ridiculous.

‘Oh, is that you, Freddie? That chubby little baby,’ Wendy coos.

Freddie joins Wendy at the pictures and I watch them, open-mouthed. Wendy has just uttered a sentence with all the words in the right order in Freddie’s presence. I need to give them some space. I step away from the books and head towards the kitchen. This is a great space. I’m such an estate agent. Deep kitchen units sit on one wall and there’s a proper coffee maker and big copper pots. I imagine myself sitting at the table, chatting and drinking wine while Anton cooks me
coq au vin. There’s even a healthy-looking plant on the table. I must remember to water my plants when I go home.

‘Freddie, are your bedrooms upstairs?’

‘Yeah, yeah, they are.’

‘Can I have a look? Sorry, estate agent urge. It’s just such a lovely home.’

‘Go for your life,’ he says with a big smile.

I walk back to the rickety staircase and climb up the remaining stairs, which creak beneath my feet. I pass slowly along a corridor lined with three closed doors. I peek in the first one, which looks like Freddie’s room as it contains shelf upon shelf of law books, a big unmade bed and a double wardrobe with lots of shirts hanging in it.

I open the next door to find a bathroom, but it’s not just any bathroom, it’s huge for a start, and serious money has been spent on it. There’s a big free-standing bath in the middle of the room, his and hers sinks, with a vintage mirror hanging above them, and a proper power shower that’s so large you could probably break dance in it if you got the urge. It’s exactly how I would like my bathroom to be if money was no object.

I open the last door to find a big square room that must be Anton’s bedroom. I feel as if I shouldn’t be in there, but I don’t want to leave. A very large bed with a wood and leather headboard, white sheets and duvet sits in the middle of the room, and there are cupboards all along one side, although they’re closed. There are only three pictures on the wall. One is a huge framed picture of a pretty young woman. It’s a grainy blown-up photograph with an orange tinge that makes me think it was taken in the seventies. The other is a painting of the colour red. Literally. Different shades of red and orange
and a bit of purple. But the third picture is the one I gave him. He’s hung it on his wall already.

My bottom starts to vibrate as my mobile phone rings. I take it out of my jeans pocket. It’s 11.23 p.m. and my mum is calling.

‘Mum, are you all right?’

‘Oh, Grace, I had to tell you. I went to bed and as I started to doze off, there was your dad again. He spoke to me and he was very firm about it, he said, “Grace has to sing.”’

‘Oh,’ I say sadly. I was on a bit of a high this afternoon, thinking Mum and I had broken some ice during our conversation today. Silly really, Mum’s mum and this is what she’s like. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You go to sleep, Mum. Love you.’

‘Night night, Grace. And sing, like your dad said, sing.’

I put my phone back in my pocket and sigh. What does she expect me to do, break into song suddenly now? Maybe I should see if I can get a doctor round to see Mum. Maybe she’s really ill. God, I wish I had a brother or sister. I lie down on Anton’s bed. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve had a lot of wine so I lean back on the pillows. He buys expensive pillows, not like me. Mine are like sleeping on a bag of satsumas. I turn onto my side and breathe in Anton’s smell from the pillow.

‘Grace, I …’ It’s Anton and he stops when he sees me curled up on his bed sniffing his pillow.

I sit up quickly.

‘Sorry, sorry, it was … It just looked so comfy.’

He stands there all smiling and unfazed. I would clobber someone who snooped round my home and got into my bed.

‘I didn’t like to say in front of Freddie and Wendy, but the
picture you gave me: it’s beautiful, quite the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.’

‘It’s bordering on the wet,’ I say, getting off the bed.

‘I don’t think that at all. And anyway, what’s wrong with a bit of wet? All the best songs that have ever been written are a bit wet.’

I smile. He’s right, of course.

‘Now then, the cheese and wine is on the table downstairs, but I’ve also rigged up the karaoke. I wondered if we could have a bit of a sing-song while Wendy flirts with my son.’