Unlike a Virgin (15 page)

I stare at him and I can feel my heart pounding.

Grace, are you OK?’

‘I don’t sing,’ I whisper.

‘Oh? I thought you must have trained as a singer?’

‘You what?’

‘When we were singing in the car … your voice … it’s …’

‘You what?’

‘When you sang in the car …’

‘What car?’

‘The Simon & Garfunkel.’

‘I didn’t sing.’

‘Yes, you did. We sang two songs together.’

‘I sang.’

‘Yes, don’t you remember?’

‘I didn’t know I was doing it.’ I haven’t sang anywhere except the graveyard since the summer Dad died.

‘Your voice. It’s. It’s …’

‘Like a heavy smoking black man?’ I scoff.

‘Gracie Flowers,’ he sounds very serious all of a sudden.
‘You have one of … if not the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Grace.’ He takes my hand and clasps it in his own. It feels so lovely to have my hand in his that I get a stirring in my tummy and this strange sensation that I want to kiss this man who must be twice my age, here in his bedroom, and that it would be lovely. ‘I’ve spent most of my life around musicians. What you’ve got is rare.’ He releases my hand and the urge to kiss him disappears, like a bubble quickly burst. ‘I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how you sang that night. I wish I’d known I lived over the road from Dusty Springfield … I could have auditioned for
Britain Sings its Heart Out
with you.’

‘Did you audition for
Britain Sings its Heart Out
?’

‘I did. I’m going to be on the first of the televised heats,’ he says bashfully. ‘With a lady friend of mine, I couldn’t do it alone.’

‘Oh, well done. That’s great.’ I smile.

I hate
Britain Sings.
Not that I’ve ever seen it, for much the same reason that I don’t listen to the radio, but I know it’s a huge live singing contest that the whole country goes potty for once a year. It started just before my dad died. People used to suggest I go on it, but there was no way on earth I would. For years my mum used to go on about me entering it. It was ridiculous, my mother, who hated me doing singing competitions when I was a child and who saw me have a breakdown at a singing competition, passionately trying to convince me to enter. It must be due to start again soon. It’s fairly obvious when a new series of
Britain Sings
starts because that’s all
people and the newspapers go on about for months. There are loads of heats and then all the finalists have to sing live one Saturday, and from what I can gather from the papers, the winner goes on to release a couple of terrible cover versions before retiring to the Butlin’s circuit. I suppose I shouldn’t knock it, I well wanted to be a Butlin’s entertainer when I was younger.

‘So, will you come downstairs and sing with me?’ Anton says, holding out his hand.

And although I want to take his hand again, I stop myself. ‘No thank you, Anton, I don’t want to sing.’

‘Oh.’ He seems taken aback. ‘Just cheese and biscuits then?’

‘Now you’re talking.’

‘Oh, Wend,’ I groan. ‘Oh, Wend. Oh, oh, o-o-h, Wend.’

‘Shuddup,’ she mumbles into the pillow.

‘Oh, oh, o-o-h, oh, Wend, I need you to get up and get me water … please.’

‘Grace?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Shuddup!’

‘Or Coca Cola, or apple juice or, or do you know what I’d really like? An Irn-Bru. Oh, o-o-h, I’d commit unspeakable acts for an Irn-Bru. And an apple juice. With ice.’

‘Gracie. Is this what you do to Danny on a Sunday morning?’

‘But … but, you don’t understand, my head. I had red wine after white wine and then whisky. Oh, oh, oh-o-o-o-o-o-oh … the pain.’

‘Oh, bloody buggering hell.’ She sits up.

‘Oh, Wend …’

‘Will you quit this whinging!’

‘Oh, but something really bad happened.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Oh, shhhh. We had a great evening. We all sang, except you, of course. But even you wanted to, I could tell. I snogged my future husband for the first time. Well, we kissed on the lips without tongues, but it’s a bloody good start. What’s the problemo?’

‘I had another.’

‘Oh, Grace, speak in, like, words I can understand. Another what?’ She suddenly gasps. ‘Huh! Oh my God, another dirty dream.’

‘Yep.’

‘Oh my God, about Posh Boy?’

‘No.’

‘Jesus, who was this one about?’

‘Anton.’

‘Urgh! ANTON! You with my future father-in-law. And I was in the bed with you at the time. Urgh! Gracie Flowers, I feel sullied.’

‘O-o-o-oh, I’m a sexual deviant,’ I moan.

‘Grace, there’s someone at your door.’

‘I can’t go. I can never see anyone again or I’m liable to lust after them in my sleep.’

‘Shall I go? Who will it be?’

‘No idea.’

‘I’ll go down and see who it is.’

‘Juice, juice,’ I squeak as she leaves the room.

Twenty seconds later, she comes thundering up the stairs.

‘It’s your wet dream!’

‘John?’

‘No, Anton! For God’s sake, Grace, keep up. I saw him through the window.’

‘Oh, hang about,’ I say, finally opening my eyes. ‘Did we pay for dinner last night?’

‘No. Oh, shittit. I can’t remember. No. No, we didn’t. Whose card did we leave behind the bar?’

‘Mine. Oh, I have to get up. Help me.’ I proffer a limp hand to Wendy, who hauls me from the bed.

‘Whoa. Oh-oh, Wend, I don’t feel very well,’ I whimper, clinging onto her for support.

‘Don’t vom on me, Flowers,’ she says, pushing me away gently. I stagger down the stairs in my pyjamas.

‘Hello,’ I mew when I open the door.

‘Sore head?’ Anton asks kindly. He’s dressed and clean and looks all fresh. Oh dear, I think I’m blushing: the dream is coming back to me. I squint at him.

‘Hmm,’ I squeak.

‘Gracie, my love, do you mind signing your card here?’ he hands me a plate of bacon sandwiches, with my debit card and a pen sitting on top.

‘Thank you.’ I start to feel tearful. It’s a bacon sandwich, Gracie, hold it together. I give him a shaky signature that looks nothing like mine. ‘Anton?’

‘Gracie.’

I stop for a second. The sight of his hairy chest poking out from the top of his shirt is distracting me. I was running my fingers through that hair last night in my dream. My hands were all over him last night. Oh no. Oh dear.

‘Anton.’ My mouth is so dry. ‘Do you think I could possibly give you everything I own for an apple juice?’

He chuckles.

‘Come with me,’ he offers me his arm.

I look down at my feet. I’m not wearing any shoes and stepping outside my door barefoot is treacherous, what with the glass shop and all.

‘Here,’ he says, and he lifts me up as though he’s just rescued me from a fire. He does it so gently and so easily that I could be slim. Wow!

‘Would you mind carrying me around all day?’ I say, bobbing across the road in his arms.

‘It would be my pleasure.’

He pushes open the doors to his pub and lays me on the sofa by the fire.

‘One revitalising apple juice coming up,’ he says, chuckling again.

‘Anton?’

‘My lady.’

‘I don’t want you to think I’m high maintenance or anything, but do you think I could have some ice, too?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Ice, ice, baby,’ I say, because I’m a pillock.

‘Stay there, Keith Moon will look after you. I’m popping downstairs to the ice machine.’

I hear Keith Moon’s dog energy enter the room, all paws and sniffs.

‘Hello, my friend,’ I say to his pretty face as he hops on the sofa and lies next to me. I’m sure he’s not allowed on the leather sofa, but I haven’t got the strength for doggy discipline.

‘Dad!’ It’s Freddie voice.

‘Hello!’ I call to him. ‘He’s getting some ice.’

‘Oh right. Grace, can I ask you something?’

He stands next to me and looks down. He’s up and dressed as well. All these active people are tiring me out.

‘Hmm,’ I muster.

‘Well, I know it’s a bit forward.’ He’s whispering now and he’s crouched down next to me. Ooh, this is promising, he’s going to ask me something about Wendy.

I smile.

‘Can I take you out for a meal one night?’

I stare at him. I’m confused so I have a double-chin-frown face on. I wait for him to say, ‘Sorry, I mean Wendy,’ but he doesn’t, and he really should. My double-chin frown gets bigger.

‘But I’m going out with Dan,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ he says, seemingly confused by this fact, even though he’s known about it ever since he met me. ‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Right, ice for the reluctant songstress.’ Anton’s back.

‘Anton, thank you very much, all my worldly possessions are now yours,’ I say, getting off the sofa and walking to the bar for my juice and bacon sandwiches. I nod and smile at Anton and Keith Moon while Freddie gets just a nod, then I head for the door.

‘See you later for karaoke,’ calls Anton, but I don’t think I’ll be going to that, thank you very much.

‘Good morning, Lube,’ I say seriously. ‘Gracie, you twat, you said Lube! Come on, sort it out. This is serious. You promised your mum you’d get her twenty grand. It starts here.’

I look at my reflection and try to arrange my features into what I hope is the expression of a cool, calm and collected businesswoman who deserves a morbidly obese pay rise.

‘Ken, do you have time for a word?’

I shake my head. It’s wrong. It’s too weak.

‘Ken, can I have a word?’ I shake my head again. That sounds too flippant.

‘Ken, I need a word.’ Whoa! I shake my head really hard this time. That sounds far too hardcore.’ I think for a moment.

‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you.’ Now we’re talking. ‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you,’ I repeat. ‘That’s it! That’s brilliant.’

I’m knocked off my stride, though, by the sight of my breasts. I’m wearing my non-crease pink blouse. It’s normally
very prim, but today it’s all gone a bit
Carry On
as I’m bursting out of it. I’m due on any second, so my boobs are massive and painful, but if I do up my normal shirt button there’s a gap between the top two buttons where you can clearly see boobage. I don’t know whether to keep it done up and hunch forward a bit to minimise it, or just undo the top button for a bit of cleavage. Is cleavage a good idea when asking for a pay rise? I don’t know. There was no mention of boobs in the
Guardian
article about asking for a pay rise that Wendy emailed me.

‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you. I’ve been thinking …’ See, the problem with doing this is that I’ve known Ken for years and he’ll say, ‘Ooh, that must have hurt. Put the kettle on will you, Grace, while I just borrow your computer to check the football scores.’ I need to drive it through. Deep breath. ‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you. I understand that you’ve employed that Posh Twat.’ Grace! ‘I understand that you’ve employed John Twatface.’ Grace! ‘John Righto Whatsit Rah Rah, My Boxster’s Parked on a Red Route, Rah.’ Grace, behave. Regroup, refocus. ‘I understand that you’ve employed John and that he’s Estate Agent of the Year, which if you ask me is a major travesty to the profession.’ Grace! ‘I think you know that I was hoping for the Head of London Sales job myself. I bring a lot to this company, in terms of time and money. No other negotiator at Make A Move brings in even half as much as me in a month, as you well know. So as a goodwill gesture to encourage me to stay here, and so that I don’t feel my hard work might be more appreciated elsewhere …’

Ken will definitely go, ‘Get to the bloody point, Grace. I think one of my kids just graduated while you were talking!’

‘So cutting to the chase, Ken, I’d like a pay rise.’ I step back. Even I find it shocking to hear myself say that. Ken will probably fall off his chair. But it’s not bad. On the whole it’s not bad.

I hear my phone. It’s Mum. That’s a shame; I was hoping it would be Danny. He didn’t call me all weekend. I texted him loads, then I called and left a message. I got nothing back, which is very un-Dan.

‘Hey, Mum,’ I say, taking the phone in one hand and trying to squash my boobies down with the other. ‘I’m wearing pink.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Just knew. You OK?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Sure?’

‘Hmm.’

‘OK. I’d better go. Love you.’

‘Hmm.’

I hang up. There it is again. My five year plan. Blank.