Unlike a Virgin (30 page)

I open the door slowly and peak into her fitness emporium. I don’t want to give her a fright that might hurl her from a piece of moving machinery. She looks ever so sweet in her pink shorts and sports bra, with a little sweatband round her head. She waves when she sees me, and then presses a button until her moving walkway slows down.

‘Phew!’ she says when she’s down to a fast walking pace. ‘How are you both?’

I smile back. I haven’t seen her since the weekend and I was worried I might have imagined our lovely closeness.

‘Good,’ I say, balancing my bottom on the exercise ball.

‘You look tired. I had trouble sleeping when I was expecting you.’

I don’t tell her that it’s not Baby Bean who’s keeping me awake. It’s the fact that I stood before a fifty-year-old man on Sunday night in my bra, and his face as he handed me back my shirt keeps haunting me every time I close my eyes.

‘Hmm.’

‘You OK?’

‘Hmm.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, I’ve just got a break between viewings, so I thought I’d pop in.’

‘That’s nice. Grace, darling, what’s the matter?’

‘I just feel so guilty. Poor little Camille or Camilla. Do you think it will scar him or her, the fact that for a brief period they weren’t wanted?’

‘Grace, that’s ridiculous. This baby is going to be very, very loved.’

‘Hmm. I just feel bad.’

‘Well, don’t.’

‘But I’m so scared. I want to be a good mother, but I’m worried I’ll mess it all up.’

‘Grace, I’m the last person to ask.’

‘You were a good mother.’

‘No, Grace. I wasn’t. I haven’t been.’

She was a good mother, I think. I know I adored her
when I was little. When I met Wendy at secondary school, she would come and play after school and we would ask Mum if we could look at her dresses. We’d wash our hands until they were pink because we didn’t want to mark them, and I would show Wendy not just the dresses, but photos of my mum dancing in them. Mum would let us try on her jewellery sometimes, too. We’d sit down to tea bedecked in jewellery and my dad would go, ‘Cor blimey, it’s two Liz Taylors!’ Once, when Mum and Dad were performing in Blackpool, they invited Wendy, too. And Mum let us come backstage, where we watched her doing her make-up. Wendy still does her eye make-up like Mum did hers that day. I never once thought she was a bad mother when I was growing up. I knew she wasn’t keen on my singing competitions, because she’d say things like ‘Oh, not another one!’ when I told her about them, but looking back, having a child who insisted on going to places like Wolverhampton and Milton Keynes most weekends would be trying. And she did used to tell me she loved me. It’s only since Dad died that she stopped.

‘You were a good mother,’ I tell her.

‘I am pleased with my new treadmill,’ she says, changing the subject and giving it a little pony pat as she gets off.

‘Now, will you help me unwrap my new bench press?’

‘OK. How much did all this stuff cost?’

‘Oh, it was rather dear, but I’ll use it, so it’s worth it.’

‘Cool. But you are sorted now, money wise, aren’t you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Because you’ll have to start paying back the loan soon.’

‘I know all this, Grace. I’ve bought lots of books on starting
up my own business, and my wonderful new sewing machine is arriving next week.’

‘OK. As long as you’re cool.’

‘Grace.’ I can tell by her tone that she’s getting vexed. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Dad, thank you,’ I whisper. I went to town and bought a ballerina bunch of flowers today and laid them at his grave. They’re peonies. I can’t remember whether he liked peonies, but I do. ‘These are from me and BB. BB stands for Baby Bean, not
Big Brother,
by the way. Do you remember that show? It’s finished now. No, BB is your grandchild. So far you’ll be pleased to hear that BB is a very well-behaved little thing.

Mum’s being amazing. Whatever you said to her, she’s different. Much, much stronger. Loving. Happy. I think the money has really helped, and the fact that she sorted it out herself and didn’t need me. Anyway, she’s started a dressmaking business. Good, eh? Or at least it will be when she starts actually making some dresses, instead of fannying about deciding on the company’s name. And you’re still here under the silver birch. You’re not covered in tarmac. And – I hope
you’ll like this – I’m going to enter a big singing competition and be on TV. It’s called
Britain Sings its Heart Out
.’

I hear Leonard and Joan approaching, so I lean forward towards the tombstone and whisper, ‘Love you.’ Then I stand. ‘Hello, you two,’ I say, spinning round. ‘I’ve got some—’ I was going to say good news, but I stop. Leonard doesn’t look right. He’s the wrong colour. Normally he has a rosy glow, but today his skin looks sky-before-rain grey.

‘Hello, Grace,’ Joan says with a smile that I can see takes effort.

‘You not feeling well, Len?’ I say, going over to take his other arm. He’s walking slowly and I can hear his breathing. He’s puffing as though he’s exhausted, but he’s only come from the car. This isn’t Leonard at all. Leonard has been known to skip from the car.

‘He’s had a bad week, haven’t you?’ Joan says.

He nods as we settle him on Alfred George. We stand back and look at him.

‘Have you been to the doctors?’

‘We’ve been referred to a specialist at the hospital. His blood pressure has been going through the roof.’

‘Well, that’s something the specialist should be able to sort out. No?’

‘Two and a half weeks we have to wait till the appointment. It never used to be this bad. I don’t remember Mum having to wait so long. And Elaine in Dorset, a similar thing happened to her a few years ago and she was seen the next day! London’s not what it was. It’s the overcrowding; we’d be better served outside London. Still, we’ll be all right, won’t we, Len? He’s on some drugs to keep his blood
pressure down, but just the smallest activity takes it out of him.’

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

‘See, still got it.’ He winks at me.

‘You certainly have. Now then, I have some good news, and as two of my favourite people in the whole world, I’d like you to be amongst the first to know. I am pregnant!’

‘Oh, Grace,’ whispers Joan. ‘Are you, love?’

I nod.

‘Oh my. You’ll be a lovely mother.’

‘And I would very much like you two to be godparents!’

‘Oh.’

Oh dear. I think Len might have a tear. Oh blimey, I think I might have one, too. Regroup. Refocus.

‘Now then, you handsome devil, what song are you having?’

‘Oh. We were talking about this in the car. We’ve been watching that talent show,
Britain Sings its Heart Out.
Did you see it, Grace?’

‘No, I don’t watch it.’

‘Well, we think you should enter it. With your voice, Grace, you’d wipe the floor with them.’

‘Funny that—’ I start. I’m just about to tell them about going on
Britain Sings
when Joan carries on speaking over me.

‘There was a girl on there, pretty thing. Must be your age. She sang “Amazing Grace”. She got through to the final. She was by far the best of the bunch, but we both said, “She’s good, but she’s nothing on our Grace.” So we wanted to ask you to sing that.’

‘“Amazing Grace”,’ Len croaks.

Oh, no. Oh, please, no. I would give Leonard and Joan anything – anything in the whole world – but not that. I can’t sing that song. I can’t even
hear
that song.

‘I’m so sorry, I can’t sing that. I don’t know it,’ I say quickly. ‘What about a bit of Leonard’s favourite? A Fred Astaire number.’ And before they have time to protest I start singing ‘Cheek To Cheek’.

I’m standing outside the Carbuncle with a letter in my hand. The letter is addressed to Anton. I don’t want to give it to him, but I have to.

Dear Anton,

I am so, so, so incredibly sorry. Not just for embarrassing myself in your presence on Sunday, for which I am mortified. Hopefully, at some point in the future I will be able to look you in the eye again, but it might take a while. Please pretend it never happened.

I am also sorry to tell you that I won’t be able to perform with you in the
Britain Sings
final. My reasons are not because of the other night. It’s because I recently learned that a woman will be singing ‘Amazing Grace’ in the final and, as you may have realised, I have an adverse reaction to that song, so I think it’s wiser all round if I decline your offer.

I am truly sorry, Anton, and I wish you the best of the best of luck.

Yours, Gracie.

I swallow and enter the pub, where I lean on the bar, waiting for the young chap to finish serving a customer. I can’t see Anton, and I will the universe to keep it that way. A copy of the
Daily Mirror
lies folded on the counter nearby. I pick it up and open it to find out what’s going on in the world. The headline says, ‘AMAZING RUTH. Bookies’ favourite to win
Britain Sings,
Ruth Roberts, hits out against US record deal rumours.’ And there’s a photo of her, ten years on. She looks the same really, except her features seem sharper and she has bigger boobs. It’s unmistakably Ruth Roberts, though. I haven’t seen her since I was carried screaming from the stage she stood upon, and just seeing her face again gives me that same panicky feeling in my chest.

I push the newspaper away from me. Thank God for Leonard and Joan and for me seeing that newspaper. It’s most definitely a sign.

The barman smiles.

‘You all right, love?’

‘Yes, thank you. Please give this to Anton for me,’ I say, handing him the letter. ‘It’s very urgent.’

‘Help! Help! Help!’

I’m not having a good day at work, so I’m banging my head against my desk repeatedly. There’s nothing else for it. The buyer for Claire’s flat has just pulled out because he’s lost his job.

‘Help! Help! Help!’ I repeat, giving my head another good bang.

‘You should have your hard hat on.’

It’s Bob.

‘Where did you come from?’

‘Just walked in!’

‘I’m not even keeping an eye on the door. I’ve fallen apart,’ I tell him dramatically, but then I smile. ‘Nice to see you, I was going to call you later. I wanted to tell you something.’

‘Pawel’s at the yard, clearing out his stuff, so I thought I’d escape rather than punch him. Can you get out for a coffee?’

‘Yeah, but I have to deliver some bad news to someone first.’

‘Shall I come for the ride?’

‘Yeah. Can you pretend to be interested in her flat?’

‘Anything for you, sis.’

We pull up outside Claire’s flat in Bob’s van, because like so many others he refuses to travel in Nina. I sigh. I so don’t want to do this. Claire deserves some luck. It’s long overdue. So where is it? What’s stopping it, eh?

‘Excuse me!’ calls Claire from the front door.

‘You all right, love?’ Bob calls to her.

‘You can’t park there. It’s my spot.’

Patrick suddenly whizzes from between her legs out onto the drive. Bob, like the Bruce Willis lookalike he is, darts out of the van and catches him, tucks him under his arm and walks him back to Claire.

‘I believe this is yours,’ he says with a smile.

Claire laughs, and I realise I haven’t seen her laugh for a long time.

‘What have you got on your head, mate?’ Bob asks, pulling off the sanitary towel. Claire reddens.

‘Sorry. I’m, um. It’s a phase.’

‘You don’t want one of these on your head, mate,’ Bob tells Patrick as he places him gently back on the ground by his mum. ‘See, it looks stupid,’ he says, putting it on his own head. ‘Nah, you don’t want to do that. Shall we give it to Mummy to put in the rubbish?’

Patrick nods and Claire takes the sanitary towel, smiling shyly. I remain sitting in the van, mesmerised by the whole thing.

‘I’ll move the van,’ Bob says, walking back.

‘No, he’s with me!’ I call, finally waking up. ‘Claire, this is Bob, he’s going to look at the flat.’ I walk up to her. ‘We lost that other buyer. I’m so sorry.’

Her big eyes water and her bottom lip starts to go.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?’ Bob says buoyantly. ‘It might be my lucky day. This looks like just what I’m after, and it’s got a parking space.’

We walk into the lounge to find it moderately tidy and the curtains open. And there’s not a potty or wet puddle to be seen.

‘There’s another one!’ Bob shouts, pointing to Daisy sitting on the sofa watching telly. Patrick sits at his feet staring up at him. ‘Is that your sister, mate? Good work.’ Patrick nods. ‘This is my sis,’ Bob says, pointing at me.