Unlike a Virgin (34 page)

‘Hmm. But, you know, I’m used to it.’

‘Oh, Grace, it will get better. Why don’t you have another bit of Posh Boy to take your mind off things?’

I scrunch my face up. I haven’t seen Posh Boy since that drunken night when we did the shaggy shaggy. He’s been at the Cricklewood branch. He’s due back today.

‘What is it you want to tell me?’

‘Well, you know when Freddie was telling me about the trafficked women.’

‘Uh, huh.’

‘Well, he mentioned this charity that helps women who’ve been exploited. And when I got home I went online and looked it up. You know, just because I was interested. And, well, they were advertising a job. Just doing what I do now, but for the charity. And it felt like a sign, so I applied.’

‘Oh my God, Wend, that’s brilliant.’

‘And I had the interview.’

‘Oh my God! How did it go?’

‘I got the job!’

‘That’s amazing.’

‘Do you think?’

‘Of course, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, but I thought you might miss me. And I feel bad because I know you’re low at the minute and I don’t like to
leave you. Listen, I could stay here an extra month or two to be with you, if you wanted. Just until things aren’t so raw for you.’

‘Wend, of course I’ll miss you, but this is great news. Great news! You have to start as soon as possible. This is a big good thing.’

‘I know, and they’ve actually given me a better job. Oh, Grace, they really liked me. They want me to be involved in, like, some PR and stuff. They said they were impressed by my enthusiasm and empathy. And they’re really excited about me starting.’

‘Oh, I feel like a proud mother.’

‘Ooh, Posh Boy alert.’

‘Where?’

‘Coming in.’

We jump apart and sit back in front of our respective computers. I open my emails, and am just putting on my ‘I am working very hard’ face when I notice that I have one new email from an unexpected email address:
[email protected].
I smile just to see his name on my computer screen. I open it and find a link to YouTube, which I click on. I hear Posh Boy walk into the office, but I can’t take my eyes off the screen in front of me.

It’s the strangest thing. The sound is tinny and the picture is blurry, but it’s a video of me singing in Rome with my dad. My favourite day is here in front of me. My breath deepens and my hand reaches towards the screen. There I am in the blue dress I could barely move in. It really was me that day. My dad is next to me doing dance steps in a spotlight, and when he finishes he turns to me and smiles. It’s a lovely smile,
but I didn’t see it at the time because I’d already started to sing to the audience. I’ve seen it now, though. I smile back, over ten years too late. I sound good, too. I look like I was born to be up there. But if I was born to be up there, then what am I doing here? Before I can get dragged down by that notion, I have a happier thought. Anton must have Googled me!

‘What is that?’ asks John as he walks behind my desk, puts a hand on my shoulder and watches with me.

‘Bloody hell, Grace, it’s you singing?’ Wendy shrieks, joining us.

We watch the video the whole way through.

‘Grace, that’s …’ John says when it’s finished. ‘You’re like a superstar.’

‘She is a superstar.’

‘We could get her to do a Make A Move jingle.’

I let them talk behind me. I can’t speak. I feel emotional and foggy and I wish I was back there.

‘Oh. My. God. Grace, read the comments below it. Jeez.’

I skim down to see what people have written. There are fifty-six comments in total, and on the whole they’re positive:

‘She’s amaze.’

‘Who is this girl?’

‘Where is she now?’

‘I love this song. Is there a recording of this somewhere?’

Although some are from men stating, in rather crude ways, that they want to boff me. And one is from a man who speculates on what it would be like to boff my dad.

I exit YouTube and click on Anton’s email again. All he has written is this:

Grace, I hope you’re feeling better. I am thinking of you. Often. I’d love to sing this song with you. Forgive me for trying to persuade you again. Please sing with me in the
Britain Sings
Contest. We would have fun, and I think you might need some of that at the moment. Go on. Why not? X

Why not indeed? Oh, Anton, it’s a very long story.

‘Grace,’ John whispers once Wendy is back at her desk. ‘Grace, I’ve missed you. Can I take you out at the weekend? You know, catch up on some abuse and insults. Can you do Sunday evening? I’m sorting some things out with Lube on Saturday.’

That shakes me free of my reverie.

‘What things?’

‘Oh.’ He looks a bit taken aback that I’ve asked. ‘Oh, he just wants to catch up with me.’

I raise my eyebrows. That doesn’t sound like Lube to me.

‘So, can I take you out on Sunday?’

‘You won’t jump me?’

‘Promise.’

‘Really promise? I’m not up for nooky.’

‘I really promise.’

‘OK.’

‘Great. Listen, I’ll come up with something good for us to do and I’ll text you where to meet. Is that good?’

‘Yeah. Perfect.’

He smiles. I think back to kissing him. All that lovely kissing. And I smile, too. Then I turn back to my computer screen and press replay on the YouTube clip.

John was so pleased with himself.

You will love this! he texted me.

Graice Flowers, I have the perfect thing for us, he boasted.

Karaoke! How about 7.30? @ the Festering Carbuncle. Nice pub. Does food. Do you know it?

‘I thought with your voice and my Elton John impression we’d wipe the floor with them,’ he told me excitedly when we met.

I said very little. In actual fact, it hasn’t been as disastrous as it could have been. No one has sung ‘Amazing Grace’ for a start, I’ve hardly seen Anton and John hasn’t done his Elton John impression, although that’s largely because he’s been
outside on the phone for most of the night. He’s having a big old barney with his dad by the sounds of things. He’s outside now and I can see him, arms waving, striding up and down the pavement by the smokers. Here’s Anton coming up to the stage.

‘So I’m singing alone tonight. I, er, still haven’t found a partner for the
Britain Sings
final.’ He looks in my direction. I wasn’t sure whether he knew I was here or not as he hasn’t been over to say hello. I pull an apologetic face. Much as I love this man. I could never, ever, enter the final of that competition next week. ‘If I could ask you all to spread the word. If you know any ladies who might want to sing with me, please tell them about my plight. It’s urgent as the final is only six days away. Thank you.’

Anton looks sadder than usual. I can tell by his eyes, which normally sparkle. Anton’s eyes were the first thing I noticed when I walked into this pub two years ago. I thought they were the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. They seemed to say, ‘Look through my soul, you won’t find any hatred or darkness there.’ I walked into this pub and looked into those eyes and something inside me said, ‘Yes, this is where you should be.’ Anton’s eyes were probably the reason I purchased the noisiest maisonette in the United Kingdom.

Today his lips are smiling but his eyes aren’t. I want to go up there and hold his hand, or clutch his head to my chest and stroke his hair, or sing a song to make him smile.

‘If you’ll excuse my mistakes, I’m going to play this one on the guitar.’

He picks up his acoustic guitar, puts the strap around his neck and holds the plectrum in his teeth as he settles himself
on a bar stool. Then he takes the plectrum out of his mouth and looks at me.

‘This is “Annie’s Song”,’ he says and he starts to play.

As he starts to sing he’s still looking at me. Our eyes are locked. I couldn’t look away if I tried. I can’t remember having seen or heard anything so beautiful in all my life.

A figure walks right in front of me and practically straddles me, blocking my view. It’s Posh Boy, climbing over me to get to the seat next to me.

‘Babe, sorry about that,’ he pants loudly. I can’t believe he’s speaking over this song. He puts his arm around me and pulls me towards him in a headlock, then he lurches his face down and kisses me with a bit of tongue. It’s just a quick kiss, but then he keeps his arm around me and starts to stroke my arm, catching the side of my breast with his hand. I try to ignore him as my favourite bit of the song is coming up.

I get back to watching Anton, but he’s lost his way in the song. He stumbles over some words and then repeats a line from earlier in the song. I want to go up there and sing with him, and I think about doing just that. I could stand up and walk over there and sing him through to the end, but I don’t, and Anton finishes the song sooner than he should. He still gets a big cheer, though. I spy Freddie wiping a tear from his eye as he claps. Posh Boy isn’t crying; he isn’t even clapping.

‘He cocked that up,’ he says, leaning in for another kiss.

‘No, he didn’t,’ I say quietly. ‘It was beautiful.’

I avoid the kiss and look for Anton, but he’s left the stage already and I can’t see him any more.

It’s strange. I don’t feel as though all my songs are for him, although that might come. He doesn’t make me want to sing, but that’s probably a good thing. Perhaps he’ll help me get back to the Gracie Flowers Overachieving Estate Agent that I was. I am simply fond of him. Nothing dramatic. Nothing all-consuming. I just feel fond of him and grateful to him and protected in his big, strong, badminton-playing arms. The ‘yah’ and ‘righto’ will have to be binned straight off, but I’m beginning to think, like he said at paintballing, that we could work. We didn’t do anything physical last night as I’d made it clear I didn’t want to. We just had a kiss and a cuddle. He was the perfect gentleman. Well, he did try to get into my knickers twice, but that’s men for you.

It’s early now and I’m watching him sleep. Yes, I’m a sap but I like sleeping men. They’re so nice and quiet. He’s got more stubble than I’ve ever seen him with and it’s sexy.
There’s also a scar on his cheek that I’ve never noticed before. Chicken pox maybe, or the remains of a teenage zit. I feel it with my finger. There’s a tiny ball of yellow wax nestling in the nook of his ear. That’s mank. I won’t be touching that. I kiss his lips softly. He stirs and mumbles, opens one eye and smiles. I get a whiff of morning breath. Bloody hell.

‘Morning gorgeous.’

Clean air! I need clean air!

‘Have you got any gum?’

‘Hmm. Somewhere.’

‘Please, it’s an emergency.’

He climbs out of bed and I watch him pad around the room in his pants. He’s so much bigger than Dan. I mean, Dan was tall, but he was super skinny, like a disappointing drumstick. Posh Boy’s broad and muscly and tall. Dan’s a gangly kid in comparison. Posh Boy’s a man. A man who wears good-quality suits and probably has matching luggage. So different to Dan. Dan had a Chelsea bag and a rucksack he used for the Duke of Edinburgh Award he failed.

‘How old are you?’

He stops rummaging in the pocket of a pair of jeans.

‘Why?’

‘Just wondered.’

‘Thirty.’

‘You?’

‘Twenty-six.’

A four-year age difference. The same as my mum and dad had. That’s a good sign.

‘Come back to bed,’ I say, smiling. He moves towards me and bends down for a kiss.

‘GUM!’

‘I don’t think I have any.’

‘Well, anything would do. Anything at all. A sweet? An old mint? A festering satsuma?’

‘I’ve got some Quality Street somewhere.’

‘Perfect.’

He opens a desk drawer and pulls out a box.

‘Ta da!’ he cries. So incredibly posh. He bounces back into bed with them, lies down and pours them onto his chest.

‘Colour?’

‘Purple.’

‘I knew it.’

‘I love purple,’ I say, but then I remember my dad’s odd anti-purple stance.

‘What’s up?’ Posh Boy asks, unwrapping a purple chocolate for me.

‘Nothing. I was just thinking about my dad. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘Do you think about your mum a lot?’

‘All the time.’

I take the sweet, clear a space on his chest and lay down amidst the assorted chocolates. I can hear his heartbeat and his tummy gurgling like a drain. All I smell is cocoa and I feel content.

Suddenly there’s a loud bang on the door.

‘Shit!’ says Posh Boy quietly, but with an awful lot of feeling.

Posh Boy’s heart rate gets quicker and louder. He doesn’t say anything, but he puts his finger to his lips to indicate that I shouldn’t make a sound.