Unlike a Virgin (38 page)

‘Anton,’ a voice calls from the judges’ table. ‘Very good to have you back.’

‘Thank you for having me back.’

There are quite a few wolf whistles from the audience.

‘And you have a new partner, tonight.’

‘Yes, Gracie Flowers.’

I know I should look up, but I’m too terrified.

‘Hello, Grace.’ A woman’s voice comes from the judges’ table. I keep my head down and raise my eyes towards where her voice is coming from.

‘Hello,’ I say. My timid, terrified voice goes through the microphone and comes out sounding like a small child who’s just wet herself. The audience laugh.

I look back down at my toes. They’re still laughing.

‘Grace Flowers.’ It’s a man talking to me now. I peep up at him and the audience laugh again.

‘Camille and Rosemary Flowers’ daughter?’

‘Er, yes, sir.’

Suddenly there’s a cheer from the audience for my mum and dad. I look up now at the vague shadowy figures in the auditorium who are cheering my mum and dad, and I smile. The buggers laugh at me again.

‘I was hoping I’d hear you sing one day, Grace,’ the man says. I don’t know who he is and I don’t know why he’s saying this.

‘Thank you,’ I mumble into the microphone.

‘So, Anton, what song are you going to sing for us?’

‘We’re going to sing “Mr Bojangles”,’ he answers.

There are a few whoops and yet more wolf whistles.

‘It was Gracie’s father’s favourite song.’

I glance quickly at Anton, who’s smiling at me.

‘When you’re ready?’ the female judge says.

Oh, dear, I have to nod us in. Oh, bloody hell, my knees, my hands, I don’t want to look up. I never used to be like this. I take a deep breath and I nod. It’s my signal for the backing track to begin. It starts, but so quickly. I nodded it, I called it, but when the music starts I miss the note to sing on. I start breathing really quickly. I’ve missed the opening. I look at Anton and he’s wincing at me. I wonder whether to jump to the next verse. I can’t miss the first verse, though. It’s a story, and everyone knows the song.

‘Um, sorry.’ I put my hand up to the music person. ‘I’m sorry. I missed my cue. My fault. I’m so sorry.’

The audience’s mad wolf whistling and laughing has vanished and they’re as quiet as a jury now.

I look at Anton and mouth the word, ‘Sorry.’ That’s it, I’ve blown it.

‘Would you like another try, Grace?’ one of the judges asks.

Even if I have another try, I don’t think I can do it. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I’m shaking. I stare at him. I don’t know what to do?

I close my eyes and look at the floor as I blink back a tear, and then I hear a voice. A faint voice. My father’s voice: ‘Just lay the song at their ears, Amazing Grace.’

Someone has taken hold of my hand. I look towards Anton,
but he’s still too far away from me. There’s no one near me. I know this is stupid, but I think my dad is holding my hand.

‘It’s your time to shine, my girl,’ he whispers. ‘Sing your song. Lay it at their ears.’

‘Yes, please,’ I say.

I look out at the crowd.

‘Yes, please, may I try again.’

The audience whoop and I smile with them, then I stand for a moment before I nod to the music man. This time I come in at the right moment. I don’t know whether I’m in Rome, in the garden of my childhood home, at a singing competition in Milton Keynes or at the London Palladium. I don’t know whether I’m singing with Dad or with Anton. All I know is that I’m singing. I, Gracie Flowers, am singing.

At the end, when the audience is screaming, I feel the hand I’ve been clutching throughout the song release me. I gasp and look about me, but my eyes meet Anton’s and he takes my hand. I smile at him and we bow together.

I’m sitting backstage with my head on Anton’s shoulder and we’re listening to the other acts over the tannoy. I feel so light, as though I might float out of my seat at any moment and have to be pulled back down to earth.

‘How you doing?’ Anton whispers.

‘I feel on top of the world. I think someone must have slipped something in the water.’

‘We might win, you know.’

‘Oh,’ I hadn’t even thought of winning. I’d forgotten it was a competition. I was too busy thinking about how completely right I feel. ‘I’m not really bothered about that.’

‘The money might come in handy.’

‘Do you win money?’

‘A hundred thousand. Gracie Flowers, don’t you watch the telly?’

‘I’ve never seen
Britain Sings
.’

‘The show could have been made for you.’

‘I will now, though.’

‘And you get a recording contract to make an album.’

‘No?’

‘Yep. Would you like that?’

‘Would I like to record an album with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, although not rubbish pop where we’d have to be on the cover in our pants.’

‘No.’ He laughs. ‘I, er … oh, God, Grace.’

He starts fiddling with his bottom on the seat.

‘What’s the matter? Have you got piles?’

‘No.’ He laughs. ‘This is just something I put down on paper. Read it. I’m an old fool.’

I take the folded-up piece of paper he’s holding.

‘You’re my favourite old fool,’ I tell him, but he just looks down at his lap uncomfortably.

I open the paper.

Grace, I don’t know where to start. I can’t say it in words. I’ve tried, but I lose the ability to form coherent sentences around you. I couldn’t even do it in a song.

Oh, Grace, I’ve been dazzled by you since the moment you first walked into the pub that lunchtime. Dazzled by this tiny young woman with long blonde hair who was buying a house over the road from me. I suppose what dazzled me was your spirit. A kind spirit, a fighting spirit, a smiling spirit. I don’t know to explain it and my words are falling short. I tried John Denver’s words and I even messed those up. But really, you’ll find everything I want to say to you in the words of ‘Annie’s Song’.

Grace, I may well be the same age as George Clooney (thirteen months younger actually!), but I am still a lot older than you and I’m at a different point in my life. You’re at the beginning, while I’m in the middle. And when we had a moment that night, I froze. I remembered your father. I respected him, Grace, and I wanted to do the right thing by you, for you and by your dad. I didn’t want to take what I shouldn’t. I’ve given it a lot of thought, though, and no matter how much I think about it, I am always led back to a fact that’s bigger than all the questions and doubts, the fact that I am completely in love with you, Grace. When I sing songs, when I play songs, they are all for you.

Now, I just want you to know this: that I am over the road, thinking of you and wanting above all else for you to be happy.

Yours, an old fool and an admirer.

Anton xx

‘I’m going to keep this forever,’ I whisper, and I look into his eyes and smile. ‘I’ll keep it in a little box under our bed.’

‘Grace.’

Talk about interruption of the decade. It’s Ruth Rogers. Wow! She’s smiling at me. She certainly wasn’t doing that the last time we met.

‘Hello, Ruth.’

‘Hello, Gracie. I loved your song. I used to be so jealous of your voice, but it was nice to hear it again. I’d missed it.’

‘Thank you. And I’m pleased I heard you sing “Amazing Grace” again. It was beautiful.’

I look at her for a second, wondering whether to apologise for that incident ten years ago, but the frantic
Britain Sings its Heart Out
floor
manager takes the decision out of my hands by storming into the room and shouting, ‘All acts in line: they’re ready to announce the winner!’

Ruth rushes back to her place and I stand up beside Anton, who steadies me as I fall off my high heels. I take his hand and everything, every little thing feels right in the world.

In other parts of London, people aren’t quite as relaxed as Gracie Flowers.

‘Oh, Len, I can’t bear it!’ Joan says, lying next to her brother in his hospital bed at St Mary’s Hospital.

It’s an hour past the end of visiting time, but the nurses understood when she told them that the pretty blonde girl with the amazing voice is like family to her, so she has to stay until the end. Of course they understand. This is the final of
Britain Sings its Heart Out
after all. They are all seated in Len’s private room, watching it together.

Len was moved into a private room a few days ago. It’s been paid for by an anonymous donor, although Joan has a feeling it might have something to with a cheque from SJS Construction, which landed on her doormat the very same day.

Joan has kicked her shoes off onto the floor and is squeezing her brother’s hand, the one that can squeeze hers back.
‘Oh, why do they always do this? Take so long to announce the winner. I can’t bear it! What did you say, love?’

As Joan moves her ear closer to her brother’s mouth she notices a tear in his eye.

‘Yes,’ she says, agreeing with him. ‘That’s our girl.’

‘Put the telly on!’ Gracie’s favourite family scream as they enter the living room.

‘They’re about to announce the winner! We’ve missed all the singing. I can’t believe I had to go to your stupid school play,’ Emma Hammond shrieks, kicking her brother in the shin as they sit on the sofa. ‘This is my favourite programme!’

The camera on the telly slowly focuses on all the contestants one by one.

‘There’s the “Amazing Grace” girl. I love her,’ she says seriously.

‘She was rubbish,’ her brother chimes.

‘Shh,’ she instructs her brother.

‘Ooh, that’s the handsome man who won the first show,’ Mrs Hammond whoops. Her husband squeezes her waist. ‘Not as handsome as you, darling, and I’m sure he doesn’t sing “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” as well as you, either.’

‘No one sings “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” as well as I do. Now then, shall we have a glass of something to celebrate my son’s stellar performance in
Wind in the Willows
and finally finding our new home today?’

‘That blonde girl looks like …’

‘Oh, my God, it’s her! It’s Gracie! That’s Grace!’ Emma Hammond shrieks.

‘Ah,’ they all gasp in unison as the camera zooms in on a radiant Gracie beaming up at Anton.

‘It was singing,’ Emma Hammond whispers to herself. The thing that Gracie loved doing most of all was singing. Emma smiles. She knew Gracie wasn’t telling the truth when she said it was being an estate agent.

‘
SH-i-i-i-i-i-i-t!
’
says Tara, her mouth crackling from the popping candy she is eating. She’s sitting on her brother’s bed watching the new Sony widescreen TV that he mysteriously came home with this afternoon.

‘What?’

‘It’s her, innit?’

‘What the …?’

‘The one you nicked the bag off. I told you. She got pregnant. I gave her the bag back.’

‘Shit! You should’ve kept the bag. If she wins we could’ve sold it on eBay.’

Tara opens her mouth so it pops and fizzes in her brother’s face, then she twats him hard on the leg with her fist.

‘Oh shit! What d’you hit me for?’

‘’Cos, you’re a dick, innit. I well want her to win.’

‘Oh, Bob!’ Claire says, swigging some Moët & Chandon out of the bottle. ‘I can’t bear it. She’s got to win it. I wish they’d just come out with it! It’s torture!’

Bob is walking around Claire’s multi-purpose living area with a twin under each arm, as he’s found it’s the only way he can stop them walking up to the screen and dribbling the word ‘Gracie’ all over it.

‘Gracie Flowers, come on, sis. Come on, sis,’ he chants.

‘Bob, sit down. I think I need to cling on to you.’

Bob perches next to Claire on the settee and can’t help but grin as she clutches his leg.

Lube is just pouring out the last of the bottle of Rioja when his mobile rings. It’s his daughters and they’re screaming.

‘What’s going on? What’s happened at the sleepover?’ Bob says, jumping up like the concerned father he is. ‘What? My Gracie? On the telly?’

Rushing up to the TV, he turns it on, only to see the face of Gracie Flowers, the best female estate agent in London, filling the whole of his widescreen plasma television.

‘Well, I’ll be blown.’ He sighs. ‘Well, I’ll be blown.’

John St John Smythe Senior sits in the dress circle of the London Palladium, holding his beautiful wife-to-be’s tiny hand and hoping that all the screaming hasn’t harmed his hearing. Rosemary Flowers sits next to him, beaming. It’s been quite a night for Rosemary: she’s been asked for her autograph seventeen times and she’s heard her only daughter sing for the first time in ten years. John Senior has never seen her look so beautiful, he thinks, as he bends down to kiss her on the cheek.