Unlike a Virgin

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  Danny has to come home. He can’t just leave. Maybe it’s a ten-year itch. He’s bound to get to America and go, What the? I’ve forgot me Gracie. This won’t do, and come home. Surely he can’t bolt like this. We’re Danny and Gracie. Gracie and Dan.

  I’m sitting here in the lounge, alone on a Saturday night. I don’t want to be in our bed upstairs. It’s the extra-long bed we bought because Danny is so tall. They should have taken it. Mind you, it’s probably quite tricky to check in at the airport. I keep expecting him to walk in, sit down next to me and start playing computer games, smelling of chips and beer and boy sweat. But, of course, the games have gone, and so has he. His hands, his smile, his big safe presence. It’s all gone to America.

  Or maybe not. I can hear something downstairs. A key in the lock. He’s come back. Oh, thank you, God. I knew he couldn’t just leave me like that. I run to the top of the stairs, but it’s not him, it’s Wendy.

  ‘No need to look so pleased to see me!’

  I gave her a set of keys to the flat, just in case I locked myself out or was away and she needed to get in for some reason.

  ‘Gracie, I’m moving in. For as long as it takes to get you chatting, OK? I’ve brought the Mad Men box set.’ She holds the cover towards me. ‘Is it me or does this Don Draper fellow remind you of Anton over the road? And I’ve got chocolate … and I don’t want any arguments.’ She laughs. ‘Not that I’ll be getting any.’

  She walks up the stairs.

  ‘It’s been ten years since this happened before: me chatting to you and trying to get you to let me in. You’ve become uber-efficient estate agent woman since then. I’d forgotten about little Gracie who didn’t talk that time. I mean, when you do speak it’s generally a load of old bollocks, but I do miss it. We’ll get you speaking again, I promise.’

  I sit back down on the sofa and pull the duvet around me. The paper bag I bought back from the pharmacy falls to the ground.

  ‘What have you dropped?’ asks Wendy, picking it up and looking inside. ‘Oh,’ she immediately stops flitting around, looks at me and sighs with a smile. ‘Yeah, I wondered with you being sick. Do you think you might be? Oh, Grace, we’d better do the test and get it over with. It’s bound to be worse not knowing. Go on.’ She holds it out to me. ‘Go pee on a stick.’

  Who could resist such a tempting offer? Not me. I’ve been putting it off for hours, but I do actually need the toilet. I walk into the bathroom, shut the door and unwrap the plastic test stick. It looks a bit like a kazoo. You wouldn’t want to confuse the two, I think, as I try to wee on it.

  I sit it on the bathroom shelf next to the dead cactus and then I go back to Wendy in the living room.

  ‘I reckon we do the whole first series,’ she says, looking at the DVD box. If we get hungry I’ll buy us sausage and mash from the pub later.’

  I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less than eat a sausage, except maybe be pregnant.

  ‘I don’t think you’re pregnant,’ Wendy starts conjecturing. ‘You took the morning-after pill, and it’s good, that. I’ve taken it. You’re probably just late because of Danny ‘I’m too weak to talk to my girlfriend myself, so I’ll get my mum to do it’ Saunders. I could kill him. Jesus. You’re bound to feel awful and miss a period. Come on, how many times since we’ve known each other have we been here doing preg tests and they’re always negative. You pay ten quid and then come on the next day. It’s a conspiracy, I reckon.’

  She’s right. We’ve both done them before. I don’t know how many times we’ve been stuck in a loo, crouched over a kazoo, waiting to see if we had a two-pink-lines situation. But this time I know I’m pregnant. It’s a feeling. I know I’m carrying a baby. Well, it wouldn’t be a baby yet, more like a bean. A bean of a baby. A baby bean.

  I walk, incredibly slowly, back into the bathroom. I don’t go straight to the test. I give the sink a spray and a wipe first, then I throw away Danny’s toothbrush. I clean the mirror and pick up the bin to empty it outside. Then I freeze for a moment, holding my bathroom bin. Perhaps I’m not pregnant. Wendy could be right. We’ve been here before. It might be just the same as before. There could well be only one pink line, like last time. I put the bin down, close my eyes and creep towards the shelf where the pregnancy test sits waiting.

  When my legs bang against the bath I know I’m within sight of the kazoo. I stand still, breathing deeply, then I open my eyes. Two unmistakable pink lines look back at me.

  I’m pregnant.

  Shit.

  Chapter 35

  Wendy has always been there for me. Always. Well, always, since the age of eleven. She went to Kensal Rise Community College with me, so I suppose we were destined to be best friends on account of the fact that my dad was a ballroom dancer and hers was an actor. When we were at school Wendy’s dad was in a long-running series of commercials for Homebase. In the ads he had to dress up in a Jacobean outfit, with ballooning shorts over tights and a massive ruffle around his neck, and each ad consisted of him eulogising, whooping and screaming, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ over something like a drill or a lawn mower or a barbeque. The one for the best ever bathroom sale is the most famous. It’s still featured on those ‘Best Ever Adverts’ shows you get on Channel 4 occasionally. It was very cheesy, with Wendy’s dad getting carried away by the concept of a toilet and then settling down on it to do a jobby. As you can imagine, Wendy was fodder for some pant-wettingly funny teasing. She was pursued through secondary school by teenagers doing bad impressions of her father shouting, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’

  The ads made him quite a bit of money, but sadly he was always known as the bloke from the Homebase ads, so he didn’t get much other work, and now he teaches acting in a girls’ school in Highgate. I often think Wendy is wasted at Make A Move. All through school she wanted to be a nurse. She did her A Levels and got into nursing college, and she was so excited about starting, but she passed out in the second week when she was shown some plasma. She kept at it, but it became clear by the end of the first term that she would only be able to be a nurse if she was guaranteed never to come into contact with blood or open wounds. She didn’t go back after the first Christmas break. She was a bit lost for a while, like me, so as soon as I heard there was a job at Make A Move, I raved about her to Lube until she got it. But she’s so caring and kind and selfless I can’t help but feel there’s something more for her out there somewhere.

  ‘I thought you might need ice cream,’ she says, smiling and handing me a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. See how kind she is. I sniff it. Delish. She’s got her own tub of Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Wendy doesn’t like Phish Food; she says it’s too ‘confused’ a flavour. I love that Wendy takes her food so seriously.

  ‘I don’t want you to think this is terrible, Grace,’ she says to me, pointing her licked spoon in my direction. She’s in her familiar Freddie lookout pose, which involves moving my arm-chair so that she can subtly keep an eye on the pub over the road. It’s not as easy as one might think, on account of the fact that we want to keep the lights on in the room and she doesn’t want to be seen. So she sits on the arm of the chair and leans her head against the wall, peeking through the gap between wall and curtain. She’s very good at talking to me whilst keeping a peripheral eye out for Freddie, although it must hurt her neck after a while.

  ‘It’s just an unplanned pregnancy, Grace. I bet hundreds of them happen every day. Just think of all those girls peeing on sticks across the world going, “Oh bollocks!” when they see the pink lines. And like everyone else you have two options. You don’t have to have the baby, Grace. Not that it’s a baby at the moment. More like a seed or a chickpea. It’s just some cells, I think. Although that sounds a bit mank and medical …’ She pulls a face. See, she so wasn’t cut out to be a nurse. ‘I think we’ll call it a chickpea for now. Grace, you can go to the hospital and have an abortion. I think you can just take some tablets, you don’t even have to have an operation. No o
ne will ever know. Except me and I won’t tell anyone. Apparently one in five women have had an abortion. I mean, that’s most people. Well, not most people because it’s less than half, but it’s a lot. Seriously. Or, well, the other option is you let the chickpea grow into … what does a chickpea grow into … hummus? This chickpea thing is getting stupid now, but you know what I mean.

  ‘The other option is that you have the baby. And loads of people do that, too. And I want you to know that I’m good with kids and I would babysit, so don’t think you’d never get to go out again. Mind you, what with the smoking ban and those pouches you can get that cradle the baby onto your chest, you could pretty much go out with it, if you wanted. And if you’re worried about the birth, I mean, I can’t really help with that, but I would come with you and you could squeeze my hand. And I’d come to those meetings you have to go to where you practise breathing on the floor with your legs open. So all you need to know is that whatever you decide to do is fine. Better than fine. But you don’t need to make a decision now. Take your time and see how you feel, but know that it’s all going to be fine … Fuck me! There’s Freddie and Anton getting out of a cab with … Oh. My. God. That must be that Pilates teacher – Fran, I think her name is – that Anton’s going out with. She is proper gorgeous. Bitch. Wow! They look like they’re buzzing off something.’

  I quickly, but casually, saunter over to where Wendy is spying. She opens the curtain a bit wider so I can see. Anton is standing by a black cab, paying the driver, and behind him stands Freddie and a woman who looks like Uma Thurman. She’s stroking Anton’s back as he chats to the cabbie. There’s nothing unusual about this except, like Wendy said, they are clearly buzzing about something. For some reason they’re all wearing toothpaste-ad grins. Perhaps something wonderful has just happened. Maybe Anton and Uma have told Freddie they’re getting married? That, as a concept, should make me feel happy, really, on account of the fact that I consider Anton a friend. It doesn’t, though. If anything it makes me feel sadder. I slink back to my warm spot on the sofa.

  ‘Freddie’s wearing that blue shirt again,’ Wendy says. ‘I mean, the shirt’s all right but he doesn’t have to wear it every time he goes out. If we’d got together I was going to take him to Selfridges and dress him. You know, Danny must have told Freddie about everything. That’s probably why Freddie asked you out. I know I’ve slept with two of his friends, but when we do end up together it’ll be nice to know we find each other’s mates attractive. I just wish he’d asked me out instead of you. I thought we were getting on so well that night, too. I’ve been trying to wean myself off him ever since then. I’ve started giving myself a morning mirror pep talk like you do. I repeat, “I don’t fancy Freddie. He is a wanker,” again and again and again. Ooh, Anton just looked up here. I hope he didn’t see me spying. How cool is Anton? Now there’s a man who can dress himself. He always wears nice shirts, and he changes them regularly and looks good in jeans. I think all older men should be banned from wearing jeans, except Bruce Springsteen and Anton. Anton is okey-dokey by me. And okey-dokey by you, clearly, seeing as you had a sexy dream about him. Maybe I should have gone after Anton instead of his son? Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Nope, Freddie’s the man for me. Funny how you just know, eh? I wish he knew it, too. Hopefully, he’ll turn into Anton. Anyway, Anton looks a bit loved up with model features there. Right, where was I? Greedy chops! Have you eaten that whole tub already? Impressive. Shall I put Mad Men on now?’

  She jumps off her lookout perch and bounds towards the telly, bending down to turn the power switch on. Then suddenly she stands upright and slaps herself hard on her head.

  ‘Oh, arse!’ she screeches. ‘You know what we’ve missed? Britain Sings! I can’t believe I did that. I hate missing Britain Sings.’

  She looks at me, but I can’t muster much sympathy on account of the fact that I’m not speaking, I hate Britain Sings and I’m pregnant.

  Chapter 36

  I’ve been having sex with Danny for years. I know that sex leads to babies, so why is it a surprise to find out that one two-minute sweaty act can do this? I, Gracie Flowers, am having a baby. Except, of course, I’m not going to have a baby. How can I have a baby? I can’t even raise a cactus.

  ‘I think we should chuck that, babe,’ says Wendy, gently taking the cactus from me. ‘We’ll throw it in the bin on our way. Are you ready?’

  We’re in my bathroom. Wendy has just done both of our make-up and now we’re going to karaoke. I’m not that wowed about going, if truth be told. For starters I hate karaoke; for mains I’m not speaking; for a big, rich pudding my boyfriend has left me, and for coffee and after-dinner mints I’m pregnant. That’s quite a meal and it’s difficult to swallow, but it’s hard to argue against something like going to karaoke when you’re not speaking. And anyway, Wendy wants to go and she’s been cooped up with me all weekend, so I owe it to her.

  Wendy takes my hand. I clutch it as we head down the stairs and step over the threshold of my maisonette. She lobs the cactus in the outside bin and we walk slowly across the road, heading for the warm lights of the pub. She opens the door and looks back at me.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ she assures me.

  We enter and are instantly engulfed in the hubbub. The karaoke has already started. A girl is singing a song I don’t know. It’s actually quite comforting to be somewhere noisy. I can just listen to the music and nod and smile, and my lack of conversation shouldn’t be too noticeable. Anton is standing at the bar alone. There’s no sign of Uma, which is surprising as they looked surgically attached when I saw them from the window last night. Anton looks as handsome as ever, but somehow distracted or perturbed by something. He doesn’t look like his normal self. I’d love to sit next to him tonight. I’ve come to associate Anton with sitting in a life raft. And where’s the canine Keith Moon? I look about me at people’s knees to see if I can spot him, but I can’t. Wendy’s at the bar, talking to Freddie. I find the only two chairs in the place and sit down to wait for her. I close my eyes and listen to the girl singing. She’s flat.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Wendy whoops when she returns. ‘Oh. My. God. This is like more gossip than I’ve ever heard in my life. Anton and that woman were on Britain Sings last night! I can’t believe we missed it. Gutted. That’s why they were looking all buzzed up when we saw them, because they’d just got through to the final! You know, the big one at Christmas? But then today there was this big story in the News of the World about how she, Uma, real name Fran, used to be a – wait for it, massive ultra-gossip – high-class prostitute! Anyway, she’s disappeared. She left a message saying she’s gone to an Ashram in India and Anton can do the final without her. Right, listen, I got you a vodka, lime and soda,’ she gabbles, ‘but then I remembered the chickpea. But one drink tonight won’t matter, I thought. Imagine you didn’t do the test till tomorrow, then you wouldn’t even know, so you’d still be out boozing. I reckon it’s fine, but I can get you a soft drink if you’d prefer.’

  I look down at the weighty vodka. What to do? Drink it, I suppose. There’s no way I can have this baby. I take a gulp, then I start sucking one of the ice cubes.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I’d do, too. Ooh, Anton’s going up. He must be gutted. Wonder what he’ll sing without her,’ she says, shifting her chair away from me towards the karaoke stage. The music starts and we listen for a few moments.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ whispers Wendy. ‘Never heard of it. He should have done a crowd pleaser.’

  She doesn’t recognise the music, but I do. The song is an old Patti Smith number called ‘Because The Night’. It’s all about the night being for sex and lust and lovers. I know it well as it was played at my parents’ wedding. I haven’t heard it for years.

  I wish I’d been at my mum and dad’s wedding. Technically I was there, but seeing as I was in a womb at the time I don’t remember much. It sounds like quite a rock and roll wedding from what I’ve heard. Neither of their parents were present because the
y didn’t approve, so Mum and Dad thought, Sod them, and had a wedding with just their friends. They got married in a register office in Ealing and then went to pretty Walpole Park afterwards. There were about thirty young people, and they’d all been instructed to bring a bottle, a picnic item and a party piece. Dad’s party piece was first. He sang a John Denver song to my mum, called ‘Annie’s Song’. The lyrics are simple and beautiful, ‘Come let me love you, let me give my life to you. Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms.’ Mum and Dad’s friends used to tell me that even the blokes cried when they heard my dad sing that to my mum. After that my mum played this Patti Smith number on an old cassette player and did a bit of dirty dancing for him. It sounds like she was a right goer in her day, my mum.

  I watch Anton on stage. He’s good. He has a Bruce Springsteen-style growl. I’m not surprised he won. I look about me. People are nodding their heads, tapping their feet and smiling. Then I look back at him on stage and I have to say it, he’s sexy. I think of lying in his bed, but this time he’s in it. Oh dear, I seem to be developing a bit of a crush on Anton.

  Wendy pats my knee.

  ‘Wow! He’s brilliant!’

  There are huge cheers when he finishes.

  ‘I thank you,’ Anton says into his microphone. ‘Now then, it’s been a changeable twenty-four hours. As some of you might have heard, myself and a lady called Fran Basso entered Britain Sings last night and won a place in the finals.’

  A deafening roar erupts in the Carbuncle.

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Sadly, Fran has since decided not to do the final, which is in a few months’ time, so I’m left partner-less. Now, Britain Sings have said I can still take my place in the final, either alone or with a new partner, and I have to say that as soon as I heard this I thought of someone. Basically, I heard this young lady sing a while back and I can’t get her out of my head.’