‘What we doing for dinner?
‘Dunno. What d’you fancy?’
‘Dunno. Indian*?’
‘Cool.’
‘I’ll pick up the usual on the way home.’
‘Cool.’
I knew all the stories he would trot out in company, because I was either in them or had heard them a hundred times. There was the time when Anthony Hopkins was at his work doing a voice-over for a computer game and Danny made him a cup of coffee. He said it was one of the greatest cups of coffee he’d ever had, and then he did his Silence of the Lambs tongue flick. And there was the time we were making a star to go on our Christmas tree and he ran off for a lightning wee and superglued his thumb to his foreskin. Those were the sorts of tales he told, but he’d never reveal anything about his feelings. He would never really talk.
That’s something that definitely couldn’t be said for Posh Boy. He wouldn’t know a pregnant pause if it picked his nose.
‘Oi, foot rot, do you ever shut up?’
‘Oi, cavern stomach. Do you ever stop eating?’
I interrupt the important job of wiping baked-bean juice from my plate with toast to give him some rather good, if I do say so myself, evils. I wasn’t planning to join him for a coffee. I was rather keen to get back in my car and listen to an amazing song by someone called Adele on Anton’s CD, but then we walked past the café on the way out of Sainsbury’s and I spied their four-foot poster for an all-day breakfast for £4.95 and changed my mind.
‘You had a fry-up, too.’
‘I went for the more civilised five-item option. Not the eight.’
‘Ah ha, but you missed out on the fried bread. Grave error.’
‘When was the last time you ate?’
I must look like a starving midnight-diet breaker, but I had Anton’s bacon sandwich only an hour and a half ago.
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.’
‘What?’
‘You know that day …’
‘Oh, yeah, that one. I remember it well.’ I roll my eyes. ‘You might want to narrow it down.’
‘You were stood on the street calling a man who’d parked on a red route a bastard.’
‘Even that doesn’t narrow it down to be honest.’
‘Big car. Logo on the side.’
‘Yeah, I know what you’re on about.’
‘You don’t have to tell me, I’m just looking out for you. If anyone’s giving you trouble, maybe I can help. I would have asked you before but you’ve been in Wales etc.’
‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I push my plate away. ‘This company is planning to build a housing and retail development near here. They want to build a slip road to it, which means snipping a corner off the big graveyard there, but my dad is buried in the graveyard and it means digging up his grave.’
‘Are you serious? People want to build on your dad’s grave! That’s awful.’
‘Yes, John, it is.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Well, it’s true. They’re bribing everyone with thousands of pounds. Even my mother has said yes. But there’s a lovely old couple who won’t back down, and I think I’ve made my mother see sense, too. Well, as much as it’s possible for my mother to see sense.’
‘Right. What? Don’t they need the money?’
‘No,’ I say, looking at him as though he’s stupid. ‘Some things are more important than money.’
‘Sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to—’
‘No, well, it’s horrible. Horrible.’
‘Some people don’t see beyond profit, sadly.’
‘I know.’ I sigh.
‘Oh, Grace. I’m sorry,’ he says kindly. ‘I lost my mum, too. I don’t know what I’d do if someone wanted to build on her grave.’
I nod, but leave it at that. Best not to get into one of those riotous dead-parent chats.
John smiles as though he understands, and I smile back. I don’t even want to say anything mean to him. He leans across the table and takes my hand in his. It’s like the hug he gave me after I’d hurled up outside the Italian. There’s something about his big, posh, badminton-playing hands and arms holding me that isn’t as repulsive as I would have expected. Although, if truth be told, Posh Boy doesn’t look that wowed by my touch. In fact, he’s turning his nose up, and now he’s pulled his hand from mine and is wiping it on a serviette.
‘Oh, sorry, was there bean goo on my hands?’
‘Urgh!’ He nods. ‘I can’t stand baked beans.’
‘How can you not like beans?’
‘I’m just not a bean man, although I am partial to a chickpea.’
‘Oh,’ I say flatly, remembering my predicament. ‘I’m not that fond of chickpeas at the moment.’
Chapter 40
I’m going to miss loads of time at work because of this thingy. I’ve been out of the office for fifty minutes already this morning, most of which has been spent in the doctor’s surgery staring at a poster for chlamydia. I’m on a bogus viewing. A bogus viewing is a useful tool in the estate-agency profession.
‘I’m just going to show Chetwynd Road,’ you say, and promptly drive to the chemist to buy some Tampax. Not that I need those at the moment because of this almighty cock-up – in the depressingly literal sense. And anyway, bogus viewings haven’t been great for me since I accidentally told Lube about the gambling afternoons the boys in another branch were running. It was a very unfortunate incident, but when Lube launched an inquiry into why there was a property boom and his Notting Hill branch seemed to be sleeping through it, I thought he knew about the gambling syndicate the boys in the office there had going at William Hill. I assumed they were all in on it. ‘Look at the tits on that, put down a fiver each way for me,’ sort of thing. But that wasn’t the case and Lube went ballistic when I mentioned it. Now I don’t get many favours from the Make A Move lads.
Dr McGovern’s just come out of her office. Please let it be my turn. I promise I now know all there is to know about chlamydia.
‘Grace Flowers.’ She smiles at me. The pharmacist was right. Dr McGovern’s a lovely woman. She’s tall, and not just by my standards, but officially so, like a man. You could most definitely rely on her to get a mug from the top cupboard. She never wears make-up or tries to look glam, but she smiles all the time, and somehow that makes her beautiful. I should correct that, she doesn’t smile all the time; she wouldn’t smile if you were telling her about your thrush symptoms or bowel cancer. She listens attentively to ailments and then she smiles the rest of the time.
The irony of all this is that for the last few years I’ve only ever needed to see her for my contraceptive pill prescriptions.
She leads me into her office, where there’s another chlamydia poster on the wall.
‘I was so pleased to see your name here. Well, not pleased that you’re ill, of course,’ she says, gesturing to a plastic chair for me to sit upon.
‘I was at a dinner last week with some other doctors. There was a group of us, we trained together and now we’re all coming up to retirement together and we were reminiscing about our more memorable appointments over the years. I told them about your mum and dad when they came to see me, pregnant with you.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Well, she was nervous. Your mum was quite young, wasn’t she?’
‘Eighteen,’ I say, and it suddenly hits me how young that was. I’m twenty-six and I feel too young to have this baby. Mum must have been bricking it.
‘Eighteen, my goodness.’
‘And my dad came, too?’ I ask, surprised.
‘He did. He was jumping off the walls with excitement.’
‘About me?’
‘Oh, yes. I nearly asked him to step outside. I thought he’d have something over, like your mother! But then he calmed down, and as I was examining your mum, he took her hand and he sang to you – well, to your mother’s tummy.’
‘My dad sang in here.’
‘Yes.
In all my years as a doctor, no one else has ever sung in here. And it was beautiful, that’s what I was telling my colleagues.’
‘What did he sing?’
‘Oh, what was it? Oh, I’m sorry, Grace. That, I can’t remember.’
I must look disappointed because she says sorry two more times.
‘Um,’ I whisper. I need to get to the point, but suddenly I don’t want to. Come on, Grace, you have to get back to work. ‘I’m pregnant, but I can’t have this baby,’ I whisper.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, yes. I mean. I work all the time and there’s no money unless I work!’
‘Sorry, Grace, I meant are you sure you’re pregnant.’
‘Oh right. Yes, I did a test. But also I know. I feel pregnant, sick, my boobs are killing me. I’m craving ice lollies. And there was an accident …’
Dr McGovern waits to see if I’ll continue. But I don’t.
‘So it was an accident.’
‘Yeah, I forgot I’d run out of pills, because I was working really hard to get this promotion and then we accidentally, you know … Then I took the morning-after pill but it didn’t work.’
‘Hmm.’ She smiles, not an ‘I’m so happy’ smile, more of an ‘It’ll be all right’ smile. ‘And what are your thoughts about this pregnancy?’
I sigh a deep sigh. It’s a sigh that goes right into the dusty corners of the issue, making my chin quiver and my eyes prick with tears. I’ve already told her I can’t have a baby, why does she have to dwell on this? I look down at my lap. There’s a crusty Twister lolly stain on my leggings, which I pick at.
‘I’ve got ice cream on my leggings.’
‘Have you told your mum, Grace?’
I shake my head. I’ve made the ice-cream stain bigger. Bugger.
‘Are you in a relationship at the moment, Grace?’
I keep my head down and shake it from side to side. I can feel a tear forming in the corner of my eye and I don’t want it to drop, although if it landed on the Twister crust it might remove the stain. Despite its potential stain-removing properties, I wipe it away with my tear-swiping finger. I mustn’t cry.
I hear a phoof-phoof sound and then see Dr McGovern’s hand brandishing two tissues under my face. I take them and wipe my eyes and nose.
‘Well, Grace, if you want this baby, you just need to look after yourself for the time being and then I’ll see you again in a few weeks’ time …’
She lets the words settle. She waits a long time for me to respond, but I don’t. I can’t even look at her. I’ve already told her I can’t have it. Why is she doing this?
‘But if that’s not what’s best for you, then I can book you an appointment at St Mary’s and they will talk to you about the other options.’
I was born in St Mary’s. I slowly raise my eyes to meet hers and swallow. No words are spoken, she just turns efficiently to her computer screen. I listen to the clop clop of the keys as her fingers pat them. When she’s finished she passes me a sheet of paper with a date and time printed on it, then she points to a telephone number.
‘That’s a twenty-four-hour unit. If you have any trouble, you can go there or call them at any time.’
I stand up.
‘You’ll be all right, Grace.’
I nod again.
‘Send my regards to your mum.’
I nod again and walk out through the waiting room.
‘Grace!’ It’s Dr McGovern calling me back. ‘It was – oh, hang on – something about fish; it’s a famous song. I had it for a moment there.’ She puts her hand to her forehead, closes her eyes and starts humming.
‘“Summertime”,’ I say.
She looks at me blankly, so I quietly sing the first few lines for her.
‘Yes! Yes!’ she squeals. ‘Oh, Grace, you do have a lovely voice.’
Chapter 41
My mother craved oranges when she was pregnant with me. Oranges! That is so my mother: nutritious, low calorie and too fiddly to binge on. She says that’s why I’ve got nice skin. She may be right, because I certainly don’t have much in the way of a skincare routine. I’m a pretty rubbish woman if truth be told, as is evidenced by my pregnancy cravings, which are ice cream and pork-based breakfast products with ketchup. If I had this baby, I wonder whether it would have horrible skin. I keep doing this! I know I can’t have the baby, but I find myself constantly imagining what it would be like if I did. Gracie Flowers, you’ve got to stop the baby daydreams!
The worst thing about being pregnant is how pregnant I feel. I’m about a million times more tired than usual for a start. This is my first day of the week without any bogus pregnancy-related viewings, but I’m sorely tempted to tell Posh Boy I’m off to show a property and go home to bed for half an hour. It’s very hard to stop my mind compiling fantasy fried breakfast combos; I’d eat a scabby horse if it came with ketchup, and I think my breasts are in danger of exploding. They’re massive and they seem to get a little bit bigger every day. Even my big-bazooka due-on bra is tight. And my boobs hurt, too. If I bend down they hurt; if I touch them they hurt; if I lie on my tummy at night they hurt. Normally I can forget I have breasts on a day-to-day basis and get on with my life, but not at the moment. There’s barely a breast-free nanosecond. Today, breast discomfort has taken a surprising turn for the weird. My nipples itch. But it’s not a normal itch that you deal with by way of a quick scratch, because if I cop a sneaky boob scratch when no one’s looking, they don’t feel any less itchy. In fact, they burn even more. Itchy boobs. Who’d have thought?
Having itchy boobs is a particular nuisance today, because it’s just me and Posh Boy in the office, and he looks annoyingly handsome. He’s wearing a pink shirt and, because it’s hot, he’s taken off his tie and undone the top two buttons so you can see a bit of dark chest hair. Not that I care, of course, but it’s hardly ideal that he’s sat across the office looking as fit as a box of Ironman triathlon runners while I sit here touching my breasts.
‘Looking forward to paintballing?”
‘I’ve just wet myself,’ I say. Actually, it’s not a million miles from the truth as I’ve been needing the loo all morning.
‘I love having a run-around.’
I shake my head with a pained expression. Having a runaround. Do people really still say that?
‘Do you work out?’
‘I work out how much commission I make,’ I scoff. ‘Sorry,’ I add quickly. ‘That wasn’t a joke, it was an abortion.’ I tense as soon as it’s out of my mouth. It’s such a hideous word.
Gah! It’s my nipples again. They’re so tingly. I press them against my desk in the hope of some slight relief. Nothing. I’ve just made my nipples erect. I notice John glancing at them and give him a stony ‘pervert’ look.
Out of the corner of my eye I see someone approaching the window. John is still looking at my boobs so he hasn’t noticed the potential client. Result. I jump up, lick my lips and head to the door to poke my head out.
‘Hi, I’m Grace, do you need any help?’ I sing, but I stop as soon as I set eyes on this fella. Except he’s not a fella; he’s far too exotic to be called that. He’s a man, and not just any man, but a man who’s obviously been made in Italy, Spain or somewhere hot like that. And as if that isn’t enough, he looks ludicrously wealthy. I can tell by his shoes.
‘Oh, ’ello, Grace, Ricardo. Or Richard eef you want. My mother call me Richard. She was Eeenglish, and ’er last name was Burton. She call me Richard Burton after ze actor. She love eem.’
He holds a hand out in my direction and I take it. Normally, I would make some joke regarding Richard Burton’s alcoholic, philandering ways, but I can’t jest with this man for so many reasons. He sounds like Antonio Banderas, for a start, and then there’s the fact that he’s as tanned as Peter Andre, but with more of a six o’clock shadow. Also, he’s not too tall. His head is much closer to mine than the majority of the men I meet when vertical. We’re still holding hands and I’m gazing at him.
‘Yeaas, I need ’elp. I need an apartment. Beautiful, like a – what the word – penthouse, for myself. But I also want a house – comfortable for …’
‘For a lady?’ I say and instantly feel like a hussy. It’s the accent.
‘No, no.’ He laughs shyly. He’s got a dimple in his chin. Oh, dimple in chin joy. ‘No, for my mother and my seeester.’
For his mother and sister! Oh, bless him!
‘Fantastic, follow me inside and I’ll ask you a few questions.’
‘I am beesy now, but I am free later. Possible I take you to deeener? I only ’av tonight before I fly back to Roma. But I free tonight …’
‘Did you say Roma?’
He nods. I sigh. Roma is Rome. I’ve been to Rome. My best ever day happened in Rome.
‘Um.’ It’s not completely out of the ordinary. I’ve had lunches with clients to discuss properties, so I could have supper with him. Although I haven’t had complete confidence in my dinner performances since the liver incident. However, I think that was because I hadn’t eaten for ages. I find myself less likely to vomit when I eat little and often. But what if we walk into a restaurant and the chef is frying liver or kidney? Oh dear, hot saliva is starting to flow just thinking about it. But he did say Rome, and Rome is my favourite place in the whole world. ‘Um, er, well, yes. Good idea. Tonight, seven-thirty at The Paradise.’ I write the address and time on the back of a business card.
I’ve chosen a local institution, a big old gastro pub large enough for the frying of liver not to make me gag.
‘Paradise. I meeet you in Paradise,’ he says.
I don’t say anything; I just watch him walk away. I’m thinking about Rome. I’d give anything to have another day like the one I had in Rome.
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