Unlike a Virgin

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hallelujah! I’m going to tell Claire in person,’ I say, grabbing my keys from my desk.

  ‘I’ll come, too.’

  I freeze. What if he tries to kiss me in the car? What if he thinks I’ll be doing office nooky from now on?

  ‘No, you’re all right, I’ll go.’

  ‘No, I’d like to.’

  ‘Um, but …’

  ‘Come on, stop polluting the silence with your voice.’

  ‘You should really think about getting your own lines.’

  ‘Come on, stop dithering. We should get going.’

  ‘Righto,’ I say, grabbing my keys. GAH! Shoot me now. I just said ‘Righto’!

  ‘You should really think about getting your own lines,’ he taunts proudly, following me as I power walk to the car. I get there speedily, but then have to wait for him. If he’s going to come along he’ll have to climb in my side. Eventually we belt up and I start the engine.

  He waits until we’re at the first set of traffic lights before he speaks.

  ‘You, er …’ he starts.

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ I say, pretending to concentrate on the road.

  ‘I, er …’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Grace.’ He puts his hand on my knee.

  ‘Don’t, please.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely not?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Well, it’s not a good idea. It’s a really, really bad time for me and we work together.’

  ‘I thought we were made to kiss each other.’

  I’m parked now, but I don’t look at him; I undo my seatbelt. He puts his hand on mine.

  ‘It’s a really, really bad time for me.’

  He strokes my hand and I look up, and suddenly we’re kissing again. Oh, damn! It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with my mouth, then I push him away.

  ‘See, made to kiss each other,’ he says softly.

  I have to admit that the kissing’s good, but there’s more to it all than kissing. I wouldn’t want to sing to Posh Boy. I wouldn’t want to lie in his arms all night. I wouldn’t want to wake up next to him for the rest of my life. I know that. Although the kissing is good. The kissing is really rather lovely, actually.

  ‘Let’s get back to the constant abuse and me outselling you eight to one without the snogging, OK?’

  ‘I’m not choosing to have this crush on you, Flowers, believe me! I’d much rather have a crush on someone who was nice to me. Someone who offered me the odd kind word or look. I’m not choosing to have a crush on Big Balls Woman who’s made my life a living hell since I took this job and kneed me in my own big balls.’ He sighs. ‘How about we have one night of passion to get it out of our systems.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing in my system to get rid of,’ I tell him. There’s a knock on the window on my side. It’s Claire, so I open the door.

  ‘I wondered who was in my spot, then I saw it was you two,’ she says, a tiny baby propped on her shoulder. She’s not crying, which is positive. ‘The twins are at Tumble Tots, do you want to come in for a cuppa?’

  I look at John to see if we’ve got time.

  ‘Do you have biscuits?’ he enquires formally.

  ‘Freddie the Frogs and Hungry Caterpillars.’

  ‘Sold.’

  ‘We’ve got good news,’ I say, getting out of the car.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘An offer. Asking price. This morning. Banker. No chain. He’s been renting, so should be quick.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looks so happy she might cry.

  ‘Shall I take the wee one?’ I say, holding out my arms for the baby.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  She places the tiny warm bundle into my arms.

  ‘Oh, you’re so precious,’ I whisper into the baby’s head. ‘Oh you’re so precious,’ I say again. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Two and a half months.’

  ‘Look at you, broody,’ Posh Boy says, having finally extricated himself from the car.

  ‘Grace’ll make a lovely mum,’ Claire says warmly.

  ‘I think so,’ agrees Posh Boy.

  ‘Just don’t leave it too late.’

  I don’t say anything. I just sniff the tiny baby’s head and imagine how it would feel if she was mine.

  Chapter 48

  My loan has been approved! Mum will have the money in her bank account by the end of next week. I’ve come round tonight to tell her. She doesn’t know the good news yet, but she’s already in a peculiarly good mood. I’m watching her closely. She’s making cauliflower cheese. Now in essence this is a wonderful spectacle, because I love cauliflower cheese, but my mother has never made it before. The main problem with cauliflower cheese, for my mother, has always been the cheese. My mother doesn’t encourage cheese in the house. Occasional tubs of Philadelphia Light might make an appearance once a month, and there has been one lone sighting of some feta, but Cheddar! Not on your nelly. She didn’t even make it for Danny, and she loved Danny.

  ‘Is Danny working late?’ she chirps from the cooker as though she’s been reading my mind.

  Do I tell her now? Do I risk trampling on her rarely spotted mirth? Yes, I suppose I have to. At least I have good news about the loan to chase it with.

  ‘Mum, we split up.’

  She spins round. She was always very good at turns. Her mother spotted her turns as a toddler and took her straight to dance classes.

  ‘Oh, Grace.’ Her face has fallen. ‘Oh, Grace, how are you?’

  ‘Oh.’ I hadn’t expected her concern. ‘I don’t know really.’

  ‘Do you want to talk to me about it?’ This is so odd. This is normal mother behaviour.

  ‘Um, well, I dunno. He’s moved to Canada for a job.’

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ she says. ‘Oh, Grace.’

  She places her hand on my back as I sit on the table. It’s physical contact from my mother. I close my eyes. We stand still like this, as though a painter is before us doing a mother and daughter tableau, until Mum screeches the word, ‘Bugger!’ and rushes back to the cauliflower cheese.

  ‘Ew, it’s stuck to the pan,’ she says, stirring it furiously.

  ‘Never mind, the crunchy bits are nice.’

  I’m in a daze. I’ve fantasised about having girly chats like this with my mum for a decade.

  ‘I haven’t had this for years,’ she says, peering inside the saucepan with a clenched jaw before continuing. ‘I never thought he was good enough for you.’

  ‘But you doted on Danny.’

  ‘Because he was there. He’s always been there, and that counted for something. But if I think of you, I see you with someone stronger, more creative, someone more like your dad. Mind you, I never would have thought you’d be an estate agent, Grace. I thought you’d be a singer. I thought me and your dad would have been at Ronnie Scott’s listening to you by now.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we both know why that didn’t work out.’

  ‘Do we? Anyway, I don’t want to upset you. I have some good news, which is why I wanted to cook you something nice,’ she says, wincing at the cauliflower cheese. ‘Our money troubles are over. I took some advice and borrowed some money. A loan.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s my news. I got you a loan. It was approved today.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need your loan; I got my own. I waited until it was in my bank account to tell you.’

  ‘But you have to pay loans back.’

  ‘Grace, I’m not completely stupid. I’ve been on the planet a lot longer than you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m sure I don’t need all the money I’ve borrowed. I shall pay off all the debts and I’ll still have enough to live on, and then I’ll get a job.’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Something I can do online.’

  ‘Like what?’


  ‘Don’t say it like that, Grace. I thought I could make and sell dresses on eBay.’

  ‘Well.’ I wonder what to say. I’m so used to sniping at my mother that I find myself searching for something negative to say, but actually it’s a good idea. Ricardo mentioned borrowing money against the house, that must have been what she’s done and he’s obviously very good with cash. Mum can make amazing dresses, she could do very well. Best of all, it means she doesn’t need the graveyard money. It also means I don’t need to borrow twenty grand. ‘Well done, Mum. That’s a brilliant idea.’

  ‘I thank you,’ she smiles and does a perfect curtsy.

  I smile.

  I put my hand on my tummy and look out of the window. Someone has mowed my mother’s lawn. I don’t ask her who because I’m thinking about something else entirely. If I no longer have to support my mother, could I support a child? It’s a ridiculous question to ask myself really, as I’ve got an appointment at the hospital tomorrow to organise the thingy.

  Chapter 49

  I wonder whether you can have an abortion and put it away in a box in the corner of your mind? Or does it come back to haunt you in every baby’s face you see? Wendy says that one in five women have them. Do they all feel sad? I expect so. It’s hardly laugh-a-minute stuff. You don’t hear many girls saying, ‘What are you up to today?’ ‘I’m off to Topshop. You?’ ‘Having an abortion.’ ‘Oh, wicked!’

  I’m having a scan to check my dates and so I can see it. I’m lying down on a gurney in the clinic, my tummy is covered in slime and I can see with my own eyes what’s going on in my tummy. It’s being shown on a screen next to me. There really is something there. I can see a tiny, growing, moving thing, a little him or her. I wish Dan was here, holding my hand, and that we were discussing names. Not that I’d let him have a say, Camilla for a girl, Camille for a boy, although I’d shorten it to Cam so he didn’t have the total mick taken out of him at school.

  They’ve told me to come back in a week’s time. That’s when they’ll do the procedure.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say to the Chinese-looking lady doctor.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you mind if I do something a bit weird?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘I wondered if you’d mind me singing.’

  ‘Oh no, not at all.’

  Perhaps it’s certifiable to do what I’m going to do, but I feel that even though I’m not going to have this baby, I should offer it some love. So I sing. I sing ‘Summertime’, like my dad sang to me. But when I get to the lines, ‘One of these mornings, You’re going to rise up singing,’ my voice starts to crack and I have to stop and look up at the ceiling. I don’t want to break down, not here. I so want to sing the next lines – ‘Then you’ll spread your wings and you’ll take to the sky’ – but there’s a lump in my throat and I can’t. I lay back, close my eyes and try to think of a small good thing to cling on to, but there’s nothing. I’m sure there’s something, but I can’t get beyond the fact that there’s a heartbeat inside me that could grow into a person. I could love it, laugh with it, play it music. All I’ve wanted for years is family, yet here I am destroying the opportunity. I feel as though I came here today to arrange a swift abortion, but doubt put on a boxing glove and punched me in the face. I’ve been trying so hard not to think about it. Foolish really, we all know that if you push things to the back of your mind, sooner or later they come back and bite you on the bum.

  When I open my eyes, the doctor is staring at me. Oh, dear, she might actually certify me.

  ‘Are you a singer?’ she asks.

  ‘No, I’m an estate agent on the Chamberlayne Road,’ I reply, though I don’t say it as proudly as I normally do.

  She looks disappointed.

  ‘You know what you should do?’

  ‘What?’ I ask, but I have a feeling I know what she’s about to say.

  ‘Enter Britain Sings its Heart Out.’

  See. I knew.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I say automatically, but then I stop. Suddenly I’m not sure of anything any more.

  Chapter 50

  I have had the worst week. I thought I would just be able to have the thingy and it would be easy, but it’s not. I haven’t slept for days. Every time I close my eyes I see the picture in the booklet that the God lady gave me. But that’s not all. The strangest part is that I don’t feel alone at the moment. I lie awake at night feeling that I, or we – baby and me – are a little team. I didn’t expect to feel like this. Tomorrow at 11 a.m. I go into hospital, and when I come out it will just be me again. I feel wretched. I don’t want to do it. I violently don’t want to do it. But I know that I have to. Don’t I?

  Why is it that whenever you feel really, properly dreadful, you are obliged to go to a soirée and pretend you feel fine?

  I’m at one of Bob’s ‘Wet the New Development’s Head’ parties. When he finishes a new development he always holds an opening party in the show flat for any bigwigs who’ve helped him along the way – planners, architects, local councillors and business owners, people from the local paper, that sort of thing. I come and wander around, introducing myself to people and giving out my business cards. I usually quite enjoy them, although it did take some practice. At my first one, the thought of people walking on the brand-new carpets was too much for me, so I stood at the door and made everyone show me the soles of their shoes, and then instructed them to ‘enter’, ‘wipe’ or ‘remove’ accordingly.

  This is the plushest party Bob’s hosted yet and the apartment looks luscious. An agency has done the canapés, but sadly they’re the sort that look marvellous but taste revolting. After each circle of the room, I’ve treated myself to a little rest by a barely-touched-because-they’re-truly-disgusting tray of posh mini Scotch eggs. The bite I had and spat out into a napkin was the first thing I’d eaten all day. There’s also a popup cocktail barman, who I will be visiting very shortly. Posh Boy is here. I keep catching sight of him shaking suited men’s hands and patting them on the back. He thinks he’s at the G20 summit.

  Bob looks as miserable as I feel. He’s walking towards me now and I just want to cuddle him up in bed with a box set of Friends and a bowl of chicken soup.

  ‘Hi, Bob, how you doing?’

  He tries to smile.

  ‘Oh, Grace. It’s not been good.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bob.’

  ‘Mini Scotch egg? Don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I advise.

  ‘Urgh!’ he says as he bites into it.

  ‘I tried to warn you.’

  I hand him a napkin.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been trying to get a new foreman, so I’m laying off the acquisitions for the moment, and I didn’t want to burden you with my “stuff”.’

  ‘Bob. Burden me with your stuff. Lay it on me, bro.’

  ‘Thanks, sis.’

  ‘How have things been?’

  ‘Oh, Grace, it was awful. They’d been at it for months and I didn’t have a clue.’

  ‘How are things now?’

  ‘Well, she’s left and I sacked him. I think they might be together.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nah, it’s for the best. She wasn’t the girl I thought she was. You know me, I had her down for an angel. But …’ He slumps forward and rests his head in his hands.

  I rub my hand up and down his back and say, ‘It will get better.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it will. But before she left she told me this thing, Grace, and I can’t get it out of my head.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘There’s not really much to say. She was pregnant a year ago. It was mine – or so she said – but she wasn’t happy and she got rid of it.’

  ‘Oh, Bob.’

  ‘I tell you, Grace, I can’t stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Oh, Bob.’

  ‘You know me, I’ve always wanted to have kids. And there was a child, my child – sorry, our child �
� and she did that. It’s stupid, but I just can’t get it out of my head. I went to see QPR on Saturday and they sell these babygro things there and I stood in front of them wiping my eyes. Sorry, Grace, I’m not much company.’

  I don’t speak; I just stroke his back.

  ‘I keep thinking about all the love I could have given it,’ Bob says and his voice cracks.

  I can’t offer any painkilling words.

  ‘All that love.’

  I nod. That’s all I can do. I stand there next to him, nodding and thinking of the extra heartbeat inside of me that won’t be there tomorrow.

  ‘Can I buy you dinner after?’ he offers.

  ‘Oh.’ I pause. I love Bob, but much as I want to comfort him, I can’t be a sympathetic ear tonight. I can’t hear about the baby he would have loved. ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t.’

  I should have dinner, though. I haven’t eaten a proper meal for days. God, I haven’t eaten, I haven’t slept, I haven’t taken care of myself at all. I know why. It’s because I hate myself for what I’m going to do tomorrow.

  Chapter 51

  Posh Boy finds me later, sitting on the bed in the master bedroom, draining a margarita and staring out of the window. He’s carrying two drinks: a margarita and clear-looking drink in a martini glass. He holds the margarita towards me.

  ‘You looked like you could use another.’

  I take it and place my empty glass on the bedside unit.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I sip it and wince.

  ‘Yeah, I think the barman’s taken a shine to you. He asked if this was for you, and when I said yes, he had a very free hand with the tequila.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Grace, you look like you’re contemplating suicide.’

  ‘No, just murder.’

  ‘Mine, I suppose.’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Blimey, was that a smile.’

  ‘Just a little one.’

  ‘It was a nice smile, too.’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t get too used it.’