Unlike a Virgin

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Don’t ask me to say it again.’

  ‘Oh, did you have a whatsit. Abortion. I thought you might.’

  ‘No, I had a miscarriage, last night.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ he says and he leaves his chips alone for the first time in our exchange. ‘Well.’ He sighs. ‘It’s probably for the best, isn’t it?’

  I don’t answer.

  Another sigh. ‘Listen, I’ll be off, Grace. I don’t think you want me here. I mean, I’ll stay for a while if you want me to. Do you?’

  ‘No. Just go, Dan.’

  Chapter 69

  ‘Hey, Mildred,’ I say, stepping on her, but then I stop suddenly and peer down at the gravestone. ‘Have you been scrubbed?’

  I walk into Mum’s house. I’ve had twenty-four hours on my own, but I feel so empty I think it might be better to have someone there. Wendy offered, but actually I’d prefer to be here with Mum. I hope she doesn’t mind.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ I call, but then I stop again. ‘Whoa! What did you do with all the stuff that was in the hall?’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ my mum says, walking out of the kitchen and closing the door behind her.

  ‘What the …?’ I’m speechless. I hold my arms out wide and slowly spin 360 degrees. ‘Where’s all the stuff gone?’

  ‘I had a bit of a tidy.’

  ‘A bit! Even demolition clearance would have called that a big job.’

  ‘How are you feeling, love?’ She walks towards me and strokes my arm.

  ‘Sad.’

  She nods as though she knows.

  ‘Can we drink gin?’ I ask, leading her into the kitchen. ‘Ah!’ I cry as I open the kitchen door.

  The evil SJS Construction man is sitting at Mum’s kitchen table. I blink at the scene. He’s wearing a pressed shirt and she’s laid out biscuits on a plate. They’re proper biscuits, luxury, chunky cookie-type things that look well over a hundred calories each. The only biscuits I’ve ever seen in this house are Jaffa Cakes, because they’re only forty-six calories each. And the biscuits are on a plate! The few times we’ve had Jaffa Cakes they’ve always been fished straight out of the packet. Never on a plate. I can’t take it all in. A teapot stands next to the plate of biscuits. I didn’t even know we had a teapot. We’re a dunk-in-the-bag household, always have been. All this suggests that this is an arranged tea.

  He stands.

  ‘Grace, a pleasure.’ He holds out a big, rough hand. ‘I’m John, I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself properly.’ I think about Len in the hospital and Dad’s grave and I shake my head at his hand. Then I leave the room and walk upstairs. I want my childhood diary. I want to read about a time when I was happy, because I’m certainly not happy now. I find it in my bedside cupboard and take it downstairs, I’m passing the kitchen on the way to the front door, when I hear SJS Construction man say, ‘He sounded Italian to you? So we have a smooth-talking Italian man in expensive shoes and two thugs, but nothing more.’

  I hover in the hallway for a moment, wondering whether or not to leave. Then I decide to quickly poke my head round the kitchen door and ask them what they’re talking about.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Grace,’ SJS man says, standing up again when he sees me. ‘I was trying to see if I could get a handle on this loan shark your mother had dealings with.’

  ‘I was just telling John that he looked a bit like that chap off the telly.’ She tuts. ‘What’s his name?’ She giggles like a girl. She’s got the hots for SJS Construction man. I’m sure of it. ‘Oh, you know, um, er, ooh,’ she whitters and blushes. See! She’s lost it completely in his presence. ‘He looked like the one Jordan got together with on that jungle programme. He looked like him.’

  I feel my eyes getting wider and wider as mum’s words sink in.

  ‘An Italian man who looks like Peter Andre?’

  ‘Peter Andre! Thank you, Grace.’ My mum giggles again in Evil John’s direction. But he’s looking at me now. He’s noticed something in my expression.

  ‘Do you think you’ve come into contact with him?’ he asks.

  I stand still in the doorway and put my hands over my face.

  ‘What was his name?’ I gasp behind my hands.

  ‘Laurence,’ my mum says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I’d thought it was my Italian client, Ricardo, for a moment then. I thought I’d led the swindler right to my mother’s door. At least that’s one disaster I wasn’t personally responsible for.

  ‘Laurence Olivier he was called. His mother was British and she loved the actor apparently.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘His mum loved Laurence Olivier, so he was named after him. You remember him? Old actor?’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’

  ‘Grace, what’s the matter?’

  ‘He’s my client. He told me he was called Ricardo – or Richard – Burton because his mum loved the actor. He was charming. Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Did you tell him to offer me a loan?’

  ‘No, but I … God, I told him you had money troubles.’

  ‘Oh, Grace. Why on earth … ?’

  ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry! John, when you came to see Mum about the graveyard situation, she was upset when you left and she called me. But Richard – Olivier whatever-he’s-called – was with me. I was helping him find some bloody house for his mother and his “seester”. Anyway, on the way to the viewing I dropped in here, and I left him in the car as I ran in to see Mum. When I got back in the car, I was really flustered and I spoke to him about it. He asked me how much the house was worth and stuff. Oh, God!’

  ‘Oh, Grace, it’s not your fault. I took the loan because I was too pathetic to walk half a mile to the bank. That’s what’s done it.’

  ‘Rosemary, don’t blame yourself. You have kept this house together all on your own,’ he says, touching her on the shoulder. And she smiles and suddenly I remember the mysterious fresh flowers and the mown lawn and my mother dressing sexily, and I seriously wonder whether something is going on between them.

  ‘Oh, God, but he took me out for dinner. I told him much more than I ever usually tell people, and all because he was from Rome.’

  ‘Where did you have dinner?’

  ‘At The Paradise.’

  ‘Did he pay? This is a long shot, but did he pay by credit card by any chance?’

  ‘Um, I can’t remember. Yes. YES! He did and he seemed freaked out by it, actually.’

  ‘Right, Grace, perhaps you could come with me. They should have the credit card receipt. And perhaps he gave you a telephone number?’

  ‘Funnily enough, he didn’t, and he’s completely disappeared since. I’ve been cursing myself for that.’

  ‘Don’t curse yourself, these people are pros. Right, Grace, take me to Paradise. Oh good grief,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  My mother, of course, thinks this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ John says, and he bows his head, takes my mum’s hand and kisses it.

  My mother giggles for too long and then fiddles with her hair.

  Chapter 70

  I just can’t make sense of it at all. I would have loved that baby so much. Why did it have to happen? Why? That’s all I seem to be asking myself at the moment. Why? Why? Why? There’s an ache inside of me that knows the answer: You didn’t want the child at first, it says. You didn’t deserve it.

  I need something good to cling to, but they’re thin on the ground at the moment. All I can think of is that The Paradise had a credit card receipt of Ricardo’s. That will have to do for the time being.

  ‘Grace,’ Wendy calls from her desk. ‘Can I have a word?’

  It’s just the two of us.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say, staring sadly at the computer screen.

  ‘Um, it’s quite important,’ says Wendy.

  ‘Wha—?’ I look up and Wendy’s face looks worried.

  ‘Oh, no. What have
I done?’ I ask anxiously.

  ‘Nothing. Why do you say that?’

  ‘I feel like a walking curse at the moment. I just thought I might have ruined your life in someway accidentally.’

  ‘Grace. No. You make my life better. That’s why this it’s so hard.’

  ‘Oh my God, Anton’s getting married.’

  ‘No! Are you still pining for Anton?’

  ‘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: anton@carbunkle.co.uk. 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.

  Chapter 71

  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 an
d 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.

  Chapter 72

  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.