The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green

by Laura Kemp

  ‘I have been trying! I did a runner from that strap-on bird if you remember?’

  ‘Someone decent. Normal. These women you go out with, they’re just so off-the-scale. High-maintenance. Or maybe you should just give it all up for a while. Throw yourself into some kind of volunteering or something?’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ he said, which Em warmly welcomed – she loved people walking the walk rather than talking the talk.

  ‘Oh, brilliant,’ she said, patting his shoulder. ‘What sort of thing? Helping the needy? Skill-sharing? Working with deprived youngsters?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, his lips dancing.

  Em gave him a lovely big smile. At last, he’d come to his senses!

  Meanwhile…

  Frankie

  On her way to see Dad, Frankie made her mind up.

  Losing sleep over it was bad enough. But things got worse when a confidence-building exercise suggested by Letty had backfired – she’d tried to practise on a bottle of ketchup on the bathroom floor but an over-enthusiastic squeeze led to a spurt of sauce into her mouth. She had gagged and spat and screamed in a meltdown worthy of an Oscar. If she reacted like that when she was nowhere near an unmentionable, then how would she cope with a real one? Especially when he would be attending to her downstairs and she’d be worrying about her scent and not breaking wind. It was clear she couldn’t go through with the sixty-nine – or anything else which required actual sex. They hadn’t even kissed and she was expected to put his thing in her mouth. No, she thought – lucky enough to see a space in Dad’s road, which was always full of football fans’ cars on Saturdays, it was that close to Cardiff City Stadium – it was out of the question. She was going to text Floyd later to thank him for his help but she was calling it a day. He was bound to be grateful, considering she wasn’t what you’d term ‘a natural’.

  Collecting herself before she got out, she reflected on this morning’s job, doing wedding hair in the bride’s room at a country manor house near Cowbridge. Usually, she loved these appointments because it gave her exclusive access into the inner sanctum of womanhood. Sipping on a glass of fizz, she would get the flutters from the magic: elders fussing with their hats and corsages; the jittery bride cocooned by her giggling bridesmaids; and the constant knock-knock on the door from deliveries of flowers, sandwiches and gifts. So much planning went into so few hours, it felt like you were asking the impossible for it all to come together at the same time. But of course, it generally did – and even if it didn’t, the majority wouldn’t know the doves you’d wanted to be released for the photos had been replaced by white homing pigeons. At least, they hadn’t at her own wedding; that’s what she would tell brides-to-be, both to put minds at rest and to relive the happiest twenty-four hours of her life.

  But today, she’d created boho down-dos and elegant up-dos with the heaviest of hearts because of those now-tainted memories. The joy of her bridesmaids, Letty and Em, helping her get ready now felt delusional. Her bouffant dress which she knew wasn’t trendy but had been what she’d always wanted felt foolish. Dad bursting with pride when he was finally allowed into his own lounge to see ‘his princess’ felt pitiful. And as for Jason’s brimming eyes when he said his vows… now she wondered if they’d been filled with angst.

  And look how it had left her. With the hare-brained way she was trying to win him back. She now knew it was off-kilter, warped even. There had to be a better way without so much humiliation.

  Thank God for Dad. He’d give her a sausage sandwich and a pint of tea to make it all okay.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said, opening the immaculate front door of his terrace in Canton with a pencil behind his ear. ‘This is a nice surprise. Coffee? Tea? Or fairy juice?’

  He meant squash – that’s what he’d called it when she was small and obsessed with pixies and sprites and it instantly put her at ease.

  ‘Tea,’ she said, dumping her bag in the chintzy 80s wallpapered hall, which dated from before Mum’s departure. The poor man was surely hanging on to the past. ‘And I need some comfort food.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that then? Funny enough, I’ve got my Saturday sizzlers on. In the grill though, apparently healthier. Bloody killjoys that people are. But there you go. S’cuse the dusty clothes, I’ve been measuring up. Thinking of doing some renovations. Possibly.’

  Into the kitchen they went and she slumped onto her elbows as he buttered four slices of own-brand white bread.

  ‘I just feel so hopeless. Helpless. I miss Jason so much, Dad.’ She didn’t need to say any more because she knew he understood about losing the love of your life.

  ‘That’s natural, love. Oh, shavings!’

  He opened the back door which led to the garden to let in some air because he’d burned the bangers. A plate landed before her and after a squirt of ketchup she tucked in.

  ‘Did you feel like this when Mum left?’

  ‘Of course,’ he shrugged as he patted the brown sauce. She noticed he’d given himself the charred bits, the sweetie. ‘Change is unsettling. But you get used to your new circumstances, eventually. This’ll be good for you. You won’t see it now, love. But you will.’

  ‘Yep, I guess,’ she said, not feeling it but thinking if Dad could get through it then she could too. She’d always wondered how Mum could’ve deserted him: he was the loveliest, gentlest man on the planet. He’d been the one who’d been ‘mum’, her mother being unable to show her love beyond a quick peck at bedtime. But with Dad, he was as warm as a faithful dog. He still was, in spite of being rejected.

  Her phone buzzed with two messages, they must’ve been sent when she was out of range earlier.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, rolling her eyes at Dad. ‘Oh god, you’ll never guess. She’s asking on behalf of Aunty Sandra if she can have the wedding present money back! She’s a bit short, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, Sandra!’ Dad said, tutting. ‘Your mother’s sister was always tight.’

  ‘What I can’t get over is that they’ve obviously spoken and agreed my marriage is over. It’s just so undermining.’

  But then Mum never quite got social niceties or nuances or normal things. Like, when Frankie was a kid when she had to go to her marina show home every other weekend, she wasn’t allowed to touch anything; ‘fun’ was being dragged round antique shops, and she was expected to eat curry.

  ‘Then, get this, she wants me to go round and do her an ombre. I despair, I really do.’

  ‘Well, she wants to see you, love, that’s just her way.’ Hmm, Dad was too charitable. Mum only ever got in touch when she wanted something. She had never called her just to say ‘hi’ or to tell her she loved her. It was the same when she would ring the house after she’d gone. Brief, contained conversations about school, and then the pause before she hung up, as if she had wanted to say something meaningful but could never bring herself to say it.

  Frankie huffed then went on to the next message.

  ‘It’s Jason! He’s sorry for not texting earlier, work’s been mad busy. Everyone wants scaffolding up for their summer renovations.’

  As much as she wanted to be wary of him, she lapped up his excuse. It was true that this time of year was full-on. And still, even when he’d been putting up scaffolding, it was clear she had been on his mind.

  ‘And oh God, he wants to come round to see me. Is that good or bad? Like, is he going to hand me divorce papers or is he going to ask to come back?’

  Quickly, she ran through her options. If he was going to end it properly she had to make sure she looked so gorgeous he’d rethink. But if it was about the possibility of getting back together, then she’d have to keep going with her sex education so that when he came back to her, she’d never be boring in bed ever again.

  Dad, though, was calm in the face of panic.

  ‘The one thing I know, love,’ he said, ‘it’s pointless prejudging anyone or anything. I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait and see.’

  Then he c
ollected their plates, plopped them into the beige plastic washing up bowl, ran the taps and began to whistle as he looked out onto the concrete side-return of next door’s house.

  Oh. It wasn’t quite the reaction she’d hoped to have from him. It made her feel a bit flat. But then, he would be cautious, seeing as he’d never opened his heart up to anyone again.

  Monday

  Em

  Em felt fantastic. She was so excited about being back, she’d practically run to work.

  Even better, she was first in of the managerial staff. It meant she could thank her colleagues for their concern over her health but wave it away as old news, seeing as she’d been in since 6 a.m.

  Besides, she wasn’t ill – just pregnant. The nausea had suddenly gone and her energy levels were back to normal, which she put to good use making sure the store was clean, safe and stocked for 7 a.m. when the doors opened.

  Getting everything ready for curtains up always seemed an impossible task. Night-shift shelf-stackers were flagging, cardboard boxes littered the floor and there was a rush on to unload three 40-foot trailers of groceries, which amounted to between 80-90 pallets. But somehow, it got done – just as the Great British Bake-Off contestants managed to deliver a final tweak when the timer went off, the butchers, bakers and fishmongers would have their wares laid out as the first customer entered the shop. After that, she’d given a talk to the new recruits who were being till-trained about the supermarket ethos called Helping Hands. Help those who looked like they needed it, but never badger those who didn’t.

  Now, she was sat at her desk, scaling the wall of emails which had built up in her absence. Four hundred and ninety-seven in eight days, most of which were corporate announcements, queries and union notices, plus a few messages about the baby.

  HR had sent through a wad of documents about maternity leave, which she flagged and filed to read tonight. She had decided to tell the HR manager about the baby earlier than she was compelled to by law. The rules said you didn’t have to say anything until fifteen weeks before your due date but Em wanted to be up front – and it wouldn’t be long until she would be literally up front too. It meant they could plan her cover – and it would help her chances of promotion if she could demonstrate that she thought strategically.

  Sly poked her face round the door. ‘Darling, managerial meeting in ten minutes, just to remind you,’ she said. ‘And no bloody fainting this time.’

  Em laughed and nodded. She couldn’t wait to get stuck in. ‘Anything I’ve missed?’ she asked, wanting a heads-up just in case.

  ‘Mr R has just this second notified head office of his decision to take early retirement,’ Sly said, winking. ‘You better dust off your CV because HR will want to get this sorted ASAP, what with Christmas starting in September here.’

  Em did a quick analysis: however much they’d appreciate her heads-up of her pregnancy, she didn’t want to be busting at the seams at her interview. The sooner the better meant she could make her case without a bump as a physical barrier because people made assumptions about appearances. Her waist had thickened, yes, and her boobs had grown a cup size already, but she hoped she’d be one of those women who didn’t show too early. And she was due in February, so she would be there for the build-up to Christmas and through the season, which was the busiest time of year.

  ‘Perfect, thank you,’ Em said, giving her a thumbs up. ‘I’ll be there in five.’

  She sat back and put her hands behind her head, determined to beat Simon Brown to that promotion not with underhand tactics but graft and good ideas. Maybe, just maybe, she could almost have it all. The job, the baby, the house. Not the man, obviously, but three out of four wasn’t bad. During her time off, she’d squared the circle in her head; she would be doing it herself. It wasn’t ideal, far from it, but lots of people managed it, so why couldn’t she? What with Floyd flapping around her by insisting she didn’t lift anything ‘in her condition’ and Frankie and Letty talking babygros and cots, Em was entirely grateful to know she wouldn’t be going into it alone. Yes, she’d have to be mum and dad, but Floyd would be around, as well as her two best friends.

  She checked her watch, seven minutes to go, she had time to do a bit more deleting, so she refreshed her email. Simon Brown’s name appeared at the top. Her eyes widened and her heart leapt at the sight – then she felt afraid. What did he want? The subject line made her gulp: it said ‘stuff’, which could mean anything. She desperately wanted it to be work-related because personal things would only make her think again and she’d done enough of that. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she wondered if she should save it until after the meeting. But what if it was to do with Mr Roberts’ announcement? News travelled fast and she needed to be in the know if Simon Brown had any inside knowledge that he was sharing. She had to read it.

  Hi Em, how are you? I’m good, busy here at the branch but I’m doing all the bits and pieces you taught me!

  Get on with it, she thought, what do you want?

  I’m not sure if this is the right forum to discuss this but I didn’t want to put you on the spot in a phone call.

  He knew her so well, she thought, which made her feel warm – then flushed because it just emphasized how right they would’ve been together.

  What was coming? What was he going to say? Oh, don’t even think of asking me for interview tips, she thought.

  I might be way off here, and I sincerely apologize if I’m wrong, but I’ve done some calculations and I’m wondering if we need to talk.

  Em shut her eyes. She didn’t want to read on. She’d dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and put everything away very neatly into a box. But when she read his next sentence, the box flew open.

  Is the baby mine?

  Em reeled, stood up, sat back down again and re-read his note. She sat there, biting her lip, realizing she was an idiot, thinking she could iron out life’s creases. She was going to have to tell him the truth.

  She rubbed her eyes and sighed, feeling dread at the prospect of all the mess. He would support her, of course he would, Simon Brown was the most responsible human being she’d ever met. But to hear him tell her he’d be there for the baby but not her was going to be like slow torture. They’d be connected forever through this child and she would have to watch him make a life for himself with someone else, and it was going to hurt her every time she handed the baby over. There’d be split Christmases and birthdays and awkward parents’ evenings, and what if he got married and their child was a bridesmaid or a page boy? It was unbearable and— Shit. It was a minute past eleven, she realized, leaping up from her chair and running down the corridor. She was late. She was never late. And she wondered if this was how it was going to be from now on, chasing the pack, on the back foot and forever behind?

  Tuesday Night

  Frankie

  Once again, Frankie was standing in a pile of clothes, trying to work out what to wear.

  In the days leading up to tonight and Jason’s visit, she’d spent hours poring over her situation with Letty, who had impressed upon her the need for dignity, whether it was a dumping situation or not.

  ‘Play it cool, let him do the talking, and do not cry. Not until he’s gone,’ she’d said, ‘because running mascara is a bit of a bunny-boiler look and that’s not cool.’

  The bottom line was this: Frankie needed to blow Jason’s socks off.

  The first layer was easy; her pink lacy Wonderbra and matching pants gave her something to hold onto, a sort of brace to keep her upright. There was also the fact he was a boobs man. But did she go for tight top and mini shorts? No, too obvious and too much like her mother. One of her summer dresses? That was the ‘old’ her – and she wanted to present an up-to-date version of herself which said she was all new and improved. So she found her cerise polka dot playsuit which she normally wore on the beach, but what the hell, her legs and shoulders were tanned from the weather, and it showed off her new slimline body. A bit of lip gloss, a fluff of her p
re-curled hair and she actually looked pretty good. When she stroked him, Leonardo gave her a purr of approval – it was as close as she’d get to a thumbs up.

  Downstairs, she set up a few props to show she hadn’t spent the entire day obsessing about Jason’s visit. The plates stacked in the drainer showed she wasn’t the fuss-pot who’d insisted they had to be immediately dried and put away, and the pile of long-haul holiday brochures she’d picked up at lunchtime screamed a more adventurous spirit.

  It was all designed to tell Jason she was no longer that girl who arranged the cushions every night before bed. She was more spontaneous, more self-assured and less bothered by playing house. Which, actually, when she’d finished and surveyed her work, was a tiny bit true: she was less Kate Middleton since they’d last come face to face. The door went and she blew out of her cheeks to calm herself – this was it.

  Frankie told herself to act blasé – Letty’s orders. But, oh my, that was easier said than done when she saw him. All the familiar traits were there – the same beautiful big brown eyes, the deliciously dark pinprick mole above his even deep red lips and the slow flutter of his thick eyelashes every time he blinked, which she knew so well. But they seemed sweeter and more intense. His hair had grown and was streaked from the sun. Her mind then wandered to the girl on the beach – was his fresh look a result of her? No, she soothed herself, he was always like this in the summer. Working outdoors gave him faint crinkles around his eyes and bulging arms which stood out so keenly against his white T-shirt. He was beautiful, completely and utterly breathtakingly handsome.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, smiling shyly, not moving from the doorstep, ‘it’s great to see you, Tink.’ She felt sixteen again, wanting to cross her eyes and make a fainting joke to Letty and Em, just as she had when she told them he’d asked her out. Her senses were going wild but she had to sit on them.