Unlike a Virgin (22 page)

‘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.’

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.

As I daydream a lady approaches me. She’s small and hunched and she’s fishing something out of her bag.

‘Do you need help?’ I ask her.

‘We all need help.’

‘True.’

‘The Lord’s help.’

Oh, Jesus. God people are always after me.

‘I need to get back to work. Nice to meet you.’

‘Will you take the good news,’ she says, holding a tiny booklet out towards me.

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking it with a smile, then she scurries away. I flick through it and it sticks open on a page. I peer at it. It’s a picture of a pink baby curled up in a womb. Tiny fingers, tiny toes and a tiny ear. The baby looks as though it’s sucking its thumb. My baby might suck its thumb. I did when I was little.

The caption below the picture says just three words: ‘Life not death.’

My best ever day was in Rome. It was magical. So much so I sometimes wonder if it actually happened to me. It feels as if the young woman in my memory was someone else entirely. I was fifteen and I’d travelled there with Mum and Dad because the World Ballroom Dancing Championships were being held there. I didn’t normally go with them, but this time was different. I was given time off school and everything because I’d been asked to sing. The organisers wanted me to sing at the prize-giving ceremony. So I did. I sang ‘Mr Bojangles’. But I wasn’t alone; my dad sang with me.

I try not to hark back to when he was alive too often, but sometimes I can’t help it. It often feels as though my life was in colour when he was here, but turned to black and white after his death. He didn’t really sing much of the song, it was mainly me, but he acted Mr Bojangles. Mr Bojangles is an old soft-shoe dancer who travelled around dancing with his dog for drinks and tips. My dad sang in some bits and danced in
others, while I sang the whole song. I wasn’t nervous. We sang ‘Mr Bojangles’ for fun at home. I was really excited and Mum made me a dress. God, it was beautiful, like something Sophia Loren or Marilyn Monroe would have worn. It was blue satin with a bodice top and it was fitted over my hips to my knees, causing me to walk like I was in a beanbag race, but it looked wonderful when I stood still. After we sang, the audience clapped and we bowed – but they didn’t stop clapping. There were over two thousand people in the auditorium and they just wouldn’t stop clapping. I walked, well, wiggled off stage, but the clapping still continued, so I had to go back out and bow again. The organisers said that we performed for five minutes and they clapped for seven. That wasn’t even the best bit, though. The best bit happened later.

Our hotel was in a piazza, surrounded by ancient buildings, and that night there was a band playing, consisting of a guitarist, a double bassist and a man who played the accordion. Me, Mum and Dad sat in a café in the piazza listening to the band after the award ceremony. We drank Prosecco and danced in our chairs. Suddenly Dad ran up to the band and told them I was a singer and they invited me to join them. I sang with them for hours and they made lots of money that night and wanted to share it with me. I didn’t want the money, though, I just felt so happy to be doing something I loved and that other people enjoyed too. Everyone was smiling. When I remember that day, that’s what I see: smiling faces. I was so excited about becoming a singer. When I went to bed that night I daydreamed that if I didn’t win the Sony contract singing competition I’d come back to
Rome and sing with this band in this square for the rest of my life.

Ricardo is smiling at me. He’s been smiling at me all night. The memory of Rome is so lovely that I’ve been managing to smile back, even though we’re sitting at the table Danny and I used to call ‘our table’. Danny and I used to come to The Paradise a lot when I still lived at home with Mum. Pretty much once a week he’d treat me to dinner here and we liked this table. Me, because it was near the fairy lights; him, because he said it was easy to get the bar guy’s attention when he wanted another pint; both of us, because it was away from the crowds and suitable for snogging.

‘We ’av a saying in Etaly. You no do two theengs at the same time, or you get sheet on your shoes,’ Ricardo said when I sat down. Whatever it means made absolutely no sense to me, but it’s his reason for refusing to talk business until we’ve finished eating.

As a result, he knows far more about me than any other client I’ve ever had. I even told him about the brutal Danny dumping. An elementary error, as since he’s learned that piece of information he keeps touching my leg or arm every time he speaks to me.

‘So, are you from London?’ he says, stroking my shoulder.

‘Yes, I grew up round here actually.’

‘And your family. They live here steel.’

‘Er, well, yes. But it’s only my mum.’

‘Ah, ees she beautiful, like you?’

Perv. But he’s put his knife and fork together, so at last I can be an estate agent again.

‘She’s far more beautiful than me,’ I say quickly, and I
wriggle free from his embrace to get out my A4 notebook and start getting down to business. ‘Now, let me ask you a few questions about what you’re looking for?’

‘Grace, I need a house and an apartment. I want them to be beautiful. I have no budget. That ees all you need to know.’