Unlike a Virgin (28 page)

‘Hello!’ It’s Danny’s mum and she’s very out of breath. Either she’s just run across acres of their land to get to the phone, or more likely she’s been doing one of those keep-fit videos she likes to buy from the charity shop in Carnarvon. Maybe Beverley Callard’s, or Lorraine Kelly’s. Actually, I’m not sure Lorraine Kelly has a workout video. And I’m not sure I should be having these ridiculous thoughts at the moment.

‘Hello?’ she repeats.

I look at Mum. I don’t know what I’m expecting her to do. I’m on the phone and she’s over by the kettle.

‘Er, Mrs Saunders?’ I finally manage to say.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Grace.’

‘Oh.’

She could at least make an effort to sound pleased. Ten years I’ve spent picking up her son’s socks. Well, not so much picking them up, more kicking them into a pile under the bed. She said she loved me like a daughter, but now I’m cast aside like an unwanted IKEA CD rack.

‘Um, I need to get in touch with Danny about, er, something.’

‘Why’s that, love?’

‘Er, just …’

‘If it’s not urgent, Grace, then I don’t think the two of you should be contacting each other.’

‘Um, well …’

‘I know it’s hard, Grace, and you know I’m not a fan of cliché, but the two of you need to move on.’

‘It’s urgent, Mrs Saunders.’

‘Are you sure, Grace?’

‘Well, I think being pregnant with his baby is pretty urgent.’

BIG PAUSE.

‘Are you sure it’s his?’

I really, really,
really
want to say, ‘I’d only ever slept with your stinking son, Mrs Saunders,’ or, ‘Not really, Mrs Saunders, I haven’t stopped shagging randoms since you dumped me on your son’s behalf.’ But that’s not me and this isn’t
The Jeremy Kyle Show,
so I don’t. I make do with, ‘Yes.’

There’s another very long pause, so I think she must believe me.

‘Right. How are you, Grace?’

‘Oh. I’ve been quite sick and tired actually, but I feel OK today. I’m with Mum. We … I … um. Originally I wasn’t planning to, you know, what with Danny leaving, I didn’t think I could manage. But what I’m trying to say is, I was booked in at the hospital. I mean, I was booked in at the hospital to have a thingy, but I don’t want to do that. Mum’s being great and we think we can manage.’ Mum and I bust some soppy team-baby smiles at each other. ‘So, obviously Danny needs to know, but I don’t need anything from him and I’m not asking for anything from him.’

‘Right. Well. Gosh.’

Poor lady. She’s probably got a nice roast dinner planned and I’ve sabotaged it. They should go out for lunch. She shouldn’t be dealing with her Aga when her mind is on other things. That’s how accidents happen. Still, at least there are some nice pubs in the countryside. She could pop into the Boots in Carnarvon while she’s there and tell the pharmacist there’s a baby on its way for her to look after, as promised.

‘So shall I leave you to tell Danny then?’

‘Oh, er …’

‘Or you can give me his number and I’ll do it.’

‘No, no. I’ll do it.’

‘Right, bye then.’

I nearly add ‘Granny’ for a laugh.

‘Whoa,’ I say when I put down the phone.

‘Well?’ asks Mum, putting my tea in front of me on the table.

‘Poor woman. It was a bit of a shock.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Oh, er, “gosh” mainly. She definitely didn’t have an orgasm about it.’

‘Grace!’

I look down at my tummy.

‘Poor little thing,’ I say. ‘Granny in Wales isn’t as excited about you as Granny in London. Don’t you worry, though, we’ll get her back with crap smellies at Christmas and all your rubbish drawings. I can take you to stay with her when you’re teething, potty train you in their posh lounge, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, Grace,’ my mother tuts. She’s trying to admonish my
Granny-in-Wales-is-mean tirade, but it’s not working because she’s beaming and clearly thrilled about her role as nice Granny.

‘Poor, Danny. He so won’t be expecting this.’

‘At least the baby has a chance of being tall.’

‘Hello! Are you a giant child in there?’

The phone has started to ring. I stop breathing and Mum touches my shoulder.

‘That was quick.’

‘OK, Baby Bean. This might be Daddy,’ I whisper before I pick up the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Grace.’ It isn’t Baby Bean’s Daddy, it’s Granny in Wales. ‘I meant to say, Grace, that if you need anything, anything at all, you have our number and you know where we are.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll be keeping in touch.’

‘Thank you.’

We hang up and I pat Baby Bean.

‘Watch out, Granny in London, Granny in Wales is catching up!’

I gave Wendy the shock of her life when I called earlier.

‘Come to karaoke with me?’ I asked eagerly.

She didn’t reply for a long time.

‘Wendy?’

‘Is this a piss-take?’

‘Nope.’

‘Karaoke?’

‘At the Carbuncle.’

‘Wha … ?’

‘Just say you’ll come.’

‘I’ll come.’

I could tell she wasn’t expecting me to go through with it. She thought I’d cry off and we’d file the episode under ‘mental insanity’, an already bulky folder, but go through with it I did.

Although Wendy keeps looking at me as though she doesn’t quite believe I am who I say I am.

‘But,’ she says, shaking her head, ‘we’re not even sitting by the door for a quick getaway.’

‘I know.’ I smile smugly.

‘But …’

‘The thing is, Wendy. Everything makes perfect sense now.’

‘If there’s one thing you’re not making, Gracie Flowers, it’s perfect sense.’

‘Think about it. I didn’t get Head of London Sales. It felt like the end of the world, but actually, now I’m having the baby, it’s a bonus that I didn’t get the job. I’d have been on my knees with work and Danny leaving. That felt disastrous, as though I’d wasted ten years of my life, but we made a baby together. How awesome is that? Even me shagging Posh Boy led me to miss the abortion and face up to the fact that I wanted to have the baby. And Mum and I are bonding over it all. Do you see? Everything makes sense now.’

My attention drifts away from Wendy as Anton steps up onto the small stage, holding a microphone. He looks like Cary Grant tonight.

‘Willkommen,
howdy, hello. Here we are,’ Anton starts. Then stops and coughs. He looks slightly nervous; it’s very sweet. ‘Welcome,’ he says, in case we haven’t got the message. ‘Now then, there should be song sheets on every table, but if you can’t see one then there are plenty more behind the bar. I’ve marked my favourite songs with asterisks, and I must warn you, as these are my favourites and it’s my pub, I reserve the right to stop any of you if I consider what you’re doing to be a criminal act against these songs. Harsh but fair, I feel. You have been warned. Also, while I have your partially rapt attention, I would like to ask a favour of you. Many of you already know
that I have a place in the final of
Britain Sings its Heart Out,
but I’m looking for a lady to sing with. The organisers said I could still enter if I can find a new partner, so if you know of anyone, or you’re interested yourself, please grab me later. I beg you.’

Then he starts singing his first song. It’s ‘What A Wonderful World’. I sit back and smile, glad that Baby Bean is listening to this. It’s important to start his or her musical education early.

I watch Anton. Why is it that every time I see Anton, and even when I’m not near him, I imagine him undressed? Not in a crude way, but I like to picture us curled up in his big bed, naked under the covers. In my mind now we’re naked and spooning, and his hands are resting gently on my belly, cupping Baby Bean, and he’s singing this song to us.

‘Who’s next?’ he calls once the applause has died down. I raise my hand. Anton scans the room and stops short when he sees me. I try to reassure him with a smile.

‘Gracie Flowers.’

He says my name quietly, as though to himself, but he has the microphone next to his lips, so everyone hears.

I walk up to the stage. I’m not frozen with fear this time. I feel light, cheeky and confident. I want to sing a song for this baby. I want to give it music, like my dad gave music to me. I don’t want this poor child to have my hang-ups.

‘What would you like to sing?’

Now, it must be noted that Anton doesn’t sound at all light and cheeky. If truth be told he sounds petrified. I suspect he thinks I’ll flee his establishment squawking again.

‘“Summertime”.’

He sort of smiles and nods, as though to say, ‘Of course you do.’

‘I have the Sam Cooke version on backing track.’

‘Perfect. Not that I don’t like the Gershwin.’

‘Gracie Flowers, you do know your classics.’

‘My dad sang this to me when I was in the womb,’ I tell him for no other reason than that I want to tell this man everything. Every memory, every batty thought. Oh, dear God. I pray for his sake that I don’t.

I hop up on stage and take the microphone. I haven’t had a microphone in my hand for many years. It feels much heavier than it used to. Anton starts the track and steps back. I’m breathing quickly now. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see the faces of the people in the pub. I want to sing this song to my baby.

After the first verse I open my eyes and smile at the drinkers and then I carry on. When I finish, there’s quite a lot of whooping, mostly from Wendy, who’s going bonkers. I smile, do a quick bob for a curtsy and turn to give Anton back the microphone.

‘Are you crying?’ I blurt.

‘That was beautiful.’

‘Soft.’ I smile.

‘Do
Britain Sings
with me, Gracie?’ he asks.

‘OK,’ I answer.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I’ve found my partner for
Britain Sings
!’
Anton shouts, pointing at me. The pub erupts and I think of my dad. I hope he’s watching.

See! See, how it all comes good in the end.

After Danny Saunders asked me to the shit prom thing my dad gave me a talk about love.

‘Grace, my darling, I think it’s time we spoke about a crazy little thing called love,’ he said. He definitely said that, because then I did my Elvis impression. It wasn’t a great impression and when I stopped he said, ‘So, Grace Flowers, with love, as with all things, you need to think big and aim high.’

I know he said that, too. I remember it clearly, but I can’t recall the rest of the conversation in the detail I’d like. He described love for me and what it felt like, and I remember him saying, ‘You’ll know it’s love when all your songs are for him.’ I wish I had a recording of that conversation, or better still that Dad were here so I could ask him to repeat it. I haven’t thought of it for a long time, perhaps that’s why it’s gone from my mind; memories fade if you don’t use them. My songs were never for Danny. I stopped singing almost as soon as we got together and I haven’t sung for ten years. But now I want to
sing again. I want to sing for this baby. I want this child to love music like I did. I want my house to be full of songs again. But it’s not the baby that’s made me think of the ‘crazy little thing called love’ conversation. It’s Anton. I don’t even think it’s a crush I’ve got. I think I’m in love with him.

I wonder what it’s like with older people. Not the nooky mechanics – which I imagine are exactly the same – I mean asking people out. I don’t think older people get paralytically drunk and snog each other like my generation do. I doubt he did that with Fran Uma Prostitute Woman. I bet she sauntered into the pub one afternoon for a sparkling mineral water, he spotted her leading-lady looks, she clocked his fine hairy torso, he checked his breath on his hand and she smiled. Then they probably started casually chatting, and one of them mentioned a great photographic exhibition and the other one said, ‘Oh yes, I was thinking of going to that,’ and they arranged to meet there and have tea afterwards. She was probably upstairs in the Festering Carbuncle by dinnertime, demonstrating her amazing pelvic floor muscles.

It’s strange. I’m here with Wendy and Freddie and I’m involved in the conversation, nodding and saying the odd word, but all the while I know exactly where Anton is in the room and what he’s doing. Earlier he took beers to all his kitchen staff and had a toast with them, and he just caught a young man doing coke in the toilets and asked him to leave. Now he’s telling people to ‘start drinking up now, please’. Basically, I’ve spent the whole evening thinking about Anton.

Uh oh. Wendy’s crying. I reach over to place a hand on hers. If Freddie’s upset her again, I’ll twat him.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

She nods tearfully.

‘Freddie just told me this awful story about a fourteen-year-old girl who was abducted from her home and forced to become a prostitute.’