‘Cheese and red wine, a lady after my own heart. Coming up,’ says Anton, striding off.
Wendy’s eyes are fixed on Freddie at the bar, while mine follow Anton into the kitchen, watching how he smiles and greets each of the chefs in turn.
‘He’s such a magic man,’ I mutter to myself.
‘You what?’ shrieks Wendy.
‘Anton. He’s such a nice man. Everything’s all right when he’s around.’
‘My future father-in-law. And here comes my future husband.’ She gazes dreamily at Freddie.
‘They’ve called last orders, the sods.’
‘No way,’ say Wendy and I in unison.
‘How did it get so late?’ I ask.
‘Nah, it’s all right. We’ll get a drink, but we’ll have to go upstairs. Is that OK?’
Wendy smiles. Actually, she beams. In fact, I’m a bit worried she might literally beam herself up, Scotty.
‘Follow me,’ he says, and we both get up.
‘Dad!’ Freddie shouts to Anton. ‘They’ve called last orders, so we’re going up.’
‘Just coming,’ Anton replies.
We walk behind the bar and through a door.
‘Cool.’ Wendy giggles.
It is. It’s cool o’clock! I’ve always wanted to see what the upstairs of the pub looks like. Downstairs is decorated simply and rustically, leaving the old Victorian fireplaces and corniced ceiling to speak for themselves. It’s a beautiful building on the outside, so you get the feeling that the two floors above the pub will be amazing, too. Or could be, if they’d been looked after. We walk up a narrow rickety staircase and through a door.
‘Oh, wow!’ Wendy whispers. ‘Nice pad.’
I don’t say anything. I just smile to myself. It’s a huge open-plan space. There’s a long wooden table surrounded by chairs on one side of the room, while the other side is taken up by big brown leather sofas. It’s the same simple style as the pub below, only cosier. On one wall there’s an assortment of photos, all in different frames, and on another there’s a huge floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Wendy walks over to look at the photos and I walk towards the bookshelves to see if I can spot The Five Year Plan. I know, I’m ridiculous.
‘Oh, is that you, Freddie? That chubby little baby,’ Wendy coos.
Freddie joins Wendy at the pictures and I watch them, open-mouthed. Wendy has just uttered a sentence with all the words in the right order in Freddie’s presence. I need to give them some space. I step away from the books and head towards the kitchen. This is a great space. I’m such an estate agent. Deep kitchen units sit on one wall and there’s a proper coffee maker and big copper pots. I imagine myself sitting at the table, chatting and drinking wine while Anton cooks me coq au vin. There’s even a healthy-looking plant on the table. I must remember to water my plants when I go home.
‘Freddie, are your bedrooms upstairs?’
‘Yeah, yeah, they are.’
‘Can I have a look? Sorry, estate agent urge. It’s just such a lovely home.’
‘Go for your life,’ he says with a big smile.
I walk back to the rickety staircase and climb up the remaining stairs, which creak beneath my feet. I pass slowly along a corridor lined with three closed doors. I peek in the first one, which looks like Freddie’s room as it contains shelf upon shelf of law books, a big unmade bed and a double wardrobe with lots of shirts hanging in it.
I open the next door to find a bathroom, but it’s not just any bathroom, it’s huge for a start, and serious money has been spent on it. There’s a big free-standing bath in the middle of the room, his and hers sinks, with a vintage mirror hanging above them, and a proper power shower that’s so large you could probably break dance in it if you got the urge. It’s exactly how I would like my bathroom to be if money was no object.
I open the last door to find a big square room that must be Anton’s bedroom. I feel as if I shouldn’t be in there, but I don’t want to leave. A very large bed with a wood and leather headboard, white sheets and duvet sits in the middle of the room, and there are cupboards all along one side, although they’re closed. There are only three pictures on the wall. One is a huge framed picture of a pretty young woman. It’s a grainy blown-up photograph with an orange tinge that makes me think it was taken in the seventies. The other is a painting of the colour red. Literally. Different shades of red and orange and a bit of purple. But the third picture is the one I gave him. He’s hung it on his wall already.
My bottom starts to vibrate as my mobile phone rings. I take it out of my jeans pocket. It’s 11.23 p.m. and my mum is calling.
‘Mum, are you all right?’
‘Oh, Grace, I had to tell you. I went to bed and as I started to doze off, there was your dad again. He spoke to me and he was very firm about it, he said, “Grace has to sing.”’
‘Oh,’ I say sadly. I was on a bit of a high this afternoon, thinking Mum and I had broken some ice during our conversation today. Silly really, Mum’s mum and this is what she’s like. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You go to sleep, Mum. Love you.’
‘Night night, Grace. And sing, like your dad said, sing.’
I put my phone back in my pocket and sigh. What does she expect me to do, break into song suddenly now? Maybe I should see if I can get a doctor round to see Mum. Maybe she’s really ill. God, I wish I had a brother or sister. I lie down on Anton’s bed. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve had a lot of wine so I lean back on the pillows. He buys expensive pillows, not like me. Mine are like sleeping on a bag of satsumas. I turn onto my side and breathe in Anton’s smell from the pillow.
‘Grace, I …’ It’s Anton and he stops when he sees me curled up on his bed sniffing his pillow.
I sit up quickly.
‘Sorry, sorry, it was … It just looked so comfy.’
He stands there all smiling and unfazed. I would clobber someone who snooped round my home and got into my bed.
‘I didn’t like to say in front of Freddie and Wendy, but the picture you gave me: it’s beautiful, quite the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.’
‘It’s bordering on the wet,’ I say, getting off the bed.
‘I don’t think that at all. And anyway, what’s wrong with a bit of wet? All the best songs that have ever been written are a bit wet.’
I smile. He’s right, of course.
‘Now then, the cheese and wine is on the table downstairs, but I’ve also rigged up the karaoke. I wondered if we could have a bit of a sing-song while Wendy flirts with my son.’
I stare at him and I can feel my heart pounding.
Grace, are you OK?’
‘I don’t sing,’ I whisper.
‘Oh? I thought you must have trained as a singer?’
‘You what?’
‘When we were singing in the car … your voice … it’s …’
‘You what?’
‘When you sang in the car …’
‘What car?’
‘The Simon & Garfunkel.’
‘I didn’t sing.’
‘Yes, you did. We sang two songs together.’
‘I sang.’
‘Yes, don’t you remember?’
‘I didn’t know I was doing it.’ I haven’t sang anywhere except the graveyard since the summer Dad died.
‘Your voice. It’s. It’s …’
‘Like a heavy smoking black man?’ I scoff.
‘Gracie Flowers,’ he sounds very serious all of a sudden. ‘You have one of … if not the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Grace.’ He takes my hand and clasps it in his own. It feels so lovely to have my hand in his that I get a stirring in my tummy and this strange sensation that I want to kiss this man who must be twice my age, here in his bedroom, and that it would be lovely. ‘I’ve spent most of my life around musicians. What you’ve got is rare.’ He releases my hand and the urge to kiss him disappears, like a bubble quickly burst. ‘I haven’t been
able to stop thinking about how you sang that night. I wish I’d known I lived over the road from Dusty Springfield … I could have auditioned for Britain Sings its Heart Out with you.’
‘Did you audition for Britain Sings its Heart Out?’
‘I did. I’m going to be on the first of the televised heats,’ he says bashfully. ‘With a lady friend of mine, I couldn’t do it alone.’
‘Oh, well done. That’s great.’ I smile.
I hate Britain Sings. Not that I’ve ever seen it, for much the same reason that I don’t listen to the radio, but I know it’s a huge live singing contest that the whole country goes potty for once a year. It started just before my dad died. People used to suggest I go on it, but there was no way on earth I would. For years my mum used to go on about me entering it. It was ridiculous, my mother, who hated me doing singing competitions when I was a child and who saw me have a breakdown at a singing competition, passionately trying to convince me to enter. It must be due to start again soon. It’s fairly obvious when a new series of Britain Sings starts because that’s all people and the newspapers go on about for months. There are loads of heats and then all the finalists have to sing live one Saturday, and from what I can gather from the papers, the winner goes on to release a couple of terrible cover versions before retiring to the Butlin’s circuit. I suppose I shouldn’t knock it, I well wanted to be a Butlin’s entertainer when I was younger.
‘So, will you come downstairs and sing with me?’ Anton says, holding out his hand.
And although I want to take his hand again, I stop myself. ‘No thank you, Anton, I don’t want to sing.’
‘Oh.’ He seems taken aback. ‘Just cheese and biscuits then?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
Chapter 26
‘Oh, Wend,’ I groan. ‘Oh, Wend. Oh, oh, o-o-h, Wend.’
‘Shuddup,’ she mumbles into the pillow.
‘Oh, oh, o-o-h, oh, Wend, I need you to get up and get me water … please.’
‘Grace?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Shuddup!’
‘Or Coca Cola, or apple juice or, or do you know what I’d really like? An Irn-Bru. Oh, o-o-h, I’d commit unspeakable acts for an Irn-Bru. And an apple juice. With ice.’
‘Gracie. Is this what you do to Danny on a Sunday morning?’
‘But … but, you don’t understand, my head. I had red wine after white wine and then whisky. Oh, oh, oh-o-o-o-o-o-oh … the pain.’
‘Oh, bloody buggering hell.’ She sits up.
‘Oh, Wend …’
‘Will you quit this whinging!’
‘Oh, but something really bad happened.’
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
‘Oh, shhhh. We had a great evening. We all sang, except you, of course. But even you wanted to, I could tell. I snogged my future husband for the first time. Well, we kissed on the lips without tongues, but it’s a bloody good start. What’s the problemo?’
‘I had another.’
‘Oh, Grace, speak in, like, words I can understand. Another what?’ She suddenly gasps. ‘Huh! Oh my God, another dirty dream.’
‘Yep.’
‘Oh my God, about Posh Boy?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus, who was this one about?’
‘Anton.’
‘Urgh! ANTON! You with my future father-in-law. And I was in the bed with you at the time. Urgh! Gracie Flowers, I feel sullied.’
‘O-o-o-oh, I’m a sexual deviant,’ I moan.
‘Grace, there’s someone at your door.’
‘I can’t go. I can never see anyone again or I’m liable to lust after them in my sleep.’
‘Shall I go? Who will it be?’
‘No idea.’
‘I’ll go down and see who it is.’
‘Juice, juice,’ I squeak as she leaves the room.
Twenty seconds later, she comes thundering up the stairs.
‘It’s your wet dream!’
‘John?’
‘No, Anton! For God’s sake, Grace, keep up. I saw him through the window.’
‘Oh, hang about,’ I say, finally opening my eyes. ‘Did we pay for dinner last night?’
‘No. Oh, shittit. I can’t remember. No. No, we didn’t. Whose card did we leave behind the bar?’
‘Mine. Oh, I have to get up. Help me.’ I proffer a limp hand to Wendy, who hauls me from the bed.
‘Whoa. Oh-oh, Wend, I don’t feel very well,’ I whimper, clinging onto her for support.
‘Don’t vom on me, Flowers,’ she says, pushing me away gently. I stagger down the stairs in my pyjamas.
‘Hello,’ I mew when I open the door.
‘Sore head?’ Anton asks kindly. He’s dressed and clean and looks all fresh. Oh dear, I think I’m blushing: the dream is coming back to me. I squint at him.
‘Hmm,’ I squeak.
‘Gracie, my love, do you mind signing your card here?’ he hands me a plate of bacon sandwiches, with my debit card and a pen sitting on top.
‘Thank you.’ I start to feel tearful. It’s a bacon sandwich, Gracie, hold it together. I give him a shaky signature that looks nothing like mine. ‘Anton?’
‘Gracie.’
I stop for a second. The sight of his hairy chest poking out from the top of his shirt is distracting me. I was running my fingers through that hair last night in my dream. My hands were all over him last night. Oh no. Oh dear.
‘Anton.’ My mouth is so dry. ‘Do you think I could possibly give you everything I own for an apple juice?’
He chuckles.
‘Come with me,’ he offers me his arm.
I look down at my feet. I’m not wearing any shoes and stepping outside my door barefoot is treacherous, what with the glass shop and all.
‘Here,’ he says, and he lifts me up as though he’s just rescued me from a fire. He does it so gently and so easily that I could be slim. Wow!
‘Would you mind carrying me around all day?’ I say, bobbing across the road in his arms.
‘It would be my pleasure.’
He pushes open the doors to his pub and lays me on the sofa by the fire.
‘One revitalising apple juice coming up,’ he says, chuckling again.
‘Anton?’
‘My lady.’
‘I don’t want you to think I’m high maintenance or anything, but do you think I could have some ice, too?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Ice, ice, baby,’ I say, because I’m a pillock.
‘Stay there, Keith Moon will look after you. I’m popping downstairs to the ice machine.’
I hear Keith Moon’s dog energy enter the room, all paws and sniffs.
‘Hello, my friend,’ I say to his pretty face as he hops on the sofa and lies next to me. I’m sure he’s not allowed on the leather sofa, but I haven’t got the strength for doggy discipline.
‘Dad!’ It’s Freddie voice.
‘Hello!’ I call to him. ‘He’s getting some ice.’
‘Oh right. Grace, can I ask you something?’
He stands next to me and looks down. He’s up and dressed as well. All these active people are tiring me out.
‘Hmm,’ I muster.
‘Well, I know it’s a bit forward.’ He’s whispering now and he’s crouched down next to me. Ooh, this is promising, he’s going to ask me something about Wendy.
I smile.
‘Can I take you out for a meal one night?’
I stare at him. I’m confused so I have a double-chin-frown face on. I wait for him to say, ‘Sorry, I mean Wendy,’ but he doesn’t, and he really should. My double-chin frown gets bigger.
‘But I’m going out with Dan,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ he says, seemingly confused by this fact, even though he’s known about it ever since he met me. ‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Right, ice for the reluctant songstress.’ Anton’s back.
‘Anton, thank you very much, all my worldly possessions are now yours,’ I say, getting o
ff the sofa and walking to the bar for my juice and bacon sandwiches. I nod and smile at Anton and Keith Moon while Freddie gets just a nod, then I head for the door.
‘See you later for karaoke,’ calls Anton, but I don’t think I’ll be going to that, thank you very much.
Chapter 27
‘Good morning, Lube,’ I say seriously. ‘Gracie, you twat, you said Lube! Come on, sort it out. This is serious. You promised your mum you’d get her twenty grand. It starts here.’
I look at my reflection and try to arrange my features into what I hope is the expression of a cool, calm and collected businesswoman who deserves a morbidly obese pay rise.
‘Ken, do you have time for a word?’
I shake my head. It’s wrong. It’s too weak.
‘Ken, can I have a word?’ I shake my head again. That sounds too flippant.
‘Ken, I need a word.’ Whoa! I shake my head really hard this time. That sounds far too hardcore.’ I think for a moment.
‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you.’ Now we’re talking. ‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you,’ I repeat. ‘That’s it! That’s brilliant.’
I’m knocked off my stride, though, by the sight of my breasts. I’m wearing my non-crease pink blouse. It’s normally very prim, but today it’s all gone a bit Carry On as I’m bursting out of it. I’m due on any second, so my boobs are massive and painful, but if I do up my normal shirt button there’s a gap between the top two buttons where you can clearly see boobage. I don’t know whether to keep it done up and hunch forward a bit to minimise it, or just undo the top button for a bit of cleavage. Is cleavage a good idea when asking for a pay rise? I don’t know. There was no mention of boobs in the Guardian article about asking for a pay rise that Wendy emailed me.
‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you. I’ve been thinking …’ See, the problem with doing this is that I’ve known Ken for years and he’ll say, ‘Ooh, that must have hurt. Put the kettle on will you, Grace, while I just borrow your computer to check the football scores.’ I need to drive it through. Deep breath. ‘Ken, I’d like to discuss something with you. I understand that you’ve employed that Posh Twat.’ Grace! ‘I understand that you’ve employed John Twatface.’ Grace! ‘John Righto Whatsit Rah Rah, My Boxster’s Parked on a Red Route, Rah.’ Grace, behave. Regroup, refocus. ‘I understand that you’ve employed John and that he’s Estate Agent of the Year, which if you ask me is a major travesty to the profession.’ Grace! ‘I think you know that I was hoping for the Head of London Sales job myself. I bring a lot to this company, in terms of time and money. No other negotiator at Make A Move brings in even half as much as me in a month, as you well know. So as a goodwill gesture to encourage me to stay here, and so that I don’t feel my hard work might be more appreciated elsewhere …’
Unlike a Virgin Page 11
