Unlike a Virgin

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  We sit on the sofa and I take the first bite of my roast chicken sandwich.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I exclaim. ‘Chicken sandwich heaven.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Anton, biting into his.

  I sit and eat half my sandwich, exploring the lounge with my eyes. It’s such a comfortable room. I cast my eyes over all the photos, then I inch myself forwards on the sofa to get a good vantage point. I might be here a little while as I’m going to do my usual bookshelf search and there are lots of books to canvass.

  ‘Gracie Flowers, what are you doing?’ Anton asks.

  ‘I’m just checking out your bookshelf.’

  ‘Are you the bookshelf police?’

  ‘Actually, I am. I’m chief of the … Oh. My. Goodness.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh. My. Goodness.’

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Is that … ? That’s not … ? It’s not The Five Year Plan, is it?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Guilty. That book made me buy this pub.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted my own gastro pub, so I bought the book, wrote my plan, followed the tasks and bought the pub.’

  ‘It made me buy my maisonette,’ I whisper.

  I stare at him, willing him to say, ‘How strange, your plan and my plan brought us together. It must be fate.’ I wait but he doesn’t say anything. He just sits and eats his sandwich. People never say what you want them to say, do they?

  I take the book from the shelf.

  ‘It’s a bit dog-eared.’

  I hold the book with the cover away from me and walk towards Anton. I hold it out for him to see and he gives me a puzzled smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Read the cover.’

  ‘Why? The Five Year Plan: Making the Most of Your Life.’

  ‘No, but who’s it by?’

  ‘Camille Flowers.’

  ‘Keep reading.’

  ‘Camille Flowers, with Rosemary and Grace Flowers.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Grace Flowers. But … you’re Grace Flowers. Gracie Flowers.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You wrote this book?’

  ‘Yes, well, no. My dad wrote most of it. It was on his computer, and when we died, my mum and I put it together for the publishers.’

  ‘Grace Flowers. I’ve known you all this time and it never occurred to me.’

  ‘Why would it?’

  ‘Because you look like him.’

  ‘My mum always says that.’

  ‘I met your dad once.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I was going to do a photo shoot with him for Vanity Fair.’

  ‘Oh, the Vanity Fair shoot.’

  ‘But obviously it didn’t happen.’

  ‘No.’

  The Vanity Fair shoot didn’t happen because my father died a few weeks before it was supposed to take place.

  ‘Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘I met him before, though. We took some test shots.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. I have them upstairs if you’d like to look at them.’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  The amazing chicken sandwich is eclipsed. We leave our half-empty plates and walk up the next flight of stairs. I can hear Wendy and Freddie talking behind the closed door.

  I follow Anton into his bedroom and breathe in its calm. He slides one of the huge fitted cupboards open. It’s deeper than I would have thought. One set of floor-to-ceiling shelves holds vinyl records, another books and the other holds boxes, each labelled with a year on the side. He pulls down the box marked 2001: the year my dad died. He puts the box on the bed and deftly fingers through cardboard sleeves until he pulls one out. Then he puts the box on the floor and sits on the bed. I sit next to him.

  ‘We got on very well, your dad and I. I was in the States when he passed away and I felt as though I’d just made a new friend and then lost him straight away. I only found out after the funeral or I would have come back for it.’

  ‘I sang “Mr Bojangles” at his funeral,’ I say quietly. ‘It was his favourite song.’

  Anton opens the cardboard sleeve to reveal a contact sheet – one large sheet of photographic paper with twenty-four miniature pictures on it – and there is my dad. My dad, ten years ago. My dad, as I remember him. He’s dancing in a room at Pineapple Studios, wearing his jeans and his Ramones T-shirt. Dad always made dancing look so free and easy. He’s spinning in some of the photos and leaping in others, and there are close-ups of his laughing face. The pictures capture him perfectly. Often, when I look at photos of Dad, they don’t look like the father I remember; he just looks like a dancer caught in a move. But these really show him; the man I love and remember. They’ve caught his charm and the twinkle in his eye.

  I scroll down the tiny thumbnail pictures, wishing they were bigger.

  ‘We can enlarge whatever you want. These are yours now, Grace.’

  ‘I like them being here.’

  I can’t take my eyes off the pictures I’m holding.

  ‘Whatever you prefer.’

  ‘He looks so alive,’ I whisper. My dad was so vibrant. He completely inhabited each moment and when you were with him you did, too. He gave me so many wonderful moments.

  ‘We had a great afternoon.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, it was quite deep.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, he started off wanting to know all about my photography and how it all started.’

  I smile. That’s so my dad: he loved to get to the bottom of people, to find out what they did and what they loved. He loved people and their stories.

  ‘So I told him about my days on the road, and that led to quite a big discussion about music. He really knew his music. And then I told him I’d always taken photos, and one day I plucked up the courage to show them to some people who knew about photography. That paid off and led me on the route to becoming a photographer. We discussed how to live a true life you have to believe in every moment, and often that involves taking risks. You don’t meet many people where those conversations are possible. Conversations about life and how to live it well. He was a special man, Grace.’

  I put the contact sheet carefully back in the envelope.

  ‘I’m so glad you met him,’ I say as I hand it back to him.

  ‘Shall we go downstairs and sing?’ Anton says, standing up. ‘It’s just the two of us.’

  I stand up, too, but I shake my head, then I look into Anton’s eyes and start to unbutton my shirt. My hands are shaky. I’ve never done this before and I don’t want him to think I’m a slapper. I just want him to know that I am all his. Not just for now, but for always, if he wants. I let my shirt fall to the floor behind me. It’s so quiet. It feels as though the whole of London is holding its breath for me. I’m not sure what to do now. I’m wearing leggings. They should come off next, but that will definitely look ungainly. Perhaps I should undo his shirt? I’m so longing to touch his chest, his flesh. Or should I take off my bra? I keep my eyes fixed on his, and take another step towards him. I wonder whether I should undo the buttons on his shirt. I start to reach up towards his top button, but change my mind and take hold of his hand instead and steer him towards the bed. He lets me lead him and sits down, placing the envelope of photographs behind him on the bed. My breathing is very shallow. I don’t know where to start with this man, but I want it to be perfect. I am such a short arse that with him sitting and me standing our faces are almost level. Our eyes are still locked when I lean towards him and kiss him softly on the mouth. I close my eyes and feel my whole body literally aching to press against his. His rough chin brushes against mine. I put my hand gently to his cheek and feel his hands, big and strong on my shoulders. I am adrift. Softly his hands push me away from him.

  ‘Grace, this isn’t a good idea.’

  It takes a moment for his words to register. It certainly feels like a g
ood idea to me. He reaches to the floor, picks up my shirt and holds it out for me.

  ‘I’m a lot older than you are.’

  ‘George Clooney is about your age,’ I say, forever clearing up any doubts anyone might have about whether or not I’m a complete imbecile.

  He chuckles sadly. I can’t laugh or even smile.

  ‘My whole body is on fire for you,’ I whisper, because it’s true.

  I wrap my shirt around me and walk to the door.

  ‘Stay, please, Grace, I just don’t think it would be right to—’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I’ll see you out.’

  He follows me out of the room and lets me out of his pub, but I don’t look at him.

  Chapter 58

  ‘Oh, BB, what’s Granny in London been buying now?’ I shriek as soon as I step into the hall. ‘Jeez.’

  BB doesn’t answer and neither does mother. That’s because mother’s on her new treadmill. I can tell by the pounding, whirring sounds coming from what used to be the dining room. She’s paid off all her debts and has decided to turn it into a gym. So far we have a treadmill, a cross trainer and an exercise ball in there, and this huge package appears to be a bench press. It’s enough to make you tired.

  I open the door slowly and peak into her fitness emporium. I don’t want to give her a fright that might hurl her from a piece of moving machinery. She looks ever so sweet in her pink shorts and sports bra, with a little sweatband round her head. She waves when she sees me, and then presses a button until her moving walkway slows down.

  ‘Phew!’ she says when she’s down to a fast walking pace. ‘How are you both?’

  I smile back. I haven’t seen her since the weekend and I was worried I might have imagined our lovely closeness.

  ‘Good,’ I say, balancing my bottom on the exercise ball.

  ‘You look tired. I had trouble sleeping when I was expecting you.’

  I don’t tell her that it’s not Baby Bean who’s keeping me awake. It’s the fact that I stood before a fifty-year-old man on Sunday night in my bra, and his face as he handed me back my shirt keeps haunting me every time I close my eyes.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just got a break between viewings, so I thought I’d pop in.’

  ‘That’s nice. Grace, darling, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I just feel so guilty. Poor little Camille or Camilla. Do you think it will scar him or her, the fact that for a brief period they weren’t wanted?’

  ‘Grace, that’s ridiculous. This baby is going to be very, very loved.’

  ‘Hmm. I just feel bad.’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘But I’m so scared. I want to be a good mother, but I’m worried I’ll mess it all up.’

  ‘Grace, I’m the last person to ask.’

  ‘You were a good mother.’

  ‘No, Grace. I wasn’t. I haven’t been.’

  She was a good mother, I think. I know I adored her when I was little. When I met Wendy at secondary school, she would come and play after school and we would ask Mum if we could look at her dresses. We’d wash our hands until they were pink because we didn’t want to mark them, and I would show Wendy not just the dresses, but photos of my mum dancing in them. Mum would let us try on her jewellery sometimes, too. We’d sit down to tea bedecked in jewellery and my dad would go, ‘Cor blimey, it’s two Liz Taylors!’ Once, when Mum and Dad were performing in Blackpool, they invited Wendy, too. And Mum let us come backstage, where we watched her doing her make-up. Wendy still does her eye make-up like Mum did hers that day. I never once thought she was a bad mother when I was growing up. I knew she wasn’t keen on my singing competitions, because she’d say things like ‘Oh, not another one!’ when I told her about them, but looking back, having a child who insisted on going to places like Wolverhampton and Milton Keynes most weekends would be trying. And she did used to tell me she loved me. It’s only since Dad died that she stopped.

  ‘You were a good mother,’ I tell her.

  ‘I am pleased with my new treadmill,’ she says, changing the subject and giving it a little pony pat as she gets off.

  ‘Now, will you help me unwrap my new bench press?’

  ‘OK. How much did all this stuff cost?’

  ‘Oh, it was rather dear, but I’ll use it, so it’s worth it.’

  ‘Cool. But you are sorted now, money wise, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Because you’ll have to start paying back the loan soon.’

  ‘I know all this, Grace. I’ve bought lots of books on starting up my own business, and my wonderful new sewing machine is arriving next week.’

  ‘OK. As long as you’re cool.’

  ‘Grace.’ I can tell by her tone that she’s getting vexed. ‘It’s fine.’

  Chapter 59

  ‘Dad, thank you,’ I whisper. I went to town and bought a ballerina bunch of flowers today and laid them at his grave. They’re peonies. I can’t remember whether he liked peonies, but I do. ‘These are from me and BB. BB stands for Baby Bean, not Big Brother, by the way. Do you remember that show? It’s finished now. No, BB is your grandchild. So far you’ll be pleased to hear that BB is a very well-behaved little thing.

  Mum’s being amazing. Whatever you said to her, she’s different. Much, much stronger. Loving. Happy. I think the money has really helped, and the fact that she sorted it out herself and didn’t need me. Anyway, she’s started a dressmaking business. Good, eh? Or at least it will be when she starts actually making some dresses, instead of fannying about deciding on the company’s name. And you’re still here under the silver birch. You’re not covered in tarmac. And – I hope you’ll like this – I’m going to enter a big singing competition and be on TV. It’s called Britain Sings its Heart Out.’

  I hear Leonard and Joan approaching, so I lean forward towards the tombstone and whisper, ‘Love you.’ Then I stand. ‘Hello, you two,’ I say, spinning round. ‘I’ve got some—’ I was going to say good news, but I stop. Leonard doesn’t look right. He’s the wrong colour. Normally he has a rosy glow, but today his skin looks sky-before-rain grey.

  ‘Hello, Grace,’ Joan says with a smile that I can see takes effort.

  ‘You not feeling well, Len?’ I say, going over to take his other arm. He’s walking slowly and I can hear his breathing. He’s puffing as though he’s exhausted, but he’s only come from the car. This isn’t Leonard at all. Leonard has been known to skip from the car.

  ‘He’s had a bad week, haven’t you?’ Joan says.

  He nods as we settle him on Alfred George. We stand back and look at him.

  ‘Have you been to the doctors?’

  ‘We’ve been referred to a specialist at the hospital. His blood pressure has been going through the roof.’

  ‘Well, that’s something the specialist should be able to sort out. No?’

  ‘Two and a half weeks we have to wait till the appointment. It never used to be this bad. I don’t remember Mum having to wait so long. And Elaine in Dorset, a similar thing happened to her a few years ago and she was seen the next day! London’s not what it was. It’s the overcrowding; we’d be better served outside London. Still, we’ll be all right, won’t we, Len? He’s on some drugs to keep his blood pressure down, but just the smallest activity takes it out of him.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘See, still got it.’ He winks at me.

  ‘You certainly have. Now then, I have some good news, and as two of my favourite people in the whole world, I’d like you to be amongst the first to know. I am pregnant!’

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ whispers Joan. ‘Are you, love?’

  I nod.

  ‘Oh my. You’ll be a lovely mother.’

  ‘And I would very much like you two to be godparents!’

  ‘Oh.’

  Oh dear
. I think Len might have a tear. Oh blimey, I think I might have one, too. Regroup. Refocus.

  ‘Now then, you handsome devil, what song are you having?’

  ‘Oh. We were talking about this in the car. We’ve been watching that talent show, Britain Sings its Heart Out. Did you see it, Grace?’

  ‘No, I don’t watch it.’

  ‘Well, we think you should enter it. With your voice, Grace, you’d wipe the floor with them.’

  ‘Funny that—’ I start. I’m just about to tell them about going on Britain Sings when Joan carries on speaking over me.

  ‘There was a girl on there, pretty thing. Must be your age. She sang “Amazing Grace”. She got through to the final. She was by far the best of the bunch, but we both said, “She’s good, but she’s nothing on our Grace.” So we wanted to ask you to sing that.’

  ‘“Amazing Grace”,’ Len croaks.

  Oh, no. Oh, please, no. I would give Leonard and Joan anything – anything in the whole world – but not that. I can’t sing that song. I can’t even hear that song.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I can’t sing that. I don’t know it,’ I say quickly. ‘What about a bit of Leonard’s favourite? A Fred Astaire number.’ And before they have time to protest I start singing ‘Cheek To Cheek’.

  Chapter 60

  I’m standing outside the Carbuncle with a letter in my hand. The letter is addressed to Anton. I don’t want to give it to him, but I have to.

  Dear Anton,

  I am so, so, so incredibly sorry. Not just for embarrassing myself in your presence on Sunday, for which I am mortified. Hopefully, at some point in the future I will be able to look you in the eye again, but it might take a while. Please pretend it never happened.

  I am also sorry to tell you that I won’t be able to perform with you in the Britain Sings final. My reasons are not because of the other night. It’s because I recently learned that a woman will be singing ‘Amazing Grace’ in the final and, as you may have realised, I have an adverse reaction to that song, so I think it’s wiser all round if I decline your offer.