The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green

by Laura Kemp

  She pulled up her top, regretting the adventurous neckline which made her now feel exposed. Thank goodness for her comfy pants and bra, which held her in nicely. Scratchy undies might look nice but they weren’t soft enough, which was was why she had stuck to the same style for the last ten years. When you’d found a formula that worked, you stuck with it.

  But in here it felt a bit dangerous. This was the problem with going along with Letty’s daring ideas. Not that she meant any harm; she was incredibly loyal, just a bit overwhelming at times. At least Em was here, the sensible buffer to Letty’s boisterousness. Frankie pitched in somewhere in the middle – it had always been like this.

  They’d met in their first week at secondary school when Em and Letty moved into Frankie’s neck of the woods. Floyd and Em had arrived from London for their dad’s work while Letty’s mum had left the Rhondda for a new start after Letty’s dad had gone out to buy some milk and never come back. Frankie, who had been split up from her primary school mates, didn’t know anyone in her class. So the three of them had bonded immediately when they discovered they all had distinctive names.

  She was Francesca because her mum thought it was classy, while her dad liked it for being the female form of his favourite singer, Frank Sinatra. Em was Emerald Good-Fellow, thanks to her hippy parents, who were in their crystals phase when she was born, and among the first to double-barrel their surnames for equality reasons. Then there was Letitia Cox, christened after her Spanish granny but called Titty – amongst other things – by the boys. Poor love. How they’d wished they’d fitted in like all the other Rebeccas, Samanthas and Rachels. From that beginning, the threesome had loved one another fiercely. And Frankie had no idea how she would’ve coped if she hadn’t had them over the last two months post-Jason.

  There had been the initial deep depression at finding herself alone for the first time in her life. That meant a few days moping in her pyjamas at Dad’s, where he’d let her talk and howl, all the while trying to get her to eat. She’d been so low she’d even accepted an invite to stay over at Mum’s, which she had spent her childhood trying to avoid: her mum tried to help but couldn’t quite keep it up. After five minutes of being allowed to analyse the breakdown of her marriage, she’d been told to ‘shush now’ because Corrie was on.

  There were sudden bouts of crying when flashbacks of happier times hit her at the checkout or the wheel of the car, and one infamous night when Em held her hair back as she was crouched over the loo after too much to drink indoors.

  Then anger struck, when she’d bagged up his belongings and cleared the cupboards of his cereal and mugs. A brief stint of numbness too, when she’d cut hair on autopilot, deflecting sympathy with a wave of her scissors. Now, she was living with it; the ‘acceptance’ phase, the magazines called it, which meant her grief was less raw. Yet she still held onto the belief that she could win Jason back. He just needed time, she was convinced of it. One day they’d look back and see it as a blip. They still spoke or texted every day or so. Did he ring out of guilt? Partly, she suspected, but they loved each other. And he always picked up, no matter what time she called him or what insult she’d slung at him in the last call. He was also still her husband – in dark moments she wondered for how much longer – and fundamentally a kind man too. Even though he was sleeping on his brother’s sofa, he still paid half the mortgage. It kept the hope alive. Only this afternoon she’d replayed her dream of him coming back to her, saying he’d made a mistake and ‘could they start again?’ Where and how they would begin, she still didn’t know. But she would make it work, it was all she wanted.

  After much soul-searching, she realized she had had her head in the sand; that was undeniable, otherwise she would’ve seen the break-up coming. Frankie couldn’t be someone she wasn’t. And she’d never want to be. Yet she conceded, at the age of thirty, she needed to loosen up and live a little. That Jason hadn’t been talking entire rubbish and maybe she should’ve tried to make things more interesting. Which was why she’d agreed to taste something with eight arms – or were they legs?

  ‘Look, babes, I understand, you’re a bit scared,’ Letitia said, warmly. ‘But you need to come out of your shell.’

  ‘I like my shell,’ Em said, staring matter-of-factly through green eyes. She nodded to confirm it, making her poker-straight red bob swing until it fell quickly back into precise place.

  ‘This is about Frankie, remember, not you,’ Letty said, wagging a red-nailed finger at their friend.

  Frankie didn’t want this to be about her at all, so she changed the subject and asked how they both were.

  ‘Busy. Tired. Annoyed with Floyd,’ Em said, referring to her big brother to whom she had offered her spare room for the night, after his landlord had sold his flat. That had been six months ago. ‘He’s lovely but he’s noisy and messy and he still acts like he’s fourteen.’

  Frankie nodded sympathetically, knowing how larger than life, six-foot-enormous Floyd could be. She could imagine Em accusing him of making her neat flat look untidy just because of the way his limbs sprawled when he sat down. And he’d fill the place with his personality too.

  ‘The other day,’ Em continued, ‘for no reason whatsoever, he tucked two mangoes in his vest and announced he was “a lady”. He’s thirty-four, for goodness sake.’

  Letty stifled a laugh which Em ignored, looking downcast. ‘Work is mental too.’

  Ah, that was the real reason for her peaky pallor. It meant so much to her. Of the three of them, she was the career woman. If they’d been in Sex And The City, Letty would’ve been Samantha because she was sex-mad and she worked at a glitzy public relations company, Em was Miranda the lawyer (minus the girlfriend), and she was sensible Charlotte. With no fourth gang member, Frankie had considered christening her sleek black psychic black cat Carrie courtesy of her white paws, which she imagined to be Jimmy Choos. Until she turned out to be a he. So it was Leonardo di Catprio instead after her favourite actor.

  ‘It’s this weather,’ Em said, now animated. ‘Did you know, a rise of just four degrees from twenty to twenty-four Celsius means sales of burgers increases by forty-two per cent? Make that ten degrees, as is forecast this weekend, and you’re looking at three hundred per cent more barbecue meat and fifty per cent more coleslaw. It’s not just getting the supplies, which everyone is fighting over, it’s finding the space too.’

  ‘Well, I never knew that!’ Frankie said, in awe of her friend’s important role. Frankie’s idea of an emergency was her hairdryer breaking down. Which actually wouldn’t ever happen because she was capable enough to have a spare. Two, actually.

  ‘And it’s all to be done in this heat. It’s making me feel ill.’ Em was too pale to enjoy anything beyond spring and autumn.

  ‘What about Simon? Have you seen him lately?’ Frankie said gingerly; it was always a gamble asking about Em’s private life. But she wanted her to know she was interested and ready to listen, to show she wanted to pay back her friends’ support and relationship talk wasn’t taboo. After all, he was the only bloke Em had mentioned in forever.

  ‘No,’ Em said in a clipped voice. ‘No Simon Brown news.’ She always referred to him using his full name, it was one of her quirks and it was charmingly old-fashioned.

  Then she went silent. But she was fidgeting with her hair, double-checking the top button of her white crisp shirt was done up, and the slightest flush of pink came to her cheeks. Frankie ached for her – it could only mean she was still besotted. Yet she didn’t dare point it out – she’d been the one who’d ‘had it all’ but look how much of a fantasy that had been.

  Frankie waited until Letty had finished ordering more wine – and flirting with the waiter – then turned the spotlight on her. She always had something, or more accurately someone, happening in her life. ‘What about you and that Aussie, the personal trainer? Or have you moved on?’

  ‘Come to your senses more like,’ Em tutted, referring to the awful fact he was in a relationship
and had a young kid.

  Frankie prayed she’d stop there. Both her and Em had made known their disapproval, there was no need to drag it up again. Letty shifted in her seat for a second. Frankie knew she felt terrible about it. But did she feel terrible enough to have called it off?

  Letty, who spoke like a bottle of shaken up Coca-Cola, launched in. ‘It’s just sex. And yes, I know I said it wouldn’t happen again but I’m only killing time before I meet someone. There’s nothing in it. Just keeping the motor running.’

  Em arched a cynical eyebrow.

  ‘Honest to God, I mean it!’ Letty said, defensively, but with vulnerable eyes. ‘Why does no one take me seriously?’

  ‘We do, we do,’ Frankie said, knowing that this was Letty’s greatest insecurity. In work and in love, Letty yearned to be seen as more than a pair of boobs – admittedly, she did have great ones. But she’d been treated badly by blokes and had never had the break to become an account executive at the public relations company where she was secretary, so it was a raw nerve.

  ‘Give me some credit, I’m hardly going to fall for a man called Lance Boddy, am I? A man who named his gym The Boddy Shop! I mean, how naff is that?’ she said, laughing, throwing her hands in the air like a flamenco dancer. The trouble was, Letty had form. ‘I could fall into a bucket of naked men who had ‘boyfriend material’ stamped on their heads and I’d still come up sucking my own thumb,’ Letty had said the last time she’d been dumped, that time, by a model. She just didn’t like run-of-the-mill guys. But why did that mean they treated her so badly when she was so fabulous? It was all very unfair.

  ‘Twenty-first-century fitness is about being lean and smart. But he makes it sound like he’s a rescue centre for old bangers!’

  Just like that, Letty covered up what she considered to be a show of weakness with humour. It was how she dealt with things. Underneath, Frankie knew that Letty was just like her and Em, wanting her own special someone.

  Then two pairs of eyes flicked towards Frankie. It was her turn. ‘Right, well, I’m not bad, you know. Jase came round to collect some stuff the other day, that was awful. But lovely too, just to see him,’ she said, feeling her chin wobble. She paused. It was no use, she couldn’t keep it in. ‘I still want him back, I still love him,’ she admitted, crumbling, feeling a relief at letting it out. ‘Like, I miss him every day, so badly. The bed is too big without him. I feel like I’m rattling around the house. My heart jumps every time I get a text or the phone calls. I see shadows of him everywhere.’

  Letty got up to give her a cwtch, the Welsh word she used for a cuddle.

  Em went into problem-solving mode, as ever. ‘You need a project,’ she said. This was classic Em – hand her a situation and she would try to fix it. ‘Something to keep you busy. Distracted. You can’t waste your time wondering what will be because it might never happen. Get on with things, that’s the only way. Talking of which, I’m starving. I’m going to start.’

  Bless Em, but she could be so blunt and it only made Frankie feel worse. Letty clocked her despair. ‘There’s nothing wrong with keeping the faith,’ she said kindly. Thank goodness for Letty’s soft side. ‘But I also agree with Em,’ she added, making Frankie groan.

  ‘Distraction is good at a time like this. And I know just the thing – going on the rebound can work wonders.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that sort of distraction,’ Em said, stopping to frown, before she carried on loading her plate. ‘I meant exercise or an evening class or something. Not the kind you do with your PT.’

  ‘But it could make Jason see sense, you know, make him jealous, and if it doesn’t then at least Frankie is getting some practice after what he said,’ Letty added.

  ‘I am here, you know,’ Frankie coughed, feeling a sting from the mention of Jason’s boring-in-bed comment. It had been a serious blow to her confidence.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, babes,’ Letty said, with genuine concern, ‘We didn’t mean to make you feel bad… Now, are you going to try some of this octopus?’

  ‘In a sec,’ Frankie said, hesitating.

  ‘Well, let me just take a shot of it first. I’ll put it on Instagram, I will,’ Letty said. ‘Bit of a crop and a filter... and there... boom. It’s on my feed.’

  Frankie didn’t get why people shared photos of avocados and sunsets but she guessed in Letty’s circumstances it helped her to see the positives when she was struggling to find any. Then, no more time-wasting, it was over to Frankie.

  She took a breath to prepare for her Bushtucker Trial. Unfortunately, Ant and Dec were nowhere to be seen to save her.

  As Frankie raised her fork, Em launched in with one of her ‘interesting facts’. ‘Did you know reproduction is a cause of death in octopuses and males can only live a few months after mating?’

  That was it. With her stomach churning, Frankie’s hand dropped to the table with a clunk. Playing it safe seemed far more tempting right now than living a little.

  Wednesday

  Em

  The next one-hundred-and-twenty seconds are going to determine the rest of my life, Em thought.

  As she sat on the toilet seat behind a locked door during her morning tea-break, she could hear echoes of footsteps marching past the ladies’. It was usually her clip-clopping purposefully on her way to human resources, the canteen or the manager’s office. Instead, due to an act utterly out of character, she could soon be waddling her way down the corridor. And then, worse, barefoot and stranded at home.

  Once more, it took her breath away when she thought about that night. After hiding her feelings for five weeks, six days, twenty one hours and twelve minutes, she’d finally been able to let her head clock off and her heart start the night shift. His shy smile, his delicious lips, his considerate question: if she was really sure? The fact he didn’t laugh when her name badge poked into his chest. How they melted into bed yet she felt as if she was flying a slow-motion loop-the-loop.

  She didn’t believe in magic but that was the word that kept coming to her as she recalled Simon Brown’s touch. Looking back, it had all seemed so inevitable and – now she could admit it – it had felt like that in the build-up too. Yet hadn’t she always said fate was nonsense and that free will and hard work got you through life?

  It had been the most frustrating and bewildering thing that had ever happened to her, she thought, as the digital numbers on her watch counted upwards. She and Simon Brown had instantly clicked, something that very rarely happened to her. She knew she was geeky – her brother Floyd had nicked all the touchy-feely genes and she’d been left with a better understanding of details and numbers than of people. That’s why she’d been so surprised by their friendship. Simon Brown had come from his small store in Bristol, where he was assistant manager, to her mammoth one for a six-week secondment shadowing her. It meant they were together every day, including breaks, when he would ask questions and listen to her answers. They occasionally touched, her guiding him with an arm to look at something in the warehouse or him reaching out to ask for an explanation about stock control. Each time she felt an electricity race through her, as if she was being rebooted. But she told herself ‘stop right there’ when she began to yearn for more. It was unprofessional. And he wouldn’t see her as anything more than a colleague, she was sure of it.

  Yet he was different – men in his position were usually cocky know-it-alls, round here they said blokes like that ‘thought they were chocolate’. But Simon Brown respected her. At his leaving do, he said as much in his speech.

  Then as easily as he took off his tie and rolled it neatly to fit into his pocket on the walk across the industrial park to TGI Friday’s, he’d told her he’d really enjoyed working with her – in fact, what he meant was he’d really enjoyed it and… After that it all fell into place, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They found a booth and spoke all night, oblivious to the party people leaving as soon as they’d realized there would be no raucous piss-up. She’d asked if he wante
d a nightcap at hers – a Scottish whisky from her Highlands hike last year, which turned out to be his favourite Scotch. Sexual encounters had been few and far between for Em – she wouldn’t sleep with just anyone. Not that she was given the option. There had only been two others before Simon Brown: one from school, the other someone at university. But sleeping with him had been a revelation, a wonderful one, because it was sex on a different level. Physical had met mental.

  Then, the morning after, came the excuses. Again, remembering it as she perched on a white plastic toilet seat, Em felt her heart respond to the hurt – the pain of having fallen for someone who didn’t feel the same. And her insides lurched when she considered how things were supposed to be. She’d decided long ago she would get married, have two children, a boy and a girl, with eighteen months between them, unless she was lucky enough to have twins. But when Simon Brown walked away, he took her hope with him. She’d clicked and dragged the file marked ‘life plan’ into the trash can.

  Seeking calm, she looked at the floor tiles between her polished court shoes; the sight of straight lines and right angles usually soothed her. But not today. She was so desperate not to be pregnant in this situation that she apologized to any god who might be up there for being an atheist. If he or she could possibly help her out, she’d definitely reconsider religion.

  Returning to her default strategy, she rationalized her situation. Statistically, she was very unlikely to be expecting. She’d Googled it last night and a study on unprotected sex suggested the chances of it leading to pregnancy between a young couple on any random day was five per cent. And having taken the morning after pill, the probability was reduced to almost nothing. Her aching boobs were not a definitive sign because she always had that at her time of the month.