by Laura Kemp
‘It is completely shit loving someone when they’re having time out. I’ve had this for a year now and I know we weren’t married, like you, and that’s far worse, but I just wanted you to know I know how it is. A bit of solidarity.’
Wow, breaking news – she never knew he was nursing a broken heart. In fact, he acted the total opposite. ‘But I thought you were young, free and single?’ she said.
‘I am. Sort of. Remember Sasha?’ he said, stretching his arms out to toast the treats.
‘Who can forget her?’ Frankie said, recalling the stunning six-foot photographer who could’ve been modelling on the other side of the camera.
‘Total love of my life,’ he said, blowing out a flaming marshmallow. ‘Best two years ever. Then, you know, when I proposed she said she wasn’t ready and she wanted to “find herself’” travelling. She told me to ask her again to marry me when she came back but she’d understand if I didn’t wait for her. I’ve tried not to. But there’s no one like her, and never will be.’
‘Oh, Floyd,’ she said, ‘I just assumed it was water under the bridge. You hide it well.’
‘I can’t keep going on about it, can I?’ he said, turning to Frankie with a shrug. ‘Em has no idea, she was pretty cut up too when she went because they were like sisters.’
Frankie felt really sorry for him – in all likelihood, Sasha was gone, not just as in miles away. But couldn’t the same be said for Jason? Floyd deserved sympathy, not some scathing wake-up call. ‘Hey, I’m the same with Jason. It still feels wrong. People might think we settled down too young and they do the whole ‘there’s so much out there’ lecture but when you meet the right person, you just know.’
‘Yep,’ he said, sighing, then missing his mouth so the marshmallow stained his beard and one of his silly hi-top trainers a gooey white. ‘What a pair of losers we are.’
‘But you’re a very nice loser,’ she said, laughing easily at his funny ways and from too much alcohol.
‘And so are you, Frankie,’ he said, pulling her in for a cuddle. Out of nowhere, his touch gave her a shiver. It had been so long since she’d had any contact with a bloke. But there was no denying they had a special relationship, seeing as she was one of his sister’s closest friends. And once upon a time, before Jason, she had fancied him in a best friend’s big brother kind of way. They’d come close to a snog once, at Debbie Yates’ fifteenth in the village hall, but Em had caught them and stuck her fingers down her throat to show her disapproval. She wondered if he remembered. Probably not, he’d had so many such moments. But if you’d had as few as her then you didn’t forget.
‘I just want him back,’ she said, pulling away, and peering up at the stars. ‘You know, he’s still in contact. We speak regularly and I know he still cares about me. It’s as if he needs to get something out of his system.’
‘Well, that’s pretty normal,’ Floyd said. ‘Even though it hurts, I can see why Sasha wanted to get out of here too. I’d done all that in my gap year. And it must be the same for Jase.’
Maybe it was the drink or maybe it was because Floyd was such a good listener, but before she knew what she was doing, Frankie was pouring her heart out. For ages.
‘What you need is some fun,’ he concluded after a while, ‘to take your mind off things.’
‘I’m not very good at fun,’ she said, the words catching in her throat as Leonardo wound round her legs, seeking a stroke.
‘Oh, come on,’ he said, picking up the cat and tickling him under the chin. Frankie was amazed the cat had allowed him to touch him – Jason had to only walk in the room and Leonardo would hiss at him. ‘This party has been brilliant and… well… um…’
‘See? And tonight’s not exactly been what you’d call “banging”, has it? I’m just so dull. I’m trying to fight it but I have to face it. I’m of no interest to anyone.’
Floyd’s eyebrows shot up. Leonardo shot off. He’d seen a moth by a candle. Unless it was an excuse because he’d sensed what was coming.
‘What?’ she asked, defensively, genuinely wondering how he could assert otherwise.
‘If you’re so dull,’ he said, with a smile on his lips, ‘why have you written “The sex education of Frankie Green” on your wall?’
She gasped – she’d forgotten to rub it off. Everyone must have seen it, going in and out for drinks from the fridge. ‘I think I’m going to die,’ she said, covering her face with her hands. Then she did her best to explain and quickly. It was all just a silly joke.
‘Yeah, course. It is a pretty left-field self-improvement plan. And why would you need sex ed? You’re married – not a virgin.’
Frankie grimaced then.
‘Oh, bollocks. Don’t tell me you’re a virgin. Please don’t tell me you’re a virgin. Though it’s absolutely fine, I cast no judgement.’
‘I might as well be,’ Frankie said, staring into the fire. She was beyond caring because nothing could ever be as embarrassing as the knowledge that people had read her sign on the chalkboard.
‘What? Don’t you do it on a trapeze three times a night like everyone else?’ Floyd said with a straight face.
Frankie sighed. His kindness was a small consolation when it was now public knowledge she was crap in bed. Losing Jason was bad enough, but now she felt exposed. She began talking then, not to Floyd but into the darkness, about her broken self-esteem, her fear of change and her angst if she ever dared to try sex again. Soothed by her out-pouring, she finished with a shrug and told Floyd, ‘So that’s that.’
‘Oh, come on, don’t be sad,’ he said, lightly punching her arm. ‘You won’t always feel like this, time is a great healer. And sex is subjective, you know, there’s no industry Kitemark or qualification to say whether you’re good or bad. Although, obviously, I do have a PhD in Loving, so I’m told,’ he said, mocking himself. ‘Relationship sex can suffer if there are other things going on too, it isn’t a separate entity, it’s an indicator of loads of things. And like anything else in life, you aren’t born forever useless – you can learn.’
‘Do you think?’ Frankie asked, looking up into his eyes, desperate to believe she wasn’t destined to be miserable without Jason for the rest of her days.
‘Yes, of course! Maybe you do need a teacher. God, that’d be a great job!’ Floyd said, snickering at his own joke and launching into a stand-up routine. ‘Imagine that, applying for it. “Dear madam, I wish to apply for the position of lots of positions”…’ he said, clearly enjoying himself.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘… “I am very experienced, with many happy clients who can provide references—”’
‘Floyd—’ she said, feeling fed up now.
‘“Testimonials include ‘what a whopper!’ and ‘very hands on’. I am very giving, offer complete confidentiality and a nice hug after—”’
‘Seriously, Floyd,’ her voice warned, and she held up her hands to show she meant it.
‘I am serious, Frankie,’ he said, suddenly composed.
‘Sorry?’ she said, her palms frozen in mid-air.
‘Well, why not? I’m a man of the world. Not Russell Brand or anything, but I know a bit and I’m, cough, careful.’
‘Come again?’
‘Steady on, Frankie, we haven’t even got to first base yet,’ he said, pretending to look appalled.
Frankie couldn’t help it – she began laughing at the situation. He was actually offering to teach her! ‘You are hilarious!’ she said, slapping her thigh, thinking how stupid, how really, really stupid, this all was! He was a friend! A single friend. A trustworthy one. In the same boat as her, still in love with an ex, hoping they’d come back. A friend she got on really well with. And still sort of fancied. Her heart began galloping as it dawned on her that, actually, he was the most suitable candidate in the world, and what if he did help her? What if he taught her how to be an amazing lover and she could seduce Jason and… It was craziness. But she was desperate. She took a breath – and another
large gulp of wine, and then the plunge.
‘Okay, Floyd, I’m going to call your bluff, you’re on,’ she challenged, peering out of the corner of her eyes waiting for his face to fall and the panic to register, at which point she would of course back off. But Floyd’s face didn’t fall, in fact he just scratched his beard then asked about the pay. She burst out laughing. ‘I can offer biscuits, and double-biscuits on bank holidays, if that’s okay?’ she said, relieved to be able to join in with the goofiness.
‘Custard creams?’ he asked, putting his hand out to shake on the deal.
She looked at him, still not at all sure if this was just a game. Then she put her hand in his and shook, gaining confidence.
‘Does this mean I’m hired, Lord Sugar?’ he asked.
‘Er, I suppose you are!’ she said, tentatively, for the first time daring to believe this was actually going to happen. And why not, she thought to herself, bolstered by whatever Floyd had put in his ‘top secret’ cocktail. Her heart soared at the prospect of having the chance to find out just why she’d lost Jason, because if she could work that out then she could try to correct it. And therein lay her happiness. But there were so many practical issues to sort out.
‘We’d have to have some rules,’ she said primly.
‘Yep,’ he said, now serious. ‘Like Em never finding out or she’d kill us both and make one of her fancy hotpots out of our remains. Probably a sausage tagine, in my case.’
A thought struck her then – what if he was only doing it out of pity? She started to bluster, telling him he could change his mind, right now if he wanted to. ‘I just don’t know what you’ll be getting out of it, really. It’s not as though I’m any good, is it?’
‘What I’ll be getting out of it?’ he asked incredulously. ‘A young lady asks a saddo bloke to teach her how to do it. Does he a) bite her hand off, b) agree out of altruism or c) accept because he needs to get his ex out of his head? All three of the above, thank you very much.’
‘Right. Okay then,’ she said, heartened. ‘This is all so very bizarre. I think I’m in shock!’
Floyd held his glass in the air to make a toast. ‘Bottoms up?’ he said.
Dear God, she thought, I hope he isn’t expecting that.
The Next Day
Em
Em was crouched over the loo, willing herself to vomit quietly. So much for morning sickness, she thought; it was mid-afternoon.
She flushed once more, then realized that was the fourth time, and Floyd would have to be an idiot not to think something was going on.
‘Have you blocked the loo, you stinker?’ came his voice at the bathroom door.
‘Go away!’ she said through gritted teeth. She was reminded of their childhood when this sort of exchange would spark off a lecture from Mum about using fewer sheets to save the environment. He wouldn’t get a telling off, he never did, because Mum believed in freedom of expression.
She unlocked the door and swung it open to see Floyd’s grinning face – complete with one of her plastic pegs on his nose. ‘Bugger off!’ she said, pushing him out the way.
‘Steady!’ he said, following her. Then he took in her white face. ‘Shit, Em, you look awful.’
‘Why thank you, Prince Charming.’ She didn’t want him poking his nose in when she was yet to get her head around this situation.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, leaning in with concern.
‘Oh, I think I’m just hungover. Or it could’ve been a dodgy burger at the barbecue,’ she lied.
‘That’s weird because I’m okay. Hang on,’ he said, as Em saw the cogs turning, ‘you didn’t drink yesterday, you drove my car back. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, reaching for the TV controls to find something that’d grab his attention. But she was out of luck – there was no sport, no Top of the Pops 2 to laugh at, and not a single documentary. She picked a channel at random and hoped for the best when the adverts had finished.
‘You’ve been acting weird lately. You know,’ he said, assuming his favourite pose of crossed legs and steepled fingers. Then in his ‘work voice’ he said: ‘My door is always open if you’re having any issues.’
Em’s poker face focused on the telly and she muttered: ‘I’m fine.’
But then the music started for One Born Every Minute and she began to fluster. This was not the moment to see newborn babies – but if she reacted he’d notice. So she sat very still and considered what to do.
Floyd picked up his guitar which was upright against the wall beside the settee and began to pluck at a few strings. This was a good sign, she thought, he could sit for hours playing music – she could eat a cushion and he wouldn’t notice. She plotted her exit. It had to be quick, before she witnessed a birth. Because the sight of medical staff would remind her she had yet to make an appointment with the doctor to make what she had decided official. Should she offer a cup of tea? No, she didn’t want to pull him out of his reverie. She was just about to get up when ‘waaaaah!’, a baby announced its arrival into the world.
From nowhere, tears came to Em’s eyes, her breathing began to shudder and her shoulders started to shake. Two seconds later, as the tiny little thing took in gulps of air and fought the light with fists, a wail came from her mouth.
‘What the shit, Em?’ Floyd said, dropping his guitar. He moved in to comfort her, then pulled back, obviously wondering if he was to blame and he was about to get a dead arm. ‘Have I done something? Because if I have I’m sorry. The blocked loo thing, I didn’t mean it,’ he said, his eyes wide.
Still crying hard, Em shook her head to show that that wasn’t it. She couldn’t speak and neither did she want to. She needed to keep this secret to herself; he was a flipping counsellor and trained to crack her.
Knowing now he wasn’t about to get it in the neck, Floyd put an arm around her, stroking her hair with his free hand. Immediately, everything changed. She felt disarmed, but not in a bad way. Safe, that’s how she felt, and just as protected and loved as the day he’d picked her up when she’d fallen over during playtime at school and knocked out a milk tooth. That was the best thing about brothers and sisters – you could be deadly enemies one minute, but should there be a threat, you’d morph into one, united. His hug was a basic gesture but one that proved her worth, she realized. It was enough to halt her distress, to make her see he was her ally and she was going to need him. If she sobbed at a stupid TV programme with no warning, then how was she going to cope for the rest of her life? She had to make sure she had some support. ‘Floyd, I need to tell you…’
‘Shhhh, there, there,’ he said, still in soothing mode. ‘Let it go, let it all go.’
‘I’m…’
‘Let it all out,’ he said.
‘I’m trying to!’ she said, raising the volume. ‘Will you just stop interrupting?’
‘Oh, sorry! Go on.’
While she wanted to escape his bear hug because now her nose had cleared she could smell his unshowered body, she decided to stay put. Em didn’t want to see his reaction. She knew him so well, and whatever reserve he showed his clients, when it came to her, he was prone to over-excitement even at the smallest revelation. He might be thirty-four but in her mind he was only ever a few seconds away from shouting ‘Mu-um!’.
‘So, Floyd. I’m in a situation,’ she began, feeling him nod. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Mum or Dad. Or anyone.’
‘Yup, roger that,’ he said, earnestly.
‘Right,’ she said, suddenly stuck for words when public speaking had never been an issue before. ‘The thing is, Floyd… you’re going to be… an uncle.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ he said, squeezing her. ‘Who’s having a baby? And why are you upset about it?’
For someone educated up to the eyeballs, Floyd was a total thicko at times. ‘What do you mean who’s having a baby?’ she said.
‘Well, one of our friends. Or a cousin or… You know, people get called “uncle�
� all the time, even if they’re not related. Like Uncle Barnaby, Dad’s friend. He was a legend, he was. He brought us sweets behind Mum’s back. Lemon sherbets, if I remember rightly. Oh,’ he said as if the penny had dropped, ‘you’re not worrying about your fertility, are you? Is this why you’re sad? Seriously, you’re a whippersnapper, you have all the time in the world.’
‘Floyd Good-Fellow, you are insane. Let me spell this out: the word “uncle” derives from the Latin avuncular meaning “little grandfather” and is a family relationship between a person and his or her parent’s brother.’
‘I know!’ he said, offended. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘You’re doing a very good impression of it. Listen to me, Floyd, I’m pregnant. Me. No one else. Me.’ It was the first time she’d said it to anyone: the prospect of speaking it aloud had weighed heavily upon her but thanks to Floyd’s exasperating idiocy, it had come out easily.
Floyd scrambled to his feet. ‘You?’ he said, his eyeballs popping.
‘Yes, me,’ she sighed.
‘But how?’ he said, his arms wide.
‘A sperm fertilized one of my eggs. It’s called reproduction.’
‘I know that! I meant, I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.’
‘I’m not.’
‘What the actual fuck? What are you going to do?’ he yelled, showing zero of his professional cool.
‘I’ve told you,’ she said, strangely calm in the wake of his discomposure, which only made her more certain of her resolve. ‘You’re going to be an uncle. I’ve decided I’m keeping the baby.’
Three Days Later
Frankie
He’d meant it, she still couldn’t quite get over it. Even now, the day after Floyd had texted suggesting a ‘meeting’ to ‘finalize the arrangement’. He was due here any minute and she was in a state, having changed her outfit three times already. Standing in her dressing gown, the dilemma was this: too much flesh on show and she’d feel a fraud, too little and she might as well be going to a funeral.
