The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green

by Laura Kemp

  The euphoria of the release rained down on Frankie as she paused for breath. But there was one thing left to say. And what the hell, she was going to say it.

  ‘You, Floyd Good-Fellow, are a liar and I can never trust you again. How could you do it to me? When I feel the way I do about you?’

  Trembling, Frankie stomped off to find her car, unable to remember where she’d parked it, stalking up and down as she craned her neck to spy its crooked radio aerial.

  Her body and mind were ablaze but the tangles had been straightened: the truth had been told. She didn’t care she’d all but confessed her love – it was over, and now she could begin to think properly about Jason. No rash moves, she pledged, no sudden decisions. She had a clean slate now.

  Finally, she came to her Mini and threw open the door but the handle whacked Floyd straight in the peanuts.

  ‘Ouch,’ he cried, doubling over in agony. ‘Fuck, shit, Jesus Christ, Frankie! Now we’ll never have kids.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were there, did I?’ Then she rewound what she’d heard. Kids? She turned around, her mouth wide open. He was looking up at her from the crouch position, grimacing, with his glasses at an angle.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She tilted her head so the ear closest to Floyd was like a radar, ready to catch his words.

  ‘I’ve been staying at Mum and Dad’s,’ he said, coughing from the pain. ‘There’s no one else. Well, there is…’ he said, breathing hard. ‘It’s you, you silly bloody sausage. I love you.’

  Then he whimpered and, still cupping his privates, collapsed on the floor.

  Six Months Later… April

  Frankie

  ‘We’ve had quite a journey, haven’t we, love?’ Dad says, his voice echoing off the room’s circular hug of stone.

  ‘We sure have, Dad,’ Frankie says, straightening the knot of his purple silk tie, which shines in the rectangle of warm spring sunshine flooding through a little window.

  His smile launches a library of wrinkles, each one telling the tale of his life. From the strain of hiding who he was and the breakdown of his marriage to Mum, to the liberation of coming out and finding love with Gareth.

  Frankie brushes the lapels of his cream linen jacket, picking off a strand of grey hair from his shoulder.

  ‘Keep that for me, love,’ he says, ‘I can stick it back on my bald patch later.’

  ‘You know something, Dad, this is only the second time I’ve seen you in a suit,’ she says, remembering how he’d started off squirming in top hat and tails when she’d married Jason, but ended up refusing to take it off all night.

  ‘Not much call for them in the plumbing trade. But I must say, I quite like the novelty.’

  Then it’s her turn. ‘How do I look?’ she asks, twirling around, her tea-length dress exploding over a full petticoat in a foam of ivory lace from her waist to her knees. The demure neckline gives way to teetering silver heels. It’s a contradiction which reflects her two sides. There in her modest top half, the sensible and unassuming Frankie she’s always known, but from her waist down, her blossoming sensual audacity. She’s realized it’s possible to be both. And this is who she is, who she’s been all along, but in the last year has only got to know.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Absolutely beautiful, love. I’m glad you chose short and sweet. And your hair, well! You should think about becoming a hairdresser,’ he winks, just in case anyone thought he was a bit of a softy.

  She pats her half up-do, which begins pouffed and pinned on her crown then sweeps down in waves to just below her chin. Smoky kohled eyes, heavy lashes and glossed lips make her feel like a film star. Not that film stars ever spend the morning at work in their own salons doing wedding hair. Dad had had a trim while Mum had gone for a French twist dotted with sequins. They’d had such a laugh together, sharing breakfast rolls over pints of tea – it wasn’t like old times because Frankie couldn’t ever remember it being so relaxed. They were making up for it now though. When Frankie had locked up, leaving a sign on the door which read ‘closed early for wedding!’, she was grateful she’d used waterproof mascara. She’s got a feeling she’ll be thinking that all day.

  Frankie admires Dad’s purple tulip buttonhole that is fresh from his garden. ‘Lucky you had enough of these to go round,’ she says, inhaling her bouquet which smells of hope and beginnings.

  ‘Planning, you see,’ he says, tapping his nose.

  ‘Well, I never imagined I’d be here, did you?’ Despite everything, she wouldn’t change any of it. She didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  ‘What is it they say about “once bitten, twice shy”?’ Dad laughs. ‘Some people are just fools. They never learn!’

  A tap comes at the wooden door and it creaks open. The registrar. It’s time.

  They both take a deep breath and then Dad presents the crook of his arm. Frankie slides hers through, but when they reach the foot of the winding stone stairs, it’s only wide enough for single file. Looking up, Frankie sees a pretty runway of fairy lights wrapped over and under the handrail of the metal balustrade which will take them to the rest of their lives.

  ‘I really should’ve got myself a pair of flats for this. There must be a million steps!’

  ‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll catch you if you get altitude sickness.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the risk if you choose to do it in a lighthouse!’ she says, starting her climb.

  ‘Nash Point lighthouse, the only operational lighthouse in the UK, no less. A grade-two listed building still keeping mariners safe after hundreds of years, perched on a clifftop with views across the Bristol Channel…’ Dad recites from the details.

  ‘Don’t forget the foghorn when you’ve done the deed!’ she says, pausing to take in the messy waves swallowing rocks on the pebbly beach.

  ‘It can be heard up to twenty miles away. So much for an intimate ceremony,’ Dad says, catching his breath.

  How apt it is that this declaration of love will sound far and wide, when it had caught them all so unaware.

  By the time they reach the third floor, Frankie’s thighs are burning. ‘Just imagine how our legs are going to feel when we have to go up to the seventh floor for the photos in the lantern!’

  ‘That’s why this is the last time, right, love?’ Dad whispers as they stop just short of the entrance to the wedding room. Their nerves exploding, they hear the opening bars of Frank Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ and they walk the soothing path of his voice.

  Around the stone gallery strewn with traditional wooden Welsh love-spoons stand friends and family, their faces lit up as Dad and Frankie walk towards the registrar.

  There’s Letty, blowing kisses, her loose raven hair, topped by a crown woven from willow, tumbling over her bare shoulders. Her red lipstick gone, all that’s left of the old her is a huge grin. In a flowing white empire-line gown that covers her toes, she resembles an angel, albeit one with a mega-tan from her solo holiday in Colombia, where she studied Spanish. A wad of compensation means she’s now debt-free. With Lance a distant memory, she’s soaring at work, qualified too, and has taken a vow of chastity – for now.

  Beside her is Em, looking tranquil in an asparagus wrap dress, breastfeeding her strawberry blonde eight-week-old baby. Every inch the devoted dad with a changing bag strapped across his chest, Simon blows his nose. He’s just as emotional as Em says he is: he was the same at their wedding just before Christmas in the Doctor Who Experience in Cardiff Bay.

  Their daughter didn’t come on Valentine’s Day: she was five days early, a fact of which Em is immensely proud. Simon had only gone and delivered her in an unintended home birth, and then they’d named her Cariad, Welsh for darling. With their triple-barrelled name Good-Fellow-Brown, it turns out Em isn’t quite so different from her mum after all. Em plans to go back to work soon so Simon can share her leave – she loves motherhood but she misses managing the supermarket. Oh, and she managed to get her parents to update their pho
ne.

  Then there’s Mum, waving at them as if she is one of hundreds wanting to be picked out of the crowd instead of a handful of guests. Frankie gives her an extra-special smile because they’ve become closer, more open, little by little, even if Mum still insists on staying super-blonde. She’d taken her role as matron of honour very seriously, only to be disappointed by the lack of a hen do. Instead she poured her excitement into the wedding cake, a six-layer rainbow sponge, which is bound to be as colourful as her purple fascinator and orange trouser suit. Colin, who’s beside her in a matching tangerine cravat, has provided the car, a lovely old Morris Minor.

  Even Judy has made it; her brown eyes look up from her bed at the front. She had to be carried up the stairs because of her arthritis but the wag of her tail shows she’s feeling the love.

  As they reach the registrar, Frankie meets the eyes of the man waiting, who is blinking back tears. She looks at Dad, who’s just as watery-eyed.

  ‘I think I’ll be okay, now, love,’ he says, hugging his daughter, then stepping forward.

  ‘Gareth,’ he says, his chin wobbling, ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘Clifford.’ Gareth’s voice is breaking. ‘If we get this done quick, we can be in the pub within the hour.’

  ‘Damn right, Gar,’ Dad coughs, wiping his cheek.

  While their backs are ram-rod straight, their fingers are entwined like ivy. All that time she’d spent worrying about Dad, and their love had been growing right under her nose. And Gareth is so involved in her life, helping her out with DIY and decorating, he’s like a second father to her.

  Frankie feels a hand pull her slowly to the left and she allows it to guide her into an embrace. She fits into his body as if she is meant to be there. They share a smile which is both comfortable from years of familiarity, yet also dances at the prospect of a future they’ll compose together.

  It hasn’t been long but it seems like forever.

  Frankie’s mind leaps back to the hospital car park where she’d told Floyd she would neither jump into his arms nor Jason’s: the person she would choose, she’d declared, was Frankie. She didn’t want either man to save her – she was going to do it herself.

  Confused and claustrophobic, she’d nurtured her own rescue package, starting with her salon Beauty Therapy. She’d rented out her house and moved into the flat above the premises. It was musty and full of cobwebs, but once it had been aired and cleaned, she’d loved its blank canvas. Leonardo settled in very nicely: at night, he goes in and out via a sash window to trot the rooftops, by day he curls up on a towel next to the washbasins, where he’s tempted out by her adoring customers with treats.

  It was only when her hands were raw from scrubbing the salon’s floor, when she’d opened for business, when her client cards began to stack up, when her back was aching from twelve-hour days, when she was sure she was surviving, when she’d created a narrative of her own, that she acknowledged the feelings she had put into storage.

  One winter night, Frankie had been finally ready to unwrap them. Carefully and cautiously, she’d peeled back the layers, frightened she might disturb a healing scar. But it was as if her heart had only been in hibernation: small pulses at first had awakened into booming beats which filled her head. Still, she had to know if it had all been circumstance, so she’d arranged to meet him on a wet Thursday in a deserted spit and sawdust pub down the road from her flat. There would be no fanfare, no dressing up, no pretence and no props. If it was going to work, it would do so on its own.

  Nerves eating away at her stomach, she’d sipped a bottle of lager in the corner of the Duke of Clarence and watched the clock.

  Five, ten minutes went by with just her, a middle-aged man staring at the wall and the barmaid, who had occasionally looked up from her book to give her pity eyes. Five more minutes she’d promised herself, feeling deflated, and she’d go. Then she would accept he had moved on too.

  Suddenly, he’d burst through the once-grand but now tired wooden door in a tornado of soggy leaves and whirling crisp bags. All legs, knees, arms and elbows, he’d resembled a drunk on roller skates. In a bike helmet.

  Drying his steaming wet glasses on his Parka sleeve, he’d rambled on apologetically. ‘So sorry, I was held up at work, today of all days, then one of my nipples broke,’ he’d said, tutting and shaking his head at the injustice of it all.

  When she’d looked at him in horror, he’d explained with an awkward smile that he’d taken up cycling. ‘Nipples are the flanged nuts which hold spokes in place at the, er, rim.’

  He took a glug of Guinness and confessed he hadn’t intended on drinking that night.

  ‘In case you said something stupid?’ she’d laughed.

  ‘I might as well have a pint of tequila. Just to make sure I don’t embarrass myself any further.’

  Frankie couldn’t hold it in any longer.

  ‘It turns out I’ve missed your stupidity.’ It was the understatement of her life: despite her efforts to keep him at bay, she had ached for his company, his laughter, his everything.

  ‘Have you?’ he’d said, moving his head backwards in surprise. His face had searched every inch of hers to see if she’d meant it.

  ‘Honestly,’ she’d said, feeling self-conscious even though she knew it was a bit late for that when they’d done the things they’d done.

  Floyd’s tummy had rumbled noisily – he’d not had time to eat. Funnily enough, neither had she, although nerves had been to blame.

  ‘Do you fancy getting a takeaway?’ she’d asked.

  Floyd had shut his eyes and groaned. ‘That. Would be amazing.’

  And it had been. Their shy walk back to hers as they made small talk about the rain clearing and the starlit sky. Her key quivering in the lock, her hands trembling as she laid out forks and bowls. But once they’d tucked in – by candlelight because of a power cut – they had recovered their easy familiarity. He had intuitively known not to contact her but Em had let Frankie in on his casual, but completely obvious, questions about how she was doing. She’d learned too that Floyd had no interest in the dating scene anymore.

  She had wanted to hug him as he oohed and ahhed at her salon, praising her for her hard work as he’d tried out each chair. Then they’d talked long into the night, as Leonardo sprawled across both of their laps, purring like a motorbike. Finally, at 3 a.m. when they’d been able to tear themselves apart, they’d shared a goodbye kiss, which had gone on and on, bringing back deep waves which quaked to her skin’s surface in shivers. Neither of them had had to say a word about taking it slow. They’d known it would have to start from a new beginning, not from where they’d left off.

  And Em would be informed.

  ‘I don’t want to do that whole Romeo and Juliet sneaking around, then dying thing,’ he’d said, kissing her again before he stumbled off, his hot breath forming clouds into the night.

  As she’d lay in bed too wired to sleep, she’d known it would work. And it did, effortlessly. Two quirky dates had followed; she’d held him up all the way round the ice rink at Winter Wonderland as snowflakes had fallen onto their noses. Then he’d taken her for a delicious but strange dinner at The Clink, a restaurant staffed by Cardiff Prison inmates. ‘I didn’t know we’d get patted down on the way in or that there’d be no booze,’ he’d said, dragging her laughing into a bar for a nightcap.

  On the third, he’d cooked for her at his place, a Victorian maisonette in need of renovation located in a tiny crescent backing onto the city’s Bute Park. As a fire blazed in the hearth, they’d slowly undressed each other and discovered their bodies anew on his weathered leather sofa, where they made love as if it was the first time. There’d been no separate acts of prowess, just one long liquid scene of natural movement which ended in ecstasy for both of them. It had been perfect, instinctive.

  ‘It’s chemistry, isn’t it, Floyd?’ she’d said into his chest afterwards, realizing that that was what had been missing from her relationship with Jason. ‘
That’s what we’ve got.’

  ‘Yep,’ he’d whispered into her hair, ‘I’m just glad everything’s working, by the way, thanks for asking, after you assaulted me in the hospital car park.’

  Ever since, they’ve been a full-on couple, which Em is still coming to terms with. ‘It’s lovely, my brother and my best friend being together, but it’s quite gross when you two hold hands,’ she said last week when the gang had all met in the pub for a long and lazy Sunday roast.

  Even though Frankie feels as if she’s inside a big bubble of love, she’s never been so free. Floyd doesn’t try to hold her back or impose his ideas on her.

  Sometimes, when she’s sweeping up, she thinks about her past, but it all feels like a dream. She’s divorced now and back to her maiden name Rogers. Floyd thinks it’s very funny that when you say their names in a sequence – Frankie Rogers Floyd Good-Fellow – it sounds a bit ‘oo-er’.

  If she sees Jason, which isn’t often but he’s helped with some scaffolding so she could handpaint her sign, she gets a sense of déjà vu, as if a moth’s wings are dusting her arm. She simply can’t imagine how they ever lived side by side.

  When she told Jase she couldn’t ‘marry’ him, a week after Floyd’s confession in the car park, she’d said they were too much like friends. He’d been a mess for a while and then bang, one night, he’d met a girl and they were already engaged. Whether or not it proved that he was one of those people who needed someone, she hadn’t dwelled on it. She wants him as happy as she is.

  Sasha, surprise, surprise, had landed herself a photographer’s job on a billionaire’s Caribbean island, where she parties with the rich and famous. The last they heard, she was having a ‘spiritual connection’ with the resort’s water sports instructor.

  Frankie’s thinking about Floyd’s offer that she should move in with him. She can imagine Leonardo stalking through the park, chasing butterflies and bees.