The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green Page 3

  On the other hand, she was late. Very late. And just like her mind, her body ran like clockwork. Unfortunately, there were no figures available to support Em’s belief that things like this didn’t happen to people like her. But she simply wasn’t the type. That’s why she’d put off doing a test. That night had turned out to be her first and last one-night stand – quite unintentionally because she hadn’t expected it to be a one-off – she was simply too averse to risk-taking.

  For heaven’s sake, I’m deputy store manager, she thought. Started as a Saturday check-out girl, joined for good on a graduate scheme and hand-picked for the future manager programme. The boss was due to announce his retirement any day and she was sure to take over.

  But she knew this line of thought was hopeless. Since when did a sperm and egg check with their owners that conception was convenient? She stared at the test in her hand, willing it at first to hurry up, then wishing she had forever. This just can’t happen, it can’t… Oh shit, it just has, she thought, as the word ‘pregnant’ appeared on the stick. There was no ambiguity. She’d spent more on the digital variety rather than the two-lined version because it presented the facts in unarguable plain English.

  Em felt the colour drain from her face as the tears threatened. She looked up, blinking hard, trying to force the emotion back. Logic, where are you? she begged, clearing her throat in a bid to regain control. So she started with the facts.

  I am thirty-one and single, she began. I have a good job, a pension and my own flat. I’ve never had a meaningful relationship – the closest I’ve come is with this man who didn’t want to be with me. It took until Simon Brown to find someone I really liked, therefore it is unlikely I will meet anyone suitable again soon. The kind of man who likes quirky American box sets, trekking in the hills and making culinary wonders with leftovers from the staff shop. The kind of man who doesn’t care about looks or tiny breasts or freckles. The kind of man who is not just more mature in years – say, thirty-seven, like him – but in experience and approach.

  Face it, Em, she told herself, he made it clear that he was sorry, so so sorry, but they could never be together. He has moved back to his store, an hour away, and he has commitments. You know what you have to do.

  Em stood and felt her shoulders pull back, assuming her management pose. She opened the cubicle door, threw the test in the bin, washed her hands then brushed down her suit. She noted with satisfaction how her work face reappeared, revealing nothing of her turmoil.

  With a deep breath, she went out into the corridor and made her way down the stairs and through the thick plastic curtains which marked the divide between staff only and the shop floor. Head up, she thought, as she swept into the public arena, scanning the shelves for gaps and checking the gondola ends were brimming with this week’s special offers.

  Right, she thought to herself, recalling the first thing on her mental to-do list, I need to have a chat with Gary the produce manager about some very unsatisfactory wonky carrots.

  That Night

  Letitia

  Letitia stared at her reflection in her vintage dressing table mirror. Warmed by the soft lamp lighting, her happy face of flicked eyeliner, full lashes, flawless olive complexion and red lips looked back. But from the dusky pink velvet stool where she was sitting, all Letty saw was a clown. For underneath, she was as distressed as the wood of her flaming vanity unit.

  Only now, when she was alone, with her front door closed, could she remove the bubbly mask she presented to the world. In private, she had as much bounce as damp popcorn.

  Sighing, she squelched her expensive cleanser onto a circle of cotton wool and began to wipe her forehead, eyes, cheeks and chin.

  Her mobile buzzed and she glanced at it, seeing Mam’s name on the screen. She couldn’t face her weekly update from Spain. Sick of the weather, Mam had moved there ten years ago with her second husband Phil and Letty’s half-brother Luke. He was nine years younger than Letty so Mam had decided when he was eleven that he was young enough to adapt to a new life. Letty was invited but Wales was home. Even though Granny had left Spain as a child during the civil war, there was still family out there to help Mam and they lived a cracking life running a restaurant in Almeria. Letty just didn’t want to hear about it now. Or put on a brave face.

  Mam was unaware that Letty was up to her false eyelashes in debt; they thought she was minted because she dressed tidy. That was the problem, she spent her way to happiness when life brought her down.

  Letty didn’t want Mam to think that her daughter, whom she’d brought up alone, was a waste of space. Dad, wherever he was, was responsible for so much of this mess; hardly around when he was with Mam, then not turning up for access and slack on the maintenance. The only memories she had of him were bad, always chopsing on with excuses, he was: just waiting for a cheque to clear or not much work on at the minute.

  Her face now nude, she couldn’t lie to herself anymore: she was exactly the same as him. Full of shit. Why else would she be hanging out with Lance? When all she wanted was to find The One.

  She lobbed the pad, filthy from the day, into the bin. But she still felt dirty at the thought of what she was: a mistress to a man with a girlfriend and a baby. How could she justify it as passing the time?

  But it wasn’t as if she was getting a kick out of it. She’d been miserable. Lonely. Weak.

  She’d joined Lance’s gym in her neighbourhood to better herself, that was the irony. She was done with casual flings, which she’d begin with an open heart only to discover she was regarded as a ‘good time’ and nothing more, Letty thought exercise would be the investment she needed to turn things round. She didn’t actually fancy him at first – he was a walking cliché of sunny blond hair, Pacific ocean blue eyes, diving board cheekbones, plump lips and a golden, muscular body. Girls mobbed him and, to be honest, she expected him to be a tool: most good-looking men were.

  But over three months of personal tuition, she got to know him. He was modest but ambitious, hard-working but easy-going. And he was making her feel good. Fan-bloody-tastic, actually. He was like a life coach, praising her at every sit-up. The more defined her body became, the more she earned his respect for her mental strength. They clicked too: the sessions were a laugh. They shared bits and pieces of their lives way past closing time. His relationship was rocky: feeling neglected by him working such long hours when he built up his gym, his partner had been unfaithful. They’d thought a baby would fix things. It had only been a sticking plaster. On her part, she wanted someone to love her the way she wanted to love someone. Like him.

  She should’ve just cancelled her membership. But one night at the end of hot yoga, when he’d been taut and topless, he’d pushed down on her hips to make her stretch even deeper. The heat between her thighs had overflowed into her soul. She’d wanted to drown in it, submerge herself. In him. Ever since, for two months, they’d been stealing moments together. Anywhere and everywhere. Today, after work, in an art deco lift in a boutique hotel where she’d dragged the metal gates closed and untied her silk wrap dress so it tumbled to the floor to reveal she was naked bar a pair of midnight-blue couture French knickers and killer high-end heels. The memory of that pleasure made her flush all over again. But it was the afterwards that had left its mark. Because he didn’t cut and run like the others had. He never ever did. She was always the one leaving him. It made her feel in control – that what she was doing was temporary. She could give him up any time she liked. It was just sex: nothing more than the physical thrill of racing pulses of anticipation, heavy eyelids of lust and abandonment. With Lance, it was a very good substitute for the love she craved.

  He’d ask to stay over at hers but she consistently refused. It proved she wasn’t taking it seriously. And appeased the hideous guilt of having sex with a man who was a father, and taken. She didn’t want to let him into her cocoon either: her rented ground-floor flat, in the trendy area of Pontcanna with its bars, cafes and indie shops, was where she could r
epair her soul.

  The trouble was though, Lance talked as if she was the one who’d bail out; as if he was the victim. Reality became suspended when he’d imply he had no intention of calling it off. Every time she saw him, she braced herself for the ‘I think we need to cool it’ cold feet conversation. It never came. Instead he appeared to hang on her every word, laugh at her jokes and flatter her at every opportunity, talking about the future.

  But that would mean walking out on his girlfriend, his son – it was obscene. So she kept him at bay, she had to. He would only dump her as the others had done. Always unavailable, whether there was another woman or a career at a critical point.

  Why, at the age of thirty, was she putting herself through this yet again? she asked herself, applying moisturiser with her fingertips.

  Because he treated her nicely, asked about her day, opened doors for her. No man had ever done that and meant it. Not even her dad. His approval had been missing her whole life, that’s why she was such a sucker for it now.

  Like today in the car, Lance had been really chuffed for her when she told him the PR company had won a massive contract: okay, she was only a personal assistant but she’d done her bit, schmoozing the clients over lunch. Her boss had even thanked her personally and Letty hoped it meant he might finally fork out for the day-release course she wanted to do to get an industry qualification. Lance praised her people skills and bigged up her potential. But Letty was so lacking in confidence she believed Ross only let her wine and dine people because she was a bit of office totty. How she wanted to get in on the actual public relations bit, to have her own accounts and apply all the stuff she’d picked up in the ten years she’d been in the business. Bright young things with degrees had always pipped her at the post when she’d gone for jobs. She’d joined this company a year ago when the grapevine hinted at expansion and opportunities later down the line. But so far, no good.

  A sad smile came to her as she remembered how Lance had called her a drongo for being so negative. She’d dismissed him then. Work was work, it paid for her clothes, that was all she’d admit to. Again, there had been the denial of what she craved inside: recognition for who she was not what she looked like.

  Letty got up, wandered about her room, picked up her book, threw it on the floor then flopped on to her four-poster bed. The next man who sleeps here will be the real bloody deal, she told herself.

  If only Lance wasn’t with someone else: because she knew she could love him. Whatever she’d said about his crappy name for his gym. He wasn’t a bimbo, far from it. An all-rounder both physically and academically, he’d been selected for Olympic swimming trials before an injury cut short that dream. So he’d used his head instead to become a sports physio, which took him round Oz and to the UK via Dubai. A weekend in Wales when he’d lived in London stirred something inside him. He made a promise to himself that one day he’d return for its broad beautiful beaches and relaxed pace of life when he was done with ‘raging’. Six years ago, at the age of thirty-four, he did, to set up his gym, bringing with him, Helen, the Aussie girlfriend he’d met in Earls Court. Next year, he’d open another gym in Cardiff Bay and then after that, who knew?

  But while he was with the mother of his child, the only thing the L-word would stand for on Letty’s part would be ‘loser’.

  She never wanted to know about his other life, she didn’t want to make his girlfriend and baby real. Sometimes though it was unavoidable. Like today when his girlfriend had texted as Lance drove Letty home.

  Sat outside her place, Letty had challenged him to answer it, as if she was testing the depths of his duplicitousness. Which was stupid – how could you have degrees of being a lying unfaithful bastard? Would she really walk if he sent her a text back in her company? But he’d refused to even read it.

  ‘I don’t want to give you the old boohoo,’ he’d said. ‘My girlfriend doesn’t understand me, all that bull.’

  Letty had pushed him then, she didn’t know why at the time, but she could see the reason now: she was further in than she’d thought.

  He’d given in. But not in the way she’d imagined. Instead of whining about Helen, he’d taken her hand and kissed it. ‘There’s something I need to say. And don’t do your block…’

  Her heart raced again now as she lay flat out like a starfish on the bed.

  ‘This isn’t just about sex for me, okay?’ he’d said. ‘I’ve told you Helen and I are pretty much living separate lives. It’s been like this for months and months. I’m there for Eddy. Nothing more. This… you… that’s what keeps me going. I think I might be…’

  Her head going bananas, unable to handle what he had been about to say, she’d jumped out of the car and ran inside.

  Still now she hated herself for the tiniest of thrills she’d felt when he’d said life with her was better.

  She was only human, she thought. But she wasn’t a home-wrecker. Was she?

  The Next Day…

  Frankie

  ‘What you want to do, love, is to move on, that’s what you want to do,’ Phyllis said, patting her new hairdo.

  Not that same piece of advice again, Frankie thought, as her client took off her pink gown, folded it just so and went to put the kettle on. Along with ‘it’ll pass’ and ‘don’t be so hard on yourself’, ‘move on’ was as useful as cold straighteners.

  And as much as she loved this gorgeous 77-year-old widow, what did she know about modern love?

  If only Frankie could move on from Jason. She’d dreamed last night they’d been on honeymoon in Greece and awoke crushed to find a stubbly kiss on her nose was in fact Leonardo the cat’s rough tongue. Going downstairs this morning, she’d seen the chip in the hall wall which Jason had bashed as he’d carried in his beloved new high-definition telly. He’d refused to take it when he left because, he’d said, ‘you’ll miss your reality stuff’. Making breakfast, she’d found an old Cheerio, his favourite cereal, at the bottom of the cupboard. Traces of him were everywhere: he’d been living there seven years.

  She had had to reset her brain to remind herself it was actually her house. It had been since she was twenty-one when Dad impressed upon her the need to buy young: prices in Cardiff were only going to rocket. She’d cried when she moved out of Dad’s terrace – after her good-for-nothing Mum had run off with a car salesman who lived in la-di-da Penarth Marina when Frankie was ten.

  She had been the woman of the house. She’d begged to stay with Dad, because she didn’t want him to be alone. And so with no brothers or sisters, she was Dad’s partner in crime but he’d told her to get on the property ladder which she accepted begrudgingly.

  They were still thick as thieves: he was only round the corner so she still popped in to see him far too often. ‘What if I had a bird here?’ he’d tut from his battered chair where he was reading the paper, his feet kept warm by Judy, his slobbery old black Labrador, when she’d walk in unannounced. He never said it, but Frankie believed he’d never recovered from Mum’s betrayal. If only she could fix him up with someone – he only ever went out for a pint of Brains with his mate Gareth. But she was in no position to match-make.

  Thank God for her job: it’d been her saviour. Using her hands unlocked her creativity; the metronomic movement of her scissors and the tug of her brush during a blow-dry kept her mindful, in the here and now, rather than moping about the past or despairing over her future. She loved the way her clients felt good about themselves when she’d finished. She wished it was that easy for her. And being mobile, she’d been able to stuff as many appointments as she could day and night to fill Jason’s gap. One day she wanted to open a salon of her own but, for now, she liked the driving. Particularly coming up here into the Valleys, she thought, looking out of Phyllis’ second-floor boxy sheltered flat window where rows of old miners’ houses clung to the hillsides beneath sweeping, blowy skies. Laughter, tragedy, legend and love ran through the Rhondda like seams of coal; emotion and drama were in every sandstone brick of eve
ry rugby club and pub, corner shop and launderette.

  ‘Time for you to take a pew,’ Phyllis said in her lovely lilt from her tiny kitchenette. ‘I’ve a Victoria sponge for you, made it special, I did.’

  ‘Oh, bless,’ Frankie said, watching her carry in a tray of her best china, which tinkled as her hands shook. Pride of place was a beautiful cake so tall and dusty with icing sugar it rivalled any wintry Welsh mountain.

  ‘That looks amazing. I would’ve loved to have seen your wedding cakes, back in the day.’

  ‘Yes, they were a sight to behold,’ Phyll said, her eyes staring at the memory. ‘People from the next Valley would come to admire them. I was known as Phyll The Cake. That’s how it was then, you’d be named after your job. It helped too if there were lots of people with the same name. My David was Dai The Fish, he was a fishmonger, see, so he didn’t get mixed up with Dai the undertaker because he was Dai The Death. Talking of which, you’re a bag of bones, you need fattening up.’

  Using an ancient silver cake slice, Phyll cut Frankie a giant piece. It was true, she had lost weight, thanks to what Letty called The Dumped Diet, which made eating a chore. Victoria sponge was different though. Phyll examined her over their steaming cups of tea – Welsh Brew, of course – with sparkling blue eyes.

  ‘Delish,’ Frankie said, ‘better than any Mary Berry sponge, I bet.’

  ‘Never mind that. How are you?’ Phyll said, jabbing the air with a sprightly finger.

  ‘Oh, you know…’ Not that an old lady would understand the emptiness or meaninglessness.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’

  Frankie stopped mid-chew and looked up to see Phyll’s face crinkled up in amusement.

  ‘Married fifty years to my Dai. Then he was gone. My family didn’t want me living by myself. Made me move in here, they did. I thought, that’s it, that’s your lot, girl, but never underestimate life.’