The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green (11 page)

‘You were unconscious, you feel sleepy and you've vomited. We're on our way back to the hospital so we'll take you,' Lucy insisted as her cohort nodded and helped her up.

There was no point protesting, Em knew, and so she stepped forward but her legs wobbled. Before she could complain, Simon Brown bent down and picked her up, one arm cradling her head and the other under her knees. As he walked towards the door, he looked down at her and said: ‘Sorry, Whitney. Kevin Costner wasn't available so you'll have to do with me instead.'

Lying there floppy, on the edge of unconsciousness, with her face against his chest, she realized all those times when she'd begged a higher being to answer her wish that he'd turn up and carry her off to bed, that she should've specified ‘not a hospital trolley'.

‘So, what are you having?' Ross ‘The Boss' Gittings said as they waited at the bar. He was smaller than Letty but she'd never really noticed: he was one of those charismatic types who seemed larger than life. Or at least his 5 foot 5 inches.

‘Vodka slimline tonic, please,' Letty said, knowing a large glass of wine on an empty stomach would turn her into a howling drunk within five minutes which was not the image she wanted to project. ‘Shall I get a table?'

‘There's one at the back,' he said, pointing with his phone. ‘It's nice and private.' Great, she thought, all the better for not being disturbed, so I can dazzle him with my idea. This diversion was exactly what she needed after the inevitable split with Lance last night.

He hadn't contacted her last night nor today. It was clearly over – it was a good job she hadn't fallen for him properly, she kept telling herself when tears forced her into the ladies'. But she wanted to prove herself in her job if she couldn't do it in her love life. That was the trigger she needed to ask Ross for five minutes after work. He'd promised her ‘all the time in the world after work', provided, he'd insisted, he'd get the drinks in.

Letty was thrilled – she was finally being treated like one of the boys: the suits disappeared after hours all the time to talk deals and contracts over a pint. Now it was her turn! And she looked the part in a very tailored cream suit jacket and pencil skirt teamed with a sheer black armless pussy-bow shirt and patent spikes.

They'd gone over the road from their swanky city centre office to The Vine, a wine bar where Ross held fundraisers for a children's hospice. He was so well-connected, he'd have the place heaving with at least one celeb guest such as a footballer or rugby player, which guaranteed coverage in the local press. And Letty had plans to increase his exposure – as well as her own talents. To be able to achieve at work would help her get over Lance and find some much-needed self-worth.

‘So, how's things?' he asked as he got to the table with their drinks. He smiled as he undid the top button of his crisp white shirt and loosened his expensive purple tie.

‘Great, thanks,' she said, answering his cheers with a clink of her glass. ‘Christ, this is strong!' she said, holding her throat as the vodka burned her tonsils.

‘You said a double, didn't you?' he grinned, blue eyes winking as he took a long swig of his lager.

‘I so didn't! I need my head straight!'

‘Boring!' he said, running his hands over his bronzed head, which he shaved to hide the fact he was balding. ‘Work's over.'

‘Well, it isn't for me,' she said, laughing. ‘That's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

‘Oh, go on then,' he said with a fake huff. ‘I was hoping you wanted a drink because of my rapier wit and good looks. Confess your undying love, that sort of thing!'

Inside, Letty chalked up his comment as inappropriate – he'd never have said that to a male employee. Then again, maybe it was just a bad attempt at a joke. He was late forties, divorced and spent all of his time in the company of blokes: perhaps this was just the way it was.

‘I think we, you, us, as in Gittings PR, needs a social media presence. As in Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, that kind of thing.' Ross raised his eyebrows, indicating she could continue. ‘I'd like to volunteer to do it. I'm on top of my work, and I'm not saying I need more to do but I'd really like the chance to show what I'm made of. Develop this myself, push our brand, make us look up-to-date with hashtags and campaigns and… I'll show you now.'

She pulled her work tablet out of her bag and began to scroll through the presentation – tweaked only slightly by Em, to Letty's joy – which indicated how interaction with customers online made a business look human. There was a list with examples of successful corporate accounts and it also gave an opportunity to show the company's moral compass with its charitable work.

‘Do you know what,' Ross said, ‘that is a very interesting idea. I'm impressed. Email it to me and to Nick and we'll have a look.'

Nick was his deputy: a new arrival from a rival agency who appeared to be a decent guy.

‘Done!' she said, forwarding the presentation on her phone with a tap of her fingers. She really was buzzing at how well he'd received her idea: this feeling was dynamite when it came to her confidence. So she went on. ‘You know, I'd really like the chance to do more… if there are any openings coming up, say, if you were looking for a new account executive? Not that I'm unhappy with what I do. I'm just really keen to get on.'

That, and earn some more money. Because she was on her last credit card – she owed around £3,000 which sent her into a panic every time she thought of it.

‘I'll bear it in mind,' he said.

‘Great! And perhaps you could revisit my application for the course that I want to do? It really would benefit the company,' she said, draining her drink. ‘Oops, that went down quickly!'

‘Yes, I've heard that about you,' Ross said, deadpan. ‘Fancy a go?'

Letty stopped, that was two inappropriate comments now. ‘What?' she asked, feeling her excitement drain away and replaced by anger as he showed how low she was in his regard.

Quick as a flash, he was holding up his hands and apologizing. ‘Sorry! It was just a joke!'

But she wasn't laughing. Letty considered whether it was worth telling him he had made her feel uncomfortable. If he'd been a random slimebollock in the pub, she'd have given him what for. So what was the difference? He was her boss, that's what, with power over her. Yet if she made it clear now then he would see she meant business: that she wanted to progress, that she wasn't a walkover. And Christ, after Lance, she felt nothing but.

Terrified but needing to show she had a backbone after all, Letty went for it. ‘Ross, I'm all for a bit of banter but not that, all right?'

‘I don't know what you mean,' he said, his eyes darting around the bar.

‘The innuendo. It's not on. Let's keep it professional.'

He blew out his cheeks and rubbed an eye: classic signs of discomfort after being rumbled. And she was relieved too because she couldn't do without her job. She was paid well above her level, was included in bonuses and she got six weeks' holiday.

Feeling pleased as punch for speaking out, Letty stuck out a firm hand to show she was prepared to put it behind them.

For a moment, he sized her up, looking from her hand to her face. Then he shook her palm and she couldn't believe she'd done it!

She hid her smile, instead channelling her best Dragons' Den Deborah Meaden impression, nodding with gravity before gathering her mac and bag and getting out of there before she did a victory wiggle on the pavement.

All the way home, she imagined she was Beyoncé, doing it for all the ladies who'd been taken for fools. By the time she got home, she was the star of a blockbuster and head of her own multi-national empire. Well, she could dream.

The reality was that she'd managed to wrestle back her professionalism from Ross.

Now this was a change for good, she thought, kicking off her heels into the hall. What a difference twenty-four-hours made: last night she'd snotted mascara all over her pillow because she was a victim. But now, she was on top. He could obviously see that she had inner steel: forget Beyoncé, she was actually Madonna in a metal bra.

It was the most empowering thing she'd ever done. Letitia Cox was no pushover!

If it had been that easy to sort him out, then she could take control elsewhere too. Get Ross to sign off the PR qualification, sort out her finances and never fall for a waster ever again.

Letty wanted to celebrate. She picked up her phone and wondered who to call first.

But neither Em nor Frankie picked up. This was the downside of being single, not having someone special to share things with.

Hey-ho. She'd just have to have a party herself with some vino.

She wasn't going to let anything spoil the start of her new life.

What if this was a sign? Em wondered as the orderly showed her to the waiting room. That fainting yesterday and spending the night in the University Hospital of Wales was a warning of trouble ahead. She self-consciously pulled her suit jacket tighter over her draughty gown as she pondered it: what if she wasn't doing the right thing having the baby?

Then again, it could all be out of her hands, she thought, finding a seat beneath a torn magazine. The nurse had said on her evening rounds that while there had been no bleeding, only a scan in the morning would show if the baby was unharmed. Getting to this point had been the most horrific wait: she'd hardly slept, her mind going over everything.

She had come to at 9pm last night, wondering a) why there were lots of people in her bedroom and b) why she was attached to a drip. When she realized she was in a ward, she saw a mental slideshow of Alice in Wonderland snapshots of her collapse: being carried through the supermarket, talking to Simon Brown in the ambulance about her first dog Einstein, having a light shined in her eyes and then a blankness.

It turned out she'd suffered concussion plus dehydration, brought on by hormones which could induce fainting. She'd apparently managed to tell the doctor she was pregnant just before she passed out. The lady in the bed next to her had said her ‘lovely friend' – Simon Brown – had sat with her all evening. He'd left a card for her, some kind of humorous thing which she didn't get. Already having committed the words to her memory, she read through them again in her mind.

To Emerald (I never knew that was your proper name!)
, it said in his neat and contained handwriting,
I stayed as long as I could before they chucked me out. I hope you're feeling better. Work asked me to tell you to take as long as you need. Make sure you do – I'll send you a box set to watch. You told me not to contact anyone, in fact you were quite adamant about it, so I didn't.

Hey, great news about the baby, by the way! Your fella's a lucky chap. Lovely to see you, although sorry was in these circumstances. Catch you later, Kevin Costner x

There in that card had been everything she liked about him – he was considerate, gentle, thorough, discreet, amusing and concise. But what would he think of her now? That she'd wasted no time meeting someone else, that he meant nothing to her. It was such a mess – he knew about the baby but, really, he knew nothing at all.

Em blew out of her cheeks, full of despair at being signed off for a week when she needed to be on top form at work. Would this wreck her chances of promotion? She knew it shouldn't but not everyone was as objective as they should be. And if she was going to be a single parent then being fit for the job, keeping her income going, was vital. Not that either mattered to her at this moment, she realized, because all she cared about now was finding out about the baby. If her fears were confirmed, the fears which had eaten away at her in the longest, darkest hours of the night, then she wouldn't even get the chance to be a mother. Tears welled up again – she had never cried as much in her whole life than in the last twelve hours.

‘Emerald Good-Fellow, please,' said a woman in green scrubs whose outfit complemented the grotesque pea-coloured walls.

‘You by yourself, love?' she said, guiding her into a room and shutting the door.

Em nodded. She'd had no battery left on her phone to call anyone last night. But it didn't matter – Mum and Dad were away at some festival in Eastern Europe, Floyd was at his company's London HQ, the girls would only fuss. And the father, well the less said about him the better. Other people would only complicate things.

‘Well, you're with me. I'm Bethan. The sonographer. Take off your jacket, hop up on the bed, lift your top and brace yourself because the gel is cold.'

How could there be life in there? Em wondered as the gel plopped out icily onto her belly. To the naked eye, there was no way of telling she was pregnant. Women like me, she thought, we are a whole secret army, hiding a secret, the biggest there could be, before we become visibly expectant. Yet to each of us, our secret is our everything: how could people not see it in the glow of our eyes and in the ridges of our fingertips? But there was also a wonder, a physical squeeze, of having that knowledge to yourself before it it became public property. And it could all be taken away from her, Em thought, with dread in the dimly-lit room.

Within seconds, the gel was rolled warm by a probe, piece of ultrasonic equipment which looked like a microphone.

She shut her eyes and waited, fearing the crackling would go on and on.

‘It takes a while to get ready, don't worry,' the sonographer said. ‘And the lights aren't broken, we just need it darker than normal so we can see the monitor more clearly.'

Her words were meant to be reassuring but until Em knew everything was okay then nothing could calm her nerves. Suddenly, out of nowhere came a very loud and very fast repetitive thud. The sound seemed to wrap itself around her, fill her ears and her heart. The baby! It was alive.