The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green (14 page)

Flakey, that's what she was. And disloyal, considering how close they'd been, her and Sasha. She was a perfect match for Floyd – and for me, Em thought. She shared many of her interests, such as world cinema and baking; things they'd do together without Floyd. Sasha had encouraged her to be herself – love your inner geek, she always said. It helped too that she was so beautiful to look at, although Em didn't feel intimidated by her almond-shaped green eyes, her long swishy blonde hair, never-ending tanned legs and graceful posture. Quite the opposite, actually; in Sasha's sunny company, Em felt vicariously special, honoured even to catch her rays. Which was why her departure had hurt her too.

‘We all loved her and look what she did to us.'

‘You make it sound as though you're the one with the broken heart, Em. If I can deal with it, then you can,' Floyd said.

‘Oh, Floyd, it's just that you're sitting around waiting for her to come back and even if she does, well, she'll ruin your life again at some point. You need to find someone else.'

‘I have been trying! I did a runner from that strap-on bird if you remember?'

‘Someone decent. Normal. These women you go out with, they're just so off-the-scale. High-maintenance. Or maybe you should just give it all up for a while. Throw yourself into some kind of volunteering or something?'

‘Funny you should say that,' he said, which Em warmly welcomed – she loved people walking the walk rather than talking the talk.

‘Oh, brilliant,' she said, patting his shoulder. ‘What sort of thing? Helping the needy? Skill-sharing? Working with deprived youngsters?'

‘Something like that,' he said, his lips dancing.

Em gave him a lovely big smile. At last, he'd come to his senses!

On her way to see Dad, Frankie made her mind up.

Losing sleep over it was bad enough. But things got worse when a confidence-building exercise suggested by Letty had backfired – she'd tried to practise on a bottle of ketchup on the bathroom floor but an over-enthusiastic squeeze led to a spurt of sauce into her mouth. She had gagged and spat and screamed in a meltdown worthy of an Oscar. If she reacted like that when she was nowhere near an unmentionable, then how would she cope with a real one? Especially when he would be attending to her downstairs and she'd be worrying about her scent and not breaking wind. It was clear she couldn't go through with the sixty-nine – or anything else which required actual sex. They hadn't even kissed and she was expected to put his thing in her mouth. No, she thought – lucky enough to see a space in Dad's road, which was always full of football fans' cars on Saturdays, it was that close to Cardiff City Stadium – it was out of the question. She was going to text Floyd later to thank him for his help but she was calling it a day. He was bound to be grateful, considering she wasn't what you'd term ‘a natural'.

Collecting herself before she got out, she reflected on this morning's job, doing wedding hair in the bride's room at a country manor house near Cowbridge. Usually, she loved these appointments because it gave her exclusive access into the inner sanctum of womanhood. Sipping on a glass of fizz, she would get the flutters from the magic: elders fussing with their hats and corsages; the jittery bride cocooned by her giggling bridesmaids; and the constant knock-knock on the door from deliveries of flowers, sandwiches and gifts. So much planning went into so few hours, it felt like you were asking the impossible for it all to come together at the same time. But of course, it generally did – and even if it didn't, the majority wouldn't know the doves you'd wanted to be released for the photos had been replaced by white homing pigeons. At least, they hadn't at her own wedding; that's what she would tell brides-to-be, both to put minds at rest and to relive the happiest twenty-four hours of her life.

But today, she'd created boho down-dos and elegant up-dos with the heaviest of hearts because of those now-tainted memories. The joy of her bridesmaids, Letty and Em, helping her get ready now felt delusional. Her bouffant dress which she knew wasn't trendy but had been what she'd always wanted felt foolish. Dad bursting with pride when he was finally allowed into his own lounge to see ‘his princess' felt pitiful. And as for Jason's brimming eyes when he said his vows… now she wondered if they'd been filled with angst.

And look how it had left her. With the hare-brained way she was trying to win him back. She now knew it was off-kilter, warped even. There had to be a better way without so much humiliation.

Thank God for Dad. He'd give her a sausage sandwich and a pint of tea to make it all okay.

‘Hello, love,' he said, opening the immaculate front door of his terrace in Canton with a pencil behind his ear. ‘This is a nice surprise. Coffee? Tea? Or fairy juice?'

He meant squash – that's what he'd called it when she was small and obsessed with pixies and sprites and it instantly put her at ease.

‘Tea,' she said, dumping her bag in the chintzy 80s wallpapered hall, which dated from before Mum's departure. The poor man was surely hanging on to the past. ‘And I need some comfort food.'

‘Oh, why's that then? Funny enough, I've got my Saturday sizzlers on. In the grill though, apparently healthier. Bloody killjoys that people are. But there you go. S'cuse the dusty clothes, I've been measuring up. Thinking of doing some renovations. Possibly.'

Into the kitchen they went and she slumped onto her elbows as he buttered four slices of own-brand white bread.

‘I just feel so hopeless. Helpless. I miss Jason so much, Dad.' She didn't need to say any more because she knew he understood about losing the love of your life.

‘That's natural, love. Oh, shavings!'

He opened the back door which led to the garden to let in some air because he'd burned the bangers. A plate landed before her and after a squirt of ketchup she tucked in.

‘Did you feel like this when Mum left?'

‘Of course,' he shrugged as he patted the brown sauce. She noticed he'd given himself the charred bits, the sweetie. ‘Change is unsettling. But you get used to your new circumstances, eventually. This'll be good for you. You won't see it now, love. But you will.'

‘Yep, I guess,' she said, not feeling it but thinking if Dad could get through it then she could too. She'd always wondered how Mum could've deserted him: he was the loveliest, gentlest man on the planet. He'd been the one who'd been ‘mum', her mother being unable to show her love beyond a quick peck at bedtime. But with Dad, he was as warm as a faithful dog. He still was, in spite of being rejected.

Her phone buzzed with two messages, they must've been sent when she was out of range earlier.

‘Mum,' she said, rolling her eyes at Dad. ‘Oh god, you'll never guess. She's asking on behalf of Aunty Sandra if she can have the wedding present money back! She's a bit short, apparently.'

‘Oh, Sandra!' Dad said, tutting. ‘Your mother's sister was always tight.'

‘What I can't get over is that they've obviously spoken and agreed my marriage is over. It's just so undermining.'

But then Mum never quite got social niceties or nuances or normal things. Like, when Frankie was a kid when she had to go to her marina show home every other weekend, she wasn't allowed to touch anything; ‘fun' was being dragged round antique shops, and she was expected to eat curry.

‘Then, get this, she wants me to go round and do her an ombre. I despair, I really do.'

‘Well, she wants to see you, love, that's just her way.' Hmm, Dad was too charitable. Mum only ever got in touch when she wanted something. She had never called her just to say ‘hi' or to tell her she loved her. It was the same when she would ring the house after she'd gone. Brief, contained conversations about school, and then the pause before she hung up, as if she had wanted to say something meaningful but could never bring herself to say it.

Frankie huffed then went on to the next message.

‘It's Jason! He's sorry for not texting earlier, work's been mad busy. Everyone wants scaffolding up for their summer renovations.'

As much as she wanted to be wary of him, she lapped up his excuse. It was true that this time of year was full-on. And still, even when he'd been putting up scaffolding, it was clear she had been on his mind.

‘And oh God, he wants to come round to see me. Is that good or bad? Like, is he going to hand me divorce papers or is he going to ask to come back?'

Quickly, she ran through her options. If he was going to end it properly she had to make sure she looked so gorgeous he'd rethink. But if it was about the possibility of getting back together, then she'd have to keep going with her sex education so that when he came back to her, she'd never be boring in bed ever again.

Dad, though, was calm in the face of panic.

‘The one thing I know, love,' he said, ‘it's pointless prejudging anyone or anything. I'm afraid you're going to have to wait and see.'

Then he collected their plates, plopped them into the beige plastic washing up bowl, ran the taps and began to whistle as he looked out onto the concrete side-return of next door's house.

Oh. It wasn't quite the reaction she'd hoped to have from him. It made her feel a bit flat. But then, he would be cautious, seeing as he'd never opened his heart up to anyone again.

Em felt fantastic. She was so excited about being back, she'd practically run to work.

Even better, she was first in of the managerial staff. It meant she could thank her colleagues for their concern over her health but wave it away as old news, seeing as she'd been in since 6 a.m.

Besides, she wasn't ill – just pregnant. The nausea had suddenly gone and her energy levels were back to normal, which she put to good use making sure the store was clean, safe and stocked for 7 a.m. when the doors opened.

Getting everything ready for curtains up always seemed an impossible task. Night-shift shelf-stackers were flagging, cardboard boxes littered the floor and there was a rush on to unload three 40-foot trailers of groceries, which amounted to between 80-90 pallets. But somehow, it got done – just as the
Great British Bake-Off
contestants managed to deliver a final tweak when the timer went off, the butchers, bakers and fishmongers would have their wares laid out as the first customer entered the shop. After that, she'd given a talk to the new recruits who were being till-trained about the supermarket ethos called Helping Hands. Help those who looked like they needed it, but never badger those who didn't.

Now, she was sat at her desk, scaling the wall of emails which had built up in her absence. Four hundred and ninety-seven in eight days, most of which were corporate announcements, queries and union notices, plus a few messages about the baby.

HR had sent through a wad of documents about maternity leave, which she flagged and filed to read tonight. She had decided to tell the HR manager about the baby earlier than she was compelled to by law. The rules said you didn't have to say anything until fifteen weeks before your due date but Em wanted to be up front – and it wouldn't be long until she would be literally up front too. It meant they could plan her cover – and it would help her chances of promotion if she could demonstrate that she thought strategically.

Sly poked her face round the door. ‘Darling, managerial meeting in ten minutes, just to remind you,' she said. ‘And no bloody fainting this time.'

Em laughed and nodded. She couldn't wait to get stuck in. ‘Anything I've missed?' she asked, wanting a heads-up just in case.

‘Mr R has just this second notified head office of his decision to take early retirement,' Sly said, winking. ‘You better dust off your CV because HR will want to get this sorted ASAP, what with Christmas starting in September here.'

Em did a quick analysis: however much they'd appreciate her heads-up of her pregnancy, she didn't want to be busting at the seams at her interview. The sooner the better meant she could make her case without a bump as a physical barrier because people made assumptions about appearances. Her waist had thickened, yes, and her boobs had grown a cup size already, but she hoped she'd be one of those women who didn't show too early. And she was due in February, so she would be there for the build-up to Christmas and through the season, which was the busiest time of year.

‘Perfect, thank you,' Em said, giving her a thumbs up. ‘I'll be there in five.'

She sat back and put her hands behind her head, determined to beat Simon Brown to that promotion not with underhand tactics but graft and good ideas. Maybe, just maybe, she could almost have it all. The job, the baby, the house. Not the man, obviously, but three out of four wasn't bad. During her time off, she'd squared the circle in her head; she would be doing it herself. It wasn't ideal, far from it, but lots of people managed it, so why couldn't she? What with Floyd flapping around her by insisting she didn't lift anything ‘in her condition' and Frankie and Letty talking babygros and cots, Em was entirely grateful to know she wouldn't be going into it alone. Yes, she'd have to be mum
and
dad, but Floyd would be around, as well as her two best friends.

She checked her watch, seven minutes to go, she had time to do a bit more deleting, so she refreshed her email. Simon Brown's name appeared at the top. Her eyes widened and her heart leapt at the sight – then she felt afraid. What did he want? The subject line made her gulp: it said ‘stuff', which could mean anything. She desperately wanted it to be work-related because personal things would only make her think again and she'd done enough of that. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she wondered if she should save it until after the meeting. But what if it was to do with Mr Roberts' announcement? News travelled fast and she needed to be in the know if Simon Brown had any inside knowledge that he was sharing. She had to read it.