The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green (2 page)

She reached out to him, trying to steady him yet he remained aloof. ‘Please, Jason, tell me you're not giving up on us?'

‘I can't… It isn't.'

Frankie hugged herself, feeling pain at the charade of their marriage, at how differently they saw their futures. ‘Oh, God, no,' she whimpered as the tears came. This time, he turned around and embraced her and they hung onto each other, seeking a comfort that was impossible to find.

‘I wish I didn't feel like this,' he offered. ‘I never wanted to hurt you. I love you so much, Tink.'

She moved back from him, her breathing quickening. ‘You're talking as though that's it. It can't be, you can't just announce all of this as though it's your thing. It's
our
thing.'

‘I just feel overwhelmed,' he said, ‘like my whole life is planned out. It's not that I want to travel the world or anything, I just feel hemmed in. I need some time… Some time out.'

‘So go on holiday, do a climbing course, learn to fly, maybe that's all you need,' she said, madly trying to convince herself that was the answer. ‘If it's the baby thing, we can wait for a few years,' she said over-brightly, as if it was the most reasonable offer going.

‘I don't feel as if I'll ever be capable of being responsible enough for fatherhood. I need to sort my head out. Away from…'

‘Me,' she whispered, ‘Away from me.' She felt nauseous at his retreat. ‘How have we gone from being happily married half an hour ago to this? How did I not see this coming?' she wailed.

Even as she said this she began to make a mental list of all the times he'd worked late to avoid coming home, the appointments he'd made up to get out of choosing new kitchen tiles, and the excuses he'd come up with to prevent any plans taking shape. Frankie had translated all of them as signs he was preparing to feather their nest as their marriage headed towards its next phase of parenthood. She'd thought all those extra hours at his dad's scaffolding business and refusing to go on holiday this year had been about him preparing for the future. But it had been his escape. From her. She wept as she registered that everything she thought was true had been pulled from under her and was now out of reach.

Her vision swimming with tears, she felt the terror build. ‘So what now then? Because you seem to have it all worked out.'

‘I think I should move out, give us both some space. So we can work things out. If we can.'

It was all too much to take in.

‘Is there someone else?' she asked, eager to lay the blame elsewhere, convincing herself if it was just a quick fling with another woman then it could be overcome. Failing that, she could find a reason to hate him.

‘No, of course not, it's not about anyone else, it's about me. And you.'

‘If it's the sex thing, I can change, I can,' she said, knowing but not caring that it was a desperate and hollow plea.

‘I'm so sorry, Frankie,' he said, suddenly looking exhausted.

It was over. She could see he'd made up his mind. Frankie felt herself tumbling off the edge, grabbing empty fistfuls of air. Freefalling, she was losing everything she'd ever wanted. The love of her life, her best friend, her soulmate, her future, their past. Terror took its place. She was going to be alone, without him. She didn't want to let go, she wanted to hold on, but he was out of reach. If only she could handcuff herself to him now.

A plump pink blob which curled slightly at one end appeared beneath Frankie's nose and she wanted to cry. How was she expected to put that in her mouth?

She looked at Letitia, who was nodding encouragingly at her.

‘Go on, babes, try it,' she said. ‘It's a bit rubbery, it is, but I guarantee, the “pulpo” is totally lush.'

Frankie gulped and turned to Em, who was prodding it with her fork.

‘Cephalopoda mollusc. Among the most intelligent and behaviourally diverse of all invertebrates. The scientific Latin name of octopus derives from ancient Greek, which translates as “eight-foot”.'

‘That doesn't help, to be honest, Em,' Frankie said, holding her throat. ‘Can't I just start with the patatas bravas or those ham croquette things, because this is my first time trying tapas and, you know, I need to work up to it.'

Over the table packed with exotic dishes, Letty pouted her Spanish genes; she was all crimson lips, with flashing eyes. She finished off by tossing her señorita mane of black curls with a bare shoulder, peeping out of a stunning, and, by the looks of it, expensive black pencil dress. Then she broke the spell with a brazen cackle which revealed her closer Valleys girl roots, which were all heart and gob.

This had been Letty's idea to get Frankie back out there and broaden her horizons. She'd resisted her invites for weeks, preferring to stay in with the girls because she'd wanted to hide from the world. And, privately, she'd thought, on the off chance, that she'd be there if Jason appeared at the door of their marital home, where she remained after he moved out. But then she'd run out of excuses – and Jason hadn't come back. Reluctantly, she had realized her friends only wanted to help. Even so, she still felt the fear, staring down some tentacles.

The restaurant was smack bang in the city centre, fifteen minutes away for all three of them, albeit from different directions. Frankie was from across the river in the busy and cheerful suburb of Canton where she was born and bred, Letty was living it up in the boho-chic area of Pontcanna while Em called the shiny redeveloped docklands of Cardiff Bay home.

To Frankie, Viva Tapas was all exotic and low-lit, with clattering pans and hisses of steam where the chefs worked in an open-plan kitchen-diner. The stainless steel set-up was very dramatic, but she could never live with something so stark and clinical; the wooden units of her kitchen made her two-up two-down in a quiet cul-de-sac homely and safe. Well, they had before Jason had gone. The heavy wafts of sherry and garlic were atmospheric, but she found it a bit overpowering. It was boiling in here too, not helped by the raging heatwave which had wilted her top-knot on her walk into town.

She pulled up her top, regretting the adventurous neckline which made her now feel exposed. Thank goodness for her comfy pants and bra, which held her in nicely. Scratchy undies might look nice but they weren't soft enough, which was was why she had stuck to the same style for the last ten years. When you'd found a formula that worked, you stuck with it.

But in here it felt a bit dangerous. This was the problem with going along with Letty's daring ideas. Not that she meant any harm; she was incredibly loyal, just a bit overwhelming at times. At least Em was here, the sensible buffer to Letty's boisterousness. Frankie pitched in somewhere in the middle – it had always been like this.

They'd met in their first week at secondary school when Em and Letty moved into Frankie's neck of the woods. Floyd and Em had arrived from London for their dad's work while Letty's mum had left the Rhondda for a new start after Letty's dad had gone out to buy some milk and never come back. Frankie, who had been split up from her primary school mates, didn't know anyone in her class. So the three of them had bonded immediately when they discovered they all had distinctive names.

She was Francesca because her mum thought it was classy, while her dad liked it for being the female form of his favourite singer, Frank Sinatra. Em was Emerald Good-Fellow, thanks to her hippy parents, who were in their crystals phase when she was born, and among the first to double-barrel their surnames for equality reasons. Then there was Letitia Cox, christened after her Spanish granny but called Titty – amongst other things – by the boys. Poor love. How they'd wished they'd fitted in like all the other Rebeccas, Samanthas and Rachels. From that beginning, the threesome had loved one another fiercely. And Frankie had no idea how she would've coped if she hadn't had them over the last two months post-Jason.

There had been the initial deep depression at finding herself alone for the first time in her life. That meant a few days moping in her pyjamas at Dad's, where he'd let her talk and howl, all the while trying to get her to eat. She'd been so low she'd even accepted an invite to stay over at Mum's, which she had spent her childhood trying to avoid: her mum tried to help but couldn't quite keep it up. After five minutes of being allowed to analyse the breakdown of her marriage, she'd been told to ‘shush now' because Corrie was on.

There were sudden bouts of crying when flashbacks of happier times hit her at the checkout or the wheel of the car, and one infamous night when Em held her hair back as she was crouched over the loo after too much to drink indoors.

Then anger struck, when she'd bagged up his belongings and cleared the cupboards of his cereal and mugs. A brief stint of numbness too, when she'd cut hair on autopilot, deflecting sympathy with a wave of her scissors. Now, she was living with it; the ‘acceptance' phase, the magazines called it, which meant her grief was less raw. Yet she still held onto the belief that she could win Jason back. He just needed time, she was convinced of it. One day they'd look back and see it as a blip. They still spoke or texted every day or so. Did he ring out of guilt? Partly, she suspected, but they loved each other. And he always picked up, no matter what time she called him or what insult she'd slung at him in the last call. He was also still her husband – in dark moments she wondered for how much longer – and fundamentally a kind man too. Even though he was sleeping on his brother's sofa, he still paid half the mortgage. It kept the hope alive. Only this afternoon she'd replayed her dream of him coming back to her, saying he'd made a mistake and ‘could they start again?' Where and how they would begin, she still didn't know. But she would make it work, it was all she wanted.

After much soul-searching, she realized she
had
had her head in the sand; that was undeniable, otherwise she would've seen the break-up coming. Frankie couldn't be someone she wasn't. And she'd never want to be. Yet she conceded, at the age of thirty, she needed to loosen up and live a little. That Jason hadn't been talking entire rubbish and maybe she should've tried to make things more interesting. Which was why she'd agreed to taste something with eight arms – or were they legs?

‘Look, babes, I understand, you're a bit scared,' Letitia said, warmly. ‘But you need to come out of your shell.'

‘I like my shell,' Em said, staring matter-of-factly through green eyes. She nodded to confirm it, making her poker-straight red bob swing until it fell quickly back into precise place.

‘This is about Frankie, remember, not you,' Letty said, wagging a red-nailed finger at their friend.

Frankie didn't want this to be about her at all, so she changed the subject and asked how they both were.

‘Busy. Tired. Annoyed with Floyd,' Em said, referring to her big brother to whom she had offered her spare room for the night, after his landlord had sold his flat. That had been six months ago. ‘He's lovely but he's noisy and messy and he still acts like he's fourteen.'

Frankie nodded sympathetically, knowing how larger than life, six-foot-enormous Floyd could be. She could imagine Em accusing him of making her neat flat look untidy just because of the way his limbs sprawled when he sat down. And he'd fill the place with his personality too.

‘The other day,' Em continued, ‘for no reason whatsoever, he tucked two mangoes in his vest and announced he was “a lady”. He's thirty-four, for goodness sake.'

Letty stifled a laugh which Em ignored, looking downcast. ‘Work is mental too.'

Ah, that was the real reason for her peaky pallor. It meant so much to her. Of the three of them, she was the career woman. If they'd been in
Sex And The City
, Letty would've been Samantha because she was sex-mad and she worked at a glitzy public relations company, Em was Miranda the lawyer (minus the girlfriend), and she was sensible Charlotte. With no fourth gang member, Frankie had considered christening her sleek black psychic black cat Carrie courtesy of her white paws, which she imagined to be Jimmy Choos. Until
she
turned out to be a
he
. So it was Leonardo di Catprio instead after her favourite actor.

‘It's this weather,' Em said, now animated. ‘Did you know, a rise of just four degrees from twenty to twenty-four Celsius means sales of burgers increases by forty-two per cent? Make that ten degrees, as is forecast this weekend, and you're looking at three hundred per cent more barbecue meat and fifty per cent more coleslaw. It's not just getting the supplies, which everyone is fighting over, it's finding the space too.'

‘Well, I never knew that!' Frankie said, in awe of her friend's important role. Frankie's idea of an emergency was her hairdryer breaking down. Which actually wouldn't ever happen because she was capable enough to have a spare. Two, actually.

‘And it's all to be done in this heat. It's making me feel ill.' Em was too pale to enjoy anything beyond spring and autumn.

‘What about Simon? Have you seen him lately?' Frankie said gingerly; it was always a gamble asking about Em's private life. But she wanted her to know she was interested and ready to listen, to show she wanted to pay back her friends' support and relationship talk wasn't taboo. After all, he was the only bloke Em had mentioned in forever.

‘No,' Em said in a clipped voice. ‘No Simon Brown news.' She always referred to him using his full name, it was one of her quirks and it was charmingly old-fashioned.

Then she went silent. But she was fidgeting with her hair, double-checking the top button of her white crisp shirt was done up, and the slightest flush of pink came to her cheeks. Frankie ached for her – it could only mean she was still besotted. Yet she didn't dare point it out – she'd been the one who'd ‘had it all' but look how much of a fantasy that had been.