The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green (7 page)

‘We'd have to have some rules,' she said primly.

‘Yep,' he said, now serious. ‘Like Em never finding out or she'd kill us both and make one of her fancy hotpots out of our remains. Probably a sausage tagine, in my case.'

A thought struck her then – what if he was only doing it out of pity? She started to bluster, telling him he could change his mind, right now if he wanted to. ‘I just don't know what you'll be getting out of it, really. It's not as though I'm any good, is it?'

‘What I'll be getting out of it?' he asked incredulously. ‘A young lady asks a saddo bloke to teach her how to do it. Does he a) bite her hand off, b) agree out of altruism or c) accept because he needs to get his ex out of his head? All three of the above, thank you very much.'

‘Right. Okay then,' she said, heartened. ‘This is all so very bizarre. I think I'm in shock!'

Floyd held his glass in the air to make a toast. ‘Bottoms up?' he said.

Dear God, she thought, I hope he isn't expecting that.

Em was crouched over the loo, willing herself to vomit quietly. So much for morning sickness, she thought; it was mid-afternoon.

She flushed once more, then realized that was the fourth time, and Floyd would have to be an idiot not to think something was going on.

‘Have you blocked the loo, you stinker?' came his voice at the bathroom door.

‘Go away!' she said through gritted teeth. She was reminded of their childhood when this sort of exchange would spark off a lecture from Mum about using fewer sheets to save the environment. He wouldn't get a telling off, he never did, because Mum believed in freedom of expression.

She unlocked the door and swung it open to see Floyd's grinning face – complete with one of her plastic pegs on his nose. ‘Bugger off!' she said, pushing him out the way.

‘Steady!' he said, following her. Then he took in her white face. ‘Shit, Em, you look awful.'

‘Why thank you, Prince Charming.' She didn't want him poking his nose in when she was yet to get her head around this situation.

‘Are you all right?' he said, leaning in with concern.

‘Oh, I think I'm just hungover. Or it could've been a dodgy burger at the barbecue,' she lied.

‘That's weird because I'm okay. Hang on,' he said, as Em saw the cogs turning, ‘you didn't drink yesterday, you drove my car back. What's going on?'

‘Nothing,' she said, reaching for the TV controls to find something that'd grab his attention. But she was out of luck – there was no sport, no
Top of the Pops 2
to laugh at, and not a single documentary. She picked a channel at random and hoped for the best when the adverts had finished.

‘You've been acting weird lately. You know,' he said, assuming his favourite pose of crossed legs and steepled fingers. Then in his ‘work voice' he said: ‘My door is always open if you're having any issues.'

Em's poker face focused on the telly and she muttered: ‘I'm fine.'

But then the music started for
One Born Every Minute
and she began to fluster. This was not the moment to see newborn babies – but if she reacted he'd notice. So she sat very still and considered what to do.

Floyd picked up his guitar which was upright against the wall beside the settee and began to pluck at a few strings. This was a good sign, she thought, he could sit for hours playing music – she could eat a cushion and he wouldn't notice. She plotted her exit. It had to be quick, before she witnessed a birth. Because the sight of medical staff would remind her she had yet to make an appointment with the doctor to make what she had decided official. Should she offer a cup of tea? No, she didn't want to pull him out of his reverie. She was just about to get up when ‘waaaaah!', a baby announced its arrival into the world.

From nowhere, tears came to Em's eyes, her breathing began to shudder and her shoulders started to shake. Two seconds later, as the tiny little thing took in gulps of air and fought the light with fists, a wail came from her mouth.

‘What the shit, Em?' Floyd said, dropping his guitar. He moved in to comfort her, then pulled back, obviously wondering if he was to blame and he was about to get a dead arm. ‘Have I done something? Because if I have I'm sorry. The blocked loo thing, I didn't mean it,' he said, his eyes wide.

Still crying hard, Em shook her head to show that that wasn't it. She couldn't speak and neither did she want to. She needed to keep this secret to herself; he was a flipping counsellor and trained to crack her.

Knowing now he wasn't about to get it in the neck, Floyd put an arm around her, stroking her hair with his free hand. Immediately, everything changed. She felt disarmed, but not in a bad way. Safe, that's how she felt, and just as protected and loved as the day he'd picked her up when she'd fallen over during playtime at school and knocked out a milk tooth. That was the best thing about brothers and sisters – you could be deadly enemies one minute, but should there be a threat, you'd morph into one, united. His hug was a basic gesture but one that proved her worth, she realized. It was enough to halt her distress, to make her see he was her ally and she was going to need him. If she sobbed at a stupid TV programme with no warning, then how was she going to cope for the rest of her life? She had to make sure she had some support. ‘Floyd, I need to tell you…'

‘Shhhh, there, there,' he said, still in soothing mode. ‘Let it go, let it all go.'

‘I'm…'

‘Let it all out,' he said.

‘I'm trying to!' she said, raising the volume. ‘Will you just stop interrupting?'

‘Oh, sorry! Go on.'

While she wanted to escape his bear hug because now her nose had cleared she could smell his unshowered body, she decided to stay put. Em didn't want to see his reaction. She knew him so well, and whatever reserve he showed his clients, when it came to her, he was prone to over-excitement even at the smallest revelation. He might be thirty-four but in her mind he was only ever a few seconds away from shouting ‘Mu-um!'.

‘So, Floyd. I'm in a situation,' she began, feeling him nod. ‘And I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Mum or Dad. Or anyone.'

‘Yup, roger that,' he said, earnestly.

‘Right,' she said, suddenly stuck for words when public speaking had never been an issue before. ‘The thing is, Floyd… you're going to be… an uncle.'

‘Oh, that's lovely!' he said, squeezing her. ‘Who's having a baby? And why are you upset about it?'

For someone educated up to the eyeballs, Floyd was a total thicko at times. ‘What do you mean who's having a baby?' she said.

‘Well, one of our friends. Or a cousin or… You know, people get called “uncle” all the time, even if they're not related. Like Uncle Barnaby, Dad's friend. He was a legend, he was. He brought us sweets behind Mum's back. Lemon sherbets, if I remember rightly. Oh,' he said as if the penny had dropped, ‘you're not worrying about your fertility, are you? Is this why you're sad? Seriously, you're a whippersnapper, you have all the time in the world.'

‘Floyd Good-Fellow, you are insane. Let me spell this out: the word “uncle” derives from the Latin avuncular meaning “little grandfather” and is a family relationship between a person and his or her parent's brother.'

‘I know!' he said, offended. ‘I'm not stupid.'

‘You're doing a very good impression of it. Listen to me, Floyd, I'm pregnant. Me. No one else. Me.' It was the first time she'd said it to anyone: the prospect of speaking it aloud had weighed heavily upon her but thanks to Floyd's exasperating idiocy, it had come out easily.

Floyd scrambled to his feet. ‘You?' he said, his eyeballs popping.

‘Yes, me,' she sighed.

‘But how?' he said, his arms wide.

‘A sperm fertilized one of my eggs. It's called reproduction.'

‘I know that! I meant, I didn't even know you were seeing someone.'

‘I'm not.'

‘What the actual fuck? What are you going to do?' he yelled, showing zero of his professional cool.

‘I've told you,' she said, strangely calm in the wake of his discomposure, which only made her more certain of her resolve. ‘You're going to be an uncle. I've decided I'm keeping the baby.'

He'd meant it, she still couldn't quite get over it. Even now, the day after Floyd had texted suggesting a ‘meeting' to ‘finalize the arrangement'. He was due here any minute and she was in a state, having changed her outfit three times already. Standing in her dressing gown, the dilemma was this: too much flesh on show and she'd feel a fraud, too little and she might as well be going to a funeral.

She was painfully aware of the irony of the situation: he was going to end up seeing her naked, so why was she bothering getting stressed about what to wear? Because the experience she did have had been ground to dust by Jason's departure. Unable to fall back on that, she was starting from scratch. She didn't have dating experience to help her out. She didn't know the code of signals and glances which paved the way to bed. She was going in at the deep end.

And there'd be no ‘will-we-won't-we-have-sex' build-up, which made it really confusing. Did she need to bother making an effort at all and cut to the chase by greeting him with nothing on? Or should she get into her best underwear just in case he intended on marking her with score cards? There was also the matter of the teacher-pupil relationship; should this be reflected in her clothes?

She could hardly put on a school uniform. She shuddered at the thought of the tacky role-play she knew Letty had got up to over the years. Nothing, nothing, would persuade her to wear a naughty schoolgirl outfit and if Floyd suggested it, then that'd be the end of it, she vowed. That thought persuaded her to go for what she suspected she'd wear all along – skinny jeans and a baggy tunic top. It was the closest she'd get to looking like it was no big deal. Leonardo, who'd been observing her panic like a watchman from the windowsill, signalled his approval by jumping across to the bed to curl up nose to tail.

As she reached for her trousers on the floor, she caught sight of her bum in the mirror. It was then she acknowledged her biggest fear, the thing that underpinned all of her anxiety: being nude with another man. She'd never been naked with anyone but Jason. He'd only slept with one girl before her – Tanya Weeks. So his experience had been limited. But for all she knew, he could be out there right now doing it, finally realizing that Frankie's body wasn't normal. What if she was actually really hairy or had odd-shaped nipples and she didn't know it? And what if she was a freak ‘down there' compared to other women? She stopped to examine herself: the plump bottom-heavy size fourteen body had become slimmer. Still a pear, but she was a size tennish pear and her boobs were perkier now they'd got a bit smaller. It wasn't too horrific a sight, surely? Then there was the matter of Floyd's ‘thing'; she was going to see only the second one of her life in the flesh. She had to face up to it, so she forced herself to say the word ‘penis' out loud and ended up gagging on it, which certainly didn't bode well.

It wasn't too late to pull out, she thought. What on earth was she doing getting herself into this? And what if after all this she wasn't into him enough to be physically able to perform? Sure, they had a banter going and he was handsome in a wholesome kind of way. But no one other than Jason had ever given her the thrills. There wasn't time to text Floyd because he'd be on his way, but if she let him in she could say ‘thanks, I've changed my mind', and return to the safety of what she knew. Not this terrifying cliff edge on which she was teetering – she felt the fight or flight sensation running through her veins. Sweat formed at the backs of her knees and her palms were clammy. This was total insanity. This was—

Sugar! There was the doorbell. Leonardo scarpered under the bed. This was a terrible mistake. Frozen, she wondered if she should pretend she was out. But then her famous banger of a Mini was in the drive and the downstairs windows were open. He would only try to ring and he'd know she was refusing to pick up. Defeated, she slowly trod down the stairs, seeing his tall, dark outline through the frosted glass. She paused on the bottom step. This was horrific – why hadn't she realized it was going to be like this?

He knocked again, then he bent down and she saw the letter box flip open. Please, God, let him slip a note through saying he's had a change of heart. Instead, a pair of brown eyes creased with a smile peered through and met hers.

‘Aren't you going to let me in?' Floyd said, amused. ‘Or are you out?'

‘Yes, I'm not here,' she said, blushing.

‘Oh that's a shame because I've got a takeaway and I was going to share it, but I'll just have to sit on the step and stick my snout in like a pig. Unless you can pass a fork through the letter box?'

Frankie squeaked as some of the tension inside her escaped like air from a balloon. She had no other choice but to answer the door.

‘Hi,' was all she could manage when she opened up because her mouth had dried up.

‘Shall we do it now then? On the stairs?'

‘WHAT?'

‘Joke. It was a joke, Frankie. Calm down. Let's just eat.'

Floyd led the way into the kitchen and started rattling around for plates and cutlery. ‘Sit down,' he told her, while he laid the table, switched on the radio, then complained she was far too young to be listening to Radio 2 and switched it to 6 Music. ‘Good day?' he asked warmly, uncovering plastic cartons of fragrant Thai rice, noodles and vegetables, and unscrewing a bottle of wine. He seemed to be completely at home here, busying himself with the food and looking up every now and then with ‘go on, I'm listening' eyes.