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Frankie Green’s happy ever after is put on hold when her childhood sweetheart husband complains things are boring in bed.
When he asks for some space, she sets out to win him back by getting herself a sex education.
Little does she know that her hilarious, tender and embarrassing journey of enlightenment is going to change everything...
A story full of humour, heartache and happiness, of friendship, coming of age and overcoming insecurity.
Cover
Welcome Page
About The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green
Dedication
One night in May…
Two Months Later, a Tuesday Night in July…
Wednesday
That Night
The Next Day…
Saturday
Later…
The Next Day
Three Days Later
Meanwhile…
Back at Frankie’s…
Thursday
Monday Morning
Later
The Next Day…
Thursday Night: Lesson One
Meanwhile…
Back At Frankie’s…
Saturday Morning
Meanwhile…
Monday
Tuesday Night
Thursday, Lesson Two
At the Same Time…
Back at Frankie’s
Saturday
Meanwhile…
Tuesday Afternoon
Thursday Night
Meanwhile… Lesson Three
Monday Night
Tuesday
Wednesday Night
Meanwhile…
At the Same Time… Lesson Four
Friday
Sunday
Tuesday
Saturday
That Night – Lessons Five and Six
Monday
Tuesday Night
Wednesday
Meanwhile…
Thursday
Saturday Morning
Later
Meanwhile…
The Early Hours of Sunday Morning
Sunday Afternoon
The Early Hours of Tuesday
That Morning
Thursday
Meanwhile…
A Bit Later…
Saturday
Frankie
Six Months Later… April
Acknowledgments
About Laura Kemp
Preview
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For the friends who are family
Frankie shivered as she waited for Jason to unveil his surprise.
‘Keep your eyes closed,’ he said, rustling about with something as his movements shook the king-size bed.
With a smile on her face, she couldn’t believe that after fourteen years together he still made her all tingly. In fact, tonight was the tingliest she’d ever felt, she decided, as a wand of fairy dust sprinkled excitement on her toes, which raced all the way up her bare body. Except for the bits covered up by her new matching white M&S underwear.
It was their first wedding anniversary and they were in the same posh hotel room where they’d started life as Mr and Mrs Green.
Soon they’d be making love in their familiar way, his body on hers was all she desired. The girls teased her for having only slept with one person but she was so relieved she hadn’t had to kiss any frogs like they had – and still had to. But his muscular weight was the measure of their love; it was solid and secure and, secretly, she wanted to feel possessed by her man. Just as she had done at lunch when he led the way to their table overlooking Cardiff Bay’s glorious waterfront. Their hideaway was only ten minutes from their house in the city but she saw no need, and had no desire, to go anywhere else.
‘This way, Mrs Green,’ he’d said, guiding her to her seat with his lovely old-school manners. She had a glass of pink fizz, her favourite, while he had a bottle of some fancy lager, one he hadn’t tried before, then he’d tried to persuade her to try some chorizo. But she stuck to her trusted bangers and mash followed by banoffee pie – the exact meal they’d had for their wedding breakfast.
The only fly in the ointment had been when she’d brought up starting a family next year. A cloud had crossed his usually cheerful face. He didn’t think he felt ready, he’d said, taking her hand and squeezing it affectionately. ‘I just want to enjoy us for a bit longer, there’s so much fun to be had. It was a big enough deal to get married, wasn’t it?’ he’d said, smiling his irresistible smile.
She’d felt bitterly disappointed, not because she felt broody. After all, they did have masses to finish in the house and she honestly had nothing to worry about because she had years before her biological clock started ringing. But because that’s what couples did, wasn’t it? Domestic bliss equalled the patter of tiny feet. She was tired of her hairdressing clients asking when she was going to have a baby. On the plus side, Frankie was flattered he still prized her company and didn’t want to share her after all this time.
They’d met in the first week of college: he was her first and only boyfriend and she loved it that way. She was forever his Tinkerbell, the pet name he had given her from day one, owing to her long blonde hair, blue eyes and her figure that back then was a perfect hourglass, but was now a tad plumper thanks to her love handles. He was the only one for her. He was perfect, with his boyish good looks and easy-going nature. He was positive, kind, generous and…
‘Almost ready, Tink,’ he said, from his pillow. She beamed, hearing the thrill of anticipation in his voice. What was he going to produce? A piece of jewellery, maybe, or some lingerie? Whatever it was, she would adore it because he knew her taste was simple but elegant.
There was the muffled sound of fabric then a click. It was all too much for Frankie so she peeped through her eyelashes. And then she wished she hadn’t. In the place of the box from Tiffany’s she’d been hoping for was a fluffy black handcuff attaching one of her blindfolded husband’s wrists to the bed railings. He’d used her scarf, her best flowery one in fact, to tie round his head to hide his eyes. Inside her head she screamed ‘Oh my God’ but she was so horrified, the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, her eyes nearly popped out of her skull.
‘Frankie? Are you there?’ Jason said. ‘Say something! What do you think?’ he asked, as if he was showing her a new T-shirt.
‘You… look like a hostage,’ she said, aghast at how the blindfold made his crew cut and stubble seem like he’d been taken captive. Wincing, she knew this wasn’t what he’d intended. It was a good job he couldn’t see her face, which was contorted with shock and disgust. Kinky sex had never appealed to her – whenever she came across it in magazines, she’d flick past to find the romantic questionnaire instead. Mum had given her a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey and while Frankie had soaked up the love story, she was bewildered by all the equipment.
Jason’s laughter turned her stomach now. ‘Come on!’ he said, ‘I’m your slave, do whatever you want to me.’
She ran through her options like a shopping list: lock herself in the loo? Say she had a headache? Or have a go? But what was she supposed to do to him, specifically? Cover him in whipped cream and call him Margaret?
‘The only thing I think I’m capable of, Jason, is tickling you,’ she said, wincing at her cluelessness as her fingers wiggled. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just confused, this is so out of the blue.’ She pulled his mask up onto his forehead so he looked like a camp Rambo; she needed eye contact. That way they could be honest, which was how they’d always operated. But while his big brown eyes usually shone with warmth, now they were hurt.
‘I was just trying to liven things up,’ he said, staring down. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘Because…’
‘Because?’ she asked, warily. What was going on?
‘I dunno, things are a bit, you know, predictable in bed, that’s all.’
‘Oh,’ Frankie said, touching her face as if his words had slapped her cheek. She smarted from both the shock of his confession and the naive shame that she hadn’t realized he’d been unsatisfied when she thought they were a flawless fit. ‘You never mentioned it…’
‘No,’ he said, meeting her gaze with embarrassment, then looking away again.
A chill snaked its way around her heart as she waited for him to elaborate. But he remained quiet, pensive.
‘We’re okay, aren’t we?’ she asked nervously, searching his troubled face for a smile. Because they did it twice a week, which was ‘very good’ according to the experts. And Jason always seemed content afterwards. ‘Oh, God, is it because I’ve put on a bit of weight over the last year? It’s just because I’m so happy, that’s all.’
‘No, don’t be silly, you’re perfect,’ he said, reaching for her hand then placing it down softly on the duvet as if it was porcelain. ‘Maybe that’s the problem. You’re too perfect.’
‘What? I don’t understand,’ she said, wishing – no, praying that he would leap up, yell ‘joke!’ and they’d have a laugh then clean their teeth together, like they did every night. But he was silent. It was a very bad sign. There was no denial, no ‘everything is fine’. This was even more worrying than the sight of him trussed up. ‘Jase?’ she asked, her heart running up her throat with fear as the bed tilted and she lost her balance.
‘I love you, you know that, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she replied in a tiny voice, with her heart now in her mouth, terrified of what was about to happen. This was how people started talking when there was a heartbreaking and life-changing ‘but’. When bad things happened and they became defining ‘before’ and ‘after’ moments. Like the time Mum told them she was leaving. She pushed the memory of her parents’ split out of her mind; she was anxious enough already and didn’t need to think of that too. This wasn’t supposed to be happening to her. ‘What is it?’ she said, panicking. ‘Because whatever it is, we can put it right. We’re in love. We’re together forever, like you always said, remember?’
But, oh, Frankie’s fear mounted as he failed to answer her. It was a pathetic sight as Jason sighed heavily, unlocked the handcuff and threw his mask to the floor. He turned his back to her, sitting on the edge of the bed, bent his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. Then he spoke. ‘Don’t you ever wonder what else is out there, Frankie? Don’t you wonder if we got together too young and we missed out on stuff? Like, we needed a change but we thought the wedding was the next step instead of being brave enough to live a little, then settle down. Don’t you ever wonder that?’
Inside, she screamed, “No, never” – but her voice let her down. She wanted him to stop – how much more could she take? – but she could see by his drooping posture that he wasn’t finished.
‘Ever since we got married, I’ve felt sort of numb. Lost. As if everything’s a grey blur. I even went to see a doctor, thinking I had something wrong with me. But there wasn’t. I knew then I wasn’t happy. And it’s not fair on you to carry on. Because I can’t. Not like this. I’m so, so sorry.’
His words were clearly well-rehearsed which was the most hurtful thing of all. He’d obviously been waiting to tell her. This wasn’t some spur of the moment thing; he meant it.
Panicking, she stalled for time. ‘The doctors? Why didn’t you tell me? We tell each other everything.’ He just shook his head. ‘We can sort it out,’ she pleaded, desperate now. ‘We know each other inside out.’ Jason’s shoulders began to shrug as he broke down.
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.
Frankie waited until Letty had finished ordering more wine – and flirting with the waiter – then turned the spotlight on her. She always had something, or more accurately someone, happening in her life. ‘What about you and that Aussie, the personal trainer? Or have you moved on?’
‘Come to your senses more like,’ Em tutted, referring to the awful fact he was in a relationship and had a young kid.
Frankie prayed she’d stop there. Both her and Em had made known their disapproval, there was no need to drag it up again. Letty shifted in her seat for a second. Frankie knew she felt terrible about it. But did she feel terrible enough to have called it off?
Letty, who spoke like a bottle of shaken up Coca-Cola, launched in. ‘It’s just sex. And yes, I know I said it wouldn’t happen again but I’m only killing time before I meet someone. There’s nothing in it. Just keeping the motor running.’
Em arched a cynical eyebrow.
‘Honest to God, I mean it!’ Letty said, defensively, but with vulnerable eyes. ‘Why does no one take me seriously?’
‘We do, we do,’ Frankie said, knowing that this was Letty’s greatest insecurity. In work and in love, Letty yearned to be seen as more than a pair of boobs – admittedly, she did have great ones. But she’d been treated badly by blokes and had never had the break to become an account executive at the public relations company where she was secretary, so it was a raw nerve.
‘Give me some credit, I’m hardly going to fall for a man called Lance Boddy, am I? A man who named his gym The Boddy Shop! I mean, how naff is that?’ she said, laughing, throwing her hands in the air like a flamenco dancer. The trouble was, Letty had form. ‘I could fall into a bucket of naked men who had ‘boyfriend material’ stamped on their heads and I’d still come up sucking my own thumb,’ Letty had said the last time she’d been dumped, that time, by a model. She just didn’t like run-of-the-mill guys. But why did that mean they treated her so badly when she was so fabulous? It was all very unfair.
‘Twenty-first-century fitness is about being lean and smart. But he makes it sound like he’s a rescue centre for old bangers!’
Just like that, Letty covered up what she considered to be a show of weakness with humour. It was how she dealt with things. Underneath, Frankie knew that Letty was just like her and Em, wanting her own special someone.
Then two pairs of eyes flicked towards Frankie. It was her turn. ‘Right, well, I’m not bad, you know. Jase came round to collect some stuff the other day, that was awful. But lovely too, just to see him,’ she said, feeling her chin wobble. She paused. It was no use, she couldn’t keep it in. ‘I still want him back, I still love him,’ she admitted, crumbling, feeling a relief at letting it out. ‘Like, I miss him every day, so badly. The bed is too big without him. I feel like I’m rattling around the house. My heart jumps every time I get a text or the phone calls. I see shadows of him everywhere.’
Letty got up to give her a cwtch, the Welsh word she used for a cuddle.
Em went into problem-solving mode, as ever. ‘You need a project,’ she said. This was classic Em – hand her a situation and she would try to fix it. ‘Something to keep you busy. Distracted. You can’t waste your time wondering what will be because it might never happen. Get on with things, that’s the only way. Talking of which, I’m starving. I’m going to start.’
Bless Em, but she could be so blunt and it only made Frankie feel worse. Letty clocked her despair. ‘There’s nothing wrong with keeping the faith,’ she said kindly. Thank goodness for Letty’s soft side. ‘But I also agree with Em,’ she added, making Frankie groan.
‘Distraction is good at a time like this. And I know just the thing – going on the rebound can work wonders.’
‘I didn’t mean that sort of distraction,’ Em said, stopping to frown, before she carried on loading her plate. ‘I meant exercise or an evening class or something. Not the kind you do with your PT.’
‘But it could make Jason see sense, you know, make him jealous, and if it doesn’t then at least Frankie is getting some practice after what he said,’ Letty added.
‘I am here, you know,’ Frankie coughed, feeling a sting from the mention of Jason’s boring-in-bed comment. It had been a serious blow to her confidence.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, babes,’ Letty said, with genuine concern, ‘We didn’t mean to make you feel bad… Now, are you going to try some of this octopus?’
‘In a sec,’ Frankie said, hesitating.
‘Well, let me just take a shot of it first. I’ll put it on Instagram, I will,’ Letty said. ‘Bit of a crop and a filter... and there... boom. It’s on my feed.’
Frankie didn’t get why people shared photos of avocados and sunsets but she guessed in Letty’s circumstances it helped her to see the positives when she was struggling to find any. Then, no more time-wasting, it was over to Frankie.
She took a breath to prepare for her Bushtucker Trial. Unfortunately, Ant and Dec were nowhere to be seen to save her.
As Frankie raised her fork, Em launched in with one of her ‘interesting facts’. ‘Did you know reproduction is a cause of death in octopuses and males can only live a few months after mating?’
That was it. With her stomach churning, Frankie’s hand dropped to the table with a clunk. Playing it safe seemed far more tempting right now than living a little.
The next one-hundred-and-twenty seconds are going to determine the rest of my life, Em thought.
As she sat on the toilet seat behind a locked door during her morning tea-break, she could hear echoes of footsteps marching past the ladies’. It was usually her clip-clopping purposefully on her way to human resources, the canteen or the manager’s office. Instead, due to an act utterly out of character, she could soon be waddling her way down the corridor. And then, worse, barefoot and stranded at home.
Once more, it took her breath away when she thought about that night. After hiding her feelings for five weeks, six days, twenty one hours and twelve minutes, she’d finally been able to let her head clock off and her heart start the night shift. His shy smile, his delicious lips, his considerate question: if she was really sure? The fact he didn’t laugh when her name badge poked into his chest. How they melted into bed yet she felt as if she was flying a slow-motion loop-the-loop.
She didn’t believe in magic but that was the word that kept coming to her as she recalled Simon Brown’s touch. Looking back, it had all seemed so inevitable and – now she could admit it – it had felt like that in the build-up too. Yet hadn’t she always said fate was nonsense and that free will and hard work got you through life?
It had been the most frustrating and bewildering thing that had ever happened to her, she thought, as the digital numbers on her watch counted upwards. She and Simon Brown had instantly clicked, something that very rarely happened to her. She knew she was geeky – her brother Floyd had nicked all the touchy-feely genes and she’d been left with a better understanding of details and numbers than of people. That’s why she’d been so surprised by their friendship. Simon Brown had come from his small store in Bristol, where he was assistant manager, to her mammoth one for a six-week secondment shadowing her. It meant they were together every day, including breaks, when he would ask questions and listen to her answers. They occasionally touched, her guiding him with an arm to look at something in the warehouse or him reaching out to ask for an explanation about stock control. Each time she felt an electricity race through her, as if she was being rebooted. But she told herself ‘stop right there’ when she began to yearn for more. It was unprofessional. And he wouldn’t see her as anything more than a colleague, she was sure of it.
Yet he was different – men in his position were usually cocky know-it-alls, round here they said blokes like that ‘thought they were chocolate’. But Simon Brown respected her. At his leaving do, he said as much in his speech.
Then as easily as he took off his tie and rolled it neatly to fit into his pocket on the walk across the industrial park to TGI Friday’s, he’d told her he’d really enjoyed working with her – in fact, what he meant was he’d really enjoyed it and… After that it all fell into place, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They found a booth and spoke all night, oblivious to the party people leaving as soon as they’d realized there would be no raucous piss-up. She’d asked if he wanted a nightcap at hers – a Scottish whisky from her Highlands hike last year, which turned out to be his favourite Scotch. Sexual encounters had been few and far between for Em – she wouldn’t sleep with just anyone. Not that she was given the option. There had only been two others before Simon Brown: one from school, the other someone at university. But sleeping with him had been a revelation, a wonderful one, because it was sex on a different level. Physical had met mental.
Then, the morning after, came the excuses. Again, remembering it as she perched on a white plastic toilet seat, Em felt her heart respond to the hurt – the pain of having fallen for someone who didn’t feel the same. And her insides lurched when she considered how things were supposed to be. She’d decided long ago she would get married, have two children, a boy and a girl, with eighteen months between them, unless she was lucky enough to have twins. But when Simon Brown walked away, he took her hope with him. She’d clicked and dragged the file marked ‘life plan’ into the trash can.
Seeking calm, she looked at the floor tiles between her polished court shoes; the sight of straight lines and right angles usually soothed her. But not today. She was so desperate not to be pregnant in this situation that she apologized to any god who might be up there for being an atheist. If he or she could possibly help her out, she’d definitely reconsider religion.
Returning to her default strategy, she rationalized her situation. Statistically, she was very unlikely to be expecting. She’d Googled it last night and a study on unprotected sex suggested the chances of it leading to pregnancy between a young couple on any random day was five per cent. And having taken the morning after pill, the probability was reduced to almost nothing. Her aching boobs were not a definitive sign because she always had that at her time of the month.
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.
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 repair 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.