‘Grace?’
‘What?’
‘Mum wants you to sing at the party tonight?’
‘Why does she want me to sing? She’s never heard me sing.’
‘She has. She was going through all the old home videos and she came across our Year Ten Christmas show. Do you remember?’
‘Oh, yeah, didn’t I sing that Mariah Carey song?’
‘You were amazing.’
‘And didn’t you read some poem?’
‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘I well had a crush on you then.’
‘Soft.’ I smile at him. ‘You’d better tell your mum I can’t sing.’
‘Grace, just sing. You’re in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be fine.’
‘Danny!’ I shout. ‘No!’ I hate to get cross, but sometimes it’s necessary. ‘I’m not singing, OK. Jesus!’
Obviously we’re late. We walk into the living room and everyone already has the ruddy glow of at least two drinks and all the best bits from the buffet table have been devoured. The good thing about Danny’s parents’ house is that it’s cosy and warm with old beams and open fires. Just the sort of place youwant to arrive at after four and half hours of driving in a Nissan Micra.
‘Danny!’ shrieks his mum. ‘And Gracie! Look, here she is.’
I love, love, love Danny’s mum. In many ways I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s more my mum than my mum. I was gutted when they decided to move to Wales. I used to adore going to their house in London. Danny’s an only child, like me, and when the four of us had dinner there, it felt like a proper family meal. Mrs Saunders would keep the conversation going with questions and stories, and she was always interested and thoughtful. I love roast chicken, so she’d often make it for me, and when I became an estate agent she would cut out articles about the property market from the paper for me. She would tell us about the charity fêtes and coffee mornings she’d been to, and somehow she’d make them sound fun. She squeezes Danny first, then me. ‘Here’s Grace,’ she whoops. ‘Our entertainment!’
Now I may love her, but I’m not going to be bullied into this. I give Danny a steely look to indicate that he needs to save me, but he’s already wrapped up in the embraces of his other relatives.
‘Happy birthday,’ Danny’s dad says, wandering over to me.
‘And a happy birthday to you,’ I reply.
Danny’s dad scares me. Not because he looks like Freddy Krueger, but because I see in him what Danny will become. And if I had to pick one word to describe it, that would be lazy. If I were allowed more words they’d be ‘lazier than a dead swine’. He is definitely a ‘I’ll have my dinner in the lounge watching
Top Gear,
love’ sort of a man.
‘I hear you’re singing tonight,’ he says.
‘Er, well,’ I mutter.
‘We’ve got a chap to play the piano for you – Margaret’s son, a music something-or-other – where is he?’ Danny’s dad looks about him, then raises his hand with a jerk in the direction of a youngish-looking man with a beard, who literally runs towards us and puts his arm around me. Blimey, I think, as he nearly winds me with his embrace. The Welsh obviously don’t get much physical contact.
‘Grace! Grace Flowers,’ he says in an English, not Welsh accent. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, you probably don’t remember me. Not with the beard. I taught at Kensal Rise Community College. Well, I assisted for a while when I was doing my teacher training course. Music?’
‘Oh, um.’ Nope, I don’t remember him at all.
‘Olly Bell. Well, Mr Bell.’
Oh, Mr Bellend. Now it’s coming back to me.
‘Oh yes, yes, I remember you.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when Mr and Mrs Saunders said you’d be singing and asked if I’d accompany you. What an honour.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘We’re all so excited.’
‘Um, my throat is a bit sore. I’m not sure whether I should—’
‘So what are you doing at the moment?’
‘I’m an estate agent,’ I tell him proudly.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m a sales
‘What?’
‘Mum wants you to sing at the party tonight?’
‘Why does she want me to sing? She’s never heard me sing.’
‘She has. She was going through all the old home videos and she came across our Year Ten Christmas show. Do you remember?’
‘Oh, yeah, didn’t I sing that Mariah Carey song?’
‘You were amazing.’
‘And didn’t you read some poem?’
‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘I well had a crush on you then.’
‘Soft.’ I smile at him. ‘You’d better tell your mum I can’t sing.’
‘Grace, just sing. You’re in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be fine.’
‘Danny!’ I shout. ‘No!’ I hate to get cross, but sometimes it’s necessary. ‘I’m not singing, OK. Jesus!’
Obviously we’re late. We walk into the living room and everyone already has the ruddy glow of at least two drinks and all the best bits from the buffet table have been devoured. The good thing about Danny’s parents’ house is that it’s cosy and warm with old beams and open fires. Just the sort of place youwant to arrive at after four and half hours of driving in a Nissan Micra.
‘Danny!’ shrieks his mum. ‘And Gracie! Look, here she is.’
I love, love, love Danny’s mum. In many ways I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s more my mum than my mum. I was gutted when they decided to move to Wales. I used to adore going to their house in London. Danny’s an only child, like me, and when the four of us had dinner there, it felt like a proper family meal. Mrs Saunders would keep the conversation going with questions and stories, and she was always interested and thoughtful. I love roast chicken, so she’d often make it for me, and when I became an estate agent she would cut out articles about the property market from the paper for me. She would tell us about the charity fêtes and coffee mornings she’d been to, and somehow she’d make them sound fun. She squeezes Danny first, then me. ‘Here’s Grace,’ she whoops. ‘Our entertainment!’
Now I may love her, but I’m not going to be bullied into this. I give Danny a steely look to indicate that he needs to save me, but he’s already wrapped up in the embraces of his other relatives.
‘Happy birthday,’ Danny’s dad says, wandering over to me.
‘And a happy birthday to you,’ I reply.
Danny’s dad scares me. Not because he looks like Freddy Krueger, but because I see in him what Danny will become. And if I had to pick one word to describe it, that would be lazy. If I were allowed more words they’d be ‘lazier than a dead swine’. He is definitely a ‘I’ll have my dinner in the lounge watching
Top Gear,
love’ sort of a man.
‘I hear you’re singing tonight,’ he says.
‘Er, well,’ I mutter.
‘We’ve got a chap to play the piano for you – Margaret’s son, a music something-or-other – where is he?’ Danny’s dad looks about him, then raises his hand with a jerk in the direction of a youngish-looking man with a beard, who literally runs towards us and puts his arm around me. Blimey, I think, as he nearly winds me with his embrace. The Welsh obviously don’t get much physical contact.
‘Grace! Grace Flowers,’ he says in an English, not Welsh accent. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, you probably don’t remember me. Not with the beard. I taught at Kensal Rise Community College. Well, I assisted for a while when I was doing my teacher training course. Music?’
‘Oh, um.’ Nope, I don’t remember him at all.
‘Olly Bell. Well, Mr Bell.’
Oh, Mr Bellend. Now it’s coming back to me.
‘Oh yes, yes, I remember you.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when Mr and Mrs Saunders said you’d be singing and asked if I’d accompany you. What an honour.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘We’re all so excited.’
‘Um, my throat is a bit sore. I’m not sure whether I should—’
‘So what are you doing at the moment?’
‘I’m an estate agent,’ I tell him proudly.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m a sales
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