The Late Blossoming of Frankie Green Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    Still now she hated herself for the tiniest of thrills she’d felt when he’d said life with her was better.
    She was only human, she thought. But she wasn’t a home-wrecker. Was she?

The Next Day…
Frankie
    â€˜What you want to do, love, is to move on, that’s what you want to do,’ Phyllis said, patting her new hairdo.
    Not that same piece of advice again, Frankie thought, as her client took off her pink gown, folded it just so and went to put the kettle on. Along with ‘it’ll pass’ and ‘don’t be so hard on yourself’, ‘move on’ was as useful as cold straighteners.
    And as much as she loved this gorgeous 77-year-old widow, what did she know about modern love?
    If only Frankie could move on from Jason. She’d dreamed last night they’d been on honeymoon in Greece and awoke crushed to find a stubbly kiss on her nose was in fact Leonardo the cat’s rough tongue. Going downstairs this morning, she’d seen the chip in the hall wall which Jason had bashed as he’d carried in his beloved new high-definition telly. He’d refused to take it when he left because, he’d said, ‘you’ll miss your reality stuff’. Making breakfast, she’d found an old Cheerio, his favourite cereal, at the bottom of the cupboard. Traces of him were everywhere: he’d been living there seven years.
    She had had to reset her brain to remind herself it was actually her house. It had been since she was twenty-one when Dad impressed upon her the need to buy young: prices in Cardiff were only going to rocket. She’d cried when she moved out of Dad’s terrace – after her good-for-nothing Mum had run off with a car salesman who