Sex and Other Changes (11 page)

He lay there for a minute or two, more than somewhat shocked. He soon rationalised it, of course. He was feeling sexy because at last he was going to live as a woman, but since the only organs that he had that were capable of expressing sexuality were male, he was forced to express his feminine sexuality through a masculine mechanism. It wasn't shocking at all. It was complex and absurd, but it was also a perfect affirmation of why he had to become a woman – to free himself from this complexity and absurdity.

He dressed in his new jeans and a lemony blouse, and they went down to breakfast.

‘My God,' said Bernie.

‘Yes, Dad, very helpful,' said Alison.

Gray took one look, said, ‘Is it any wonder I'm twisted?' and took his coffee and toast back to his room.

Em burst in, had a black coffee and a bun standing up, said, ‘Gotta split, ciao' and didn't even comment on how Nicola looked. Giorgio was arriving from Modena that day. She'd met him in Venice and had been into everything Italian ever since.

Suddenly she'd bought lovely clothes that made her look elegant, but she got very grumpy if they mentioned it; it embarrassed her to look lovely, she only did it for Giorgio. In the last few weeks they'd all eaten a lot of pasta, for Giorgio, and drunk a lot of chianti, for Giorgio.

Alison suggested that they have a dummy make-up run after breakfast. Nick couldn't wait. This was it! His transformation was beginning. It was the first day in the existence of Nicola Divot.

He no longer needed to pretend. Never again. Yesterday in Stratford had been a nightmare. Today in number thirty-three was a dream come true.

He tried hard that day to prove that his fabled insensitivity was a myth. Alison and he had spent more than twenty years together. He couldn't let her see how eager he was to become a woman, how eager he was, therefore, in essence, to cease to be her husband. ‘Can't I read the papers first?' he asked. Luckily Alison wouldn't have it.

They went up to the en suite. First, of course, he had to shave. He took his blouse off. He didn't want to get shaving cream on it. Alison was touched by the sight of his bra. It was poignant that he had so little to put in it. Maybe with the continuing hormone treatment, and the psychological impetus of living as a woman – she didn't know.

While he shaved, she laid out the make-up products she had bought. She had chosen Estée Lauder as the right look for Nicola, who gawped at them. ‘What?' he said. ‘All those?'

‘Now you're going to find out why I'm always late,' Alison joked. He was so tense. She longed to put him at his ease.

A wave of excitement shuddered through Nicola. I feel like a little boy in a … he thought. No, what am I thinking? … a little
girl
in a sweet shop. He had to take a very deep, slow breath to stop himself hyperventilating. He clung to the washbasin. He was frightened of passing out. Alison was very concerned.

‘Are you all right?' she asked.

‘Fine,' he said bravely. ‘Just fine.'

She took him gently and carefully through the process: showed him how to smooth moisturiser over his face and neck, how to apply foundation liquid – she thought he might prefer
that to cream – over his face, finishing well under the chin, how to brush face powder over the entire area. His face began to look more feminine. It was an eerie moment for Alison. She began to see the man she loved … yes, loved, she might no longer have been his lover, nor he hers … but, yes, loved … she began to see him disappear before her eyes. She began to see the woman he would become. She didn't know what she thought about it. She tried not to think about it. She had a job to do.

She showed him … her? … the intricacies of applying eyeshadow, deeper on the outer upper eyelid, and into the socket, and a lighter shade on the inner upper lid, finishing the eyes with a highlighter on the brow bone. Her eyes did look more feminine, they were a very pale blue, it was a very intense moment, there in the en suite, separated from the rest of the world by frosted glass. She wanted to give her a quick kiss, but she couldn't without ruining the very make-up she was teaching her to apply.

She showed her how to brush any surplus powder off the eyebrows, how to apply two coats of mascara to the lashes, how to brush the blusher on to the cheek and up towards the outer area of the eye, how to apply a lip-liner and then the lipstick. Not half bad. A good, thorough job. Anyone could see he'd been meant to be a woman.

Alison turned away and rushed to the bedroom, and lay on the bed, on his side of the bed, and sobbed. She didn't really know why, that was the silly thing. For her lost husband? Images of their early days when they seemed almost normal flashed through her mind – the honeymoon in Crete, a midnight swim in Cornwall, the birth of Emma – he'd been there to witness it even though he'd been terrified and it hadn't yet become compulsory for the man to be present – Gray's birth. Oh God. Poor disappeared Nick, how devastated he'd be if he ever found out Gray wasn't his. She cried because she so regretted her sole affair – it stood out in the calmness of their lives like a grain silo
among oast houses. Yes, she cried for Nick and she cried for Nicola and she cried for herself and she cried for the world. She had come to crying late in life and, maybe for that reason, she seemed to have no control over it.

Nicola went into the bedroom and put her arms round Alison, and she had a sudden dread that Nicola would say, ‘There there, old girP, but she didn't. Maybe that would go, now that he was being a woman.

They sat on the edge of the bed, Alison and her … well, her ex-husband who was still her husband … arms round each other. Alison's sobs ceased, and she blew her nose angrily. She had always found mucus humiliating.

‘I know that this is very difficult for you,' said Nicola, ‘but I want you to know how much I appreciate how very understanding you've been … on the whole.'

Nick might be Nicola but that ‘on the whole' was so very Nick. Alison half-smiled through the last of her tears.

Nicola led her back to the en suite, and watched as she washed her face and repaired her make-up.

‘A refresher course already,' said Alison.

They went downstairs. Nicola wanted to settle down to read the Sunday papers; he'd always liked to read the travel sections and dream. He would cut bits out, although they never went to any of the places he so carefully filed away. But Alison wouldn't let her read the papers yet. There were so many simple things still to learn – how to walk, how to sit down, how to sit in a chair, how to stand up. She tried to inject a bit of feminine elegance into his clunking masculine gait, tried to get him to sit with her legs together, guarding her honour, rather than knees apart like some elderly spinster aunt, with no honour worth guarding, revealing yards of flannelette knickers.

‘You've got quite fetching underwear,' she said. ‘Sit like that and Ferenc'll start getting ideas.'

She wished she hadn't said that about Ferenc.

Bernie wandered in to see if lunch was ready and Alison realised she'd forgotten all about lunch. She told him it'd be late. ‘Maybe I ought to dress as a woman, maybe I'd get some service,' he grumbled.

She started to make the lunch and took Bernie a cup of tea. He was poring through old photographs of his life with Marge. She didn't know if it was the best thing for him to be doing, but it seemed to console him.

‘I'm not telling her about Nick,' he said. ‘It'd only upset her.'

He saw Alison's look of surprise, which she couldn't quite hide.

‘I talk to her sometimes when no one's around what might cart me off to the funny farm,' he explained. ‘ “Hello, Marge, love,” I'll say. “I'm just feeding t'ducks and such like, like what we used to.” Silly, i'n't it?'

‘It isn't silly at all, Dad.' She went up and kissed him and said, ‘Dinner won't be long. We aren't having a roast, what with everything.'

It was a strange Sunday lunch. They had omelettes, with oven chips and salad. The wind howled. Nicola tried to eat with delicacy and femininity. Bernie shivered and said, ‘I hate the winter, me. The other seasons I can cope with like, but winter, the bastard gets into my bones.'

‘Is your omelette all right?' Alison asked.

‘Very nice, thank you,' he said.

She wished that just occasionally he'd say something was nice without having to be prompted. He's becoming very ungracious, is my poor old dad, she thought.

And Gray! They got the usual ‘My God!' when he saw Nicola in her full make-up. ‘Is it any wonder,' he asked rhetorically, ‘that I'm a psychological wreck, with a dad like that?', and it did cross Alison's mind for a moment that maybe it would actually help him if he knew that Nicola wasn't his dad. He bolted his food and said, “Scuse me', which was in itself a big advance in
manners, ‘Gotta split. I'm playing chess against a friend from Prague and it's almost Czech-mate. Czech-mate, get it? Oh, laugh, will you? That was a witticism. I'm becoming civilised.'

In the afternoon Alison relented and let Nicola read the papers. She cut out an article about the attractions of Split. When was she ever going to go to Split?

The wind howled and whistled, but silence ruled in number thirty-three. Bernie re-arranged his memories in his stifling room. Gray played chess in five continents. Nicola ploughed resolutely through the
Sunday Times
. Alison read a book. That was what their family was like. A commune of loners. A gathering of hermits.

Em returned just before supper. Her face was ashen, and she'd been crying.

‘Didn't he come?' asked her mother.

‘He bloody did,' she said. ‘We've had the most terrible row, Mum. It wasn't like what it was in Italy.' She rushed through, did a double take, looked at Nicola, said, ‘Oh my God,' and hurried to her bedroom.

It sounded serious. Alison wondered if it was over with Giorgio, then, as she began to make supper, she realised that it was. She could faintly hear the buzz of an electric razor, and thought it might be Gray shaving, although she didn't think he'd started and he certainly didn't need to, but then he rushed in, and he couldn't wait to tell them in an excited whisper, ‘Em's shaving her armpits.'

‘Don't you dare make any comment whatsoever about it to her,' said Nicola sternly.

‘As if I would, Dad,' said Gray. ‘What do you think I am – a freak? Can't have two freaks in one family.'

Just you wait, Gray, thought Alison drily. You're going to get a shock.

They set the alarm for six-thirty. There was an awful moment when Nicola couldn't remember why. Then there was an even worse moment when she did.

She knew that if she ate breakfast after she'd got ready, she'd spill something on her smart, dark brown skirt suit, and almost certainly ruin her make-up, so she tried to snatch a bit of breakfast straightaway, but it was no use, she couldn't even get a quarter of a slice of toast down.

She had a shower and cleaned her teeth and then she called for Alison, who stood by her side while she tried to do her make-up without assistance. Alison had to prompt her a couple of times, but on the whole she didn't do too badly. Then she did her hair, which wasn't difficult; Karen had done a great job and it was behaving itself well.

Beyond the frosted glass the night gave up its darkness grudgingly. It was going to be one of those Throdnall days that never get properly light. This suited her mood perfectly. She'd never kidded herself that today would feel like the beginning of a great journey, a giant first step to womanhood, but she hadn't realised just how tense she would be, just how much courage it would take to walk into the Cornucopia Hotel as Ms Nicola Divot.

With her suit she wore brown shoes, an apricot blouse, and a pearl necklace with pearl earrings (the jewellery lent by Alison, bless her). She wobbled precariously to the garage in her medium-high-heeled shoes.

She reversed very carefully out of the garage. She didn't feel in full control. She realised that she should perhaps have worn
flat shoes for driving, and changed into the others at the hotel. She couldn't be bothered now. If she didn't get straight off, she might panic. She felt as if she was going to break into a sweat. That was all she needed! A grotesque general manageress with BO. She needed to breathe. She stopped the car, lowered the window and gulped in air, but it wasn't cold enough. It had turned disgustingly mild overnight and the air was damp and soupy.

Pull yourself together, Nicola. You chose to do this. You didn't have to.

She closed the window and reversed into Orchard View Close. When she got to Badger Glade Rise she didn't turn right, she turned left into Coppice Vale to avoid the road works.

She turned left again into Meadow Prospect, intending to turn right into Owl Hoot Lane, which was a good cut-through to the Kenilworth Road. In her anxiety, however, she forgot that there were new traffic calming measures there too (they didn't calm her!). About ten yards into Owl Hoot Lane they'd narrowed the road so that two cars couldn't pass. She turned too fast and had to screech to a halt to avoid a head-on collision with a red Honda. The young man in it glared at her, and she realised that he wouldn't reverse. Why should he, to be fair? It was her fault.

She tried to back up, but in her state she couldn't find reverse and the gears crunched horribly. She began to have to fight off another bout of sweating. She became very conscious of her tights. At last she managed to move. The Honda pulled forward, the young man lowered his window and shouted, ‘Bloody women drivers!'

She wanted to cheer. Well, why not? She lowered her window, leant out and gave a massive ‘Hurrah!' The Honda driver was so taken aback that he lost control and crashed into the new island in the middle of Meadow Prospect, demolishing it on its first day. She sped off down Owl Hoot Lane as fast as the Subaru could carry her.