Sex and Other Changes (23 page)

Gray was lying on top of his bed, stark naked, breathing heavily, with an ecstatic grimace on his face and Alan's Tottenham Hotspur away shirt held round his genitals. He went bright red and glared at them.

‘Don't you ever come into my bedroom without knocking again,' he said icily.

‘And please don't borrow my shirt again without asking,' said Alan.

It was a far cry from the ideal evening that Alan had planned.

Nicola realised that she had awoken from a deep sleep. She was staring at a complex pattern of cracks on a white surface.

It was a ceiling! Where was she? She moved her neck very very cautiously, because she had a dim feeling that she might have been in an accident.

She was in a small room, with white walls and one window which afforded a view only of sky, an incongruously placid sky of mackerel clouds and glimpses of blue.

It all came back to her. She was in hospital. She had had a sex change operation – or had she? She was truly Nicola at last – or was she?

Supposing something had gone wrong. Supposing she'd proved unsuitable.

She felt down, very nervously, to find out if she still had those hated protuberances – testicles and a penis.

Her hand touched only bandages. Well, that was promising … but not conclusive. Perhaps they had begun the operation and aborted it. (Horrid word. For ‘aborted' read ‘suspended'.)

She was attached to three drips. There were indicators attached to these drips. Promising … but not conclusive. Maybe she had lost a lot of blood and that was why they had suspended operations … suspended
the
operation … and that was why she was attached to three drips.

Had she had the operation or hadn't she?

There must be a bell. Where was the bell? Ah.

It seemed like minutes before anybody came. She felt so alone. She felt so trapped. Didn't they realise how people felt at moments like this? Fragile. Desperately vulnerable. Full of fear.

Ah. A nurse.

‘Ah! You've come round.'

‘Er … yes.'

A starched nurse. White frock, white tabard, red face – all starched.

‘Nurse, have I … had the operation?'

‘Well of course you have, Ms Divot.'

‘Has it … er …?'

‘Mr McWhinnie was very satisfied.'

Unlike you, nurse. You don't look as if you've ever been satisfied.

‘Mr McWhinnie is an extremely good surgeon.'

Rebuked for her doubts, and at such a time. True insensitivity is an art. Only the really talented possess it. In love with Mr McWhinnie. Wouldn't look at her twice, starched little madam.

‘So, I'm … I'm a woman.'

‘I suppose so, Ms Divot.'

‘Am I … er … doing all right, then?'

‘You're as comfortable as can be expected,' she said. ‘Oh!' she added. ‘Your “wife” telephoned some while ago to say she'd been stuck in traffic but would be here soon.'

They were only the faintest of hints, the inverted commas that The Starchy One put round the word ‘wife', but they were enough. She disapproved. Personal? Thought Nicola a freak? Political? Resented the waste of resources that should be used on diseases that she thought were real? Regarded this as cosmetic surgery, albeit of a private and very extreme kind?

Not your business, Nicola. Not your worry. It was a shame, though, not to have woken to a friendlier face.

She tried to move. Flames of pain burnt into her insides. Needles of pain thrust themselves into her veins. She gripped the side of the bed. Sweat poured off her. She was sweating down there beneath the bandages. Her new private parts – and after her conversation with The Starchy One she was almost
convinced that she did indeed have new private parts – were beginning to itch. She longed to scratch them. She must scratch them. She couldn't scratch them.

And there was something more than all this, something even more disturbing than all this pain, something enormous, some consideration of vast importance just beyond the reach of her memory, some residue of worry from the anaesthetised nightmares of her unconscious subconscious earlier that day.

She closed her eyes, already weary of it all. She made a great effort to think of more pleasant things, of Alan arriving and smiling at her, of his basically kind if naturally rather severe face, as he stood there looking concerned and holding out a bunch of pink lilies. Alan loved lilies and he would choose pink for a girl; he wasn't brilliant at flowers and he would go for the obvious.

‘Hello, Nicola.'

She opened her eyes and saw … not Alan holding pink lilies but twenty stone of blubber holding absolutely nothing.

‘Prentice!'

‘Hello, Nicola! Well, well! And how are we?'

‘Singular. Please don't call me “we”.'

‘Sorry. I'm appearing at the Komedy Klub at midnight tonight …'

‘That gives me a few hours, but I won't be up to it.'

‘Don't be silly. I'm explaining why I'm here. I rang the gorgeous Alan, who used to be the even more gorgeous Alison, and he told me about your op, and I thought, “What a coincidence. The hospital's only a couple of miles away; I can go and cheer her up.'”

‘Thank you.'

‘So I have.'

‘Thank you.' It's too early. Too soon. I'm so tired. So tired. Please go. ‘It's so good to see you.'

‘Of course! Alan!'

Alan moved forward slowly, trying to hide the utter dismay
on his face at the sight of Prentice, clutching his pink lilies as if he feared Prentice might steal them.

‘Prentice!'

‘I'm so glad you told me she was having the op today,' said Prentice.

Alan's eyes apologised to Nicola. He showed her the lilies.

‘I've brought you some lilies,' he said. ‘Pink for a girl.'

Oh God.

‘They're lovely.'

He thrust them towards her nose. She sniffed dutifully. She wished they were doused in chloroform. She longed to sleep.

‘They smell lovely.'

‘Good. Well, how are you?'

‘I don't know.'

‘How do you feel?'

‘Tired. Very very tired.'

Why didn't they say, ‘Really? Well we'd better go, then, and leave you in peace' in perfect and thoughtful unison?

‘It's no use being tired of life unless you can think of something to put in its place,' said Prentice.

‘What?' asked Alan.

‘It's a joke from my act. Em! The divine and sexy Em come to enchant us!'

Em didn't look divine or sexy or enchanting. She looked tired and worried and pale. It was one of her heavy days.

‘Oh, no, Mum, you've brought pink lilies as well,' she said. ‘Oh, Dad, how are you?'

She kissed Nicola very carefully.

Alan took the two lots of lilies out to get the nurse to put them into vases. Em peered at the drips and their attached indicators, but couldn't make any sense of them. Prentice stared at Em with naked lust.

‘Carl had an interview, Dad,' said Em. ‘Only round the corner really, so I thought I'd pop in. I can't stay long.'

Good! Good! Love you, Em, adore you actually, but … good! Good! Go! Take them with you!

‘He's waiting in a pub round the corner.'

Em glared at Prentice as she said this.

‘You could have brought him,' said Nicola.

‘No. He can't take hospitals.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘Oh, not that he's a wimp or anything.' She was clearly very sensitive about Carl.

‘He just chooses … to stay in the pub. Very sensible of him.' Nicola had been going to say, ‘He just chooses only to confront those bits of existence that he likes' but she pulled back from the brink. She was just too exhausted to bother to be sarcastic.

‘Anyway, it's hardly the best moment for you to meet him for the first time.'

‘Absolutely not – but I'm glad
you
came,' said Nicola.

She reached out and clasped Em's hand.

‘The only thing I find difficult is what to call you, Dad. “Dad” seems a bit absurd now. I can't call you “Mum”. I can't call you “Other Mum” or “Mum Number Two”. I suppose the best is Nicola, but that sounds a bit distant.'

‘I think “Nicola” probably is the best,' said Nicola, drowsily. She closed her eyes. She didn't think she'd have lost her talent for pretending to be asleep.

Alan returned with two vases of pink lilies. ‘You'd have thought I'd asked her to make a matchstick model of the Taj Mahal,' he said. ‘Her body bristled with indignation. Ah, she's asleep.'

‘I'll tell you what,' said Prentice. ‘I am going to invite you two to see my act at the Komedy Klub. How does that strike you?'

‘I have Carl waiting,' said Em.

‘Bring him too. The more the merrier.'

‘I'm not sure that Carl will appreciate your humour. He's American.'

What difference will that make? thought Nicola behind her closed eyes. Nobody appreciates your humour.

‘Do you appear under a nom de plume?' asked Em.

‘You don't
appear
under a nom de plume,' said Prentice scornfully. ‘You write under a nom de plume. But, yes, I do have a stage name. It's Prentice Prentice.'

‘But I thought that your real name was Prentice Prentice,' said Alan.

‘It is, but on stage it's the other way round. Prentice becomes Prentice and Prentice becomes Prentice.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘It's a joke.'

‘I'm not sure I'll appreciate your act either,' said Em.

‘Well, maybe not. I think what you need to know is that it's not necessarily funny. Some acts aren't funny because they haven't reached the level of comedy. Mine isn't funny because it's gone through comedy to the beyond.'

Nicola tried not to listen, but she couldn't help it, and she couldn't help being irritated. Good God, she'd had major surgery of an incredibly delicate and painful nature, and they were talking as if she wasn't there.

‘Thank you so much for ignoring me,' she said with a flash of the old Nick sarcasm. ‘Very thoughtful, because I'm exhausted.'

‘Oh, Dad, we thought you were asleep,' said Em.

‘Let's go and get that curry,' said Prentice.

‘What curry?' asked Alan.

‘The curry you're all going to buy me in exchange for free tickets for my act,' said Prentice, ‘and then we must go to my digs and get my dog.'

‘You have a dog?'

‘He comes on in my act, every time I say I'm barking mad.'

Nicola's eyes pleaded with Alan and Em. Go. Buy him a curry. Anything, but get him out of here.

The three of them moved towards the door. Oh, please,
please, don't stop, don't turn round, urged Nicola silently. Please!

Em stopped! She turned! She was coming towards the bed.

‘I love you,' she said, bending down and kissing Nicola again. ‘I'd love you whatever sex you were, because you're you.'

Then she was gone. They were all gone. She heard Prentice's diminishing voice.

‘A word of warning about my dog. I'm not kind to him. His name is Spot, but the only name he answers to is Fuck Off. I'm sure he thinks he's Russian.'

She breathed a great sigh of …

He was back. He had returned, gasping for breath, heaving massively.

‘Had to come back,' he said. ‘Had to say “sorry”.'

‘What for?' asked Nicola, wearily and warily.

‘You lying there, trapped, in agony, and the three of us discussing the wonderful evening we're going to have. Most inconsiderate.'

When Prentice had gone – and it was several minutes before she allowed herself to really believe that he had gone – Nicola thought about the words Em had spoken.

‘I love you. I'd love you whatever sex you were, because you're you.'

It never ceased to surprise her that we humans, ridiculous creatures that we are, cry buckets when we're particularly happy. She was still crying when The Starchy One arrived to take her blood pressure. That stopped her tears in their tracks.

Nicola next awoke in the middle of the night. The anaesthetic seemed to have worn off.

So this was it. She was Nicola. But for two years she had pretended to be Nicola. What was more real about this?

She had a vagina – but she was still the me she had been before she'd had a vagina. She thought that she must have half expected
to wake up and feel completely different. Impossible. She had the same brain.

It doesn't do to think about the brain. The brain wasn't designed to think about itself. You end up thinking that you're a series of chemical reactions, that there is no you, that you have no soul, that you cannot have anything that isn't scientifically describable. What was her soul? Was it different now?

There were moments that night when she wondered if it had all been a huge mistake. All that agony, all that courage, and here she still was.

To think that she had thought that when she woke up she'd feel exhilarated.

Slowly the night sky lightened. The pain kidded her that it had gone, and then came back as bad as before and all the more unbearable for the respite. He's a sneaky little chap, is pain.

She wanted to ring for the nurse, but she dreaded that it would be The Starchy One.

When at last a nurse came, joy of joys, she was different.

‘Hello, Nicola,' she said cheerfully. ‘I'm Pat.'

Nicola liked her immediately.

‘Welcome to the wonderful world of womanhood,' she said.

Ah! thought Nicola inappropriately. That's what you get when you go private. Alliteration.

She was moved, though, and again she wanted to cry.

Pat washed her as much as she could. She was incredibly gentle, but Nicola was still cut by shards of pain.

‘I wanted to spare you Mrs Mussolini,' whispered Pat. ‘Don't tell her I call her that. It's our secret.'