Sex and Other Changes (40 page)

She asked him awkward questions about history, and he told her that he had enough of that at work, and he wanted to talk not about the past but about the future – their future.

They had a second bottle of wine, which was unwise. He offered her a sambuca and she accepted, but astonished him by saying, ‘Are you sure you'll be able to perform after all this alcohol?'

It pierced his heart, that night at the Positano, that he was not a complete man.

He ordered a taxi. She expressed surprise that he lived in Throdnall and not in beautiful Warwick. He explained that it was cheaper and he needed to save money for his very expensive research trips, which weren't as exciting as they sounded because he often ended up sitting in very exotic places feeling lonely. She stroked his leg at that point.

He didn't usually approve of sexy behaviour in taxis. It was so unfair on the driver, but that night he couldn't resist. Her mouth
was so lovely and her left breast fitted so beautifully into the palm of his hand.

It pierced his heart, that night in the taxi, that he was not a complete man.

He led her upstairs through the silent house to the master bedroom. They sat on the bed and he ran his hand up her thigh under her skirt and what he felt was very beautiful. He was very excited and felt very sick indeed.

‘There's something I have to tell you, Sally,' he said.

‘That's intriguing,' she replied. Her words were more than slightly slurred.

‘I'm … er … I've had a sex change,' he said. ‘I used to be called Alison.'

She gawped at him and removed his hand from her thigh. He sniffed it to see if it had any scent from her, but it didn't.

‘I think you've been telling porkies,' she said. ‘I think you've been a very naughty man.'

‘What makes you think that?' he said.

‘You're Alan Divot,' she said. ‘There can't be two Alisons who became Alans in Throdnall. You're a very very naughty man. Such porky pies!'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Oh don't worry,' she said sadly, with a touch of bitterness. ‘I've been telling porkies too.'

This revelation did not entirely surprise Alan. He was fairly drunk, but not so drunk that he couldn't realise that it was unlikely that Sally Garfield from Bristol would know of his change from Alison Divot to Alan Divot.

‘Shall I tell you why I was coming out of the Cornucopia?' She was even drunker than he was.

‘Well yes,' he said. ‘Tell me.'

‘I'd gone in to leave a little note on my husband's desk, because he was supposed to be on late duty. “Don't bother to come home tonight, you bastard. You'll be locked out.” '

Now Alan
was
surprised.

‘Sally Gulyas!' he gasped. ‘I don't believe this. I …'

Don't tell her!

‘He's started not to bother to hide his affairs from me. That shows … lack of respect. Don't you think it shows lack of respect, Alan?'

‘I certainly do. It shows lack of respect, Sally.'

‘Exactly. That's what I think. It shows lack of respect. He deserves to have his wife having an affair with … with his … with his boss's ex-wife.'

‘Sally, I have to tell you, they're good doctors but they aren't miracle workers. I can't … I mean it's just not possible. I would love, however, to give you as much pleasure as I can … in other ways.'

‘Sounds reasonable to me.'

She gave a shout of laughter and kicked her feet high in the air on the bed.

‘Alan Divot!' she shrieked. ‘Wonderful! He deserves it.'

They undressed. She had a stretch mark or two and the very faintest hint of cellulite, but her breasts were high and her legs were seriously lovely and her stomach was surprisingly flat, and he felt that he had never seen anything as beautiful in his life. She knew what he had been, and what he was and what he wasn't, and what he could do and what he couldn't do, and he knew that she wouldn't blame him for any shortcomings or indeed any longgoings that he might display.

He gave her as much pleasure as he could, and she gave him as much pleasure as she could, and he thought himself a lucky man, and then they fell asleep in each other's arms.

In the morning he felt proud, ashamed, happy, disgusted, knackered, hungover, raffish and weedy, all at the same time.

He made them breakfast, and as she ate her toast and marmalade, wearing his dressing gown, she said, ‘I'm not sorry for what I've done. He's had or tried to have every good-looking
woman in Throdnall, and one or two who aren't good-looking as well.'

Has he indeed?

He longed to say to her – and of course he couldn't – that he had only had two flings since he first got married, and they were with Mr and Mrs Gulyas. What could possibly be more appropriate for a transsexual?

The Latin American Club was small and intimate and very unimposing, and Juanita would feel at home there, and it seemed the obvious choice.

It consisted of a ground floor room, which had recently been licensed for weddings as well as alcohol, an upstairs room where they would hold the reception, a kitchen at the back of the ground floor, two small guest bedrooms in the cellar and two more in the attic. The building had formerly been the premises of Piccalilli Circus.

It was frequented by a smattering of people from South and Central America who had moved into the Throdnall area. There was the only truly untalented Brazilian footballer ever to come to Britain. He played left back for Throdnall Athletic. There was a Guatemalan priest who was on a year's exchange with a priest from Solihull. There were students and an Argentinian chef and his family, and there was a Chilean on a three-month contract to investigate the feasibility of creating a vineyard between Throdnall and Cluffield, near the Farm Shop. (Nicola sometimes wondered what had happened to Gordon, though she could guess. Alan went once to the Farm Shop and found that Nicola's guess had been correct – nothing had happened to Gordon.)

It was all very informal. Gray wore a lightweight suit with very broad lapels and no tie. His bride wore a long, flowing yellow dress and had yellow ribbons in her long, black Spanish hair. Alan wore his brightest and least formal suit, with a rather daring Paul Smith tie. Nicola looked almost excessively feminine in pink. Em and Clare wore carefully orchestrated trouser
suits in green and purple. They might as well have carried placards stating, ‘We are an item'. Bernie wore his smartest suit, which was also his least smart suit, being his only suit. Peggy looked somewhat overdressed in a long red Max Mara number, with a gold necklace, but at eighty-seven nobody was going to object. The registrar wore quite well for her years. You wouldn't have guessed she was fifty-three if she hadn't kept telling you.

There were only a few other guests – university friends of Gray, Peruvian contacts of Juanita, and the manageress of the club.

After the ceremony there was Chilean wine, being nearest, since very little Peruvian wine is exported, and a rather strange Anglo-Peruvian buffet, with ceviche nestling alongside coronation chicken, but it worked.

In an imaginative touch, well suited to the Divots of Throdnall, Gray chose Em as his best man.

At the end of the buffet, Em rose to speak. She was very nervous, and shaking slightly, but when her voice trembled it was from emotion and not from nerves.

‘Welcome to this so so happy occasion,' she said. ‘I am so proud to be my dear brother's best man, not that this is to be taken as any reflection on any role I might play in my relationship with Clare.' She blew an unaffected, unembarrassed little kiss towards Clare. ‘Rather I think Gray sees it as a gesture symbolic of the unusual sexual history of my own immediate family.

Gray has always fully understood the traditional role of a brother in a British family, which is to be a pain in the arse. He fulfilled it splendidly for many years, but then something happened. He grew into a lovely young man.'

Her voice trembled. Alan, awash with pride and love, but trying to hide it because now he was a man, looked across and caught Nicola's eye and knew that she was also awash with love and pride, and wasn't attempting to hide it, because she was now
a woman. Neither of them heard Em for a few moments as they held each other's looks. Then there was a laugh, and Nicola averted her eyes suddenly, and they both began to listen to Em again, although Alan could hardly concentrate. Something had happened.

‘Gray always seemed odd. Now here he is, the only straight heterosexual in two generations of our little family. You've always wanted to be so modern, and it turns out you're thoroughly old-fashioned.

‘Gray met Juanita on the Internet. I think it was very brave of him, but it was even braver of Juanita. She came all the way from her lovely Spanish southern Peruvian city of Arequipa to live in Throdnall. You can't be much braver than that. Juanita, we are so glad you did. We love you.

‘You all know the story of Gray's and my mum and dad, who are now our dad and mum. It's been written up so brilliantly by that superb newspaper, the
Throdnall Advertiser
, by their ace female reporter. I know that they are both very proud today.'

Alan looked across at Nicola again, but this time she didn't return his gaze.

‘In a moment we'd like you all to go downstairs while the room is rearranged. We have a lovely Peruvian group here tonight, from the town of Puno on Lake Titicaca. They are touring Britain and have given their services tonight for expenses only, though there will be a plate for contributions. They are called Los Altiplanos and I know you will give them a warm Throdnall welcome.

‘Well, that's enough of me, but now I want you to listen to a very special recording. Juanita's parents can't be here today, but they are with us in spirit. Thank you.'

Em returned to her seat. Clare ran her hand swiftly over Em's crutch and hoped that nobody noticed.

The manageress switched on the recording. A man's voice crackled out to them from far away, in stilted English.

‘Hello, everybody. Hello, Juanita. Hello, Gray-ham. I am Alfredo. I am Juanita's father. I wish you happy day.'

A female voice came on, even slower and more stilted.

‘I wish you happy day. I am Maria. I am Juanita's mother.'

The male voice resumed.

‘We welcoming you soon, Gray-ham and Gray-ham's ma and pa in Arequipa? Yes? We hope. Many many thank you to listen from us, and very many happinesses.'

While the room was being set up, Alan found it difficult to engineer a private word with Nicola. There were so many people downstairs, some of them drinking Peruvian beer from the bottle, a few venturing on to Peruvian pisco sours, and Cuban mehitos, full of mint and sugar and white rum.

When it was announced that the band was ready, people began to move upstairs again, but Alan managed to get himself beside Nicola and stopped her moving by engaging her in conversation.

‘Thank you for not bringing Eric. It was considerate.'

‘Of him. I wanted him to come. He felt it … inappropriate.'

‘I see.'

‘He's a very sensitive man.'

‘Clearly.'

This was not at all the conversation that Alan had planned. How foolish, he told himself. He should have known at his age that you can't plan conversations. Other people can't be relied upon to say what you expect. Other people are notoriously awkward.

Em came into the room from upstairs, and said, ‘I hope I'm not interrupting anything.'

‘Definitely not,' said Alan.

‘Oh.' She sounded disappointed. ‘Well it's just … we're all needed upstairs. Gray and Juanita are going to do a little dance.'

‘What??'

‘I know. Where's our awkward, gawky little Gray?'

She led them up to where Los Altiplanos, four short stocky young men with wild faces and even wilder haircuts, or absences of haircuts, were poised. At their side stood Juanita and Gray. Em took Alan and Nicola to seats that had been saved for them.

Gray stepped forward. Both Alan and Nicola thought how handsome he looked, hardly gawky at all, though he should get more flattering glasses.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he began, with an assurance that astounded them, ‘before we let you all dance as we know you're longing to, there will be a special presentation of a Peruvian handkerchief dance by Juanita and I … what am I saying? My mum will kill me … by Juanita and me. Allow yourselves to be transported to the bare, bleak, haunting lands of the Andean altiplano, where the condors roam and the pan pipes moan. Ladies and gentlemen, the dance of the virgins.'

The music began, rich with melancholy, sodden with wistfulness. Alan and Nicola felt the hairs on their necks stiffen. Juanita was expert, graceful, unselfconscious, beautiful to behold, and Gray … well, he was adequate. They couldn't believe it. Their own son, adequate!

Alan's eyes were full of tears. He turned to look at Nicola just as she turned to look at him, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears too. He felt a huge love for Nicola at that moment – a revelatory love. It was Marks and Spencer's all over again, a revelation not on the road to Damascus but in the former premises of Piccalilli Circus.

He was a man. Nicola was a woman. There was no obstacle to their loving each other. They had been so obsessed with making new lives that the thought had never crossed their minds. Sally was beautiful. Her body gave him great pleasure on their occasional meetings, but each meeting ended with a feeling of faint disgust and a desire to end the affair, which would be followed, after about a week, by a desire to meet again. He didn't love Sally, and she accepted his unfulfilled and unfulfilling
cavortings only to get her own back, in private, on Ferenc. He was manking about. But Nicola – he had loved her for more than a quarter of a century.

All that takes longer to express than to think. The thoughts came not in neat sentences but all at once in a flash, with the dance so riveting and beautiful in the background.