Sex and Other Changes (32 page)

It seemed too forward to suggest that evening.

‘Well … how about … tomorrow?'

‘I can't really. It's Mother.'

‘Yes, of course.' How craven! Why not ask why Fridays are impossible? ‘Well … er … how are Mondays for you?'

‘Mondays are difficult, with Mother.'

‘Yes, of course. Tuesday?' she asked with diminishing hope and increasing embarrassment.

‘Tuesday,' he said reflectively. ‘Now then. Tuesdays
are
a little awkward.'

It wasn't an absolute, abject rejection. Did she dare continue? Yes, Nicola, Heroine of the Cornucopia Kitchen, Unflinching Victim of the Surgeon's Knife, you can do it.

‘Wednesday?'

‘Now then, the thing is … the thing is … I don't know that I'm entirely comfortable coming to a woman's house. Not when I don't know her. How about my taking you to the Red Lion
next Wednesday? They do a good grill, there's a lot on the plate, and it's very reasonable.'

That's how they started, her and the mother's boy.

An unlikely match? Have you not noticed how people of similar levels of attractiveness usually fall for each other? At one end of the scale there are couples of extraordinary beauty and glamour, at the other end you'll see two people who are both revoltingly ugly gazing with rapture into each other's bloodshot eyes. Well, you may think that Nicola's slow, shy, farm-shop mother's boy was no great catch, but she was a sex change woman who had never been to bed with a man, had no great confidence in her body, and was coming to courtship for the first time at least twenty-five years later than most women. On the whole, therefore, it was a meeting of equals. Besides, Gordon was kind, he never said anything nasty to her, his manners were impeccable, he really was good looking, and I won't have him mocked, do you hear?

Something had been worrying Nicola for quite some time, and that was the business of Ferenc's paintings. What did it matter whether she liked the man or not? Who was she to hold a creative artist back, especially in the imaginative desert that was Throdnall? It was on her conscience that she had never tried to encourage him about his paintings, as Lance had asked her to do.

It was strange, perhaps, but she wanted a clean conscience before she went out with Gordon. She wanted no unfinished business hanging over her.

She called Ferenc into her office. He looked slightly apprehensive.

‘I don't expect you've any idea why I've called you in here, Ferenc,' she said.

‘No. No, I did wonder.'

‘Yes.' She paused, dangling him briefly on her line, she couldn't resist it. ‘It's your painting. I'm not at all happy about it.'

‘Which one?'

‘No, no. No particular painting. Your painting in general. Your painting as an activity.'

‘I never do it in working hours.'

‘I know. It's a shame.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

His expressive face was alive with incomprehension. She was enjoying this.

‘Lance Windlass, who has the Lafayette Gallery in Biscuit Passage, tells me that you're a much better painter than you believe.'

‘He does?'

‘He thinks you have a real talent. Minor, perhaps.'

He frowned.

‘Minor?'

‘At present.' Nicola smiled. ‘He believes it could become a major talent.'

‘I have so little time. Work. Mrs Gulyas. Sally's a demanding woman.'

I bet she is, Nicola thought. And then there are your bits on the side, if rumour is to be believed. Several bits on several sides, if only half of it is true.

‘The hotel needs paintings.'

‘Too right, but with the refurbishment …'

They were reputed to have risen at last to second in the list of hotels to be refurbished.

‘No, no, Ferenc. I didn't say “painting”. I said “paintings”. I think Mr Windlass would be prepared to give you a contract to produce paintings regularly – and so will I.'

‘You?'

‘Yes. The refurbishment, now. That's an idea. How about “before” and “after”? A record of the refurbishment. A record of an English hotel. Warts and all. Well, mainly warts, I suppose. A social document. In your style. I'm going to commission you.'

‘Do you have the authority to do that?'

‘No.'

‘Well, thank you very much.'

‘Please.'

She stood up. He stood up. They shook hands. She went to open the door for him, and tripped: tripped over one of his shoes, almost fell, lurched across the room, clutched the hat-stand, fell slowly against the wall with it.

‘Sorry,' she said, disentangling herself, ‘I tripped over your shoe.'

She looked down and noticed for the first time how large his feet were, for quite a small man.

‘I hadn't noticed how large your feet are,' she said.

‘Yes. Sorry.'

‘Not at all. Er … Mrs Gulyas is a lucky woman.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The size of feet and … er … maybe it's just an old wives' tale.' She couldn't resist a little dig. The opportunity had opened up for her irresistibly. ‘Maybe, Ferenc, is it possible … not only Mrs Gulyas?'

He went white. He looked embarrassed. Nicola Divot, you idiot. You're a woman now. You can't make such man-to-man insinuations.

She was surprised that he was so embarrassed, though.

Gordon picked her up in his pick-up, which was more suitable linguistically than stylistically, smelling as it did of dog and fuel.

That Wednesday, in the Red Lion, she had rump steak, chips, peas, mushrooms, tomatoes and onion rings. Her partner, as they say in the food reviews, plumped for the mixed grill.

She couldn't remember, afterwards, what they talked about, for the simple reason that it wasn't memorable.

Yet she enjoyed it. That Wednesday evening was very ordinary indeed, but it was also one of the highlights of her life.
She was the female partner on an evening out, and she felt comfortable with that.

Gordon drove her back to Sunny Cottage, went round to usher her out of the pick-up as if it was a Rolls-Royce, and solemnly shook her hand.

‘Thank you for a nice evening, Gordon,' she said.

‘That's all right,' he said. ‘I've enjoyed it too. I can't manage every Wednesday – Mother, you know – but I can do Wednesday fortnight.'

A fortnight later they went out again. Gordon's choice of venue on this occasion was the Red Lion. Nicola had lamb cutlets, chips and peas, with a choice of mint sauce and red-currant jelly on the side. Her companion, as they say in the food reviews, opted for the mixed grill.

As he saw her into the cottage he kissed her on the cheek.

The following Wednesday fortnight, Gordon suggested the Red Lion. ‘It's very nice, isn't it?' he said. ‘The Green Man isn't bad, but the food's more imaginative in the Red Lion, and I wouldn't take you, a lady like you, to the Black Bull. It's as rough as a bear's arse.'

He reddened most charmingly at his choice of words, but Nicola didn't mind. He'd paid her her first compliment: ‘A lady like you.' Not exactly effusive, but Cluffield wasn't Seville.

She chose gammon, eggs, chips and peas. Gordon said, ‘Oh, I'd have had you down for the pineapple. I've noticed that women usually have pineapple with gammon, whereas men usually go for the egg, but you've chosen egg.'

The waitress waited patiently, then asked Gordon for his choice. He puzzled over the many options for a moment, then said, ‘I think I'll have the mixed grill.'

As he saw her into her cottage he kissed her on both cheeks.

The following Wednesday fortnight, Gordon's preferred entertainment was a meal in the Red Lion. Nicola chose breaded haddock, chips and mushy peas. Gordon said, ‘Oh, I'd have had
you down for the garden. I've noticed that men usually have mushy, but women prefer garden, but you've chosen mushy.'

The waitress waited stressfully, then asked Gordon for his choice. ‘Do you know,' he said. ‘I'm tempted by the mixed grill.'

Nicola teased him – her first bit of teasing.

‘You always have the mixed grill.'

‘I do, don't I? It's good here.'

She wasn't kidding herself that she was dining with Oscar Wilde. Witty conversation isn't everything, and Gordon was always pleasant to be with. Not a bad epitaph, that, in a turbulent world like ours. Always pleasant to be with.

She noticed the Parkers, who used to live opposite in Orchard View Close, two tables away, and they noticed her, but they pretended not to have seen her, so she pretended not to have seen them.

When he drove her back to Sunny Cottage, Gordon surprised her by kissing her on the lips and putting his tongue in her mouth.

‘I hope you didn't mind my doing that?' he said.

‘Not at all, Gordon,' she said. ‘I liked it.'

‘Goodnight, then, Nicola,' he said. ‘Sleep well.'

The following Wednesday fortnight she couldn't make, there was a Round Table do at the hotel, Ferenc was on holiday, and the Duty Manager was Toby Marchmont: all of twenty-two, minor public school, plum in his mouth, nothing in his trousers, never had a woman, never would have, be no use in a crisis, where
did
Head Office find them?

She had a whole month, therefore, to think about Gordon's tongue. By this time it was cold and wet. The weather, not Gordon's tongue. Their relationship was so slow that the whole of the autumn had passed.

She could see that Gordon was nervous, and things weren't helped when he discovered that the menu had been changed and the mixed grill had been removed ‘because there's no demand
for it'. He ordered steak, lamb cutlets, bacon, sausage, liver, chips, peas, tomatoes, mushrooms and onion rings.

‘Those are the exact ingredients of the mixed grill,' he said, ‘so what's different?'

‘Seven pounds fifty,' said the waitress. ‘Cutting their own throats they are. Glenda's seen the writing on the wall. She's working at the Green Man now.'

Nicola was certain that the reason for Gordon's nervousness was that he had spent a month thinking about her mouth round his tongue, and he was hoping to go to bed with her. She was nervous too. She kept wondering how she would be in bed, whether her neo-vagina could really respond – well, you can imagine her anxiety, I should hope, it was awful, it was wonderful, it was the best and the worst evening of her brief life as a woman.

Her slow countryman, her mother's boy, her man of alternate Wednesdays, her mixed grill of a man was Adam incarnate that night to her in her position.

He drove her back to Sunny Cottage. He didn't speak. She didn't speak.

He lost his nerve and drove off.

The following Wednesday fortnight, Gordon had a very different evening in mind – a meal at the Green Man.

‘It's not that I'm mean,' he said, ‘but that Red Lion business was a racket.' He leant across and said, with a roguish tone, ‘I did think of the Disappointed Lady, but there's a poor choice there.'

‘The Disappointed Lady?'

‘The Halfway Inn. Halfway Inn, Disappointed Lady, get it?'

Nicola got it. She was amazed at his boldness, actually. She was also determined not to be the Disappointed Lady again.

I need not detain you with their choice of meals at the Green Man. Let's get straight to Sunny Cottage.

‘Would you like a nightcap?' Nicola asked, determined to take the initiative this time.

‘A nightcap would slip down a treat.'

She had a calvados, he a Bailey's. (You want her to have a sophisticated lover? Sorry.)

‘I want you,' he said simply, astonishingly, earthily, D.H. Lawrenceily.

‘Good,' she said.

They went upstairs. Upstairs, Sunny Cottage smelt damp. Well, to be honest, downstairs smelt damp too.

She didn't think she could go through with it. She didn't think she dared show her body.

‘Don't be shy,' he said.

‘No,' she said. ‘I … oh God, Gordon, there's something I have to tell you.' She couldn't go through with it unless she told him. She should have done, perhaps, but she couldn't. ‘I … Gordon, I've had … the operation.'

‘What do you mean – “the operation”?'

‘I used not to be Nicola, Gordon. I used to be Nick.'

The penny still didn't seem to drop. Nicola would have been the first to admit that Gordon's pennies didn't always drop quite as swiftly as she would have wished.

But it did drop eventually.

‘Sex change?' he gasped.

‘Sex change. I used to be a man.'

He said nothing. Nothing!

‘I had the operation several months ago. You're … you're my first, Gordon.'

He put his trousers back on again, in silence.

‘Don't think I can handle this,' he said, when he was safely back in all his clothes. ‘Sorry, Nicola.'

As he left he said, ‘No hard feelings?' and she said, ‘It looks that way.'

The following Wednesday fortnight, she cried. It was silly, she knew, but he was a nice man, Gordon, and she felt very flat in sunless Sunny Cottage. She found herself missing all the
things about him that irritated her, so that she wished that they could have the chance to begin all over again and she could learn not to let them irritate her.

Besides, she would have liked to find out why he couldn't see her on Thursdays, Fridays, Mondays, Tuesdays and alternate Wednesdays. She thought he might have told her in a year or two.

It was another of life's unsolved mysteries. She didn't have the heart to go to the Farm Shop ever again.

Alan became increasingly worried about Nicola's long silence. Was she all right?

Today he might find out. It was the day of the Midsummer Dinner at the Golf Club. The air was still and sweaty. Throdnall throbbed with humidity. There was no bird song. Even the thrushes were sweating.