The New Woman (42 page)

‘You want me to walk into the Bracton Arms?’ he asked, looking apprehensive.

‘Oh yes. I’ve a good mind to take a picture of Ingrid’s face when she sees you, and share it on Facebook.’

We sat side by side on the sofa, in the warmest spot in the kitchen. From time to time we held one another’s hands. We’re awfully fond of one another’s company, I thought sadly, for an almost-divorced couple. Casino draped himself over Luke, his purrs dwindling to happy sighs. Baffy snoozed on the cushion I’d bought him.

Luke had seen Ricky Tait’s photographs. Apparently they weren’t hard to find.

‘How bad?’ I asked.

‘I look like Beethoven on a bad hair day.’

‘That’s the paparazzi for you.’

It was almost two when I looked at my watch and said I’d better turn in. Luke’s bed was made up in the study, but at least he was in the house. I slept well that night; better than I had for a long, long time. I heard him going to and from the bathroom, and tried not to imagine what he was wearing. But it was all right. I was all right. The world was turning, and I was not going to be flung off.

Forty-three

Kate

They were definitely off their heads.

She’d been dropped at home by a friend half an hour ago, to find her parents just setting out for church. That wouldn’t have been unusual, except for the fact that her father was presenting himself to the good folk of East Yalton as a woman. The pair of them seemed hell-bent on public humiliation.

‘The new vicar invited us,’ insisted Eilish. ‘He collared us in the Bracton Arms yesterday, said he was expecting us in church this morning.’

‘Yeah, well,’ scoffed Kate. ‘Everyone knows the C of E is super-trendy nowadays. The Reverend Niceguy probably thinks the whole resurrection thing is just a metaphor. This is all very modern and inclusive, but it won’t stop Colonel Smyth from turning purple and threatening to horsewhip you. It won’t stop Hattie the ancient verger fainting. What if the servers point-blank refuse to hand over the bread and wine, Dad?’

Luke looked anxious. ‘I’m sure the vicar wouldn’t allow that. But you don’t have to come with us, Kate.’

Of course she had to go. Someone had to shield her parents from the viciousness of the human race.

‘We stopped for a drink in the pub yesterday,’ reasoned Eilish as the three of them were walking along the track towards the village. ‘Nobody fainted, and nobody horsewhipped anybody. Mind you—gosh, folk can be rude. A couple of people actually got up and walked out.’

‘Bloody rednecks! Who were they? I’ll pay ’em a visit.’

‘Never mind. Ingrid and Harry were very welcoming.’

‘Yeah.’ Kate rolled her eyes. ‘I know. I heard all about it from Sophie. By the way, Dad, you’ve got a new fan. Sophie thinks you make a very impressive woman. She waxed lyrical about your eyes, and how you’re so tall and slim.’

‘Really? Well, that’s kind.’ Her dad was almost blushing. He was—

Kate stopped her own train of thought in its tracks. She was going to try to use the right pronouns from now on, even when she was only using them in her head.

She
was immaculately made up, wearing a midnight-blue dress with her pashmina. Leather boots, which Kate rather envied. Gold earrings, and a beret. Kate had always thought a beret would suit Luke, and she’d been proved right. The new woman looked a bit too chic for a country church, but that had to be a fault on the right side.

‘Ingrid and Harry came bustling over the second we arrived,’ said Eilish. ‘Leaned on the bar and asked intrusive questions. Such personal things! Suddenly, Luke’s genitalia becomes fair game as a subject for discussion. Everyone wants to know whether he’s having surgery. People are obsessed with the surgery! Why is that? It’s ghoulish. I was so relieved when the vicar came over and interrupted them.’

‘The clergy are getting younger and younger,’ sighed Luke. ‘Or am I getting older and older?’

Kate wondered whether this interfering do-gooder had any idea how much courage it was taking for her parents to front up in church. Well, she’d give him a piece of her mind. She flexed her fingers. If she saw a single sneer this morning, or heard a snide
remark, she was going to let fly. She felt very protective of her mum and dad. They’d been through enough.

There were three bells in the old tower, of three pitches, and whoever was ringing seemed to be tolling them entirely at random. The sound was comforting. This church had stood right here, in these fields, for hundreds of years. It had witnessed the Great Plague, the Industrial Revolution and two world wars. It didn’t give a damn what her father was wearing. She opened the back gate and followed her parents down the path, their footsteps crunching. Kate knew every corner of the graveyard from playing all those games of kick the can. She could recite the family names on the stones: Samuels, Smyth, Donaghue, Bell, Roach. She’d hidden behind the tiny, tragic graves of infants, and the massive family mausoleums. Hundreds of real people over the centuries, each
Beloved
or
At peace
or
Taken from us too soon
. Every one of them has a story, she thought. They’ve had their tragedies and love affairs. Perhaps some of them were like Dad. If so, they took their secret to the grave. She was glad her father wasn’t going to do that.

Near the church, their winding path drew close to the main one. They’d been spotted, and it was clear that the news was out. People glanced sideways at them. One or two waved but hurried on, as though they didn’t quite know what to do or say. Finally, an elderly couple approached. Kate knew them from her days in Sunday school, where they’d been teachers. Mr and Mrs White, she used to call them then. Olly and . . . oh bugger. What was Mrs White’s name?

Eilish laid a hand on Luke’s arm as the Whites came up to them. ‘Hello there, Yvonne and Olly,’ she said breezily. ‘Lovely morning.’

‘Eilish!’ bellowed the man. His voice was a little too jolly to be natural. ‘Am I in time to get a notice into the parish newsletter?’

‘Oh dear—too late, I’m afraid. I emailed it to the printer yesterday afternoon.’

He saluted her, for reasons best known to himself. ‘Never mind, ma’am, my fault. Next month will do.’

There was an awkward pause, before Yvonne cleared her throat.

‘Um . . . It’s lovely to see you, Luke,’ she said.

It was all too much for Kate, who had the nervous giggles. ‘It’s okay, Mrs White! You don’t have to pretend everything’s ticketyboo. Dad’s wearing a dress, for Pete’s sake. She’s got earrings and heels and bouffy hair. You’re allowed to be a bit gobsmacked.’

Mrs White laughed too, slightly hysterically. ‘I wasn’t sure of the etiquette,’ she said. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’ve never met a . . . a . . .’ She looked wildly to her husband for inspiration. ‘Oh dear, I don’t even know the right vocabulary . . . I’m totally at sea. What do I call you? I’ve never been in this situation in my life before. Neither has Olly, have you, darling?’

Luke smiled. ‘Look, Yvonne. Olly. It’s very simple. We’ve known one another for years. I hope we can still be friends now that I’m Lucia. Don’t worry about the vocabulary—I won’t take offence as long as you don’t call me a freak.’

Yvonne began to shake Lucia’s hand, then changed her mind and air-kissed her instead—but carefully, as though she were afraid of creasing Lucia’s clothes. ‘You do look . . . well, marvellous, actually. Come and share a pew with us,’ she said. ‘We’ll be your bodyguards.’

When they reached the porch, Kate lingered a little behind the others. The organ was wheezing away gently; she could already smell dust, damp and furniture polish. She smiled at the sight of Hattie the ancient verger, with her hymnbooks, peering myopically out at them. Some things never changed. Hattie spoke to someone over her shoulder, and Kate glimpsed a figure in a surplice. The new vicar, presumably.

She watched as her parents paused, side by side, on the threshold. Their hands touched, then briefly entwined. She was proud of them. They were about to be divorced, but when the chips were down, they were a team.

‘Right,’ said Lucia, taking her wife’s arm. ‘Let’s face the music.’

As they stepped inside, Kate could just make out the vicar shaking their hands. Full marks, she thought grudgingly. He’d made sure he was there to meet them. He was waiting to greet Kate, too. It was gloomy in the old building, after the brightness of the day. Her eyes took time to adjust, and for several seconds he was a silhouette against the east window. When he came into focus, she saw that he was staring at her incredulously.

‘Kate,’ he said, and she felt a grip on her hand.

She began to laugh.

Forty-four

Simon

It had been another long day. He didn’t finish writing up his notes until after seven.

His dad had moved home now, and was living as a woman; called himself Lucia, apparently. So he was the village joke, like something off
Little Britain
. Simon was baffled. Mum, Kate, Granny, even Carmela, seemed able to perform some kind of mental gymnastics that he couldn’t understand. They were lucky, because they hadn’t lost the person they’d loved.

He found his colleague Sven in the clinic, injecting a diabetic cat with insulin.

‘Coming for a drink?’ Simon asked.

Sven was in his forties, and had teenage children. All the clients, both animal and human, loved him; his bedside manner was irresistible. Simon wished it were contagious.

Sven looked at his watch. ‘It’s a bit late.’

‘Never too late.’

‘Why don’t you go home, Simon?’ Sven lifted the cat back into its cage and stroked its head for a moment. ‘You have a family. What’s the point in all this hard work if you don’t go home to them?’

‘You think I’m drinking too much.’

‘I think you should go home. Straight home.’

To his own surprise, Simon took Sven’s advice. He’d try to make it right with Carmela. The troubles had gone on too long; he missed the old days, when they were happy. He was home by seven-thirty, dropping his keys on the table the hall. Carmela wasn’t around, and there were no sounds from upstairs. Nico was probably asleep. He got so tired now that he was a schoolboy.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Simon wandered into the kitchen. Carmela must have been having a spring clean, because the place looked pristine. He took a bottle of wine out of the fridge. Something steamed in the slow cooker, but he wasn’t hungry.

He walked back to the kitchen door, looking towards the stairs. He stood in his shirtsleeves, a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other.

And he listened.

The house was quiet. Very quiet. No footsteps, no murmur of the radio. No yells from Rosa, who loved to party at this time of the evening.

‘Carmela?’ he called.

To him his voice sounded uncouth, as though he’d shouted during a funeral. He hoped she would appear at the top of the stairs, with a finger to her lips and a sleeping baby in her arms. She didn’t.

Suddenly frightened, he shouted again before sprinting up the stairs to look in every room. It was like a horrible detective game. Their toothbrushes were gone from the bathroom. Nico’s duvet had been taken from his bed. The baby’s travel cot was no longer on top of the cupboard on the landing, and neither was Carmela’s big suitcase.

There was no text on his phone, no missed call. It took him a long time to find the note, though she’d left it where he should have seen it straight away. It lay on the table in the hall, right next to the keys he’d dropped so casually.

Dear Simon,

I feel that I have no other choices. I have taken the children away from what is happening to us. We’ll be staying in Suffolk, by the sea. You’ll be angry, you’ll probably think that I’m being manipulative, but I am not. Nico needs a holiday from the tension, and so do I. I have informed his school. As for the future, I don’t know.

I think it would be kind if you don’t tell your parents yet. They’re going through this terrible time, and they would only blame themselves. It’s not their fault. It is our fault.

I will turn my phone on from time to time, in case there are messages. I think this is a good thing for you as well as for me. You and I both need time to think, and time to decide what is best.

My love, take care of yourself.

Carmela

P.S. Soup in the slow cooker. Your dry-cleaning ticket is pinned to the noticeboard.

All the wine in the house couldn’t dull the pain.

He imagined them in a holiday cottage by the sea, happy and excited. He imagined Nico playing on a beach, running and shouting; he imagined Carmela with Rosa on her back, and saw her hair lifting in a breeze. He wished—fiercely, desperately—that he were with them.

It took him most of the night to write a simple text. He composed it first on the back of an envelope, since it was probably the most important message he’d ever send. The envelope was soon covered in his handwriting. The problem was that he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He drafted long and convoluted messages; he drafted bitter messages, pleading messages, irrational messages. He paced around the garden in the dark, trying to get it right. What did he want to say?

He tried to be angry with her. That would be so much easier than being angry with himself. He tried to think her faithless, selfish, a total bitch; but the truth was that even as he’d feverishly searched the house for his family, he’d known they were gone, and he’d known why.

I drove them away, he thought, staring at his scribbles on the envelope. Why was I so destructive? Perhaps it was a form of self-harm, like cutting myself. I thought I’d grown out of that; haven’t done it since I left school.

By the time he lay down on his bed, he still hadn’t sent any message. According to the bedside clock it was three-eighteen. He felt light-headed with exhaustion, but he wasn’t at all sure he’d sleep. He’d been going to bed alone since New Year’s Day, and hated it. This was far worse. He slid under the covers and lay very still, listening to the emptiness. There was no life in the house. No Carmela, no Nico, no smiling Rosa; no hope that tomorrow would be different.