The New Woman (26 page)

I had a conference call booked for eight, and a partners’ meeting over lunch. They couldn’t be put off. I was dressed in a suit and tie, and was about to leave the flat when the phone rang. I pounced on it.

‘You have a new granddaughter,’ said Eilish’s voice. ‘Rosa Catalina. Four pounds, two ounces.’

‘Thank God. All well?’

‘She’s in the neonatal care unit, but she’s breathing by herself. Carmela’s fine.’

‘When are you going to see her?’

‘Once everyone’s had some rest and settled down.’

I walked around the table, carrying the phone. ‘Rosa . . . ?’

‘Rosa Catalina. It has a rather classy ring to it, don’t you think?’

We talked. We were just two tired, relieved, joyous grandparents. Eilish relayed all she knew about the events of the night—Carmela’s waters breaking, and Simon getting the neighbour to babysit Nico; their dash to the hospital; what time this happened, and that happened, and how long it all took.

‘She was born just after five,’ said Eilish.

‘I called the hospital at half past! They wouldn’t speak to me.’

‘I know you did. I know they wouldn’t.’

The penny dropped, heavily, with a hollow clunk. Simon had had me blacklisted.

‘So I’m an outcast,’ I said.

She sounded exasperated. ‘What in heaven’s name did you expect? You’re never going to meet this child. You’ll never have anything to do with her or Nico.’

‘Surely Simon and Carmela wouldn’t be so harsh.’

‘No, Luke. Never. Not unless you stop what you’re doing. They’re adamant. They don’t want Rosa and Nico to have a . . . I don’t know what to call it.’

‘A tranny granny.’

‘Why do you joke about the destruction of our family?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it’s funny. Perhaps I’ve finally had enough of Simon’s anger. Perhaps I feel a little angry myself? I’m those children’s grandparent. I love them like any other grandparent, whatever gender I am or think I am. Why does it matter so much? I’m not evil and I’m not dangerous. I’ve been fretting all night, just the same as you. I want to play with my grandchildren. I just want . . . you know.’ My voice was cracking.

‘Then give up what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘It’s not too late. You can have it all, everything, just the way it was. But give it up now, or Rosa will never even hear your name.’

Twenty-seven

Luke

It was difficult to forget everything else and concentrate on the acquisition of one massive financial institution by another. An associate solicitor and a trainee were with me during the eight o’clock conference call. Afterwards I told them about Rosa, and the news soon spread. All morning, colleagues were punching me on the shoulder and congratulating me on my new granddaughter; all morning, I felt a weight in my chest.
You asked for this
, I told myself.
You chose it
.

Judi Wells, who headed our HR department, dropped by just as I was calling the florist. I wanted to send flowers to Carmela. After all, what harm could it do? In years gone by, I might have asked a secretary to organise this for me—but times have changed. Judi saw I was on the phone and hesitated, but I waved to her.

‘What message would you like?’ asked the woman taking my order.

‘Um . . . hang on.’ I hadn’t thought about the message. When Nico was born, Eilish and I went together to see him. We bore gifts, like two wise men. ‘Let’s go for:
Congratulations on the safe arrival of Rosa. With love from Luke
.’

After I’d finished the call, I saw that Judi’s eyebrows were up.

‘When are you going to see this little angel?’ she asked.

‘Not till she’s out of the neonatal unit.’

Judi had recently turned fifty—I knew that for a fact, because Eilish and I had been invited to her half-century bash. I was cheered by the sight of her spray of curls and flowing clothes. She was on the borderline between plump and very plump, but she wore her curves with panache. She could walk elegantly in high heels, something not many women can do, and that I was sure I never would. She and her long-term partner spent all their holidays going on gastronomic tours of Europe and came back with eye-popping descriptions of the menus they’d sampled. I’d never heard Judi talk about dieting, or aerobics classes, or changing herself in any way. She was completely happy with herself. I couldn’t imagine such a luxury.

She stood in the doorway, eyeing me. She was wearing a chiffon kaftan today, with a dark blue necklace to match.

‘So, these flowers,’ she said.

‘Mm?’

‘They’re just from you.’

‘Just from me.’

‘And you’re living at your London pad nowadays.’

‘Um, yes. At the moment.’

She slid the glass door shut behind her, and leaned her back against it. ‘Have you got something to tell me?’

‘No.’

‘Sure about that?’

I really shouldn’t share intimate secrets with Judi, or with anyone in the firm. Not yet; not until I’d told the management team. So I began to lie, as I always had. It felt awful, as though I were lifting my burden again.

I stopped in mid-sentence. I was finished with lying. I put the heavy burden down.

‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘There is something I should tell you.’

‘This may disappoint you,’ said Judi, as we sat in her favourite French cafe, ‘but I’m not surprised.’

‘You’re not?’

To my astonishment she was looking faintly smug, rather than shocked. ‘Completes the jigsaw. You know how there’s always one piece missing, down the back of the sofa or in the Hoover bag? Drives you nuts. Well, I’ve just found it. I knew you weren’t gay. I knew you weren’t having an affair, because I’ve seen that many a time and I know the signs. But I was bloody sure you were hiding something fundamental about yourself. And I was right.’

‘You don’t think I’m mad?’

She snorted. ‘Heck, no. Why would I think it’s mad to want to be a woman? It’s great, being a woman. Look at me! I love it. Mad
not
to want to be a woman. The more the merrier, so far as I’m concerned. Are you taking hormones?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, I am. HRT. I can tell you all about it.’ She cut her
pain au chocolat
in two, and handed me half. It was a casual gesture of friendship, or even—was I imagining this?—of sisterhood. My relationship with Judi had shifted subtly in the past half-hour. She’d relaxed some kind of guard in herself. She liked me as I was. I liked that.

She took a bite of her half, and tapped the table in front of her. ‘So what’s the plan, Luke?’

‘I’m playing this by ear. It’s new territory.’

Her eyes narrowed as she chewed. Judi’s a problem solver. She weighs up possibilities and finds solutions, and that was precisely what she was doing now. ‘No good,’ she said briskly. ‘If you’re going to become a woman you must have your ducks in a row. We’ll have to coordinate the rollout of the new you—and we need a time frame. How long do you need?’

‘Whoa! Hang on!’ I cringed at the idea of coming out to colleagues and clients. Hundreds of people would be watching me take my first tottering steps as a woman, smothering laughter, making crude jokes about my genitalia. No.

‘I’ll have to resign,’ I said.

‘Rubbish! This is nothing new. I read a piece in the paper . . . yesterday’s, was it? . . . anyway, it was about this really macho guy, a US Navy SEAL from the unit that carried out the final raid on Osama bin Laden. Trained killer. Beard. Tattoos. Colossal gun. He’s come out as a woman. Isn’t that amazing? And remember that City trader? His bank were very understanding. And now I think about it, there’s an army officer in Australia. Stunning woman.’

I knew about these people, but it wasn’t helping me now. Their battles were not mine. ‘It might be easier for Eilish if I quietly resign,’ I said. ‘She’s very hurt.’

‘I’m sure she is, poor lass.’ The line of Judi’s mouth softened, and she touched my upper arm. ‘Luke, listen. Your marriage has been a success. You’ve amassed a million good memories; but sometimes enough is enough. For richer, for poorer; for better, for worse, blah blah blah—but not necessarily till death do us part; not if you’re bloody miserable. Thousands of people reach our age and want something else out of life—though, I’ll grant you, what you’re after is a bit . . . um, unusual. D’you know how long the average marriage lasted in the twelfth century? I’ll tell you: eleven years and six months. That’s because somebody always died—normally the poor woman, in childbirth. And d’you know how long the average modern marriage lasts? Take a wild guess.’

I took a guess. ‘Eleven years and six months?’

‘Exactly. People don’t die all the time anymore, so they have to get divorced instead. You and Eilish have been together nigh on three times the national average. You’ve seen your children into adulthood and beyond. That’s more than can be said for most parents.’

‘She still believes our marriage can be salvaged.’

Judi looked sceptical. ‘Just as long as you promise to throw away your satin camiknickers? I don’t see how she’d ever trust you. Can’t see how she’d ever fancy you again, either. It’s not exactly sexy, is it?’

‘I don’t own any camiknickers, satin or otherwise.’

‘No? Well, now I know what to get you for your birthday.’

I didn’t smile. My head was filled with Eilish, with Nico, and with Rosa, who might never hear my name. I could be father and grandfather and husband. I could pretend to be those things. I needn’t end my days as a lonely joke.

‘Luke.’ Judi leaned closer and looked me in the eye. ‘If you’re going to U-turn now, you’d better be bloody sure. You seriously think this genie will fit back into the bottle?’

I imagined burying Lucia deeper than ever before; burying her alive, just as she’d begun to breathe. I could almost hear her screaming. I imagined the suffocation stretching on, and on, to the end of my days.

I tried to phone Simon that evening. He must have installed one of those gadgets that tell you who’s calling. The handset was lifted—I heard a childish voice, but faintly, as though in the background—and then put down again.

I tried again, hoping Nico had accidentally cut me off. Same thing.

Finally I got hold of Kate. She’d been to the hospital already, and was buzzing.

‘She’s
unbelievably
ugly,’ she said fondly. ‘Like a baby-shaped walnut. She’s in an incubator at the moment, but you can touch her.’

‘Was Nico there?’

‘Yep. Being proprietorial and talking nonstop.’

I felt an ache—really, a physical ache. Nico would have taken my hand and led me to see the new arrival. ‘So he’s pleased with his sister?’ I asked.

‘He’s pleased with the pedal car she’s given him.’

‘Did you take any photos?’

She groaned. ‘Yes, but Simon doesn’t want you to . . . oh, bugger Simon. Yes, I’ve got some on my phone. I’ll send one.’

We were about to end the call when I had a thought. ‘I ordered some flowers,’ I said.

‘Um . . . they were delivered.’

‘And?’

‘Simon gave them straight back to the nurse. She said she’d find a home for them.’

I was thinking about those flowers—feeling sorry for myself—when the magical photo arrived to distract me. I sat and stared at it. I suppose, really, it was just a baby in an incubator. We’ve all seen pictures like that before: the babies in them look vulnerable and exposed, so small as to be barely human. This one had long black lashes and curled-up toes. She was wearing a little red hat. Behind her loomed the round face of her brother, looking in with wide-eyed wonder. His hair was tousled, his nose flattened against the perspex.

I printed out the picture of my grandchildren and leaned it on my bedside table.

That night, I dreamed of a baby in a forest. It was very dark. There were wolves.