The New Woman (40 page)

‘She didn’t see any alternative.’

‘Spineless.’

‘Darling, truly, this doesn’t matter. All that matters now is you. I’ve brought shame on you.’

Jim had answered his mobile yet again. He’d turned away from me, but he was clearly agitated and I overheard a snatch of his conversation.
Why the hell should she bow out?
He got to his feet suddenly, and marched to the window and back.
You’re out of your mind! You think we have SEN teachers of her calibre coming out of our ears?

We’re in trouble, I thought, Luke and I. Both of us. For better, for worse . . . and this is worse. Our world has changed again. It’s no longer safe.

I said the next words before I’d thought them through. They came out instinctively, but I knew they were right.

‘Will you come home?’

He didn’t answer me.

‘I want you to come home,’ I said clearly. ‘Just until this storm’s blown over. You can wear any damned clothes you want. You can call yourself whatever you want. We have to face this together.’

Forty-one

Simon

He couldn’t stop looking at them. Every time he looked, he wished he hadn’t.

They’d arrived by email, from an ex-schoolmate who said Simon might like to know what was doing the social media rounds; and was he aware that his father was a transvestite? It couldn’t have been much worse. Simon instantly recognised Luke, and yet it was a woman—wearing a skirt, a white blouse and a cardigan. She was nose to nose with a
Big Issue
seller. They seemed to be great mates.

Simon’s life was falling apart. Carmela had moved into the spare bedroom after their row on New Year’s Day. She said he snored when he’d been drinking. He hadn’t forgiven her for taking the children to Thurso Lane; she hadn’t forgiven him for reacting as he had. Stalemate.

‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’ he’d demanded one morning when he couldn’t take any more of her cold politeness. ‘Is this all about Dad?’

‘No. This is all about you.’

So he went to work without saying goodbye, and in the evening he lingered at the pub. This soon became a routine. It seemed easier than going home and trying to put things right.

The girl in the club was haunting him again, as she had years ago. Sometimes he dreamed about her—graphic, erotic dreams—and woke up to find himself aroused. On those mornings he couldn’t look anyone in the eye. He couldn’t even look himself in the eye.

And now this. His father, the drag queen, plastered across the internet.

Nico was looking for him, running around the house. ‘Daddy! Where are you? We have to go to swimming now.’

‘In a minute,’ Simon yelled back. ‘You get ready.’

‘I’ve got my things. I don’t wanna be late. The teacher tells us off if we’re late.’

The woman in the photos had changed since Simon saw her in the kitchen of Thurso Lane. She was much more convincing in her disguise. She had a different stance: one hand on the strap of her bag, the other delicately touching her own cheek as she listened intently to whatever the
Big Issue
seller was saying. There was no wig now. She wore her own dark hair like a woman’s. Her eyes seemed wider, her mouth fuller. She looked disturbingly feminine.

Jessica was convincing, too. Even after she admitted what she was, and lay sobbing in the rain, she seemed like a real girl. That was what was so creepy about these people.

‘Daddy, come on!’ Nico charged into the room, and Simon quickly closed the page. The first thing to do was to look after Mum. This was going to blow her apart. He must warn her before she heard it from someone else.

‘Shush a minute, I’m busy.’

‘I’ll be late,’ whined Nico. ‘I don’t wanna be late. I’ll be late, I don’t wanna . . .’

Jesus, I can’t hear myself think.
The phone at Smith’s Barn was engaged. No luck with Mum’s mobile, either. He began to write a text.

Nico tugged on his arm. ‘Pleeease! I don’t wanna be late . . .’

‘For Christ’s sake, shut up!’ snapped Simon. ‘Selfish little brat.’

Nico burst into noisy tears. Carmela must have heard the commotion, because she appeared in the doorway, holding Rosa on her hip.

‘What’s going on?’ she demanded. Nico ran to her, still wailing, and she bent to comfort him.

Simon looked up from his phone. ‘What’s going on is that someone’s managed to take photos of my father in drag, and the pictures have gone viral.’

‘No!’ Carmela blinked several times, processing the information. ‘So the secret’s out? Poor Eilish.’

‘Yep. The world is laughing at the Livingstone family right now, as we speak. I told Dad! I warned him—and now he’s done this to us.’

‘I’m sorry, Simon. We’ll talk about it later.’ Carmela looked at her watch. ‘But Nico’s going to be late for swimming if you don’t set out right now. It’s a good ten minutes’ walk.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It does,’ she said firmly. ‘Especially with all this stress. He needs normality.’

‘Fine.’ Simon stood up. ‘I’ll take him to his sodding swimming.’

Weird places, public swimming pools. There was something hellish about the smell of chlorine and the echoing water. Parents sat along the spectator benches, pretending to watch their children but actually gossiping and messing about with their phones. Perhaps they all knew. Perhaps they were looking at the pictures—yes, there were two fathers laughing at something on a screen. He couldn’t face them. He helped Nico to change and then quickly left, searching for a refuge.

There was a licensed cafe across the road; its lights beckoned through the gloom. He hid in a warm corner with a bottle of Heineken. And then another. And one more. From time to time he stole a horrified, fascinated glance at the pictures on his phone.

He was heading for the toilets when Carmela rang.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘Nowhere.’

‘I’ve just had a call from the receptionist at the pool. I think you forgot our son.’

There can be no sight more forlorn than that of a five-year-old boy clutching his swimming bag and waiting all alone. Nico was wearing only one sock, his jeans were wet and his sweatshirt was on inside out.

‘Buddy,’ cried Simon, rushing into the pool’s foyer with outstretched arms. ‘I’m so sorry!’

Nico must have been putting on a brave face for the receptionist; but when he saw his father, the facade crumpled.

‘You left me,’ he whimpered, and burst into tears.

‘He thought you weren’t coming.’ The woman wasn’t amused. ‘The other children have been gone half an hour. He thought you didn’t want him anymore.’

Simon dropped to his knees and hugged the little boy.

‘Heartbroken,’ added the woman, whose job description seemed to include making parents feel as guilty and inadequate as possible.

‘D’you want some crisps, Nico?’ asked Simon. ‘Or chocolate?’

Even bribery didn’t work. Simon gathered the wailing child into his arms, thanked the receptionist—who managed a frosty smile—and carried him outside.

‘You left me,’ said Nico, between sobs. ‘You left me, Daddy.’

‘Shush, buddy. I’m sorry. I got held up.’

‘Held up where?’

‘Shush.’

‘You left me.’

Simon carried his son all the way home, which was no mean feat. ‘You’re getting heavy,’ he puffed, but Nico just pressed his face closer and held on tighter.

As they turned into their street, Nico seemed to cheer up a bit. ‘Nearly home. Mummy’s going to be cross with you.’

‘Yep. I’d say that’s a fair assumption.’

‘The swimming pool lady was
very
cross with you. She said she was sick of people using her as a babysitter.’

Carmela was waiting at the front door. Nico scrambled down from Simon’s arms and ran to her. She took one look at her husband, guessed exactly where he’d been all evening, and was furious. He knew the telltale spots of crimson on her cheeks.

‘You were drinking,’ she said.

‘Just a swift half.’

‘Or two.’

‘He’s fine,’ protested Simon. ‘He’s just been chatting.’

‘He’s not fine. He was really distressed. They told me when they rang.’

Simon looked at Nico, who had his face buried in Carmela’s jersey. ‘What’s up with him nowadays? He never used to cry all the time.’

‘He senses things, Simon. He feels the atmosphere. He’s not stupid.’

She swept the child away, hissing insults at Simon in Spanish. For the next hour, she was completely focused on the children. She gave Nico supper and a bath, and tucked both him and Rosa up in bed. Meanwhile, Simon sat in the kitchen, feeling truculent and demolishing a bottle of wine. He was distinctly the worse for wear by the time Carmela reappeared.

‘I don’t believe it!’ she cried, glaring at the bottle. ‘
More
alcohol? After you forgot our son?’

‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Grab yourself a glass.’

She turned around and walked out of the room.

‘Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,’ he yelled after her. He knew he was drunk; he was too drunk to care. ‘And other clichés.’

He desperately wanted her to storm back into the kitchen and yell at him. She didn’t. After half an hour he began to feel uneasy. He walked around the house looking for her. In the end he found her sitting at the writing desk with her face in her hands. He made his way to an armchair—stumbling once or twice—and
sank into it. God, what a bloody awful day this had turned out to be. He didn’t know what to say; he couldn’t think how to put all this right.

‘What’re you doing?’ he asked.

She shrugged.

‘Look, I’m sorry. I was thinking about those photos. I lost track of time.’

‘We can’t go on like this, Simon.’

This sounded ominous. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘You are drinking too much. You are angry too often. You are not a good father anymore. The children will suffer if this continues, and I have to protect them.’

He stared at her, processing what she’d said.
Not a good father?
Christ almighty, that wasn’t fair.

‘Are you serious? I was late collecting Nico—okay, I put my hands up for that heinous crime; fair cop, probably a capital offence—but the world didn’t end.’ When she didn’t respond, he punched the arm of his chair. ‘Fuck’s sake! Why does every little mistake I make have to be a massive drama?’

‘There you go again. Shouting and swearing. Angry straight away. Why so angry?’

‘Too bloody right, I’m angry! Today was the day my father’s perversion got splashed across the internet. Everyone will know by now. And you took my children to see him. I can’t get over that.’

She was shaking her head sadly, as though he were a hopeless case. ‘You know what? I think you are grieving for your father. I think you feel as Nico did this evening. Abandoned. Bewildered.’

‘Oh, God. Now we’re an amateur psychologist, are we? I’m not five years old.’

‘No, Simon, you are not. So get over it, and forgive, and move on.’

He wasn’t up to this. He felt very drunk now, and unpleasantly close to tears. He stood, swayed, and grabbed the back of a chair. ‘I can’t handle a fucking stupid conversation. I’m going to bed.’

‘No. Don’t run away again.’

He wanted to be somewhere else, away from her. ‘I’ve had enough of you telling me how to think, Carmela. I’ve had enough of the whole lot of you. I’ve had enough, okay?’

‘Go then!’ shouted Carmela, as he hauled himself up the stairs. ‘Run away, you coward. You will lose more than your father.’

He managed to get into the bathroom, where he took a pee. The walls seemed to be whirling slowly, as though he’d just stepped off the roundabout in the playpark. As he lurched across the landing he heard Rosa begin to cry. His baby girl would be pleased to see him, even if nobody else was.

She was sitting up in her cot, wearing her red all-in-one suit and gripping the bars like a miniature prisoner. When she saw him, she held out her hands and cried extra loud. Even in his addled state, he knew that he loved her.

‘C’mon moppet,’ he said, lifting her out and sitting down in the one small armchair that would fit in the room. There was a child’s cup of water standing on the table. She reached for it as he handed it to her, and held it to her own mouth. Clever girl. He heard the slurping sound she made, and held her closer still.

The room was in darkness except for a nightlight in one corner. Rosa’s little body relaxed, and he felt her head lolling against his chest. His own head felt heavy. He closed his eyes.