Sex and Other Changes

by David Nobbs

  ‘You’ve got quite fetching underwear,’ she said. ‘Sit like that and Ferenc’ll start getting ideas.’

  She wished she hadn’t said that about Ferenc.

  Bernie wandered in to see if lunch was ready and Alison realised she’d forgotten all about lunch. She told him it’d be late. ‘Maybe I ought to dress as a woman, maybe I’d get some service,’ he grumbled.

  She started to make the lunch and took Bernie a cup of tea. He was poring through old photographs of his life with Marge. She didn’t know if it was the best thing for him to be doing, but it seemed to console him.

  ‘I’m not telling her about Nick,’ he said. ‘It’d only upset her.’

  He saw Alison’s look of surprise, which she couldn’t quite hide.

  ‘I talk to her sometimes when no one’s around what might cart me off to the funny farm,’ he explained. ‘ “Hello, Marge, love,” I’ll say. “I’m just feeding t’ducks and such like, like what we used to.” Silly, i’n’t it?’

  ‘It isn’t silly at all, Dad.’ She went up and kissed him and said, ‘Dinner won’t be long. We aren’t having a roast, what with everything.’

  It was a strange Sunday lunch. They had omelettes, with oven chips and salad. The wind howled. Nicola tried to eat with delicacy and femininity. Bernie shivered and said, ‘I hate the winter, me. The other seasons I can cope with like, but winter, the bastard gets into my bones.’

  ‘Is your omelette all right?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Very nice, thank you,’ he said.

  She wished that just occasionally he’d say something was nice without having to be prompted. He’s becoming very ungracious, is my poor old dad, she thought.

  And Gray! They got the usual ‘My God!’ when he saw Nicola in her full make-up. ‘Is it any wonder,’ he asked rhetorically, ‘that I’m a psychological wreck, with a dad like that?’, and it did cross Alison’s mind for a moment that maybe it would actually help him if he knew that Nicola wasn’t his dad. He bolted his food and said, “Scuse me’, which was in itself a big advance in manners, ‘Gotta split. I’m playing chess against a friend from Prague and it’s almost Czech-mate. Czech-mate, get it? Oh, laugh, will you? That was a witticism. I’m becoming civilised.’

  In the afternoon Alison relented and let Nicola read the papers. She cut out an article about the attractions of Split. When was she ever going to go to Split?

  The wind howled and whistled, but silence ruled in number thirty-three. Bernie re-arranged his memories in his stifling room. Gray played chess in five continents. Nicola ploughed resolutely through the Sunday Times. Alison read a book. That was what their family was like. A commune of loners. A gathering of hermits.

  Em returned just before supper. Her face was ashen, and she’d been crying.

  ‘Didn’t he come?’ asked her mother.

  ‘He bloody did,’ she said. ‘We’ve had the most terrible row, Mum. It wasn’t like what it was in Italy.’ She rushed through, did a double take, looked at Nicola, said, ‘Oh my God,’ and hurried to her bedroom.

  It sounded serious. Alison wondered if it was over with Giorgio, then, as she began to make supper, she realised that it was. She could faintly hear the buzz of an electric razor, and thought it might be Gray shaving, although she didn’t think he’d started and he certainly didn’t need to, but then he rushed in, and he couldn’t wait to tell them in an excited whisper, ‘Em’s shaving her armpits.’

  ‘Don’t you dare make any comment whatsoever about it to her,’ said Nicola sternly.

  ‘As if I would, Dad,’ said Gray. ‘What do you think I am – a freak? Can’t have two freaks in one family.’

  Just you wait, Gray, thought Alison drily. You’re going to get a shock.

  10 The Manageress

  They set the alarm for six-thirty. There was an awful moment when Nicola couldn’t remember why. Then there was an even worse moment when she did.

  She knew that if she ate breakfast after she’d got ready, she’d spill something on her smart, dark brown skirt suit, and almost certainly ruin her make-up, so she tried to snatch a bit of breakfast straightaway, but it was no use, she couldn’t even get a quarter of a slice of toast down.

  She had a shower and cleaned her teeth and then she called for Alison, who stood by her side while she tried to do her make-up without assistance. Alison had to prompt her a couple of times, but on the whole she didn’t do too badly. Then she did her hair, which wasn’t difficult; Karen had done a great job and it was behaving itself well.

  Beyond the frosted glass the night gave up its darkness grudgingly. It was going to be one of those Throdnall days that never get properly light. This suited her mood perfectly. She’d never kidded herself that today would feel like the beginning of a great journey, a giant first step to womanhood, but she hadn’t realised just how tense she would be, just how much courage it would take to walk into the Cornucopia Hotel as Ms Nicola Divot.

  With her suit she wore brown shoes, an apricot blouse, and a pearl necklace with pearl earrings (the jewellery lent by Alison, bless her). She wobbled precariously to the garage in her medium-high-heeled shoes.

  She reversed very carefully out of the garage. She didn’t feel in full control. She realised that she should perhaps have worn flat shoes for driving, and changed into the others at the hotel. She couldn’t be bothered now. If she didn’t get straight off, she might panic. She felt as if she was going to break into a sweat. That was all she needed! A grotesque general manageress with BO. She needed to breathe. She stopped the car, lowered the window and gulped in air, but it wasn’t cold enough. It had turned disgustingly mild overnight and the air was damp and soupy.

  Pull yourself together, Nicola. You chose to do this. You didn’t have to.

  She closed the window and reversed into Orchard View Close. When she got to Badger Glade Rise she didn’t turn right, she turned left into Coppice Vale to avoid the road works.

  She turned left again into Meadow Prospect, intending to turn right into Owl Hoot Lane, which was a good cut-through to the Kenilworth Road. In her anxiety, however, she forgot that there were new traffic calming measures there too (they didn’t calm her!). About ten yards into Owl Hoot Lane they’d narrowed the road so that two cars couldn’t pass. She turned too fast and had to screech to a halt to avoid a head-on collision with a red Honda. The young man in it glared at her, and she realised that he wouldn’t reverse. Why should he, to be fair? It was her fault.

  She tried to back up, but in her state she couldn’t find reverse and the gears crunched horribly. She began to have to fight off another bout of sweating. She became very conscious of her tights. At last she managed to move. The Honda pulled forward, the young man lowered his window and shouted, ‘Bloody women drivers!’

  She wanted to cheer. Well, why not? She lowered her window, leant out and gave a massive ‘Hurrah!’ The Honda driver was so taken aback that he lost control and crashed into the new island in the middle of Meadow Prospect, demolishing it on its first day. She sped off down Owl Hoot Lane as fast as the Subaru could carry her.

  The traffic was very heavy in the Kenilworth Road. That didn’t worry her unduly. Half of her wanted to get there quickly and get it over with. The other half welcomed any excuse for delay. She noticed that the tattoo parlour had closed down, which seemed incomprehensible in view of the bodily habits of the majority of the townsfolk. It was hard to imagine a greater example of incompetence in business than running a failed tattoo parlour in Throdnall.

  One of the windows of the pet shop was boarded up. An extremely fat girl in unwise leggings was unlocking the door of the hairdressing salon, Maison Doreen, and, good Lord, there was Mr Parker from number thirty-seven opposite, unloading boxes from his elderly Volvo (it did look as if they were overstretched) into the new herb and spice shop, Piccalilli Circus. Not a good location, the Parkers struck her as naive, how long would that little dream survive?

  Some bright spark had blacked out the letter O on the sign outside the Co
unty Library.

  The right turn into Brindley Street took for ever. The filter system was very badly set, about two cars at a time got through.

  She drove past the hotel and turned left into the narrow alley to the hotel car park. She pulled into her reserved space – General Manager – and looked in the mirror to check her makeup. She didn’t really know what she was looking for, but she knew that no self-respecting woman would get out of her car in a car park without checking her make-up first. She didn’t like what she saw. In that light she looked like a gargoyle with jaundice.

  ‘Come on, Nicola. This is it,’ she said out loud.

  She could have slunk in straight from the car park, but she decided that on this occasion, for the sake of her self-respect, she would boldly climb the front steps.

  She walked carefully down the alley from the car park to the street, past the frosted glass windows of the ground floor toilets, and walked even more carefully along the pavement. She was frightened of catching her heel in one of the many cracks and crevices, ravines and hollows that made Brindley Street’s pavements resemble the surface of the moon.

  The Cornucopia Hotel had been an old coaching inn, called the White Hart. It was one of only two old buildings left in Brindley Street. The other one was a sex shop. Above the steps, atop the entrance canopy, there still sat a rather splendid, if now completely irrelevant, white hart. It was probably a listed animal which couldn’t be pulled down. Two storeys had been added to the top of the building, ruining its Georgian proportions.

  Nicola sighed deeply as she went in. This really wasn’t easy.

  The moment she entered the hotel she could always see the whole picture. Nothing escaped her. It was obvious that morning that there was a bit of a hoo-ha at the reception desk. Sandra was a tough nut as befitted a retired lady footballer who played centre half for Throdnall Amazons, but she was looking a bit frazzled as she faced a very determined businessman.

  Nicola hurried over, glad of the excuse for some kind of immediate action.

  ‘Morning, Sandra,’ she said.

  Sandra’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

  ‘Mr Divot?’ she asked.

  ‘Ms Divot,’ said Nicola, and she turned to the businessman, whose face was florid. ‘Can I help you? I’m the Manager.’

  ‘I booked a superior room. My room has not been superior. There must have been some mistake.’

  There had been no mistake. None of their rooms were superior. It was absurd of Cornucopia to classify the rooms as Standard and Superior. Slightly Below Standard and Very Below Standard would have been more honest.

  ‘Have you sent for the Duty Manager, Sandra?’ asked Nicola.

  ‘Er …’ Sandra hurriedly stopped gawping at her. ‘Not yet, Mr … er … Ms … er … no.’

  ‘Right. Well I’ll deal with it. Who is Duty Manager today, by the way?’

  ‘Mr Gulyas.’

  ‘Fine. Will you tell Mr Gulyas I’ll see him in my office in twenty minutes? Now, sir, may I ask you why you didn’t complain last night?’

  ‘I didn’t have time. I arrived late, and had to go straight to a function in the Assembly Rooms. The Heart of England Financial Directors’ Dinner Dance. I dumped my stuff, barely glanced at my room, jumped into my penguin suit and buggered off.’

  Most people didn’t complain about their rooms for the simple reason that they weren’t paying, but Nicola could see why a financial director would want value for money.

  ‘Which room were you in, sir?’

  ‘Two three two.’

  ‘Right … er … Mr … er … ?’

  ‘Wilmer.’

  ‘Right, Mr Wilmer, let’s go and have a look at your room, shall we?’

  They shuddered up to the second floor in the painfully slow lift. A small advertisement asked, ‘Why not give our Kenilworth Brasserie a visit?’ Nicola could think of eleven reasons.

  ‘The word Cornucopia suggests “plenty”,’ said Mr Wilmer.

  And there is plenty – plenty to complain about, thought Nicola. She looked at the second floor corridor through Mr Wilmer’s eyes – carpet, threadbare and dirt-coloured (had been beige), lifeless prints of Warwickshire scenes, lighting just too dim, piles of dirty sheets at intervals. Only splashes of colour, only objects with any style – fire extinguisher and fire bucket.

  They entered room two three two.

  ‘Limp pillows,’ said Mr Wilmer. ‘A damp stain on the ceiling. Cracked paint on the radiator. Cheap curtains that don’t quite meet. Tiny mites beneath the glass in the print of Old Throdnall. A tomato stain on page ninety-three of the Gideon Bible.’

  He led her into the bathroom.

  ‘A chip in the enamel of the washbasin. A brown stain in the bath. Two loose floor tiles. Pubic hairs in the shower.’

  The first morning of my brave new life and I’m bending down to examine other people’s pubic hairs, thought Nicola. She stood up gingerly, anxious not to snag her tights.

  ‘I’m very sorry about the pubic hairs,’ she said. ‘Heads will roll. The Gideon Bible will be replaced. With regard to the other matters, we are, I must admit, awaiting refurbishment.’

  She didn’t tell him that they were fifth on the list, behind the Coventry Cornucopia, the Haverfordwest Cornucopia, the York Cornucopia and the Crawley Cornucopia.

  ‘Is this one of your superior rooms?’ demanded Mr Wilmer.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she said, ‘though I must admit it’s not one of our best.’

  She was lying. It was one of their best.

  ‘My wife has left me,’ he said.

  I’m not surprised, thought Nicola.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I half thought I might pull, to be honest.’

  You? No chance.

  ‘How could I bring a woman back to a room like this?’

  Nicola didn’t point out that he had claimed not to have noticed how bad the room was the previous evening, so he wouldn’t have known that he couldn’t bring a woman back.

  Mr Wilmer picked up the little folder on the desk and read out loud, ‘Mr Nick Divot and his staff welcome you to the Cornucopia and will do all they can to make your stay a pleasurable one.’ (Damn! That should have been changed to Ms Nicola Divot, get Ferenc on to it.)

  ‘Pleasurable, my arse,’ said Mr Wilmer.

  The unworthy thought flashed through Nicola’s mind that even when she was a fully-fledged woman she would find nothing pleasurable about Mr Wilmer’s arse. But the customer was right, even if he was a complete tosser, and Nicola’s first decision as a woman was the degrading one of offering Mr Wilmer a fifty per cent reduction in his bill.

  On a more positive note, he hadn’t appeared to find anything odd in her appearance as a woman.

  He hadn’t attempted to pull, though.

  Ferenc had a soft little knock, but he was only playing at being diffident.

  ‘Come in.’ Nicola tried to make her voice sound soft and feminine. It had never exactly been deep and masculine, and she thought the hormone treatment was having a gradual effect.

  Ferenc slid in as if on castors, shut the door gently behind him and raised his eyebrows in a way that, frankly, was just a trifle supercilious. Don’t waste my time. Tell me what your little game is, said Ferenc’s eyebrows.

  Damn it, she wouldn’t!

  ‘Do sit down, Ferenc,’ she said.

  Ferenc settled himself elegantly into the chair on the other side of her excessively neat desk. Ferenc, it couldn’t be denied, had style – a rare quality in Throdnall. He’d had it as a waiter – he’d stood out in the Pizza Hut in Plockwell, which was where Nick first saw him. He’d been fresh out of Budapest and could serenade a woman with a menu as if it was a gypsy violin. If he’d had a violin he’d have caused mass orgasms. There’d been trouble with a customer, he’d got into doubtful company and left. When he next came across him, Nick had just been appointed Manager at the Cornucopia, Ferenc was married and less wild, and Nick
had given him a job as a waiter. Only eight years later, and already he was Assistant Manager. Nicola didn’t resent it, but she was well aware that he might rise to heights that she couldn’t aspire to. It wouldn’t surprise her if one day he opened Throdnall’s very first Hungarian restaurant.

  What she found difficult in her relationship with him was to establish any power over him. He had more natural authority than she did, and they both knew it. Today was different, though. Today she had something to tell him, and as long as she refused to tell him she had power over him.

  ‘Ferenc,’ she said, ‘I need to talk to all the staff. I … er … I have something important to tell them.’

  ‘I see.’

  Good! She had forced him into the English habit of saying the opposite of what he meant. Clearly he didn’t see and didn’t know quite how to ask her.

  ‘Er … ?’ he began.

  ‘I’ll leave you to arrange things,’ she said. ‘Obviously I can’t speak to the whole staff at once – the hotel still needs to function in its usual smooth, efficient way.’

  She smiled slightly, just enough to let him know that she knew what a crap-hole it was. It crossed her mind that this was something that she could never have acknowledged as a man, and just for a moment she felt quite light-headed.

  She began to wonder about Ferenc’s sexuality. He was quite small, lithe, with a mobile face. She’d never given his sexuality a thought before, but she found herself considering whether he might be bisexual. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, but that might be a smokescreen.