Nuala O’Connor’s Facebook page was full of proud pictures of her family. Her husband had evidently passed away, but last Christmas she’d posted a picture of ‘me and all my babies’ and had tagged all four of the people in the picture. She was standing in the middle of the group, surrounded by three burly men and a woman wearing party hats and Christmas jumpers. Nuala was holding a selfie stick and she’d shaved the tops off two of the tallest men in the picture and a couple of comments made reference to her dubious selfie skills. But that wasn’t what stood out for me. The person I couldn’t take my eyes off was the woman. She was wearing a lot of black eyeliner, had an angular jaw and her Adam’s apple jutted out over the neck of her jumper. I was sure Callum didn’t have a sister but this girl smiling shyly at the camera had the same blue eyes as the rest of her family. I stared at her picture and a shiver ran down my spine. There was no mention on Nuala’s page of Callum. But plenty of Candy O’Connor …
My mouth went dry. Could Candy be Callum? My finger hovered over the link to Candy’s profile page. I clicked on it and held my breath.
All of Candy’s posts were private, but I scrolled through her profile pictures and what I saw made my heart beat like fury; there, over the last few years, was the gradual transformation from male to female. And even though Facebook would only let me scroll back so far, I could tell it was him.
Callum had gone through gender realignment and now lived as a woman. I’m not sure quite what I expected to gain by Facebook-stalking my ex, but it certainly wasn’t this. This wasn’t closure; this was opening a whole new can of worms …
I checked the time again. It was nearly midnight, too late to be doing this but I knew I wouldn’t sleep now. I had to contact him, her.
I clicked on the Facebook messenger icon and tried to think what to say. It took me half an hour to compose a three-word message:
Can we talk?
I pressed send and waited, optimistically, for an instant reply. But none came.
I lay back against my pillows for another hour, my heart still thumping. The moon disappeared behind the clouds and the room grew dark, the only light the blue haze from the screen. My eyes became heavier and heavier until eventually, half-asleep, I slid my iPad on to my nightstand and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
At six o’clock I jolted awake, my heart pounding as if I’d been having a nightmare. I automatically reached for my iPad to check for messages. My inbox was showing one new message.
Candy O’Connor had replied.
Chapter 37
Candy’s message simply contained a phone number.
I didn’t give myself the chance to think it through, or talk myself out of it, or worry what the hell I was going to say. With my heart still racing, I called the number and on the first ring, Candy picked up.
‘Hello?’
I swallowed, my mouth dry. I wished I’d made some tea first, but it was too late now.
‘This is Rosie. Sorry to ring so early.’
I rolled my eyes at myself. Why on earth was I starting off with an apology?
‘I’m glad; I’ve been staring at the phone since I sent you my number.’
Candy’s voice was soft and low, a trace of a northern accent. I could hear her nerves too: rapid breathing, a slight tremble in her words. I didn’t recognize it as Callum’s. That might be because ten years had gone by, or maybe it was hormone tablets; I didn’t know much about these things. Suddenly I felt unsure of myself; do I blurt out ‘are you Callum?’ or was that un-pc? Or did the final moments of our relationship allow me to say what the hell I liked?
‘Look,’ said Candy in a rush, ‘I have to ask, are you going to the police? Is that why you’re ringing, because of that last night at the flat?’
‘So it is you,’ I murmured. ‘Bloody hell, Cal—Candy.’
She blew out a long shaky breath.
‘Yeah, it’s me. A lot has changed since I last saw you.’
I’ll say.
I didn’t really know why I was ringing, other than to finally close the door on a chapter in my history as Nonna had done in Sorrento. I suppose I’d expected to contact someone who’d be apologetic, who’d reassure me that he was a changed man. Instead, I found a changed woman. But I wasn’t going to involve the police. What purpose would it serve? Callum didn’t even exist any more; he was a she, not even the same person.
‘No. That’s not why I wanted to find you. I guess I’d hoped you would tell me that nothing like that had ever happened before or since. I guess I was just curious to find out what sort of man you’d become.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ There was a pause. ‘I bet you didn’t expect to find I’d become a woman?’
‘Well, no.’ I smiled. ‘Bit of a conversation stopper.’
‘I’m glad you called,’ she continued. ‘I’ve lived under the shadow of what I did to you for the last ten years.’
‘You and me both.’
‘Oh shit,’ she groaned. ‘The stupid, stupid thing was that you were the best thing that had happened to me. If I hadn’t been such a coward, we could have been friends all these years, instead of me living in fear of this phone call.’
I swung my legs out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and padded downstairs.
‘So tell me over a cup of tea,’ I said, switching on the kettle. ‘Tell me how Callum became Candy O’Connor.’
‘OK.’ I heard her making similar noises: the gush of water, the tinkling of spoons, the clunk of a mug.
‘Do you still have huge cups of tea with the tiniest splash of milk?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said with a hint of a smile. ‘I haven’t really changed at all. Now come on, spill the beans.’
‘I’d struggled with my gender for years,’ Candy began. ‘But I didn’t want to face up to it, I was afraid to. In my family, men are men and do manly things all day long …’
I made my tea and took it out into the garden. I wiped my sleeve over the damp seat of a chair and sat down, and in the still of the morning with the mist hovering over the distant peaks, Candy told me her story.
Mr O’Connor Senior was a builder and two of his sons, Jacko and Patrick (once he’d retired from rugby), both worked for him and took over the firm when their father died eight years ago. Kevin, the other brother, worked on the oil rigs. All of them were so undisputedly masculine that there was simply no space for the conversation Callum needed to have as a teenager, so he didn’t have it. He left home for university and tried to push aside the feelings of shame and guilt, just wishing he could be like his brothers, be the man his father thought he was. Nobody at home seemed to notice that he’d never brought a girl home until Jacko got married and had a baby. Then the pressure was on and the jokes from his brothers started up: are you gay or something?
‘Or something, I wanted to tell them,’ said Candy with a sigh. ‘But of course I didn’t. I did the most stupid thing I could have done: I decided to prove them wrong.’
‘So you hadn’t had a girlfriend until you met me?’
‘Nope. A virgin at twenty-two.’
I tried to cast my mind back to whether I’d suspected that, but nothing obvious sprang to mind.
I squeezed my eyes shut. This conversation was nothing like I’d imagined having. Instead of anger and accusations, I felt only sorrow and regret. I could see my younger self in my mind’s eye: full of fun, excited at life’s opportunities, totally self-absorbed, oblivious to the needs of others. My life revolved around me: my wants, my needs, my dreams. Callum had needed something, someone entirely different; I must have been blind not to have picked up on it.
‘Cal—Sorry Candy, I’m sorry, really sorry that I didn’t know any of this. And if it’s any consolation, you, well, you know, did OK.’
‘Oh God. I watched a LOT of videos,’ she said and suddenly we both laughed.
‘And please don’t apologize,’ she said. ‘We’re working up to the hard part here, remember?’
It was cool outside, the air w
as damp and even though I’d slipped my feet into my trainers and was in a thick dressing gown, I was shivering.
‘We don’t have to go over it, Candy,’ I said quietly. ‘Both of us know what happened.’
‘Let me say it; the very least I owe you is an apology and an explanation.’
‘OK, I’m listening,’ I murmured, wishing I’d listened more at the time.
‘I tried, I just thought if I could … I feel stupid even saying it out loud now, but I thought if I could just pretend, get a girlfriend and live like a man, I’d be OK. I couldn’t believe it when you agreed to go out with me; I had the social skills of a mollusc.’
‘You weren’t that bad,’ I insisted. ‘Besides, I like a challenge.’
‘I loved you, Rosie, but it was a desperate kind of love. When you started showing an interest in me, I thought, this is it, I can do this, this beautiful creature thinks I’m a man, so I am. And for a few weeks, it seemed to be working out.’
‘And then I ended it,’ I said heavily.
‘Yes. At the time it felt that my only chance at “normal life” had gone. I tried to cling to what we had. I’m so ashamed of what I did. I’ve looked back on that night a million times, shouting at myself to do the right thing, but of course that’s not possible. Callum raped you and there’s not a day goes by when I don’t think of that.’
A thread of cobweb caught my eye. It ran from the back of the other chair to the stone wall, glistening with dew. I watched as a tiny spider skimmed across it like an acrobat on a tightrope and disappeared from view. Callum had been living like that, on a tightrope, clinging on to me for balance. Until I cut him loose. And now Candy had cut him loose and had distanced herself from the events of that night.
I gripped the phone to my ear and listened to her breathing.
‘Was that the catalyst that made you face up to your gender issues?’
‘Oh yeah, without a doubt. I left London straight away, didn’t even take up that job offer I’d had. Left the UK, actually – spent a couple of years travelling. Only came back when my dad died. Felt really bad about that. Losing my dad hit my family really hard. But about a year after the funeral Mum sat me down and asked me if I was gay. That she’d always wondered, even when I was little, I seemed so much more delicate than her other boys. And it all came out. She’s been brilliant, actually, helped me get counselling, supporting me through my treatment and the surgery. My brothers were a different story … anyway. Water under the bridge. They’re coming round to it now.’
We chatted some more about family and careers; she was still in media, working for an independent film-maker in Leeds; she lived with her mum. We’d been on the phone for nearly an hour; it was time to get ready for work.
I picked up my empty mug and made my way back into the warmth of the cottage. I put the mug in the sink and went upstairs.
‘What made you get in touch now?’ Candy asked.
I thought of Lucinda and the advice I’d given her: about staying in control, about making others aware of what you will and won’t do.
‘I was angry – still – and I wanted you to know that I’d survived, I’ve made a success of life, I’m not a victim and I’ll never let anyone overpower me again.’
There was a heavy silence for a moment.
‘Right.’ Candy sounded thoughtful. ‘Do you mind me asking, are you single?’
I tucked the phone under my ear while I made my bed. It was a double, pillows each side, I slept on the left. The right side was neat and unremittingly unruffled. I wondered which side Gabe slept on.
I sighed. ‘Yes. That night left me with an overwhelming resistance to people, well to men. Actually, to be accurate, one man in particular.’
‘Go on.’
I closed my eyes and indulged myself with images of Gabe Green.
‘He’s called Gabe. I’d like to get to know him better, but I’ve developed such a tough suit of armour that it gets in the way and I repel him like oncoming fire.’
I told her about our near misses, our almost dates and mostly our arguments. And I told her how scared I had been to fall in love in case history repeated itself.
Candy groaned, repeating my name over and over, and saying how sorry she was.
‘The chances of you meeting a man who’s actually a woman living in a man’s body who then goes nuts and attacks you twice in your life are pretty slim. Listen, I’ve been in therapy for years. Take some advice from me, take the armour off, lower the drawbridge ever so slowly and tell him how you feel; let the guy in, love him and I bet he’ll love you right back.’
I conjured up Gabe’s face and wondered. Could I love him, would he love me right back?
I let out a long sigh. ‘I wish, I wish …’
‘What?’
I let myself flop down on the bed. ‘Oh that I could give you a hug, that’d I’d called five years ago, or before … I wish I’d been braver.’
There was a sniffle on the other end of the phone.
‘Me too, Rosie love, I wish all those things for me too.’
‘Funny really. Well, not funny exactly, but in those first few weeks after I left London, I thought you deserved to have your willy chopped off. So you couldn’t do it again.’
‘But I beat you to it,’ she said.
‘UGH, Candy! Too much information.’
I felt oddly peaceful after talking to Candy. In fact, there was a small serene smile on my face which refused to budge for several hours. Talking to her couldn’t change the past, but it did put it into perspective. Rightly or wrongly, I’d forgiven her and as a consequence I felt good. As Nonna had said, a door had closed on an unhappy part of my life. And the rest of my life was an open door.
I stayed like this until it dawned on me around mid-morning that the last time I’d felt so light and happy was after I’d confided in Gabe. I remembered how we’d both got soaked to the skin in the rain and he’d taken me back to the cottage, lit a fire and made me hot chocolate and listened, properly listened, and then made me feel safe and secure. When he’d been a true friend.
Oh God.
He had been such a good friend that day, but since then, he’d started working for Garden Warehouse and, if Jamie were to be believed, he’d suggested to his boss that pizzas might be the way forward in the Cabin Café. Not to mention grabbing me so roughly the other evening. I was so confused …
Friday mornings were always our busiest at the café. And today I was particularly glad of the distraction. By noon Juliet, Lia and I had served countless pots of tea and rounds of avocado on toast, umpteen cappuccinos and slices of cake and the vicar had been in to collect his extra-large pizza order. Juliet was having a clear-up outside and Lia was bracing herself for the lunchtime pizza orders when Mum popped her head round the door.
‘Any chance of a coffee and a chat, darling? My nerves are in tatters,’ she said, sinking down into an armchair and closing her eyes for an instant.
‘Sure,’ I said, taking a mug from the shelf. ‘But I …’
Mum’s eyes popped open. I’d been about to say that I couldn’t join her for a chat as I had lots of jobs to do, but Lucinda’s words were still ringing in my head about how much she missed having her mum to talk to.
I decided to turn a blind eye to the spilt milk on the floor and picked up a second mug. ‘… but I think I’ll have tea.’
I added a plate of biscuits to the tray and brought it across to the table. ‘How have your first couple of days at The Chestnuts Cancer Hospice been?’
Mum groaned, leaned forward and pressed her palms into her eyes. ‘Full on.’
‘That bad?’
‘I may have bitten off more than I can chew. My boss showed me into a giant cupboard yesterday, stuffed to the gunnels with second-hand designer clothes – too good to sell on the rails through the shop. Everything from Valentino to Versace. Wedding dresses, ball gowns … right down to designer jeans. She wants me to come up with a way to make money with them. An event.’
‘Sounds exciting, what are you thinking of?’
She pulled a face. ‘I haven’t got a clue. I’ve been racking my brain ever since, I barely slept last night. I think Nonna’s revelations about my father and our escape from Italy in the sixties have taken more out of me than I realized. I just don’t seem to have the energy or the focus, Rosie.’
It was so unlike Mum to admit any sort of weakness that I nearly spat out my tea. I peered at her; she did look a bit under the weather. And it struck me just how much she had gone through since finding out about her real father. Maybe she should put herself first for once and relax a bit. Not that she was likely to listen to me.
‘Perhaps you should postpone this volunteering job?’ I said tentatively. ‘Give yourself some time off?’
Predictably, she looked appalled.
‘I’m fine physically.’ She waved a hand dismissively. ‘And compared to the other volunteers, my life is a piece of cake. I met a lady called Sharon who is still having chemo. She goes on her own these days because she’s had so many appointments that her friends and her husband can’t take any more time off to go with her. Besides, I need to be busy.’
I raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t sure that was true, but seeing as I rarely took a day’s holiday, I couldn’t really argue.
‘So I have to pull myself together and organize an event,’ said Mum staunchly, taking a biscuit from the plate. ‘This charity is so important because there are hundreds of people just like Sharon.’
‘How can I help? What can I do?’
She lifted a shoulder. ‘Want to buy any second-hand dresses?’
‘I could,’ I said thoughtfully, an idea beginning to unfurl like a new spring leaf. ‘But I think I might know a really good way to sell them.’
I persuaded Mum to leave her fund-raising conundrum with me over the weekend and told her that we’d already thought that The Chestnuts Cancer Hospice could be the beneficiary of our next village event and maybe we could incorporate a clothing angle to it.
The Lemon Tree Café Page 36
