“I think she’d appreciate a picture for the nursery. A Goodnight Hug, if you know it.” Anna pouts and shakes her head.
“It’s more understated than Cassatt’s usual thing. It’s an embrace, but doesn’t show the mother’s or the child’s face. Anyway, I’ll do another trawl. I like The Boating Party too.”
“I’ll come over later and take a look.”
Anna pulls out a photograph album from the oak chest that serves as a coffee table in the living room. She flips through the pages and finds a spread of photos showing Toni as a child with Connie. She wonders if Dominic should paint one of these. Or is this the wrong time for sad reminders? She leafs through several more pages until she finds her favourite shot of Connie. It’s underexposed, taken around the time Dominic was away in South America on one of his commissions. He was gone for over a month. A couple of evenings a week, Anna came round to keep Connie company. Toni would be tucked up in bed, and Connie would sit in the wicker armchair, exactly as she is in this photograph. Connie wasn’t a big drinker. But on one particular evening, one drink became three drinks, and Connie began talking about her youth, how she was dumped by the first love of her life. At the time, Anna was incredulous. She couldn’t imagine anyone ever dumping Connie.
Anna angles the photo album to avoid the reflected glare of the wall lights. As she studies Connie’s face, she relives the dread realization when they first met, that if she let herself, she’d fall in love, even though Connie was evidently straight, married.
She’d felt crushes in the past for women, but that’s all they were, crushes. Kind of pathetic. Shutting the album, Anna wonders if she started the affair with Dominic as a way of keeping Connie close.
At ten o’clock, Anna takes the open bottle of wine and two glasses over to the studio. They often do this at the end of an evening. It’s something they do, that Dominic didn’t do with Connie. Anna smiles as she walks along the garden path. Her mother had warned her against moving into Dominic’s house. She’d already committed to the move, but for once, she took heed of her mother’s concerns. Anna insisted, and Dominic agreed, that they should swap around the bedrooms and buy a new marital bed. The rest of her efforts were more subtle. At the outset of their relationship, Anna had felt she had to create new routines so that Dominic would feel—from daybreak until his evening’s end—that life had taken a different shape, different from his first marriage. Connie was slow in the morning. So Anna made an effort to rise early. She still takes a tray of tea and toast to the bedroom every morning of the week.
And just as Anna created a new start to Dominic’s day, she made a change to Dominic’s routine of working in his garden studio after dinner. Connie had regarded his studio as a private lair and rarely ventured in. She took him tea occasionally, didn’t linger. So Anna takes wine and stays to chat. She loves the smell of his studio. She loves Dominic, and she loves the idea of him too. The artist in his studio. He calls it his shed, but she refuses to follow this lead—it’s his right to be self-deprecating, not hers.
As she tiptoes across the now-damp grass of the back garden, she recalls the one time she offered to clean up the shelves, wipe down the tins, clean the windows. He said, “What? Clean my space?” She didn’t offer again.
Standing outside the studio, she smells the pine cladding. She taps on the door with the bottle and steps inside—she inhales. This is the moment she adores.
“Have you chosen?” she asks.
“I think so. Take a look.”
Anna pulls over a chair, her chair. Dominic decided, soon after they were married, that if she insisted on coming over every evening, she’d need somewhere to sit.
Dominic flicks back and forth between the two pictures reproduced in a monograph. He says, “Personally, I think Toni would prefer The Boating Party. It’s not so sentimental. And, see, there’s a small child in the boat.”
“If they do go overseas, it might be a nice gesture, kind of appropriate. Sails billowing and so on. And the colours are so muted, lovely.”
“Fairly loose brushwork. Fun to paint.”
Anna pours the wine. They chink their glasses.
“Connie would love it too,” says Anna.
FAVOURITE AUNTIE, FAVOURITE UNCLE
November
Woke this morning, performed my usual routine while waiting for my little sis, Millie, to finish in the bathroom. Lay flat on my back with my hands splayed on the bedsheet, kept my eyes closed, imagined blood pumping through my arteries, flowing back through my veins.
I’m trying to work out exactly how I went wrong today.
Lying there, I said to myself, as I always do, It’s Just A Body. Gets me from point A to point B. The question I then asked was the same question I’ve asked myself every morning for the past decade: Do I want to reach point B as a man or as a woman?
I’m not even sure how I make the call. It’s either a synapse-y thing or it’s a purely physical impulse. Anyway, I don’t like to overanalyse the process. This morning, I struggled to decide, so I adopted a second strategy. I spread my legs, tried to decide if I did so in a male way or a female way. That may seem ridiculous; even I recognize it’s funny. Anyway, I still couldn’t decide. However, strategy number three seemed conclusive; when I sat up and swung my legs out of the bed, the movement felt feminine. Sat on the edge of my bed, closed my eyes again, didn’t feel male, not in that particular moment.
Looking back, I recall murmuring “Snooze” when the alarm sounded. Pretty sure I did the same ten minutes later when the alarm sounded again. The point is, it takes me a little longer to dress as a guy, to get the contour garments right, to flatten out my breasts and thicken out my waist. Perhaps, deep down, I wanted to save a couple minutes.
So my current embarrassment has been precipitated, it’s fair to say, by no one other than myself. Should have it down to a fine art by now. I’m weary of getting it wrong.
I stride along London’s South Bank on this perfect balmy evening, a man in drag. My attire: scoop-neck black jacket over dove-grey T-shirt; knee-length straight skirt in powder pink over matching pink straight-cut trousers. Picked from the left-hand side of the wardrobe rather than the right.
I knew I’d made a bad call during our late-morning meeting with internal audit. These are never pleasant encounters, all about pinching pennies, saving time, at the expense of quality and the small matter of job satisfaction, which doesn’t feature in month-end accounts. Unfortunately, my colleagues and I were inconsistent. We vacillated between measured responses and out-and-out annoyance. Well, I snapped. Said we already spent too much of the day on our time data. I’d have said the same whether I’d turned up as female or male. But I detected my male self coming to the fore; my voice rose from deeper.
Hate it when this happens. Wish I’d slicked back my hair. And I’m mortified by my accessories; I should chuck this croc-effect grab bag in the Thames. Stick to the black leather backpack from now on—can’t go wrong with that. I want to walk with my hands pushed down in deep pockets, wear thick-soled, heavy flat shoes with fat laces, walk with my toes pointing slightly outwards and let my shoulders roll. I settle for a slight swagger. Oh sod it! I’ll walk how I want.
I don’t head straight to the underground. I stop at the terrace bar of the British Film Institute, take a table tucked away in a corner, under a space heater, and sit facing away from the other customers. A waiter with close-cropped hair takes my order for a large glass of red wine. I smile at her, tell her I need the washrooms. She points them out and says she’ll place a reservation notice on my table.
I slip away to the washrooms, stare into the mirror and blush under my makeup. I slick back my hair with water—what a relief that is—and wash my face. From the neck up at least, I feel more comfortable. The androgynous thing isn’t for me, but I can see the advantages. I smirk at my reflection; children are still starving around the world while I stress over my stupid skirt and handbag. I take a deep breath and return to the terrace as the waite
r arrives with my drink.
I read for a while—can’t go home just yet or Millie will realize something’s amiss. She’s expecting me home much later, around ten o’clock, after my voluntary session on the helpline. What a stinking day all round—internal audit, wrong clothes and then, worst of all, I get sacked from a voluntary job. Un-bloody-believable. Millie would probably laugh, and I couldn’t blame her if she did, but I won’t let on. I’ll tell her I’m stopping my Tuesday volunteering because she’s so close to her due date. I’ll say it’s Sod’s law that she’ll go into labour when I’m mid phone-in. She’ll be pleased I’m taking my responsibility so seriously: I’m my sister’s one and only birthing partner.
I send her a message: Hope to leave early tonight. All okay?
Millie replies: All quiet. Don’t rush xx.
Losing the volunteer job is more than merely embarrassing. It’s created a hole in my CV. I’d hoped to add my volunteer boss as a personal referee. Just goes to show—most do-gooders are pretty staid, or at least that’s the evidence from this evening’s session.
Things came unstuck during my second phone-in, when I helped a woman see her love triangle in a whole new light—revisionism, I like to think, is my speciality. I suggested to my caller—let’s call her Phoebe—that if she looked at her love situation in a different way, she didn’t have a problem at all. She went silent at that point, so I knew I had her full attention.
Phoebe had discovered her boyfriend—let’s call him Liam—had fallen in love with a guy he met through work—let’s call him Steve. But Liam didn’t want to split with either Phoebe or Steve. He loved them both; he didn’t feel he could devote himself to just one person. I suggested to Phoebe that her boyfriend wasn’t lying. I asked her to try to imagine that for a moment. After all, I know from experience it is possible to love more than one person at a time. I told Phoebe that if she accepted this premise, she could come to an arrangement with Liam. They could still see one another as long-term partners, but from time to time they could indulge one another, allow each other to follow their romantic impulses.
Phoebe went quiet again. She thanked me and ended the call.
Half an hour after this phone call, my supervisor—let’s call him Dez—hollers over to me from his cubicle. “Robyn, in here, if you please.”
Dez, who must be all of twenty-three years of age, gave me the raised eyebrow, didn’t even ask me to sit down. He told me not to come back next week. He then added, in a lowered voice—presumably to save embarrassing me within the open office—“Don’t come back anytime.” He’d monitored my conversation with Phoebe and informed me that my unconventional advice had been inappropriate. Phoebe—“the client” as Dez referred to her—had actually phoned back to complain. I hate charity workers who adopt corporate-speak. They’re not fucking clients; they’re callers, they’re desperate people.
Dez told me I hadn’t followed protocols. Protocols, my arse. Clients, my arse. I told him, in language he might understand, that he was “behind the curve, by two decades.” His petit bourgeois attitudes, I told him, should be fucking archived.
I order a second large glass of wine and a plate of bruschetta. I try not to drink at home these days; it’s not fair to Millie. Still get a thrill ordering a large glass. I can afford one now. This year I’m solvent for the first time in my adult life—I’ve avoided asking my parents for help. My modest savings will now cover a decent two-week holiday. And I’ve upgraded all my ageing tech. Not only that, I’ve thrown away my threadbare threads, and back in January, I bought my first proper winter coat; the first I’ve bought since leaving home—almost can’t wait for serious winter weather. And moving in with Millie means I’ve said goodbye to damp flats and sleeping on friends’ sofas in return for spring cleaning. Word had got around I was pretty shit-hot on the domestics.
I know what it’s like to live on next to nothing—believed I had real experience to offer the helpline. I actually loved my work there, if you can call it work. Prior to the Phoebe incident, I helped plenty of people to analyse their problems, isolate the issues and prioritize their actions. I helped people with real problems who couldn’t afford private counselling, who were too terrified to step inside a lawyer’s office—terrified of the cost.
So here I am: a qualified lawyer, solvent and trying to give back to society. Well, society will have to get along without me for a while. I’ll focus on Millie and my own circle.
The door to our ground-floor flat opens with a bang against a tall box. I squeeze myself into the hallway. Millie, in her pyjamas, is carrying a steaming mug from the kitchen and says, “It’s the cot.”
“Jeez, it’s enormous.”
“You should have messaged on your way home, Robyn. I’d have made a drink for you.”
I follow her through to the living room, which is lit by a reading lamp and the flicker from the imitation wood burner. Light dances across the embossed spines of the books on our alcove shelves—leatherbound books passed down to me and Millie by our late grandfather. He’d thinned out his collection in retirement, kept the books that deserved reading more than once in a lifetime. He told us he’d leave them to us because he knew we’d read them. And Millie’s attempting to read the full shelf of Russian authors before the baby’s born.
“How’s progress?” I ask nodding at the book by the armchair.
“Finished the Yevgeny Zamyatin novel. Starting the first of three by Lyudmila Ulitskaya.”
Millie eases herself down into the armchair, rests the mug on her swollen belly and looks up. She frowns at my slicked hair. “Wardrobe fail?” She smiles in sympathy.
“Got it wrong again.” I roll my eyes. I don’t elaborate, and Millie evidently takes the hint.
She says, “Good news, Robyn. I heard from Toni. Her first article from Shanghai will appear online tomorrow. Can’t wait to read it.”
I drop into the sofa. “It’s a shame she won’t be here when you give birth.”
“I’ve been thinking today . . . I know I said you could be godmother.” My hand automatically goes to my forehead. “Sorry! You’re still the godmother. Don’t worry. But would you mind being joint godmother with Toni?”
“That’s all right!” Total relief. “Why would I mind? Go for it. And Aiden’s still going to be godfather?”
Millie winces, as a child anticipates a reprimand. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“Ouch, Millie. Are you sure?”
“I’ve been messaging him. He won’t give me any indication of how long he’ll be gone. He might never come back, you know.”
“He’ll be a lifelong beach bum. Is that what you think?”
“I’m feeling more and more pissed off with him. I’ve had to do all this on my own. Sperm banks. Fertility clinics. I’ll have “father unknown” on the birth certificate. If Aiden had stepped forward, everything would be a million times easier. I mean, it could have happened by accident.” She sips her drink.
“Well, it didn’t, Millie.” I give her a look that says, Get over it.
“It’s his mother, Betty, I feel for. If this baby were Aiden’s, she’d have a new lease of life. She’s desperate for a grandchild.”
I feel drained, and I sigh heavier than I intended. “I need to get changed.”
“I’m sorry, Robyn, you look tired. I’ll make you a drink.”
“Don’t be daft.” But Millie is already pushing herself out of the armchair. I step forward, take both her arms and help her up. We laugh. Millie, always the dainty one. She’s a bus now.
I settle into the sofa. I’m wearing my checked pyjama shorts, a clashing striped T-shirt, and I’ve pushed my hair up into a beanie hat. “Obviously, I’ll be favourite auntie even if I’m only a joint godmother,” I suggest. And as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel weird because I realize I want to be favourite uncle too.
“Don’t be so sure. Toni is pretty competitive,” says Millie.
“But when’s she coming back?”
“E
ight weeks before she’s due. But they might go back to China for a couple of years. There’s a project in the offing for Atticus.”
“That’s all right, then. I’ll be fully bonded by the time she’s back for good. I’ll be reading all the bedtime stories.”
“Talking of bedtimes . . .” She looks from the corner of her eyes at me. Sheepish. “Mum and Dad are coming over on Saturday. They’re going to set up the cot.”
“I’d have done that.” Shit. It’s going to hang over me all week. Mum and Dad can’t bear to see me in men’s clothes. For them, and them alone, I plan ahead for an androgynous look. Millie has actually overheard Mum saying to her friends, “Robyn fashions herself on those catwalk models with their little-boy looks.”
“I told them you’d help me, but you know what they’re like. Dad insisted.”
“What should I do about Hunter?”
“I thought that was off. Thought you’d argued,” says Millie.
“It’s on again. He’ll be here from tomorrow evening. Can we put them off to Saturday afternoon?”
“If I suggest that, they’ll guess you’ve got someone staying over.”
“Well, that’s their problem.”
Millie cocks her head to say, Don’t be so hard on them. I don’t know why she’s become so conciliatory; does pregnancy sweeten you? Our parents are hardly euphoric she’s going solo, and they’re far from happy we’re living together—because of my lifestyle, as they call it. When they offered to help Millie buy a flat, Millie had wanted to apply for a joint mortgage based on both our salaries, but Mum and Dad wouldn’t go along with the plan. They blustered over totally baseless concerns, mainly arguing that I might take a job elsewhere and need to buy my own place; the implication was twofold—they wanted to help with the deposit for the property, but more pertinently, they didn’t accept that Millie and I would be living together for the long term. So Millie has decided, unbeknownst to them, that once the baby is born and Mum and Dad are busy bragging about their grandson, she’ll start the paperwork to add my name to the mortgage, and she’ll write a will making me the executor and legal guardian for the baby.
Dreams Before the Start of Time Page 6