She zips up the saggy padded coat someone donated to her after the explosion. The down inside has sunk to the hem, making her wonder whether she resembles a black hovercraft floating along the street. She looks over the road, where a scene straight out of Breughel is playing on the open-air ice rink at Somerset House. She glances at her watch and makes a quick detour across.
The beauty of it in the bitingly cold air takes her breath away. Scores of people of all ages are skidding, spiralling, spinning across the circle in a chaotic, exhilarating, multicoloured ballet, all to the accompaniment of music and laughter and the hiss of metal on ice. Perhaps it’s the ever-present frisson of potential calamity – you’re only ever a blade’s edge away from disaster – or some magic lent by the strings of fairy lights and the tang of frost, but there’s an alchemy here through which everyone seems to gain in grace the moment the glistening circle takes them in.
There’s a sermon in here somewhere. There’s a sermon in everything, everywhere.
She walks up to the barrier and drops her head on her arms, surrendering to the moment. Right in the centre of the rink, a skinny exhibitionist is throwing a spin, arms hugging his waist, legs corkscrewing into a blur. The other skaters pull back, clapping or jeering at his antics. Most people – couples, arm-linked teenage girls, parents with their arms wrapped around the shoulders of young children, even the larky young guys – just seem happy to go with the flow.
Margot glances up at the pale neoclassical stone around her as Charles Trenet’s La Mer burbles out over the ice. It’s an enchanted space. Her mother would have loved it. She swallows.
‘Hey.’
A tall figure has slammed into the barrier right in front of her. She turns to a woman bundled in scarves to her left, but she doesn’t react.
‘You don’t remember, do you?’
His face is half hidden beneath the blue tartan trapper hat. She tenses. So many faces to log, most of them expecting her to have their entire life story on tap.
The hazel eyes are laughing, dragon puffs mingling with her own.
‘The circumstances were a bit unorthodox.’
Funeral? Hospice? That blessing Jeremy did in that block of flats constructed over the medieval burial pit?
‘Highbury High.’
Margot stares at him.
‘You were in the gents.’
The babushka next to Margot turns towards her and tuts.
He bites off a glove.
‘Felix.’
His fingers are warm around hers.
‘Margot, right?’
She nods, buying herself a little time. Something about his smile unsettles her.
‘Your hair’s different.’
A couple knock into him as they jack-knife past and Felix snatches hold of the barrier next to her, watching the pair crash onto the ice a few feet further on.
‘It’s not easy, I can tell you.’
‘Fun, though.’
‘So how are you, Margot? Oops, hang on.’
He steadies himself. She holds onto the barrier more tightly.
‘I’m good, good, thanks. You know, busy time of year for us.’
‘Why, what, oh, right.’ He laughs. ‘Sorry.’
She shrugs.
‘Something called Christmas?’
He smiles.
‘I’m here with a couple of old friends. Pete was giving it the whole blah blah on the way over, but he now seems to have forgotten how to do the quadruple Salchow or whatever it’s called. We’re going to grab a drink afterwards,’ he pauses, ‘if you maybe fancy joining?’
Clarissa.
‘I’d have loved to, but I’ve got to be somewhere.’
‘Shame.’ He smiles at her. ‘Another time.’
He pushes himself off, gives her an uncertain wave and carves an unstable line of Ss back to his friends.
She rests her head on her hands, unable quite to pull herself away.
Your Chardonnay’s getting warm.
Two minutes, she stabs back at the keys.
‘Fancy a quick bolero?’
He’s right back in front of her again, a huge grin on his face.
‘Tell you what.’
She gasps as he snatches her arm and pulls her though a narrow gap in the barrier and out onto the ice.
‘Stop, stop, no, what are—’
‘No skates, no problem.’
She screams as he pulls her against him, then spins her round and round with a flourish. A dozen people must have gathered around them cheering, until man in a fluorescent tabard starts charging down the rink.
‘Oops,’ whispers Felix, his breath hot against her ear.
All of a sudden, Margot doesn’t care what this looks like or who is watching her. The laughter bubbles out of her like uncorked Moët.
‘You’re looking a bit flustered, M. Vicar kept you late plaiting paper chains?’ Clarissa drains her glass. ‘Though you’re in civvies, I see.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Clarissa waits for more, but Margot busies herself taking off her coat and scarf.
‘What can I get you?’ asks the waiter, twiddling with his earring.
‘Just a toni––’
‘Another bottle of this and some more Japanese crackers, sweetie.’
He’s spun on his heels before Margot can argue.
‘No hair shirt tonight, M. We’re celebrating.’
Margot’s fighting hard to be present.
‘Something about your Ph.D.?’ she asks. Clarissa has the focus of a Navy Seal when she chooses.
‘Guess again. Something sexier this time.’
Margot looks at her blankly. It’s like the knob on the dial keeps slipping again and she’s back out there on the ice.
‘Your early Christmas present.’ Clarissa picks up her rucksack and thumps it onto the table between them.
‘Er, some sparkly Louboutins?’
‘Nope.’
‘Two weeks all by myself on a Caribbean island?’
‘Nice try.’
‘Bradley Cooper gift-wrapped?’
‘Warmer.’ Clarissa pulls out her laptop and taps for a couple of moments. ‘Ta-dah!’
Margot leans in.
‘Your hot-off-the-presses what-man-could resist profile on Guardian Soulmates. Soulmates! Loving that name.’
Margot frowns. Did Clarissa really just say that?
‘Hello? Ground control to Major M?’
‘Where did this come from?’
Clarissa picks up her glass and leans back in her seat.
‘Do you know what, Margot? You haven’t been a whole load of fun recently. You know, this whole Little-Miss-Sad-Sack-I-live-for-my-job routine.’
Margot opens her mouth then changes her mind. She reaches for her own glass. One of the Care Bears was grilling her yesterday about when she’s going to find a nice boy and start a family, because isn’t it a shame, a lovely girl like you all by herself and your mother would be so pleased, wouldn’t she? An unattached curate’s love life: the gift that keeps on giving, from Mr Collins onwards. An unmarried female cleric loose in the parish? Gossip fodder to the power of a million, particularly if she’s under thirty and doesn’t look like the back of the number 73 bus.
What if someone saw them on the ice, she suddenly thinks, hand rushing to her mouth.
Clarissa is glinting at her above the rim of her glass.
‘Margot Goodwin, the Grinch Who Stole Christmas.’
‘I’m not trying to spoil your fun.’
‘My fun? This is about you, M. Stopping you ending up as a desiccated harridan with a houseful of cats.’
‘I can’t do this, Clariss. But thanks for thinking about it.’
‘Stop being so lame, Margot. We won’t use your real name. It’s just a bit of a laugh.’
She can’t tell her. She’ll have to.
‘I can’t get involved with anyone until after the priesting. I can’t afford to let anything jeopardise it.’
Clari
ssa snatches up the bottle and pours a refill.
‘You’re a curate, not a nun.’
‘But I—’
‘I know what your job means to you. I’ve been with you every tortured twist and turn of the way, remember?’
Margot nods.
‘There’s no rule that says your life has to be put in cold storage while you serve your title, is there?’
She leans in closer.
‘You’re not going to let your old dad be the only one with a rocking love life?’
‘That’s not fair.’ She knows which buttons to press on the console.
‘It’ll be hashtag “oldhag”, if you’re not careful. A hot fling with some oversexed stranger could be just what you need.’
Margot closes her eyes, her cheeks still warm from those crazy few seconds on the ice.
‘A bit of secret nooky as light relief from the Godly Goodwin. Where’s the harm in that?’
Margot blows out her cheeks. She needs to close this conversation down.
‘Look, just read the profiles, OK? You don’t have to do anything.’
‘OK.’
‘You will?’
‘Only because I know how desperate you are for any distraction.’
‘My supervisor says he’s never come across such a powerful reading of the symbolism of menstrual blood in relation to the Church as Mother Incarnate.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘OK, feast your eyes on this.’
Margot looks down at the screen. It’s showing a photo of her wearing that skimpy fuchsia bikini in Fuerteventura at the end of their second year.
‘What if anyone sees this?’
‘Why would they? And anyway, this is Mary Godfrey, not Margot Goodwin. Her face is obscured by that stupid floppy hat you always insisted on wearing. And who in your congregation is going to be cruising a dating website?’
‘I’ve given you a sense of humour.’
No comment.
‘And a selection of fascinating pastimes.’
Margot suggests, ‘Ability to administer the last rites? Fastest PCC minute-taker in the western world? Encyclopaedic knowledge of Marks and Spencer twinsets?’
‘How is your new best friend, by the way?’
Margot sighs.
‘Gerty, was it?’
‘Gwen. Ever more intrusive, since you ask. Me and my shadow.’
‘So you need a reason to be busy. Let’s get to work.’
Even as her nerves are jangling, Margot can’t help noticing the irony of how someone obsessed with the suppression of the female in patriarchal religious tradition is happy to serve up her best friend like a piece of sirloin on Sainsbury’s meat counter.
‘OK, check this out. “Hi, I’m Mary. I’m twenty-eight, smart, sociable, love art, theatre and music all the way from Beyoncé to Bach.”’ This next bit’s genius. ‘“I’m an old soul and I hope you are too. Let’s have some fun.”’
Pull the plug on this now. It has disaster written all over it, no matter how kind Clarissa’s intentions. Yet she can’t quite bring herself to.
The nativity play seemed to hit all the right spots, she’s hugely relieved to see. The stress has been at Wilhurst levels the past few days: she woke up yesterday with Post-it notes stuck to her cheek like Day-Glo depilation strips, listing all the props they still needed to find.
Sal and Kath worked miracles with the costumes for the donkey and the oxen, as well as the two genuine shepherd’s crooks from a junk shop on the Holloway Road. None of the lambs lost their tail. Mary and Joseph were flawless. She managed to bribe one of the Magi into handing over his iPad just before he walked on. And people even laughed in all the right places. Enough cute quotient for the younger parents, and a fine line on Brexit between Leave and Remain.
The nativity star’s dad high-fives her so hard afterwards, she might just as well have delivered Arsenal to the European Champions League.
She’s on her hands and knees retrieving some stray balls of lamb fluff as the church empties, when a hand rests on her shoulder.
‘Don’t get up.’
She scrambles to her feet.
‘You missed your vocation, Reverend.’
‘This is my vocation, Fabian.’
Fabian doesn’t do jokes if someone else is making them.
‘This kind of thing is where you come into your own, isn’t it?’
She takes a step back and brushes down her surplice, the world’s least come-and-get-me garment, you’d have thought.
‘Hold on a second.’
He closes the gap between them and reaches down to remove a wisp of straw from her hair, brushing her cheek as he does so.
‘You and I must have that team talk sometime.’
She gives a neutral nod.
‘We need to liven things up a bit round here. Way too much dead wood, in my book.’
She looks at him, puzzled. He rubs the piece of straw back and forth between his fingers then holds it up and blows it away from him They both watch it spiral to the ground.
‘I’ve been on the road a lot recently, as you’ll have noticed, but once I’ve tied up a couple of deals, you’re right at the top of my list.’ He leans in towards her, smoke on his breath. ‘I haven’t forgotten about that thesis.’
Jeremy is striding up the aisle towards them, beaming. Fabian gives them a little wave and heads off to the side.
‘Such a great guy,’ the vicar says.
Her right cheek is still smarting.
‘Great play, Margot. Even some of the die-hards gave it the thumbs-up.’
‘Wow.’
He chuckles. ‘Can you pop into the office? Gwen just wants a word.’
Margot composes her face into a smile as they walk back down to the vestry.
Gwen is standing by one of the desks, one of her carrier bags in her hand. Her face lights up.
‘Just wanted to drop a couple of Christmas goodies off for the team.’
Jeremy looks over at the collection of chocolates and wine bottles already building on the cupboard, in anticipation.
‘Happy Christmas, everyone,’ Gwen says, laying another box of candied orange onto the desk.
‘My favourites, Gwen,’ Jeremy says, slightly unconvincingly.
‘And I’ve just got a little something extra for you, Margot, as it’s your first Christmas with us and you work so very hard.’
Roderick delivers a phlegmy cough.
‘We’re so very lucky to have her, aren’t we, Vicar?’
Margot stares down at the red rectangle covered in spotty Rudolphs that Gwen has just handed across. Jeremy nudges her.
‘That’s so incredibly kind, Gwen.’ Her voice sounds as though she’s inhaled helium. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
Nobody speaks for a few beats.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Gwen asks.
‘It’s not Christmas yet, Gwen,’ Jeremy says with one of his sympathetic chuckles.
‘Five days and twelve hours to go,’ rattles off Roderick.
‘But I want to see your face when you unwrap it.’
Jeremy is now staring hard at Margot, who flushes. The package might as well be ticking in her hands.
‘Please,’ says Gwen, dabbing at her hairline with a balled-up tissue.
Margot starts peeling at the paper.
There’s an envelope inside. She opens it and gasps.
‘Oh, no Gwen, I can’t possibly take this.’
‘Come on, Margot,’ hisses Roderick. ‘Don’t keep us all in suspense.’
‘Well, Gwen’s incredibly kindly given me––’
‘A half-day at the new spa on Upper Street,’ chirrups Gwen. ‘The two of us, Margot. Thought it would be a proper treat after all your hard work.’
Hi Margot, Linda’s invited you over to ours for Christmas lunch. Danny, too, if he can make it. It’ll be a real family do. Dad x
Margot stops on the doorstep outside the house on Aberdeen Avenue, staring down at the text. Does
he think she’s got a normal nine-to-five job?
Ours.
She’s so angry she calls straight back, still standing on the step outside the front door.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ So much for the chummy patter.
‘Dad, this is Christmas we’re talking about. St Mark’s has two services on Christmas Day and Midnight Mass the night before.’
‘Christmas is a time for families to be together.’
She leans against the wall in disbelief. So many possible ways to answer that.
‘There are no trains running. And I don’t have a car, remember.’
‘Yet another reason to do a different job.’
The front door opens with a bang, throwing a harsh slant of light into her face.
‘Oh, hi Cyd, boys,’ she says, shrinking away.
‘Thought you were carol singers,’ says Josh.
‘We were going to tell you to fuck off,’ adds Cyd.
Margot turns away, holding the phone back up to her ear.
‘Sorry, I’ll have to call—’
‘What am I going to tell Linda?’
‘Dad, I’m really sorry. I’ll meet her another time soon, I promise.’
The twins have disappeared, but Cyd is still slouching against the doorjamb.
‘You staying in our house for Christmas, then?’
Amidst the festive cyclone, she hasn’t thought this one through properly. Cold fingers thrum her ribcage. Christmas lunch alone. Those tragic one-person portions of cake from M & S.
‘Not sure yet, Cyd.’
She takes a tiny step back to allow Margot to squeeze past, making it clear, yet again, how much of an imposter she is.
Twenty-eight minutes to midnight. The church lit solely by hundreds of candles, casting a gauzy haze across the pews. The hushed anticipation thrills Margot: the profound sense that not just here in Highbury, but right across the world, people are waiting for the magic to begin.
The crib is bathed in pale pink light from the tiny bulb the verger managed to fix ten minutes before people started arriving. Mary and Joseph are installed centre stage, largely unscathed from their three weeks of sleepovers. The air is spiked with aromatic pine and candle wax, and holly branches trail the windowsills, their scarlet berries tiny glinting jewels in the flickering light. Jeremy’s tree stands to the right of the altar, its bald patch disguised by several strings of new tinsel and a line of rainbow bulbs. Even the choir is pitch-perfect tonight.
The Girls' Book of Priesthood Page 7