‘You used to think he was hot, Cyd,’ shouts Sam, flicking a large bowl of suds, which lands on Margot’s shoulder, like scum on wet sand. She waits, breathing hard.
‘Fuck off, Sam.’
‘Cydney, I’m not telling you again.’
‘Cyd loves Mr Porter! Cyd loves Mr Porter!’
‘Josh, enough. We’ve all had things about people, haven’t we, Margot? Though maybe not, well, if you, er…’
Cyd grabs a can of Coke from the fridge and stomps out, slamming the door hard behind her.
Danger’s invading the room like mustard gas.
When Margot first told Clarissa back in January about this compulsory spa visit, Clarissa was beside herself. All those gags about mortification of the flesh because you couldn’t get more mortifying than the flesh on that woman, Venus de Kilo with added cellulite and, really Margot, what’s not to like about an afternoon chilling in a spa at someone else’s expense, even if that someone is a pension-age stalker with an obesity-cum-personality problem? You can get a manicure or a facial or even better a waxing, in readiness.
But not even Clarissa’s foray into gothic comedy can match Margot’s fear of what the next few hours hold. Her memories of the one and only time she’s been to a spa for a friend’s twenty-first celebration don’t help. White towels wrapped around glistening flesh, giggling intimacy in the sauna, dripping proximity in the steam room, toes colliding in the Jacuzzi … now superimposed with Gwen’s avid smile and those rippling chins. She’s spent the past eight months resenting the restrictions of her professional wardrobe and now she’s terrified of shedding it.
‘Think of the act of giving as an act of giving in itself,’ Jeremy had said. She’s trying.
Yet even as Gwen walks towards her beaming, Margot’s still searching for a last-minute cop-out. The chunky arms are flapping ready for a hug. Compassion. Kindness. It’s two or three hours out of her life.
And she could do with some moral credit in her account right now.
The only escape is to dive in at the deep end. Gwen is making her entrance from the changing rooms encased in a red-spotted swimsuit that pushes back the boundaries of engineering ingenuity. There must be rivets, ball bearings, abutments and cantilevered reinforcements: the compression/tension ratio makes the Golden Gate Bridge look modest.
Margot slices through the glassy surface, the chill of the water emptying her lungs. One arm wheeling in front of the other, keep it smooth, don’t look back. As she flips over, arms rotating, legs scissoring in rhythm, it strikes her this is the first proper exercise she’s had in months. So much for Hadley’s insistence on health and well-being. She reaches the side and looks back to where Gwen is now lowering herself into the shallow end. Margot takes a mouthful of oxygen and glides under the surface, revelling in the remembered sensation. Those long summers with friends camped out on the on their favourite spot on the beach, near the café. Abandoning themselves to the swell, the freedom, the briny unpredictability of the waves. Then, afterwards, the toasty-sweet smell of sand and sun cream, her cheese and tomato sandwiches sweating in the foil, the creased copies of teen magazines, inky smears on their hands. She reaches the side of the pool and pushes away under the water again. Something darker: Danny’s voice, small and fearful at the fringes of her memory, always scared of something lurking in the depths, after her father’s joke that time. Her mother, huddled under a rug on the pebbles at the bottom of the slope, out of her element and alone.
‘Coo-eee!’
Margot hauls herself out of the water before turning around. She raises her hand at Gwen in a gesture uncomfortably reminiscent of benediction.
‘The vicar mentioned you were a nurse, Gwen.’
Gwen smiles at her from the neighbouring relaxation chair.
‘Last place I worked was an old people’s home near Archway. Ten years, and just four days off sick.’
‘Marvellous.’
‘I started the afternoon singing group, the minibus trips to Brent Cross, I helped with the Christmas and Easter parties, the painting classes and all that.’
‘How wonderful.’
The manicurist glances up from Margot’s feet.
‘Matron said I was the best staff member she’d ever had.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Then a new one came in and it all went pear-shaped.’ Gwen’s face darkens. ‘She took right against me, said I was getting too familiar with the residents, whatever that means. Just like that staff nurse at the Whittington. And the other one in Hackney.’
Margot absorbs this. Gwens often have a history of fall-outs. Rage-a-holics, someone at Wilhurst called them. Everything rosy until they’re thwarted in their eternal mission to help. She pulls her bathrobe tighter.
‘But that’s all years ago.’ Gwen sucks on her straw. ‘I’ve got St Mark’s now. I love knowing how much you all need me there. All the things I can do to help you, Margot.’
Margot reaches for her fruit juice. Forty-eight minutes to go.
‘You don’t have children, do you, Gwen?’
Gwen looks down at her hands. Margot bites her lip.
‘We never could.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’
Gwen looks back up and shrugs.
‘Between you and me, Margot, I’m glad all that, you know,’ she lowers her voice, ‘that side of things, is well behind me.’
‘It’s a blessing in disguise. There are so many other ways I can give of myself.’ The chubby fingers reach out for Margot’s. ‘You’d understand.’
‘Your husband doesn’t come to church, does he?’ Maybe there is no husband?
‘David prefers his bowls and his computer course and his sudoku.’
The manicurist motions that she’s popping outside for something.
Gwen reaches across and pats Margot’s leg.
‘So lovely to spend girly time together.’
Margot forces herself to stay still.
‘So kind of you to arrange all this, Gwen.’
This crumb produces such a glow of gratitude, Margot has to look away. She searches for another peace offering.
‘One or two of the other ladies can be a bit full-on sometimes, can’t they?’
Gwen’s eyebrows angle like Tower Bridge.
‘How do you mean?’
Margot clears her throat. Too late now.
‘Oh, you know, just a tiny bit bossy on occasion. A little power-hungry, even.’
Gwen’s grinning so hard, her chins are shivering.
‘The vicar and I sometimes call them Care Bears.’
Gwen’s hand rushes to her mouth.
‘Don’t tell anyone else, will you, Gwen?’ The sticky heat in here is starting to feel oppressive. ‘It’s just a bit of a joke.’
Gwen smiles slowly at Margot, then reaches in again and squeezes her fingers.
‘You can trust me,’ she says, cheeks pink with pleasure.
‘Our little secret.’
‘Our little secret.’
Margot lies back, Hadley’s warnings ringing out like a klaxon.
‘So anyway, Margot, about the book club.’
The manicurist walks back in, waving a bottle of varnish at Margot.
‘Nothing too la-de-dahdy, maybe The Thornbirds to start us off. Goodness, Margot, you’re not going to wear that, are you?’
‘Hey, careful,’ snaps the manicurist as Gwen snatches the bottle out of her hand.
‘Vampish Vermilion?’
‘It’s foxy,’ says the manicurist. ‘One of our best sellers.’
‘You don’t want to send out the wrong signals.’
The manicurist stares at Gwen. Margot looks down at her traitorous toenails.
‘It’s just a bit of nail varnish, Gwen.’
‘They could get all sorts of ideas.’ She looks as though someone is holding a freshly lopped durian fruit under her nose. ‘When I know St Mark’s is safe with you.’
The manicurist smirks and carries on at
tending to Margot’s right foot. This entire exchange will be all over Twitter within the hour.
‘By the way, Carla can squeeze in your waxing appointment early if you like,’ the manicurist says.
‘Waxing?’
‘It’s a,’ – she clears her throat – ‘sort of medical thing, Gwen.’ She bites her lip. ‘A bit sensitive.’
Gwen narrows her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Margot.’ She raises a finger to her lips. ‘Your secrets are safe with me.’
Another red line crossed.
Chapter 13
Mid-March
Their feet are in perfect step, his stride a little longer than hers. Every so often, their elbows graze.
The canal path is empty, apart from the occasional cyclist or young couple pushing a buggy. The surface of the water is midnight green, velvet in the soft morning light. The spring warmth has created a canopy of bosky blossom floating above their heads. A group of mallards are snacking on the moss beneath the bridge, heads bobbing with determination. The air is scented with new beginnings. Late March already. Summer will be soon here. She closes her eyes. Be here, for now.
He’s watching her, smiling.
‘This is where we used to come for our early-morning run a while back.’
She turns her head away.
‘You know, just me and Pluto and a handful of other loonies pounding the path at six-thirty a.m.’
‘Impressive.’ Her muscles relax back into position.
‘Even when it was pissing it down.’
‘Even more so.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen us. But I loved the stillness, before the craziness of the day kicked off.’
She takes in the crosshatch of lines around his eyes, the small bump on the bridge of his nose, the freckles.
‘So, anyway, Margot,’ he turns to face her. ‘Confession time.’
She holds her breath.
‘Three favourite songs on your phone – and no porkies.’
She breathes out.
‘No hymns either.’
She laughs, then hesitates.
‘OK, how about “Sorry”, “Amsterdam” and,’ – she pauses – ‘I don’t know, some Ed Sheeran? Beyoncé?’
‘Bit safe, Reverend.’
‘And yours are all gangsta rap?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Oh, and “L-O-V-E” by Nat King Cole and some Aznavour. “For Me Formidable”. My mother’s favourite.’
‘Desert Island book? Apart from the Bible. Obviously.’
‘Obviously.’ She returns the smile. ‘Middlesex.’
‘Read it.’
‘Tick.’
‘Nice choice, Reverend. Always up for some hermaphrodite lit. OK, moving on. Beach-bum loafing or city culture break?’
‘Both.’
She watches him skim a stone across the surface: one, two, three, gone. A pair of mallards carve the air overhead, wings trailing silver beads of light.
‘Worst habit?’
‘Apart from my workwear?’
‘And your ‘jokes’.’
Their eyes catch. Someone in one of the huge Georgian houses across the canal flings open the French windows to let in the day. A dog barks loudly.
Margot walks on a few paces and turns.
‘This is worse than trying to get into theological college.’
‘Should I take that as a compliment?’
The tentative first steps, fingers matching in a mirror. Right until the last moment this morning, she wasn’t going to come.
‘Are your lessons like this?’
He picks up another stone, laughing.
‘My worst habit is that I’m a nosy bugger.’
‘So, the inquisition’s over?’
‘Ask away yourself.’
Her breath catches. They walk on in silence for a few moments.
‘Guess I’m not that interesting, then?’
It’s her turn to laugh.
‘Thing is, Margot, you’re a riddle within a mystery inside an enigma, all wrapped up in a cassock.’ He bats her arm. ‘As Churchill would have said if he’d thought of it.’
His smile is like a challenge: come out and live your life.
They stop for lunch at the Moon and Stars in Maida Vale. Time is both racing and in suspension, like trails of incense in a draughty chapel.
‘What did your parents think?’
She watches an elderly man cycle slowly past the window. Felix touches her wrist lightly.
‘Sorry, tell me to piss off and mind my own business any time. I warned you I was a nosy bugger.’
‘You did.’
She continues folding the crisp packet into ever-decreasing squares.
‘And, actually, while the priest bit is totally gripping, the thing I’m most interested in is all the other parts.’
She considers this. In fact, when was the last time anyone made the distinction?
‘All me, I’m afraid, all mashed together like a lump of multicoloured plasticine that’s gone that yucky trench-colour green.’
The couple next to them have spent the past twenty minutes feeding peanuts to their Border terrier, which probably explains its wind problem. One of the nuts now rolls across the carpet and the dog begins a forensic examination of Felix’s jeans.
‘Sorry, mate,’ says the man, pulling the dog back. ‘Caesar’s gone a bit crazy. You and the missus got a dog at home?’
‘Yup,’ says Felix, before wheeling back round to look at her, appalled.
‘Where were we?’ she asks brightly.
He smiles with relief.
‘Well, I guess, I’d love to hear, you know, how – or, rather, why – someone like you ends up in the Church as a priest.’
‘Where did it all go wrong, you mean?’
He doesn’t laugh this time.
‘If you don’t mind telling.’
So she does. Guardedly at first, but then, as they’re back on the canal walking past the houseboats with the pocket allotments, decks gleaming in the sunlight, warm tarmac smelling of recent rain, she allows the story to take hold.
She can’t remember the last time she spoke to someone outside of the safety cordon of the Church like this. She feels like a piece of Sylko unspooling, springing out in exuberant figures of eight.
The gallery is airy, white and minimalist. You could be in an evangelical church, except that it’s quiet. They’ve just stumbled on it at the back of Paddington Basin, all part of the day’s hoard of surprises.
The large twisting sculpture in front of them appears to be made of recycled mudguards.
‘Is it a yes from you?’ asks Felix.
She waves her thumb up, down and up again.
‘I basically spend half my life with Bach, Milton and Cranmer. Something like this is like sucking on sorbet after a serving of hollandaise sauce.’
‘I get that.’
‘It’s funny.’ She tips her head. You think you have a handhold on what the artist is trying to do, then the meaning seems to suddenly shift and you have to do a three-point turn.’
‘Looks like a pile of rusty bike parts to me.’
She elbows him lightly in the ribs.
‘But then I’m just a heathen.’
She’s aware it was meant to be feather-light, but the words acquired a gravity in transit. He coughs.
‘I think I saw a café in here somewhere?’
‘Who – what – do you think of when you think of God?’
Thirty minutes of normal banter and yet, inevitably, they’re right back here. She hesitates. Every time she gets this question, and she hears it often, she feels the need to try and coin the answer anew.
‘OK,’ she says slowly. ‘Well, I guess God is a person I feel drawn towards.’ She tips some sugar granules into her cup. ‘And when I think of Him, Her, It, even, I think of compassion and love, endless love.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What I don’t think of is some guy in a white robe with a Hollywood bea
rd.’
Felix runs his finger over the bowl of his teaspoon.
‘I have to tell you, Margot, and I guess this won’t come as a big fat surprise, I just can’t believe in the things you do.’
‘I’ve changed one of my top three music choices from Coldplay to Mumford and Sons.’
He reaches across for her hand. ‘Does it matter?’
The implications of that question are unanswerable.
His fingers interlace with hers. She has an impulse to pull away, but he holds her hand steady.
‘Don’t panic, Felix, I’m not on a flirt-to-convert operation.’
‘Is that a thing?’
Their laughter releases the tension slightly.
‘I know how important it is to you.’ He rolls his eyes at himself. ‘I mean, obviously.’
There’s an artwork on the shelf next to her constructed out of bubble wrap and paper clips. The halogen lights overhead have turned the tiny transparent spheres into phosphorescent baubles, glow-worms blinking out an indecipherable message.
‘We haven’t talked about you and your wife.’
He looks down.
‘Do you really want to?’
Five hours together. It’s been all around them like a cloud of asbestos spores. She knows about the quiet but contented childhood in County Durham; the older, married, GP sister in Coventry; the brief disastrous stint as a cub reporter on the Consett Gazette; the buttock-clenching fear of flying; the passion for cooking and early-period Rolling Stones.
But not one word about this.
It’s tempting to grab a handful of the tiny plastic bubbles and crush them in the ball of her fist.
‘It’s totally over, Margot.’
She waits.
‘But, you know, civilised, thank God.’ He clears his throat. ‘And just until all the legal stuff is sorted, we’re both in the same house. That’s it, to be honest.’
‘How long?’
He looks down.
‘Five and a half years.’
‘Any children?’
‘What, you think I wouldn’t have mentioned them?’
She leans back from the table.
‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m really sorry, Margot. I just know how all this looks. And you know, it’s not how it looks.’
The Girls' Book of Priesthood Page 12