The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 12

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Mr Livingstone. You don’t want to lie on a slab and have your genitals chopped off! You don’t seriously want them to turn your bits inside out?’ He shuddered. ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘I’m not necessarily looking for surgery.’

  ‘What, then? Female hormones? You can buy those over the internet, as I’m sure you know. I expect you already take them, do you? If so, stop. D’you know what effect they’ll have? They’ll shrink your testicles—it’s basically castration. You’ll lose your sex drive and you’ll grow breasts. You’ll become a she-male.’

  ‘A what?’

  He curled his upper lip. ‘A she-male. Neither one thing nor the other. For heaven’s sake! Go home to your wife, be grateful for what you have, and let me get on with my job.’

  I almost gave up. I got to my feet, wanting to be out of that room. Then I stopped.

  ‘Actually, no. I’m not leaving,’ I said, sitting down again. ‘Not until you refer me to someone who will help. I’ve waited an entire lifetime to have this conversation. I don’t think you have any idea how difficult it’s been for me to walk in here and tell you about myself. If you don’t know how to refer me, look it up. That’s what I do when I’m out of my depth in my professional life.’ Then—riding on a sudden wave of inspiration—I added, ‘I’m a solicitor. I hope I don’t have to make a complaint.’

  I sat glaring, expecting an explosion. Perhaps the tiny receptionist would turn out to be a karate expert and I’d be thrown out bodily. Ford tapped his pen on the table. When he finally spoke, he did so without looking at me.

  ‘All right. I have a colleague in this practice who seems to collect people like you. I’ll speak to her. She’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’d like you to leave now, please. There are a lot of genuinely sick people in my waiting room.’

  I stood up. My hand was on the door handle when he fired his final shot. ‘Mr Livingstone.’

  I looked back at him, wondering what further insults he had in store.

  ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ he said.

  Seventeen

  Eilish

  I stood in front of the wardrobe, staring at my clothes. I didn’t want to look as though I’d tried terribly hard. Heavens, I certainly didn’t want him coveting my outfit! Perhaps that was what he’d been doing, all these years? Maybe I’d been no more than a mannequin in a shop, modelling all the things he longed to wear. Then again, I had to make some kind of effort. I needed to guard my remaining self-respect.

  The linen trousers and a loose shirt. They would do. Smart, but not too feminine.

  Luke had been gone about three weeks when I took Stella’s advice and suggested we talk face to face. He sounded hopeful and offered to come out to Smith’s Barn. He needed to be in the village on Wednesday evening anyway, he said, for a school governors’ meeting. Perhaps he could drop by?

  ‘I’d rather we talked in no-man’s-land,’ I said.

  ‘We’re not at war, are we?’

  We are, I thought. Of course we are.

  ‘Meet me at Paddington,’ I said. ‘We can find somewhere for lunch.’

  I was slipping on the shirt when a splash of primrose yellow peeped out at me from the far end of the wardrobe. My breath caught as I dragged it from its hanger, a sundress with a very full skirt. This old friend! I supposed it was terribly dated—eighties—but, oh, it took me back.

  This dress. A hotel terrace in the Dordogne, the smell of strong coffee, and a table with a blue linen cloth. And Luke saying, ‘Um.’

  I remember being mesmerised by a bird as it glided in the ravine, far below us. I could see the sun on its wings. The river was a glittering thread of silver, half-hidden by skeins of mist.

  ‘What is that bird, Luke?’ I’d asked, pointing. ‘A kestrel?’

  He was trying to pour coffee from a ceramic pot, and the lid clattered. ‘Probably. Look. Um. I’m not sure how to . . . Blast!’ The lid came off and a small flood of coffee spilled onto the tablecloth.

  ‘Tut-tut,’ I said, laughing at him as he dabbed furiously with a napkin. ‘Can’t take you anywhere.’

  ‘You can’t,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘Look. Bit soon, I know, and you’ll probably say no, but I’ve got to ask at least, because I can’t imagine a future without you.’

  Three decades later, I stood in our bedroom and surveyed the ruins of my dreams. I could still see the dark liquid spreading across that sky-blue cloth, and the wings of a hunting bird as it wheeled and balanced in the haze. I could still feel the magic, raising the hairs on my arms. I could still see Luke’s anxious smile as he held out the box.

  I’ll never forget this moment, I’d thought, as I took it from his hands. Never.

  The ring was too big, but I wore it on my thumb until we got back to London and I could have it altered. He’d chosen it himself: emeralds, he said, to match my eyes—but, of course, if I didn’t like it I could choose another.

  I was wearing it now, as I stood in my bedroom. This ring was on my hand at the start of our life together, and it would be there at the end. The vicar who married us had said in his sermon that a ring was a symbol of our never-ending commitment. He didn’t use the word love. He wasn’t that kind of vicar. Commitment. That, he’d said, was the key. Hold onto that, and we would make it through until death parted us. He was an optimistic soul.

  I remembered an odd thing Luke’s best man said to me on my wedding day. Toby was Luke’s only first cousin, a broker of some kind who lived in Singapore. He’d weaved up to me, holding his own private bottle of champagne, a little squiffy and maudlin.

  ‘You’ve got a good man there,’ he said. ‘I envy you. You’re the only person who’s ever got close to him.’

  I laughed. ‘Rubbish, Toby! Half this crowd are his friends or family.’

  ‘Ah, but do they know him? He’s built a bloody great wall around himself, ten feet thick.’

  I didn’t have time to ask what he meant, because the next moment he was buttonholed by my mother, who wanted to introduce him to someone. I’d thought little of it at the time, but as the years went by, I saw what Toby meant. Luke was kind and welcoming to our friends without ever letting them into his mind. He was a terrific listener; I often found people pouring out their hearts to him, but his own remained locked and bolted. As it turned out, even I hadn’t broken through that ten foot wall.

  I was shutting the wardrobe doors when Kate looked in.

  ‘Mum, you look great,’ she said. ‘You could have got dolled up in a bin bag, though, and Dad wouldn’t care. He thinks you’re the loveliest woman in the world.’

  ‘Not lovely enough, evidently.’

  She pretended to growl.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said, slapping my own wrist. ‘This hasn’t happened because I wasn’t good enough. This has happened because your father’s gone mad.’

  ‘Better. What are you going to say to him?’

  ‘That depends on what he has to say to me. I’d better get going if I want to catch the twelve-eighteen.’

  She walked me out to the car.

  ‘Have you heard from him?’ I asked.

  ‘Just the odd text.’

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Nothing interesting.’

  She was being evasive. I recognised the blank look on her face. It was the same expression she’d worn at the age of five when accused of eating the chocolate buttons off Simon’s birthday cake.

  I felt my heart sinking.

  ‘Have I lost him?’ I asked.

  Kate

  She watched her mother drive away. Casino had followed them outside and was winding around her calves, claiming that he hadn’t eaten in days—even though he was shaped like a football with legs.

  Her mum looked so pretty. She’d tied up her hair, with little ringlets around her face. But that yellow dress! Kate hadn’t seen it in aeons. It was a bit retro for lunch in Pa
ddington and, to be honest, it was on the young side. Perhaps it was a favourite of Dad’s, or something.

  Taking her phone out of her bra, Kate scrolled down to the text he’d sent that morning.

  On my way to see another doctor, to talk about my future. Hope you and Mum can forgive me.

  Poor Mum. ‘I think she’s lost him,’ she said to Casino.

  Luke

  After my disastrous appointment with Dr Ford, I decided to treat this whole thing like a work project. My new doctor—Nina Cameron—had phoned me at home and booked a double slot for the consultation. There was just enough time before I had to be at Paddington to meet Eilish. I arrived with a list of questions scribbled in my diary, along with a printout of a protocol for GPs. I wished I’d been so well armed before, because Ford had broken every possible rule.

  Dr Cameron’s voice on the phone had sounded youthful, and she’d described herself as having an interest in gender identity, so I’d expected someone on the young and trendy end of the spectrum. I was wrong on both counts. The woman who rose to greet me looked a vigorous sixtyish, with no-nonsense hair.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, nodding at the protocol in my hand. ‘I see you’ve been doing your homework. That saves us a lot of time.’

  What followed could not have been more different from the meeting with Ford. Nina Cameron was another species altogether. She wasn’t what Eilish would call touchy-feely—in fact, her manner was decidedly businesslike—but she didn’t dislike me for what I was.

  ‘Now,’ she began. ‘Tell me about what’s brought you here.’

  ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  I detected a faint smile. ‘At the risk of sounding like Julie Andrews, why don’t you start at the very beginning?’

  So I told her about the longing that had pervaded my life, all my life. I told her about my depression. I told her about stealing my sisters’ clothes, and wanting a peg in the girls’ cloakroom at primary school. I described how, as an adolescent, I stood naked in front of a full-length mirror and shouted obscenities at myself.

  ‘What exactly did you hate so much?’ she asked.

  ‘Everything. My masculinity. My hairiness. My voice. Myself. I opened my eyes in my bedroom every morning, with all the posters of Pink Floyd, and wished I’d died in my sleep. I was a battleground. That battle’s raged ever since, with occasional ceasefires.’

  ‘And your sexual orientation?’ she asked, in the same tone of voice she might have used to ask me what the weather was doing outside.

  ‘I’m, um, straight. Heterosexual.’ I hesitated. She had a piercing gaze; it made me feel shifty. ‘I really am. Sounds a bit odd, I know, coming from someone who thinks they’re female.’

  ‘Not odd at all,’ she said. ‘Sexuality is entirely separate. And gender is a continuum, not a binary thing. I’ve worked with people who feel they are without gender altogether.’

  ‘That makes my situation sound simple.’

  ‘Indeed. This is why pronouns are such a minefield. Some people want a gender-specific pronoun—“he” or “she”. Others choose to refer to themselves as “they”, even though it’s plural. I heard of someone who went for “Ze”.’

  ‘Ze?’

  ‘It’s gender neutral.’

  ‘Good Lord.’ I scratched my head. ‘How baffling. I must be very conservative. I can’t even cross-dress without being a boring twit about it.’

  She laughed politely. I hoped she might be warming to me. ‘The next question, of course, is where you want to go from here—if anywhere.’

  ‘What do other people do? Others like me?’

  ‘No two people are alike. I’d strongly suggest counselling, whatever else you do. Ultimately, some people transition in the sense that they live in the new gender, but they never make any physiological changes. Some feel that hormone therapy is key. A very few go on to have surgery. There’s no one size fits all.’

  She picked up a pen and began to write down my options. I could scarcely believe I was having this matter-of-fact conversation. She mentioned hormones, and I confessed that I was tempted to buy them online. Some of my correspondents on TransChatterers had done this on and off for years. Nina looked down her hooked nose and said it wasn’t safe. We talked about the NHS versus the private system, and what things might cost. She wrote down the name of a private clinic.

  As we talked, I had an extraordinary sensation. A vast pair of gates were opening, very slowly. I could see them in my mind’s eye: heavy, medieval city gates with metal studs. There was dazzling sunshine beyond. Then something came rushing up to punch me, knocking the breath from my body. I think it was hope.

  Nina was watching me. She’d asked me a question and was waiting for the answer. I blinked, shaking my head, unable to speak, feeling the tears begin. Stupid, I thought. Stupid. Why cry now, after all these years? Whoever really cries with hope?

  ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, wiping my eyes. ‘Completely overwhelmed.’

  ‘Quite all right. Take your time.’ She pulled a tissue out of a box on her desk and handed it to me.

  ‘I thought I was the only freak in the whole world,’ I said. ‘I was so lonely. I couldn’t tell my poor parents. I couldn’t tell my wife. Endless shame and hiding, and the fear that the whole facade will come tumbling down . . . I go about my daily life, and people respect me, and I think, “If you knew what I am, you wouldn’t even speak to me.”’

  ‘You’ve never had a normal conversation about this before?’

  ‘Never. Never. This is the first time I’ve told someone who wasn’t shocked. You’ve no idea what this means to me.’

  ‘Well.’ She tore her notes from the pad. ‘I’ve a feeling it won’t be the last.’

  Eilish

  He was waiting for me. As soon as we saw one another through the throng of people, he hurried towards the barrier. He was ready to throw his arms around me. I felt such loss, and such longing.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, stopping well out of his reach.

  He dropped his hands. ‘Darling. You look wonderful.’

  ‘I doubt it, but thank you.’

  He smiled sadly, and my heart was squeezed. ‘That dress.’

  ‘Ah yes, this dress.’ I looked down at the frivolous thing, wishing now that I’d gone for the linen trousers. ‘It was all very romantic, wasn’t it? In retrospect, I should have chucked your ring into the ravine.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  He was nervous. I knew the signs. He pushed a hand through his hair and a wave of it was left standing upright. I resisted the urge to stroke it flat again.

  ‘I’ve booked us a table at Parvel’s,’ he said. ‘Shall we go straight there?’

  This is obscenely like a date, I thought, as Parvel’s waiter threaded through the tables ahead of us. A date with a difference. A goodbye date, perhaps. The man led us to a table in a bay, handing us menus with a flourish. He probably thought this was a romantic tryst—a wedding anniversary, or a birthday, or a clandestine affair.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he murmured.

  ‘Um.’ Luke picked up the wine list, raising his eyebrows at me. ‘Shall we have a bottle?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘For pity’s sake, Luke, I don’t care.’

  Hurriedly, he asked for a bottle of something or other. The waiter took the list and whisked away, clearly trying to look as though he hadn’t noticed the tension in the air.

  ‘So,’ said Luke. ‘Kate tells me that Stella is back from Cornwall?’

  Small talk, I thought dully. We’re making small talk, while our marriage dies. He asked after Nico and Carmela. We covered such earth-shattering topics as Casino’s weight, and the school governors’ meeting. We talked about nothing that mattered, and ignored the monster that was ripping us apart. I wasn’t listening, even to myself. Someone came over and took our order, but I barely noticed. The background blurred until Luke’s face seemed to fill my vision. I imagined tracing the stron
g planes of his jaw with my finger, smoothing the vertical crease on his forehead. How often had I done this over the years? Thousands of times, probably, in moments of passion or warmth or tender idleness. Never again. I’ll never be able to do that again.

  ‘Kate hard at work?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. ‘Polite chit-chat,’ I burst out. ‘Really, Luke? Have we come to this?’ I was crying, dammit. I couldn’t help it. I felt such appalling bereavement.

  He leaped to his feet, and began to hurry around to me.

  ‘No,’ I spluttered, waving him away. He hovered unhappily while I fumbled for tissues. Get a grip, woman, I scolded myself. Where’s your dignity? Stella’s lost three husbands, and you don’t see her making scenes in restaurants.

  ‘I don’t want to play this game,’ I said. ‘Let’s not do small talk and let’s not reminisce. I’m here to ask you to come home. I’m offering to forget what’s happened.’ I saw his eyes light up, and pressed my advantage. ‘Just come home. Be Luke again. It’s a good offer.’

  For one glorious moment I thought I’d done it. He looked so eager—but then he shook his head. ‘I can’t be Luke Livingstone again. I can’t lie anymore. If I tried to do that, it would finish me.’ The waiter had reappeared, and was displaying the label on a bottle.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Luke, without really looking at it. ‘Thank you.’

  The man didn’t take the hint. He opened the bottle and poured a little for Luke to taste, which he dutifully did. Then he complimented Luke on his choice, and the next moment they were in conversation about acidity and oak and the vineyard it had come from. The man was obviously a wine fanatic, and Luke was too kind to tell him to sod off. An ornate mirror hung on the wall to one side, with another opposite. An endless fan of Lukes curved away into infinity: distinguished-looking men with a lot of dark, silver-tinged hair. I wondered which of them was him. Would the real Luke Livingstone please stand up?

  None of them was, of course. None of them, not even the one sitting opposite me.

  It was while I was looking into those mirrors that it occurred to me there was some physical change in him. Yes . . . yes. I was pretty sure of it. His face was strained, of course. He’d lost weight. There was something else, though; something more tangible. What was it?