The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Read online

  Simon was looking over my shoulder. ‘It’s just the beginning. The cost of this will be astronomical. Hormones won’t be cheap, and when it comes to surgery, the sky’s the limit. You might lose this house.’

  ‘He couldn’t take out a mortgage on Smith’s Barn without my knowing,’ I said, trying to convince myself. ‘We own it jointly.’

  ‘Mum, open your eyes! You’ve got to start fighting back.’

  Luke’s letter was still lying on the kitchen table. He’d added a handwritten line:

  Eilish, I know my lie was unforgivable. But I want you to know that you have saved me, year after year. I wasn’t lying when I said I love you. Thank you.

  You asked too much, I thought. You took too much. You have broken me.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s call that solicitor.’

  Twenty-five

  Kate

  Mathis was driving. He seemed to have no sense of danger at all, and Kate had her hands over her eyes for much of the journey. There was thunder in the air. She was sticking to her seat.

  ‘Turn left here,’ she ordered. ‘Then at the end of the—Christ’s sake, mind that bike!’

  Mathis braked sharply, and they all slewed forward. Kate felt lucky to be alive as she staggered onto the pavement outside what used to be her home. Behind her, Mathis reversed the car into a tiny space intended for motorbikes.

  John had got out too, and took her arm. ‘Wait till he’s parked. We need a surgical strike.’

  ‘This isn’t an SAS raid,’ she protested. ‘Owen isn’t an evil genius. He’s a common or garden wazzock.’

  ‘Kate, we watched you being a nanny to that boy for two years. He’s more controlling than any psychopath, and we’re not taking risks. We’re going to grab your things and get you out of here.’

  ‘I’m the getaway driver,’ added Mathis, coming around the car. He did something in radio, and had the kind of wistful beauty that made schoolgirls giggle. John was a cherubic accountant, born with a receding hairline. He finally came out of the closet as a student, when he fell in love with Mathis. They were the only people she’d told about her father. There was nobody else she could trust not to laugh.

  ‘See us as your bodyguards,’ said John, ‘wearing shades and earpieces.’

  They had reached the front door, and were squeezed between dustbins and an overgrown hedge, limp and dusty after weeks without rain. Kate was about to press the bell when the door opened. The last scales fell clattering from her eyes. Owen looked peaky and petulant, and he was wearing an orange T-shirt she’d always loathed.

  ‘Ah,’ he said sarcastically. ‘What an honour. I was going to dump your stuff at Oxfam.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘Hello, Mathis, hello, John. Did she tell you she vandalised my best shirt?’

  He turned his back and walked down the hall towards a pile of boxes, bin bags and a stereo system. Mathis and John swooped on them and began carrying armfuls out to the car. Kate was following suit when a small, barking object burst out of the bedroom, ricocheted around the confined space and knocked Owen’s bicycle right over.

  ‘Baffy’s missed you,’ said Owen, turning back. He was smiling.

  She picked up the little dog, nuzzling his fluffy head while Owen gave her a blow-by-blow account of the night Baffy ate chicken bones and had to be rushed to the vet. She followed him into the kitchen so that she could write down a forwarding address. Before she knew it, they were both sitting at the table. Owen’s hair was sticking up and his socks were half off his feet. He looked defenceless. He needed somebody to care for him.

  ‘How are your parents?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Say goodbye and thanks from me. I’ll really miss those weekends at Smith’s Barn.’

  The words rushed out of her. ‘They’ve split up,’ she said. ‘He’s moved out. She’s seeing a solicitor today.’

  He looked genuinely shaken. ‘You’re joking! Those two?’

  She shrugged, clamping her lips together in case they quivered.

  ‘Got time for coffee?’ asked Owen, putting on the kettle. ‘Hell. That was one marriage I didn’t expect . . . You must be gutted.’

  John came bustling in. ‘Grab a box, Kate,’ he said. ‘No time.

  We still have to get to Mile End. Your dad’s expecting us.’

  Five minutes later, the car was packed. Owen came outside in his socks, holding Baffy.

  ‘Thanks for packing up for me,’ said Kate.

  ‘It wasn’t my pleasure.’

  Mathis was a terrible getaway driver; it took an age for him to manoeuvre the car out of its space while Owen and Baffy watched, both of them looking hangdog.

  ‘Lucky we came along,’ declared John, as they finally escaped. ‘That guy is devious. Did you see his socks? And his hair? It must have taken hours to get the neglected orphan effect.’

  Kate felt weighed down. After all, that awkward little scene—these bin bags—were the end of something that had once been lovely. She was dreading the next hour, too. What if Dad was cross-dressed? She wasn’t sure she could handle that.

  Luke appeared on the pavement as they drove up. He was in his shirtsleeves, with a loosened tie, and Kate felt a great rush of relief. Leaping out of the car, she ran to hug him. Then she stopped. His lower lip was swollen and bruised.

  ‘What the frig’s happened to you?’

  ‘Slipped on the steps. Clumsy old sod.’ His speech wasn’t as clear as usual.

  ‘Which steps? These ones? When?’

  ‘Last week. No harm done. Evening, lads,’ he said, turning to John and Mathis. ‘It’s very good of you to lend your car and your muscle to Operation Rescue Kate from Owen.’

  It was an efficient unloading process, accompanied by rolls of thunder and a sullen sky. The flat had only one bedroom but they managed to fit everything behind the sofa. As they worked, Kate kept glancing at Luke. He looked like her dad, he talked like her dad, he behaved towards her friends with his usual self-effacing charm. The odd thing was, though, that thinking of him as female wasn’t quite as impossible as it used to be. There was something about him; some kind of ambiguity. Perhaps—she struggled to admit this to herself—there always had been.

  ‘He’s happy,’ whispered Mathis, when Luke was out of earshot.

  ‘You think so?’ Kate made a face. ‘He must be lonely.’

  ‘I’m sure he grieves for your mother, I’m sure he has guilt, but . . . no, his spirit is happy. Can’t you feel it? There’s a lightness about him. He has less weight pressing down on his shoulders.’

  The last box had been carried in from the car when Kate noticed a spot of rain darken the pavement. As she looked at it, another arrived. Then another. Within a few seconds they were standing in a downpour. Mathis whooped and held out his hands to catch the drops. Passers-by were running, yelling cheerfully, holding newspapers over their heads. London was weary of drought.

  ‘Hurray!’ cried Luke. ‘Come in and have a drink to celebrate . . . In fact, can you stay for supper? Yes? Great! We have a choice of takeaway places.’

  For a time they stood at the open garden door, watching the deluge. The lawn was so parched that water formed pools, unable to sink in. A flash of lightning lit up the fig tree; they counted the seconds to the next drum roll. Luke went away and came back with a bottle of wine, and invited them to take an armchair each. Soon he and the young men were deep in conversation.

  Kate couldn’t stop looking at her dad. He’d taken off his tie, and undone the top button of his shirt. The swollen lip frightened her. It made him seem too vulnerable.

  ‘Did someone hit you, Dad?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘I’m just a no-good street brawler, you know me. Always picking fights.’

  John leaned closer. ‘Actually, Luke, in this light I can see a bit of bruising . . . just here.’ He pressed his own Adam’s apple.

  ‘Where?’ Kate looked too, and saw mottled smudges. A horrible suspicion came to her. �
�Oh my God. Did you do that to yourself? Did you try to . . . Dad, did you try to hang yourself?’

  ‘No, no!’ Luke was hurriedly buttoning his shirt. ‘Don’t worry, Kate. I promise you this isn’t self-inflicted. I just had a misunderstanding with someone, and we got into a bit of a scuffle.’

  ‘You’ve never been in a scuffle in your life.’

  ‘Well, I have now. Forget it.’

  Kate couldn’t forget it. Who would attack her lovely dad and do all this damage? She imagined a gang of thugs setting on him in some darkened street. Maybe they’d seen him cross-dressed?

  ‘I don’t think you should let this go,’ she said. ‘Let’s report it to the police.’

  ‘It’s all right, Kate. What I’m doing upsets people.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lots of people. I’d better get used to it.’ Luke raised his hand to show that the subject was closed. Then he turned to John and said something about a cricket tour.

  Kate wasn’t interested in cricket. She got up and stood in the doorway, holding her hands out to the downpour. Dad was trying to cover something up, that much was obvious. The injuries looked to be a few days old. Simon had been here last week; she wondered whether he’d noticed anything.

  Simon was here.

  Simon found Dad wearing a dress.

  Simon.

  She stepped into the rain, pulling out her phone. She was sheltering under the fig tree when Simon answered.

  ‘I’m at Dad’s,’ she said, without preliminaries.

  ‘Christ almighty—I told you, Kate! He’s got a bedroom full of women’s clothes.’ He’d swung straight into holier-than-thou mode. Jerk.

  ‘He’s black and blue,’ she said. ‘What the hell did you do to him?’

  He didn’t try to deny it. ‘He was out on the streets looking like a frigging pervert. He’s going to get himself arrested.’

  She could see her father through the open doorway. He was sitting in an armchair, listening intently to John. He didn’t look like a frigging pervert. He looked like a kind, anxious man—or maybe a kind, anxious woman, now that she thought about it. Either way, it was her dad: the same person she’d loved all her life.

  ‘Have you read that round robin he sent out?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mum’s going to divorce him. He’s going to lose everything, probably end up on the streets. Nobody will give him the time of day. Maybe then he’ll realise what a fool he’s been.’

  ‘You make me sick!’ Kate saw her father glance out at her, and dropped her voice. ‘In all the years since you were born, he’s never once so much as laid a finger on you in anger—despite the fact that you’ve been a real little bastard at times. Any other man would have walloped seven bells out of you sooner or later, but not Dad. He’s been the most patient, understanding, loving father in the world. Fuck, how many times has he bailed you out of trouble? And now it’s his hour of need, and you break into his home and smash him up! Oh, aren’t you clever, aren’t you brave, aren’t you a total fuckwit of a meathead?’

  ‘He hit me too.’ Simon sounded like a five-year-old.

  ‘Looks to me like you tried to throttle him! That’s attempted murder. I should go to the police.’

  ‘Look, I’m not proud of myself, but if you’d been there and seen—’

  ‘Oh, fuck off.’ Kate cut him off, stormed back inside and threw herself into an armchair. Her hair was dripping. ‘Frigging Simon! I know it was him, Dad, don’t bother denying it. He’s just admitted it. Can I phone Mum? She has to hear about this.’

  ‘No,’ replied Luke.

  ‘So we let him get away with it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kate blew out her cheeks. ‘Carmela’s going to hit the roof.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Luke, who was calmly refilling glasses. ‘Anyway, she isn’t going to know, because you aren’t going to tell her. She’s pregnant.’

  ‘She’s got a right to know what kind of a tosspot she’s married to.’

  ‘No, Kate. No. I’m asking you not to stir things up. Just let it go. Now, how about that takeaway? There’s an excellent Thai down the road.’

  Kate huffed and puffed, but she had to give in. It was her dad’s decision.

  They had a great evening in the end. She hadn’t expected that, not with so much misery flying around the family. They ate at the kitchen table while Mathis regaled them with celebrity gossip he’d picked up at work. It was getting on for eleven o’clock when Luke’s phone rang. Kate saw him look at the number, and immediately smile. There was only one person who could make her father smile like that. There had only ever been one person.

  ‘Eilish,’ he said, as he answered.

  John and Mathis tactfully got up and started washing dishes, chatting to one another. Kate wanted to listen to her father’s conversation, but had no choice but to grab a tea towel and help the lads. Her ears pricked up, though, when she heard her dad mutter, ‘Do you want to talk to Kate?’

  She moved closer, listening openly now.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Shall I come out there to be with you?’

  She could hear the murmur of her mother’s voice. Luke nodded.

  ‘All right then. I’ll tell Kate . . . All right. Stay in touch. I’ll be waiting.’ He listened for another few moments, then whispered, ‘Me too. Me too. Bye . . . bye, darling.’

  He spoke so tenderly, so intimately. It was as though the divorce wasn’t happening at all. He shut the phone and sat for a moment with his head bowed. Then he looked up.

  ‘Carmela’s in labour,’ he said. ‘It’s much too early.’

  Twenty-six

  Eilish

  You know you’re getting long in the tooth when your hot-shot no-holds-barred solicitor is no older than your son. She suggested we get the divorce underway immediately, and demand an undertaking from Luke, in order to protect the assets. As thunder rolled outside, she took a history from me.

  ‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before,’ she said.

  ‘What, married men who turn into women?’

  She dropped her voice, as though the walls had ears. ‘You’d be surprised. One of my colleagues had a client who couldn’t understand why her shoes were always too big for her. Even the ones she’d hardly worn. I think you can guess the rest.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said faintly. ‘Oh, yes. I recognise that.’

  I was her last appointment. I left her office and ran through a downpour to my car. Oxford’s traffic was a nightmare. I doubt whether it was safe for me to be driving, because I can remember nothing about the journey except the slap-slap as my wipers tried to cope with teeming rain. I was thinking about the night I went to see Giselle, and lent a handsome man my opera glasses. Seemed like yesterday.

  The church clock was striking eight as I splashed my way through East Yalton. The house looked dark and empty. I walked in, flicking on lights. Casino appeared within two seconds and gave me a fishwife-style telling-off, because it was long past his supper time. I emptied a can of food into his bowl and then sat at the kitchen table, feeling poleaxed.

  I was dismayed by what I had begun. I’d been to a solicitor. I had knocked over the first domino, and the trail of fallen hopes would lead to the ending of my marriage. Had I really done that?

  Casino jumped up and curled on my lap. I didn’t move. I knew Luke. I didn’t know Luke. He was a lover, he was a stranger; he was honourable, he was a conman. I feared for him. I pitied him. I raged at him. I loved him. He’d been my travelling companion all through my adult life; how could he walk away from me like this? It’s you who’s been to the solicitor, said a small voice on the other side of my anger. It’s you who’s done the walking away.

  I don’t know how much time had passed before the phone rang. It jerked me back into wakefulness. Perhaps it’s Luke, I thought. Perhaps he’s asking to come home. There’s still time to stop that divorce petition from being posted.

  ‘Mum,’ said Simon. ‘
Something’s happening.’

  Simon

  He found Carmela lying on the sofa with her feet on a cushion. Nico was all ready for bed, watching One Hundred and One Dalmatians. He jumped up and hugged his father around the waist.

  ‘You’re wet!’ he declared.

  ‘Just a bit. I walked in the rain.’

  ‘We’re watching the dogs. Cruella wants to make them into coats.’

  ‘Not more dogs! I’ve been looking at dogs all day,’ spluttered Simon with mock horror. He squatted down beside Carmela. ‘All right?’

  ‘Just those Braxton Hicks contractions,’ she said, rubbing her bump. ‘They hurt a lot . . . ouch! How was work?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  In fact, it had been a hell of a day. The surgery was packed, one of the nurses was off sick, and the new receptionist didn’t have a clue. And his dad had taken to wearing tights. He went into the kitchen, poured a gin and tonic and knocked it back. Tights. He couldn’t get that image out of his mind.

  ‘Eilish phoned this afternoon,’ called Carmela. ‘She was just going to the solicitor. Ouch.’

  He made a hot water bottle for her stomach, and left her resting while he and Nico had supper together. Nico had gone upstairs to look for his favourite story book when Simon’s phone rang. It was Kate—she could be such a pain in the arse, his sister—ranting because she’d found out about his fight with Dad. In the end, she hung up on him.

  ‘Christ’s sake,’ muttered Simon. ‘Miss Self-Righteous.’

  I won’t think about Dad, he decided as he sloshed more gin into a glass. Not now. He was going to fall apart if he didn’t stop thinking about his father. Since his visit to Thurso Lane he’d been waking in the early hours, haunted by the horror of the moment when the woman in the kitchen had turned around. What he wanted to do, right now, was forget the whole nightmare and have a happy half-hour with his son. He climbed the stairs to find Nico sitting on his bed, clutching Piglet and looking through his book.