The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 22
A parcel from Luke arrived on my birthday. I opened it to find emerald earrings glowing on a velvet cushion. They matched my engagement ring. What was the proper response to such a gift from the man I was divorcing? Should I mark the parcel return to sender and shove it in the nearest post box? Should I give it to charity?
I did neither. Instead, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror and slid them into my ears. They were single stones set in gold, and truly beautiful. Luke had chosen well. He always did have good taste. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to imagine that he was standing very close behind me. We were still happy, still together, still off to Tuscany next year.
I was deep in this daydream when the phone rang. Talk of the devil.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Luke. ‘Happy birthday.’
I never admitted it to him, I barely admitted it even to myself, but I felt warmer when I heard his voice. You can’t just drop a friendship like ours into the recycling bin.
I thanked him for the earrings. ‘They’re perfect,’ I said. ‘Though I’ve a feeling my solicitor would disapprove. We’re supposed to be dividing our assets, not giving more of them to each other.’
He asked about work, and I fumed about the size of Walter’s ego, which was in inverse proportion to his competence. Luke was worried about the Rayburn—did it need servicing? Was the house warm enough? And how were the grandchildren?
Once we’d covered all these topics, there was a long pause. Neither of us wanted the conversation to end. This can’t go on, I thought. I have to understand his new world. If I don’t do that, I can’t even be his friend. I took a breath.
‘So,’ I said. ‘What’s happening about your . . . gender problems?’
He sounded pleased, but wary. ‘You don’t really want to know.’
‘I think I’d better. It’s probably time my head came out of the sand.’
He talked; slowly at first, hesitantly, as though afraid I’d slam down the phone. He’d been to a gender clinic but had taken no hormones yet. He was also seeing a counsellor, though he wasn’t sure why.
‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘You’ve got professional help.’
‘The further down this road I go, the more I feel as though I’m coming home. Do you know what I did last week? Well, of course you don’t know.’ He gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘I’m going gaga.’
I sighed. ‘All right. What did you do last week?’
‘I went to a group. A peer support group. I met people I never knew existed.’
He was obviously bursting to tell me about it. As he talked, I was struck by the animation in his voice. The old Luke never used to bubble over with news; he was reticent and careful. The new Luke was forging a new life. He’d taken the tube to Barking and gone into the community room of a church, a room filled with strangers. He’d befriended a transsexual prostitute from Manchester. He used other words for it (trans woman, escort) but we both knew what he meant.
‘What’s, um, he or she like?’ I asked, genuinely curious.
‘Her name is Chloe. She’s brave. Bright, I think. She’s also vulnerable, despite towering over me at six foot two. She’s almost exactly Kate’s age.’
‘How sad. She’s got no future, has she?’
‘I hope you’re wrong about that. Here’s something that surprised me . . . On the twentieth of November, they’re all meeting up for a candlelight vigil to mark—this is extraordinary, Eilish, I didn’t even know this existed—to mark the annual Transgender Day of Remembrance. It’s held all over the world, to remember everyone who’s been murdered because they’re trans.’
‘Actually murdered?’ This was a new worry; it hadn’t occurred to me. ‘Are you safe?’
‘Oh, I think so. I’m too old and ugly to attract any attention.’
I was talking to Luke; and yet it wasn’t quite Luke. This person was . . . not exactly happy, he was too anxious for that, but . . . hopeful. Yes, that was it. There was a light at the end of his tunnel. It was heartbreaking, and yet intriguing.
I heard a knock on the kitchen doors downstairs, and Stella’s voice, calling, ‘Yoo-hoo, where’s the birthday girl?’
Luke laughed. ‘I heard that all the way from London! You’d better go. Give Stella my love.’
‘Thanks for these lovely earrings,’ I said.
‘Happy birthday, my darling.’
That afternoon, I babysat Nico. We got out his Lego. He built a spaceship, flew it around—whoosh!—and carefully landed. Then he stopped playing. He just sat and looked at the ship. He was mouthing words silently to himself.
‘What are you thinking about, monkey?’ I asked.
‘Thinking about a wooden plane. Is Grandpa home again?’
I didn’t expect it. Not coming out, just like that.
‘He isn’t,’ I said.
‘Is he in the little house? The one with a door under the ground?’
‘Yes.’ I swallowed, making a supreme effort to keep my voice light. ‘Yes. He’s been busy at work, and the door-under-ground house is handy for his work.’
‘He should be at your house.’ His brow was furrowed. I stood up, brushing down my trousers as I wondered how best to distract him.
‘Daddy shouted at Grandpa,’ he said.
‘Shall we go out into the garden?’
He picked up the spaceship and flew it through the air in front of him, whispering Whoosh. ‘Is Grandpa dead?’
‘No, darling, he’s not dead. He’s—he’s—’ My throat closed up. Yes, I thought, Grandpa is dead, in a way. Or at least dying. He’s never going to come back to us.
‘Whoosh. Whoooosh. We were going to make a plane out of wood. In his shed. He promised.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘You’ll tell him we have to make a plane?’
I nodded and smiled. I was thinking that perhaps Luke could come back to Smith’s Barn for a day, and Nico could come too. Why not? Surely Simon would agree, if I offered to be present at all times. I imagined Luke back at home, making a plane with Nico. It was such a happy idea. They could potter about in the shed. I could bring them cups of tea and juice. It would be just pretending, but it would be like old times.
Nico was energised; he jumped up and ran across to the telephone. ‘Shall we phone and tell him? You dial the number, please, Granny, and I will talk.’
‘He’ll be . . .’ I shook my head. ‘We have to ask your dad and mum.’
His face crumpled. I ran over to him, picked him up and squeezed him tight. ‘Don’t cry! Grandpa will make your plane with you,’ I said. ‘I promise.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Simon.
‘But if—’
‘Not happening. Please drop the subject.’
We were sitting at the breakfast bar in their kitchen, eating paella Carmela had rustled up. Simon had arrived home later than expected, via the pub (‘just a couple of drinks’), and was now knocking back prosecco at a rate of knots. Carmela looked dog-tired but refused any help. Nico was in bed, Rosa asleep in her carrycot in a corner of the kitchen. She was a stunner, my little granddaughter; still the size of a newborn baby, with olive skin and cherry-red lips. Kate had joined us too. She seemed rather smitten with her new niece, which amused me because she’d never before—at any age, or any stage—shown the slightest interest in babies, or kittens, or ponies. She kept taking photographs of Rosa.
‘Simon,’ I said sternly—he might be almost thirty, but he was my son and I wasn’t going to be bullied. ‘Let me finish my sentence. I just thought Luke could come to my place for the day. Obviously he’d have to promise to . . . you know. Be male. Nico can stay over with me.’
‘Nico asks about Luke all the time,’ said Carmela. ‘But I’m afraid it’s not going to happen.’
Kate scowled. ‘Why not? Because Simon can’t behave like an adult?’
Simon wasn’t sober, and he was struggling to stay calm under fire. I knew the signs; his jaw was tight. ‘What d’you suggest, Miss Cleverclogs? D’you w
ant Nico and Rosa to grow up with a drag queen for a role model? What are they supposed to tell their schoolmates?’
‘God, you’re a pompous douchebag,’ retorted Kate. ‘Is this about what’s best for your kids, or is it really about punishing poor Dad?’
Simon looked as though he could cheerfully strangle his sister, which was nothing new. They’d begun arguing when Kate was two, and there haven’t been many ceasefires since then. Still, I think they love one another. I hope they do.
‘It’ll be very hard on Nico if Luke simply disappears from his life,’ I ventured.
‘Mum, think about the practicalities,’ Simon said, refilling our glasses. ‘Let’s assume Dad goes ahead as planned: takes hormones, grows breasts, has his bits cut off, goes the whole way. People do. I know they do. Nico and Rosa are not—repeat not—going to have to deal with that kind of . . . weirdness. How do you propose to explain to Nico that Grandpa is a lady boy?’
‘Well,’ said Kate, ‘you could just tell him the truth. He’ll take it in his stride.’
‘Shut up.’
She didn’t shut up. ‘So you’d rather cut Dad out altogether? Seriously—you’re going to be that bigoted?’
I saw Carmela touch her husband’s shoulder, flashing Kate a warning glance. ‘We have to decide whether we’re happy about our children having a transsexual person in their lives. There is a stigma, Kate. And Simon feels that the answer is no.’
Transsexual. I didn’t like the word. It conjured images of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Fishnet tights. Transylvania.
‘If Luke has a lovely day with Nico,’ I suggested, ‘he might change his mind.’
‘You can’t use Nico as bait,’ said Simon, who’d begun slamming plates into the dishwasher.
‘No! Not bait. Just a reminder of what family life is all about; what he’s missing.’
‘You’d trust him again? I wouldn’t. Come on, Mum. He’s history. Find yourself somebody else.’
I was shocked into silence. Simon’s words sounded too final. Mercifully, Rosa was woken by the crashing plates and began to wail, providing a distraction. I slipped away to the bathroom and stood with my hands on the basin, facing my imperfections in the mirror. My eyes weren’t as clear as they used to be, and when did those bitter-old-bag lines appear beside my mouth? I wasn’t young anymore, but Luke didn’t mind. I’d always relied on that. He and I were supposed to grow old together.
Come home, Luke, I whispered. Just come home.
My handbag was on the chest in the hall. I took out my phone as I passed, and saw that I’d missed two calls. One was from Luke. The other was from Jim. I didn’t call either of them back.
Thirty-one
Luke
London is at its glittering, magical best in the run-up to Christmas, with late-night shopping under cascades of lights, and trees glimpsed through open curtains.
But, by golly, it can be lonely. The only events on my social calendar were Wednesday afternoons with the Jenny Marsden group—and I rarely had time to get to that—and the entertaining of Bannermans clients. Eilish and I had plenty of friends in London but I wasn’t ready to face their questions, so I avoided them all. Sometimes as I set off for work in the freezing pre-dawn, I fantasised about taking a train home and walking into the house as though nothing had happened. I imagined the pond lying very still under a mist. I imagined Eilish alone in our bedroom, waking up and beginning a new day. Perhaps she wouldn’t be happy to see me.
There were other moments, though, times when I felt a tremendous sense of hope. Week by week, shyly, Lucia was taking over and becoming me—or perhaps I was becoming her. I’d begun seeing a speech therapist, who thought we could do a lot towards feminising my voice. He gave me exercises to practise, using a dictaphone so that I could hear myself.
‘Listen carefully when you’re out and about,’ he said. ‘There’s a pitch overlap between the sexes. Find that, and you’ve found the key.’ We had a long discussion about the melody of different voices. I found it truly fascinating, but I smiled to myself as I imagined what Kate’s reaction would be (Men and women use different language? Women’s voices are more singsong? Oh, for frig’s sake! What utter patriarchal patronising bollocks).
Far more frightening was the issue of my beard. I don’t enjoy pain; who does? But I took my courage into my hands and booked myself into a clinic for laser treatment. The grim-faced woman who wielded the laser said it would take about a year to get rid of my facial hair: at least eight sessions, six or more weeks apart, and maybe electrolysis after that, and she couldn’t guarantee that that would be the end of it. Laser treatment is meant to be quicker and less painful than electrolysis, but—believe me—it’s screaming torture. The first session had me gritting my teeth and breathing through the pain. I had to go home and have a stiff drink afterwards, and I felt pretty traumatised. Had I really lifted my chin and let that psychopath of a woman inflict this upon me? I was halfway through a glass of whisky before I felt steady enough to phone Chloe. She’d understand what I’d just gone through.
‘Hi there, Lucia!’ she cried when she heard my voice. ‘What’s happening?’
I told her about the torture, and she laughed merrily. ‘It’s okay, it gets better. Third or fourth time you’ll have less to take off, and then you’ll look in the mirror, and then you’ll feel good.’ ‘Third or fourth? I don’t know if I can go back and do it again, even once.’
‘Oh yes, you can! No pain, no gain. Take a couple of ibuprofen half an hour before, and a good old swallow of Jim Beam.’
She told me she’d had a phone call from her mother—a short one, just to ask for a cousin’s address—but still, a call. She seemed very buoyed by this.
‘Hey,’ she added, ‘you’re doing well with the voice.’
I knew she couldn’t possibly afford a speech therapist—she sometimes struggled even to pay her rent—so I passed on everything I’d learned. She wanted to know if I’d come out at work yet, and thought it hilarious when I groaned and said I certainly had not and that I thought I’d rather retire.
‘All those posh lawyers,’ she said. ‘You’ll make their day!’
‘Five hundred people work in our firm. How can I face five hundred people?’
She was chuckling away. ‘And every one of them wondering if you’re going to have your nuts cut off! Oh my Lord, Lucia, they’ll cross their legs when you walk by.’
By the time the call ended, I was smiling.
Eilish
I was crammed into my room in the prefabricated block with two malodorous year tens. They were clearly counting down the seconds until the final bell of the week. So was I.
One of them was texting under the table while I turned a blind eye. The Christmas term was coming to an end, after all, and concentration levels were dropping all round. The other was choosing, from the box I’d given him, a book to take home. I noticed a face at the window, and waved. Jim Chadwick. He saw I was busy and moved away, but I was pretty sure he’d wait until the end of the lesson.
‘Got one, miss,’ said the boy with the books. He was holding out a paperback with a picture of a soldier on the front, bristling with bandoliers and murderous weapons. He often picked that one. He loved a bit of gore.
‘You’ve read that already, Zane. About five times. But that’s okay, you can borrow it again. You’ve done really good work today. Jamie, who are you texting?’
‘Santa,’ Jamie replied promptly. ‘He says he’s got his sleigh parked outside.’
The bell rang while I was deciding whether to laugh or hand out a detention.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Have a good weekend. Say hi to Santa from me.’
As they opened the door they almost ran into Jim.
‘What’re you reading, Zane?’ he asked, holding out his hand for the book. ‘Ah. Crack Shot. Nice one.’
The two boys set off for freedom, joining a great throng that milled across the quad. Jim stepped into my room and closed the door behind him.
‘Yes. I know that, Jim.’
‘Dinner at The Lock, tonight?’
‘Tonight? Um . . .’
He sat down in the chair Zane had just vacated. ‘Yes, you can. I know for a fact that you were meant to be helping with a rehearsal for the school play this evening. I know for a fact that the rehearsal has just been cancelled. So, unless you’ve got yourself another date in the past hour, you’re unexpectedly free.’
I could get all dressed up, and go to a gorgeous restaurant by the river. I could spend the evening laughing with Jim, sharing a bottle of wine, enjoying adult conversation of a kind I craved, especially since Kate had left. And let’s face it, said the wicked floozy inside me, he’s easy on the eye.
But Luke.
He walked away. You owe him nothing.
That’s true.
Don’t risk it, counselled the prude in me. Dinner doesn’t come for free. You go to The Lock, the next minute he’s pouncing on you in some taxi, and then you’re back at his place, taking off your clothes. Nobody but Luke’s seen you naked in thirty years! Do you really want to show those stretch marks?
‘I promise you,’ said Jim, who seemed to be a mind-reader. ‘Not a single string. I’ll behave impeccably. Unless you don’t.’
I was teetering at the top of a fairground ride, fearing to launch myself onto the crazy loops and whoops of the roller-coaster. I was being asked on a date. An actual date, with a man I liked very much.
Luke’s gone. He didn’t love you enough.
‘All right,’ I said.
Was the blue and white top a mistake? Avoid horizontal stripes at all costs, my mother used to say. They’ll make you look big, Eilish; and when I say big, I mean fat. On this occasion she was wrong, because I seemed to have the opposite problem. I’d lost weight since Luke left. The figure in the mirror looked like a bustless bag lady in those unforgiving stripes.
I hadn’t got dolled up in months; I was out of practice, couldn’t even find a pair of tights without a hole in them. It was daunting but—I had to admit—fun.