The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Read online

  Luke had cooked a chicken (a turkey wouldn’t fit in that silly little oven) and Kate contributed a Tesco’s Christmas pudding. To her immense relief, nobody was wearing a paper hat. It was a blue-sky day outside. As the sun sank lower, they were dazzled by a little square of brightness, shining right on their faces.

  ‘Do you want me to pull down the blind?’ asked Luke, seeing that Chloe was squinting.

  ‘No!’ She waved him back into his seat. ‘It feels like a blessing.’

  Two glasses down, and they were well away. Kate told the story of Owen, and Baffy, and the stranger in the pub. Chloe sympathised completely.

  ‘That guy sounds gorgeous,’ she cried. ‘You didn’t get a phone number? Oh, that’s tragic. And the poor dog—your ex needs a kick up the backside.’

  ‘What about you, Chloe?’ Kate leaned her arms on the table. ‘What’s happening in your life?’

  Chloe was disarmingly open about herself; said that she was on the waiting list for surgery but God knew when that would happen. She’d be applying for her certificate just as soon as she’d saved enough for the fee. When Kate asked, she explained that this would mean she was legally a woman. Then she mentioned, casually, that she’d been in a car accident the day before.

  Luke was fussing about with the oven, a tea towel over one shoulder, but now he whirled around. ‘Chloe! Are you all right? I didn’t even know you had a car.’

  ‘I don’t! It was a client’s car. One of my regulars. We were on our way to a hotel.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Kate.

  ‘This bicycle courier rode straight across the road, and—oh my God—next moment we’d hit him.’

  ‘Was he okay?’

  ‘I thought he was dead. My client was bricking it, you can imagine—I mean, he’s married for one thing, and guess what he does for a job?’

  Luke and Kate shook their heads. Chloe paused for effect, looking from one to the other.

  ‘A bishop?’ suggested Kate. ‘A judge?’

  ‘Politician?’ added Luke.

  Chloe leaned forward, whispering. ‘He’s a policeman. High up. That’s all I can say.’

  Her audience made fascinated, scandalised noises.

  ‘Not another word.’ Chloe zipped up her lips. ‘Take it from me: he’s very senior.’

  ‘And this man is married?’ asked Luke, who was shaking his head.

  ‘Hey, Lucia, don’t be too quick to write him off. He’s all right. Anyway, the bloke on the bike had a heck of a wallop and it took a while for him to get up. He just lay there looking like he was dead. People were running up. My client was trying to get his seatbelt off but he was in a state, he was freaking out—“Oh my God, oh my God, I’ve got to call an ambulance, I’ll be caught with you in my car, this is the end of my career, end of my marriage, end of everything, panic panic panic”—and I pressed the button to release his seatbelt, and said, “Just go and help that poor sod lying in the road, and don’t worry.”’

  Kate was hanging on Chloe’s every word. She could see it all: the senior policeman with a transsexual prostitute in his passenger seat, and the lifeless cyclist, and onlookers beginning to gather. Mobile phones, with cameras, would be coming out. Someone would be calling 999. Imagine the headlines! The clock was ticking on that guy’s career.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I got down low in my seat, oh my God, I was practically sitting on the floor. While everyone was standing around the bloke in the road, I managed to get my door open and crawl away. It wasn’t too easy, but he’d fallen on the driver’s side, so I was hidden by the car. I got around a corner. Then I started running.’

  Kate laughed at the idea of Chloe, all six-foot-something of her, crouching behind a car. ‘Anyone see you?’

  ‘Nope. Got away with it. The cyclist turned out to be okay, just cuts and bruises and hurt pride. My copper’s car had a dent but he just wanted to get away, so they agreed to call it quits. He texted me to say thanks.’

  ‘He was lucky,’ said Luke. ‘Your policeman. You covered for him. He’s also lucky that you aren’t the type to blackmail.’

  Chloe drew her head back, a little offended. ‘You have rules in your job, right? Rules about keeping things under your hat and not talking about your client’s business? Well, so do I. I’m not there to ruin a man’s life.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous job, though, isn’t it?’ said Kate.

  Chloe shrugged. She looked bleak suddenly. Kate cursed her own tactlessness and changed the subject. ‘Christmas pudding,’ she said. ‘Tesco’s own. I shoved a pound coin in, so watch your teeth, Chloe. Dad, got any brandy? Let’s do the flame thing.’

  After lunch, Luke suggested a walk. This was a family tradition. Every year, just as Kate and her grandmother were settling down to the BBC’s annual showing of The Sound of Music (Granny’s crush on Christopher Plummer was no secret), her dad would suggest a bloody walk. ‘Come on,’ he’d say, rubbing his hands and throwing wellies around, ‘let’s make the most of the daylight! Chop-chop, and we’ll be back in time for the Queen’s Christmas Message.’ Simon and Kate complained like buggery, but they always gave in. They’d slide out across the icy terrace, crunch their way through hoarfrost or drizzle or gale-force winds, and come back feeling as though they’d earned the right to scoff half a Christmas cake.

  So when Luke tabled the idea of a stroll, Kate wasn’t surprised. But Chloe was.

  ‘Walk?’ she squeaked, shivering as though Luke had suggested they all go for a bracing dip in the North Sea. ‘Why would we want to do that? It’s brass monkeys out there, and we could be opening another bottle and sitting in this nice warm flat. Have you lost your tiny mind, Lucia?’

  Luke laughed and said yes, he certainly had lost his mind. Then he went off to the bathroom.

  ‘I guess I could manage a quick dash up and down the street,’ said Chloe, once he’d gone.

  ‘It’s a tradition,’ said Kate, sighing, and explained about The Sound of Music and the Queen’s Christmas Message. ‘Think yourself lucky it’s a sunny afternoon, no hurricanes or blizzards.’

  ‘Erm . . .’ Chloe looked thoughtfully at Kate, and a smile spread across her face. ‘Can I negotiate? Don’t jump down my throat, but . . . okay, here’s the deal. I’ll go for your Christmas walk, if Lucia comes too. As Lucia.’

  Kate knew exactly what she was driving at, and was appalled. It was like being asked to meet the monster under your bed. She was still haunted by Simon’s description of the clown in tights and lipstick and a wig. She knew her lovely father did this stuff, but she didn’t want to see it.

  ‘He’s my dad,’ she protested.

  ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Kate was drumming her fingernails on the table. ‘I’m very, very scared.’

  ‘Guess what?’ said Chloe. ‘Lucia’s scared too. It’s okay, Kate. She looks great. She doesn’t look like a freak. She needs you to accept her.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’ Chloe wagged her forefinger. ‘Transition is the hardest . . . fucking . . . thing e-ver. I should know. If people, people she cares about, don’t help Lucia, she might not get through all this. And from where I’m sitting, people she cares about is . . . you.’

  The patch of sunshine had moved on. It was gloomy now in the kitchen. Kate got up to switch on the fan heater and stood warming her calves. Her dad had showered her with pure, unquestioning love since the day she was born. He’d loved her through two-year-old tantrums and ten-year-old ones and teenage ones. He’d taught her to drive—ye gods, that must have taken nerves of steel. He’d cleaned up after her twenty-first party, when she tangoed with Owen up and down the kitchen table before vomiting. He’d let her pierce her tongue (closed up now, thank God) and dye her hair, without saying anything judgemental. Despite all her cock-ups, all the times she’d behaved like a total bitch, he’d never stopped being proud of her.

  ‘There’s nobody else,’ said Chloe. ‘You�
�re the only one who’s got enough love to stand beside her.’

  The bathroom door was being unbolted; she could hear her dad’s measured footsteps, walking into his room and out again. She was running out of time. The next moment he’d reappeared in the kitchen, wearing a waxed jacket and a paisley scarf.

  ‘Ready to go?’ he asked, with his quiet smile. ‘Anyone need to borrow sensible shoes?’

  Kate made her decision.

  ‘Dad,’ she said. ‘Um, I don’t know how to put this, but . . . do you think this Christmas walk could include Lucia?’

  Well. As bizarre, screwed-up and yet oddly lovely experiences go, this won the rosette. Kate had never thought of herself as a conventional person: she’d snogged a girl when she was in year ten, in a determined but doomed attempt to be gay; she owned three pairs of Doc Martens and not a single pair of kitten heels; she’d done things with a carrot that she seriously wouldn’t want posted on Facebook; but this was one Christmas Day walk she would never forget. She took it in the company of two women, one of whom was her father.

  He—no, sorry, she—took ten minutes to change. Kate stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and wanting to run away.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ Chloe kept saying.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Keep calm, young Kate!’ said Chloe, imitating a royal voice. ‘Keep calm, and keep smiling.’

  Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and there she was: the woman who was Kate’s father. She’d transformed herself. She was wearing a simple dark blue dress and a grey pashmina, pearls around her neck and in her ears, and low court shoes. Kate could tell there was make-up, but it was subtle, and it made her face look feminine. It was rather a professional job, actually. She wasn’t wearing a wig—Kate was relieved about that—but she’d done her hair differently, across her forehead and around her jawline and somehow fluffed up, and it worked. She didn’t look like a pantomime dame. She looked like someone you might see in church, arranging the flowers.

  Chloe wolf-whistled. Kate was too stunned to speak.

  The new woman stood like a coiled spring, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and trying to smile. She seemed ready to bolt back into her bedroom. Kate needed to pull herself together, and fast. She put down her coffee, hurried across to Lucia and took both her hands.

  ‘Dad,’ she said. ‘You look really . . . nice.’

  And Chloe was right. It was okay.

  Thirty-six

  Lucia

  New Year’s Eve was almost upon us. Kate said she’d be helping out behind the bar at the Bracton Arms. My mother was off to a bash at her golf club. Chloe was working (I tried not to imagine what this meant). Maybe Eilish was going to be alone? I thought perhaps she and I could spend the evening together, as old friends. Last year we’d celebrated on top of East Yalton hill. It would be nice to do that again.

  I was in my office when I summoned the courage to ask her. Most partners spent this holiday week with their families, but I’d been going stir crazy in the flat. No time like the present, I thought, lifting the phone.

  Stupid of me. Presumptuous. Did I really think a woman like Eilish would be sitting around, waiting for her ex to call? No, she was going to a party at Jim Chadwick’s place. She mentioned it casually, trying to make it sound like a bore (‘All that booze and bonhomie and “Auld Lang Syne”! I’d rather be in bed with a good book’) but I knew Eilish very, very well. I could tell Jim was becoming more than a colleague and friend. There was a tinge of embarrassment, even excitement, in her tone.

  I told her I had to end the call because my desk phone was ringing. It wasn’t. Then I grabbed my coat and got out of the building as fast as I could. Benjamin, who was semi-retired now, tried to stop me in the corridor—Ah, Luke, can we talk about this seminar we’re hosting?—but he must have read the anguish in my body because he let me go without another word. Winter hit me as I stepped outside. The streets were grey, the sky was grey; there was ice in the air. I walked faster and faster, across the river and back, trying to escape the pain of it. The dreaded, inevitable thing was happening. I was losing her.

  Jealousy is a torment. It eats you from the inside. My sexual desires had diminished since I began hormone therapy, but my emotions were as strong as ever. I had no right to question Eilish’s private life; I had no right to anything, but I felt violent bitterness towards Jim Chadwick. I knew the man and had always liked him. Why was he taking Eilish from me?

  It wasn’t until that evening, back at the flat, that I took control. I gave myself a mental slap across the face and told myself not to be so bloody selfish. I loved Eilish, didn’t I? Felt guilty for ruining her life? Right. So I had to let her go. I had to be pleased for her, and for Lucky Jim.

  When New Year’s Eve arrived, I resolved not to think about what she was doing. I treated myself to my favourite Thai takeaway. Then I put on a comfortable skirt and jersey, and spent the evening in an armchair in the company of Virginia Woolf and a bottle of whisky. They were good companions. I kept one eye on the clock. The birth of a year is still an occasion, even if you’re alone.

  Just before midnight, I wrapped Judi’s pashmina around my shoulders and stepped out into the garden. It was a crisp night. Very still. After a few minutes, I heard the countdown from the television in an upstairs flat, and joined in: Three! Two! One . . . and then the world went crazy. It was like being in a celebratory war zone. I was too far away to see the public display; these fireworks were being lit by ordinary families, huddled in tiny back gardens. I imagined a city full of human beings, all hoping and praying and believing that this year would be a good one. We were in the middle of a global recession; there was unrest and brinkmanship and civil war all over the world, and the ice caps were melting. And yet as midnight struck, thousands of fireworks blazed above the rooftops of London. Sometimes you have to love the human race for its sheer bloody optimism.

  I stood in the darkness, my head tilted towards the iridescent, gunshot exploding sky, and found myself quietly weeping. I couldn’t tell you whether they were tears of love or euphoria or loneliness. All three, I think. Perhaps the hormones were heightening my emotions, or perhaps it was the whisky. Whatever their cause, the tears felt right and good, and there was nobody there to see them. I cried for Eilish; I cried for Nico, and for Rosa, and wished them a happy New Year. I promised Lucia that I would not abandon her. This year, I would become the person I was always meant to be.

  Eilish

  The last seconds of the dying year. Such precious seconds! Big Ben. Party poppers, streamers, everybody kissing everybody. I was counting down and party popping with the best of them. Jim’s friends were many and varied, his energy infectious, and his mulled wine not for the faint-hearted. My feet ached from dancing; my high-heeled shoes had long since been kicked into a corner. Jim threw one hell of a party.

  As the final bell tolled, I stood still. The world around me seemed to move in slow motion, as though I were watching a film. This couldn’t be real. This was the last second of the year in which I lost Luke.

  Then Jim was beside me: his arms around my shoulders, his eyes smiling into mine. I’d been expecting him; the spark between us was as highly charged as ever. He bent his head to speak into my ear, because the celebrations were deafening.

  ‘I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a wonderful year,’ he said. I felt the warmth of his mouth on my ear, my hair, the nape of my neck, and on my mouth. I felt my stomach twist with longing.

  I kissed him. I did. I kissed Jim Chadwick as the streamers floated around us. I felt his hands pressing on my back and I swayed against him. After all, I thought, why not? There is life after divorce. Jim’s intelligent and attractive and fun. He doesn’t suffer from black moods. He doesn’t try on my clothes when I’m not around. Why not?

  The thing is, though, that Jim wasn’t Luke. He didn’t kiss like Luke. He didn’t feel like Luke in my arms. He didn’t say the things Luke would say.

  Another guest grabbed him—a pe
rky divorcee who’d been pursuing him all evening—and, after her, another. Meanwhile, the friendly couple I’d met during dinner came rushing up, enveloping me in hearty New Year hugs.

  The moment had passed.

  Under cover of all the revelry I found my shoes and jacket and slipped out, through the kitchen and into the back garden. It was another world out there. The sky was cloudless, the stars brilliant, the air bitter. No moon. Jim’s cottage was deep in the fields, but I could see fireworks going off over Cottingwith.

  This time last year, Luke and I had climbed East Yalton hill with champagne and plastic glasses. This time last year, Luke was on the verge of depression again. I knew it, but I ignored it. I hoped the problem would soon go away. It didn’t fit with my plans. Which of us was the selfish one?

  Luke’s alone tonight. He might be alone forever.

  Sounds of celebration rose and fell behind me, muffled by the weathered walls of the cottage. I remembered that there were some garden chairs on the lawn and made my way across to them. They were wooden, and very solid. For a long time, I sat silently beneath the dazzling chaos of the universe. Alone out here, I knew myself better. In the darkness, I saw things clearly.

  I heard the back door open and shut, footsteps on the grass, and there was a touch on my shoulder.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jim. ‘I lost you.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He sat in one of the other chairs. I could make out the pale shape of his face. ‘You’re sorry? I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Half the women in that house are after you, Jim. You’ve made me feel a whole lot better about myself. I’m so grateful.’

  ‘God. Please don’t be grateful! Anything but gratitude. It implies . . . what does it imply? . . . polite obligation. I was hoping for something quite a lot more passionate.’

  ‘All right. I’ll try to be ungrateful.’

  ‘Better.’

  I collected my thoughts. There were things I had to say, and I wanted to get it right.