The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (14 page)

She regarded the dark-eyed woman in the mirror. Her jaw was slightly too heavy, her shoulders slightly too broad, her bust not quite the right shape. She didn’t seem to know what to do with her arms.

‘You look ludicrous,’ she said aloud. The woman smiled fearfully.

Lucia picked up her wallet and dropped it into her sky-blue handbag. She’d spotted the bag three years ago, when wandering through the scents and sensations of Peter Jones. It had a William Morris–patterned lining and was made in New York. She’d bought it because she thought it was beautiful, and hidden it in the flat with shame and delight. A man could buy his wife or mistress a handbag, earrings or a silk scarf and raise no eyebrows. Oversized shoes and clothes were rather more difficult.

With the bag over one arm she made her way out of her bedroom, down the short passage and through the kitchen. There was nobody watching her yet, but she felt crippled by self-consciousness. When she reached the street door she stopped dead, her hands clenching and unclenching—hopelessly big hands, on hopelessly long arms. She hadn’t painted her nails.

The world lay on the other side of that door, ready to laugh its head off.

She had been through this same routine yesterday, and the day before. She’d tidied up her eyebrows with a pair of tweezers, which was far more painful than she’d expected. She had tried combinations of clothes, and experimented with her hair and make-up. She’d practised walking in the unfamiliar shoes. She’d got herself completely ready—but every time she reached this door, her courage had deserted her.

Today. It must happen today.

‘Get on with it,’ she muttered, and was suddenly aware of the deep tones of her voice. What a giveaway! Who did she think she was going to fool? She would never be able to speak. Never. She could never go out there.

She must go out there.

Okay. A deep breath in, and out. Lift your hand. Turn the Yale. Open the door . . . well done.

Lucia had never been outside in her life. Sunshine lit up the area steps and she felt its friendly warmth on her face. She’d count to three, and then she’d take that final step across the threshold. She would do it this time. She would.

One. Two. Th—

Footsteps sounded like jackboots, marching along the pavement above. Several pairs of feet. She retreated instantly, a clam into its shell. The steps passed. The street was silent again, yet still she hid.

Now. It had to be now.
Now.

And then she’d done it. She was standing outside in broad daylight, and the door had closed behind her. Terror and
exhilaration thudded in her chest. Her foot was on the first step. The second. She reached the level of the street and, to her horror, there were people nearby. Two women in burkas, pushing toddlers in pushchairs. She glimpsed strappy sandals under their hems. They knew what it meant to cover up their femininity. Neither of them glanced in her direction as they passed.

She hauled the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and set off along Thurso Lane, feeling the grittiness of the pavement through her soles. She took small steps, remembering not to stride out as though she were in lace-ups and a pinstriped suit. She’d researched everything: how to walk, how to move. How to talk. How to pass. Every tiny nuance mattered.
Hold your head high
, the anonymous chatroom friends had advised.
Be confident. Smile. Hide your fear. Nothing marks you out more than your own fear
. She had been acting a part all her life; now, it seemed, she must act another.

After a couple of hundred yards, Thurso Lane met the main road. She could hear children chanting in the school playground, hidden behind fortress-like gratings. Two men were unloading furniture from a van. One nudged the other as she passed by. She heard exaggerated laughter, followed by a wolf-whistle. She knew exactly what they were seeing. She’d seen it herself, in the mirror. Her spine felt cold and exposed; some primal instinct expected an arrow in her back. She wanted to run, but forced herself to walk.

Her destination was the cash machine outside the newsagent’s. She’d planned this as a first challenge. She wouldn’t go into the shop and buy a paper. Not today. If she could only get herself as far as the cash machine, use it and come home again, that would be enough. The machine had never seemed so far away. Two hundred metres. One hundred. Fifty. She was there.

She took her card out of her handbag, soothed by the familiarity of routine. The hole-in-the-wall didn’t care how she looked, so long as her PIN matched the card. It spat out a pile of notes and a receipt. So far, so good. As she tucked them into her wallet she
heard movement, very close behind her. Somebody was standing there. Gripping her bag, she turned around.

It was someone she knew, someone she often spoke to.

‘
Big Issue
?’ he asked.

She nodded dumbly, took a magazine and paid. She regularly bought a copy from this seller as she emerged from the tube station; sometimes she even read it. He had tightly curled hair and smoked roll-ups. Whatever the weather, he wore a red T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the money. That was when his eyes flared in recognition. She waited for him to laugh, or spit, or abuse her. She wanted to sink into the ground.

‘You’re all right, love,’ he said quietly.

She was running. A shoe came off, slapping onto the pavement—wretched thing; she was forced to hop along as she pulled it on again. The two delivery men were arguing over a washing machine, too engrossed to notice as she darted past them and into Thurso Lane.
Down the basement steps—watch the slippery one with the mould—where’s the key? Get this bloody door open.

The key was in the lock. It was turning . . . there! She was in. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, laughing. She felt as though she hadn’t breathed at all in the past fifteen minutes.

She’d done it. She’d
done
it.

Luke

I went bungee jumping once, when I was much younger and still had things to prove. I’ve got the photos somewhere.

We were on holiday in New Zealand. Simon was about five; Charlotte had died the year before, and that darkness was still with us. This was an attempt, I suppose, to move on. By the end of the holiday, Eilish was pregnant with Kate, so perhaps it achieved its purpose.

Our guidebook said bungee jumping was a must-do. Eilish said it was a mustn’t-do.

I was appalled when I saw the platform, cantilevered from a cliff fifty metres above a river, but I had my pride and couldn’t back out. A couple of super-cool youths buckled straps around my ankles. They were singing along to very loud, palpitation-inducing music, but I didn’t join in. I shuffled to the very edge of the dizzying drop and stood like a condemned man at the scaffold, trying not to look down. My God, that cliff was high.

Eilish and Simon had run off down the hill, hoping to get better photographs. I was glad they weren’t there to see my terror.

Behind me, the bungee crew counted down to take-off:
Three . . . two . . . one . . .

This is madness
, I thought.
Madness. I’m a father. I’m a husband. I’m going to die.

As I hesitated, I felt a sharp shove in my back—the super-cool duo had obviously decided it was time for me to go—and then I was diving through thin air. As I plunged into that terrible abyss, my body told me I was finished. This fall was not survivable. I was too terrified even to scream.

Then the bungee stretched, and held. As I rebounded, I yelled and yodelled for the pure joy of still being alive.

It was the ultimate adrenaline rush. Simon thought I was a bloody hero.

But it was nothing compared with a walk down the street in Mile End, on a sunny morning in July.

Fifteen

Eilish

So. What do you do when your husband announces that he’s a woman?

I’ll tell you what I did. I raged at him, I blamed him, I blamed myself. Then I asked Google, and found that I wasn’t unique. There were women all over the world in my position—wives, girlfriends, daughters, mothers. Some had always known; some guessed; others discovered the secret by chance. Some were bitter, and some forgave.

I was astonished to read about wives who behave like shining saints. They listen, and they compromise, and they love, and they continue with their sex lives, and they try to understand. They go with their cross-dressed man to cross-dressed social weekends in motels on the M25, where—presumably—they watch him prancing around in their clothes while they compare notes with other shining saints. I bet they hate it, I thought. I bet it gnaws at their souls.

Good women do that. Good, loyal wives. I was not a good woman. I threw Luke out of my life. Then the pain began in earnest.

I’d loved the man; that was the trouble. Every inch of Smith’s Barn held a memory of Luke. Every song on the playlist. Every
DVD, every painting, every scratch on the kitchen table. The swing—he’d made it, and pushed Simon and Kate in the summer evenings. The rosewood box on his desk, full of photographs of Nico’s christening. His wellies (I threw them up into the attic in the end, because they reminded me of our last walk together). I’d changed the sheets, but his clean, male smell was not quite gone from our bed, and it lingered in the clothes I’d put away in his drawers. He was still here, the traitor.

He kept phoning me, wanting—wanting what? My blessing? It hurt to hear his voice, so I let the answering machine take his calls. Simon phoned too, desperate to hear that his father was sane again. Meanwhile, Kate and I supported one another and lied to the world. We had an official story: Luke was up to his ears in a massive deal, very intense, lots of overnighters—he just didn’t have time to get home. Everything was fine in the Livingstone family.

My friend Stella returned from her trip to Cornwall to find a note from me, and called straight away. We arranged to meet in the car park at the foot of Yalton Hill. I’d managed to hold myself together for the past fortnight, but as soon as dear Stella hauled herself out of her car, I burst into tears. Bless her, she was so kind: hugging me and squeezing my shoulder and gasping, ‘Good Lord, he’s lost his mind.’

Stella Marriot has been married three times, and I’ve been her bridesmaid—maid of honour, whatever you call it—twice. Her first husband, Bob, was the father of her two daughters. He had a massive heart attack when he and she were playing in the final of the mixed doubles tournament in the Yalton club. Their opponents were Luke and myself, but she’s never held that against us. The next, Hugh, was still in love with his first wife and turned to Stella on the rebound. The marriage was less than a year old when he and Stella agreed that it wasn’t making anybody happy.

The third husband was more newsworthy: Steve Marriot, an affable charmer who managed a chain of pubs. Stella married
him at the age of fifty and he gave her a Siamese kitten as a wedding present. She was deliriously happy until the day Steve was arrested for a series of bank robberies. The police found two sawn-off shotguns and a balaclava in the boot of his car, and he was sent to prison for fifteen years. Stella divorced him because he was absent; she seemed less worried about the fact that he’d turned out to be Oxfordshire’s Most Wanted. Steve had languished in various prisons over the years, but wherever he was, Stella still visited him once a month.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said now. ‘A cross-dresser?
Luke?
Is it April Fools’ Day?’

‘I wish it were.’

‘What is he
thinking
of?’

‘Turns out he’s been doing it, or at least wanting to do it, the whole time we’ve been married. He’s not just a cross-dresser, Stella. He says he feels he’s a woman, trapped in a male body.’

She snorted. ‘We all like the opposite sex. It doesn’t mean we have to become one of them.’

We began walking up the hill. Stella’s a well-padded woman, and the climb was a challenge for her. For some time she didn’t have any breath to spare for talking, but I did. I felt as though I were turning a tap, letting the words stream out. I told her everything.

When the path levelled off, Stella managed to speak. ‘D’you think he’s serious?’

‘I don’t know. He says so. But . . . how can he be? It’s crazy!’

‘What about your anniversary party?’

‘I’ve cancelled it.’

She paused, pretending to look at the view, though I was fairly sure she just wanted an excuse to catch her breath. ‘He’ll never go through with this.’

‘You think he won’t?’

‘Nah. Look at what he’s got to lose! His family and his work. Those are the two things he really cares about—they’re the things that define him, aren’t they? And I know he’s not a
proud bugger, but he won’t want people to spit on him in the street. He’ll have nothing. He’ll
be
nothing. Holy moley, this hill has definitely got steeper since I was here last. I need to get myself back to zumba.’

‘You okay?’

‘Stitch.’ She bent over, pressing a hand to her side. ‘Whew. Perhaps it’s male menopause. They do go a bit funny.’

‘I’m in the middle of female menopause,’ I retorted, ‘but I haven’t had a sudden urge to destroy my family.’

Once we were walking again, Stella seemed to get a second wind. ‘Look, I’m the undisputed expert on husbands around here, and my money says he’ll see sense once he’s looked into the void.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘The question is, my friend, what are you going to do when he turns up at your door and promises to be one hundred per cent male from now on? Would you take him back?’

I still hadn’t come up with an answer when we reached the trig point at the summit. Stella sank onto a rock. I leaned my arms on the marker, feeling the wind whip against my cheek. The Chilterns rolled on and on into a hazy horizon, dappled by the racing shadows of clouds.

‘I just want him to come home,’ I said. ‘I want him to be his old self again. D’you think I’m a fool?’

‘No. The man’s an absolute gem.’ Still puffing, Stella ticked off Luke’s good points on her fingers. ‘Not dead. Not in love with someone else. Doesn’t even point shotguns in people’s faces.’