The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (35 page)

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 perky 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.

‘You and I go way back,’ I said. ‘You know how much I value that. You’re top of the list of men I’m tempted to sleep with. In fact, you
are
the list.’

‘But?’

‘But . . . Luke.’

‘Eilish, Luke’s been gone for months.’ He sounded exasperated, and I didn’t blame him.

‘Nearly six,’ I agreed. ‘And I’m about to apply for decree absolute.’

‘And he’s about to become a woman. I like him, I admire what he’s doing, and I really do hope he’ll be happy . . . but you’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you, and you deserve to be happy too.’

One last firework shot up. A rocket; brightly coloured. It hung high above the horizon before bursting apart with a distant crackle.

I sighed. ‘You’re right. That’s why I thought perhaps I could let go now, tonight, and start a new life; but it doesn’t work like that. I can’t just forget the last thirty years and fall joyously into bed with you. Not yet, anyway. I’m very, very sorry, because it would have been a lot of fun.’

‘It would.’

He was silent for a time. I heard him shift in his chair.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I can take rejection on the chin. What I want to hear from you is a promise that this won’t change things. We were bloody good friends before—and we still are. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘And you promise to call on me if you need anything?’

‘I promise.’

‘And you’ll come inside now, and help me hand out cups of coffee to fifty drunk people?’

‘I’d be honoured,’ I said.

He stood up, and reached for my hand.

Thirty-seven

Luke

On New Year’s Day, I woke to a hangover and low spirits. The emotion of the night before had worn off and left me flat. For a time, I found I couldn’t even get out of bed. It would take too much effort to get dressed or make coffee or eat. I’d felt like this before, and I feared it. ‘Watch out for depression,’ Usha had said. ‘Be alert to it.’

I wondered whether it might help to go to a local cafe, just for some human company; but I pictured myself sitting alone at a table, surrounded by couples and families all in holiday mode. I picked up the phone to call Eilish, then remembered she’d been to a party and might not appreciate her no-good cross-dressing husband waking her. Anyway, what if she wasn’t alone? What if she and Jim . . . ? Appalling possibility. It made me feel far, far worse.

I had to fight this descent. I had to get up and get going, to behave like a useful human being with a role in life. I decided to go into Bannermans, where I had plenty to be getting on with. At that thought I took a shower and dressed in Luke’s going-into-work-on-a-public-holiday clothes: corduroy trousers, a collared shirt and a jersey. It was a costume that felt more and more alien. My hair was becoming too long for conventionality now, curling
down the back of my neck. On a whim I pulled a ribbon out of the drawer and tied my greying locks into a ponytail. It was a very small ponytail, like a paintbrush, and it looked silly—ageing rocker meets square solicitor—but it felt rebellious and made me smile, so I left it there.

Our divorce was well underway. Papers lay beside the toaster where I’d thrown them in disgust, but I couldn’t ignore them forever. I leafed through the pile, wondering whether today was the day to tackle them once and for all. I had already offered far more than half of our joint assets to Eilish, including Smith’s Barn, but it seemed that her solicitor was not a trusting person. She wanted bank statements; she wanted valuations; she wanted details about the pension; she wanted sworn affidavits; she wanted exhaustive lists. All of this was leading inexorably towards decree absolute, the death knell of our marriage.

I was shovelling the papers into my briefcase when I heard the sound of shoes on the area steps, and a female voice. Tearing the ribbon out of my hair, I swung around to peer through the window. The door was locked and bolted; there was no need for me to behave like a scared rabbit. The next moment I saw who it was and my heart leaped—I mean really, it leaped with joy. I rushed to the door, fumbled with the locks and threw it open.

And there they were. Carmela stood in jeans and boots and padded jacket, looking nervous. A bright-eyed baby gazed at me over her shoulder, strapped to her back by a band of cloth. Holding his mother’s hand, hopping from foot to foot and yelling,
Grandpa!
at the top of his lungs, was a small boy whom I loved.

‘Happy New Year,’ said Carmela.