The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (39 page)

‘Little green sports car. Shall I nip out and see who it is?’

‘I know who it is,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’

I wasn’t surprised. Jim was still a frequent visitor, utterly unabashed by what had happened—or rather hadn’t happened—on New Year’s Eve. Today, though, he looked harassed.

‘Sorry not to phone first,’ he called out, hurrying across from his car. ‘Just on my way home. I need to talk to you. Urgently. You’ve got somebody here?’

I stood back to let him in. ‘Stella, this is Jim Chadwick. Jim, Stella Marriot . . . It’s all right. Neither of you has to be discreet. You both know about Luke.’

Stella was charm itself, but as soon as Jim’s back was turned she made meaningful faces at me. When he realised he’d left his lights on and ran back out to his car, she clutched my arm.

‘Is this the one who was chasing you? Phwoar!’

I chuckled. ‘Stel-
la
! We aren’t teenagers, and this isn’t the youth club. We don’t snog behind the bike sheds.’

‘So? Whoever said teenagers get a monopoly on romance? I’d be inviting him in for more than a glass of plonk, if I was in your shoes.’

Before she could warm to her theme, Jim strode back inside and took a glass out of my hand. Stella and I settled on the ragged sofa beneath the gallery, leaving an armchair free for him, but he didn’t take it. He paced around—across to the big windows, then back again.

‘You had something to talk about?’ I asked.

‘I did.’ He scratched his head. ‘I hate to be the bringer of bad tidings, but . . . well, really, I think I have to.’

‘Get on with it then. And for heaven’s sake, take a seat. We’re getting sore necks just watching you.’

‘Okay.’ He threw himself into the armchair. ‘It’s out.’

‘What’s out?’

‘Luke’s out.’

I heard an intake of breath from Stella.

‘He’s been seen in London,’ said Jim. ‘Wearing a skirt and carrying a handbag.’

‘Who saw him?’ I asked.

‘I’ve traced it to a lad who left school last year. Went to be a chef in one of the hotels. Ricky Tait? He had a job in the Bracton Arms for a while.’

I knew Ricky. I’d taught him. A good-looking lad; quite a charmer.

‘Is he sure it was Luke?’ I asked, clutching at a very small straw. ‘I mean, wouldn’t he look very different in those clothes? And it was probably just a glimpse. Ricky can’t actually
prove
it was Luke. Nobody’s going to believe him.’

‘Eilish.’ Jim leaned forward in his chair, demanding my attention. ‘Luke stopped to talk to a
Big Issue
seller. Ricky had time to take photographs on his phone.’

A photograph on a teenager’s phone. It took a moment for the significance to sink in. When it did, I stopped breathing. I put my hands to my face.

‘He shared them?’

‘They were all over the internet within ten minutes,’ said Jim. ‘They’ve been shared on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and WhatsApp and Snapchat, and other media I don’t even know about. They’re still being shared, right now. Those pictures are everywhere.’

‘WhatsApp?’

‘Smartphones. They were causing a sensation in the staffroom just as I was leaving. Mick Glover, Graeme Nelson . . . everyone knew. By tomorrow morning there won’t be a soul at Cottingwith High who hasn’t seen those photos.’

I felt faint. ‘Oh my God.’

‘Look, I think you should take a few days off work. It’s far too late to get them off the internet. It was too late the moment Ricky shared them, and that was ten seconds after he took them.’

‘Stable doors,’ said Stella.

‘And bolting horses,’ agreed Jim. ‘I’ll go and see Wally tomorrow morning, make him think about a damage limitation exercise.’

‘Have they looked at them?’ I asked. ‘Mick and Graeme, and the others?’

Jim looked sickened. ‘’Fraid so. Mick had them on his tablet. He was flashing them around. I threatened to ram the bloody thing down his throat.’

‘Quite right,’ muttered Stella. ‘This Mick’s an idiot, whoever he is.’

‘Have
you
seen them?’ I asked Jim.

‘No. But those who have assure me that it is unmistakably Luke.’

My private grief had become public gossip. It was breaking news, all over the district, right now
. Guess what? Guess what? Have a look at these . . . Oh my God, that is a crack-up!

‘Couldn’t we pretend he was on his way to a fancy-dress party?’ suggested Stella.

‘The pictures were taken this morning, in broad daylight. Apparently they don’t have a . . . fancy-dress look about them.’

‘Poor Luke,’ I said.

Jim smacked his hands on his knees. ‘Eilish! For God’s sake, never mind poor Luke. You must understand—you must be ready. This is going to make your professional life bloody difficult. And your personal life.’

‘I’d better warn him straight away, before those photos get to Bannermans.’

‘Darling,’ said Stella, reaching for my hands. ‘Luke isn’t your problem.’

The phone rang. I stood up to answer it, but my mind was elsewhere. I was trying to take in what this meant; trying to focus on what I must do. There was absolutely no chance of hushing the whole thing up. I’d never been a great fan of social media—I’d only ever been on Facebook so I could see Kate and Carmela’s photos—but I knew that once an image has been released into the wild, it can never be recovered.

‘Eilish. It’s me.’ Luke’s voice.

‘If you’re phoning to tell me that you’re a celebrity, don’t bother. I already know.’

‘Oh, my love.’ He sounded shaken. ‘I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I didn’t think it would come out like this . . . I thought we’d have time, it could all be kept under control, you could distance yourself from me in advance. This is a nightmare. I don’t know how it’s happened.’

‘I do.’ I told him about Ricky Tait. ‘The kid should go into journalism,’ I said bitterly. ‘He has the killer instinct.’

‘I don’t blame him. Mrs Livingstone’s husband in drag! Quite a scoop.’

My mobile rang—stopped—then rang again. I didn’t look at it. Luke and I talked around and around the situation, both of us trying to understand the implications of what had happened.
The news hadn’t reached Bannermans yet, but the clock was ticking because several of Luke’s colleagues lived in our area. He’d arranged to meet the management committee that same evening.

We were in for a hell of a storm. A part of me thought—as Kate would say—
Bring it on! Screw the bastards.
So Luke was cross-dressed. So he and I were a spicy scandal. So what? Real friends would stick by us; fair-weather ones would head for dry land.

‘I’ve a feeling we’re about to find out who our friends are,’ I said, watching as Stella put the kettle on, mouthing
Tea?
at me. In the background, Jim was quietly answering a call on his mobile phone. From his closed expression and hushed voice, I gathered it was about Luke.

My own mobile beeped. I had two missed calls and a text, all from Simon.

Call me. It’s about Dad.

‘It looks as though Simon’s heard the news,’ I said. ‘His hair will be standing on end.’

‘Oh dear—already? It’s like the Big Bang: from nothing to everything in a nanosecond. And it’s still expanding exponentially. People will be sharing it and sharing it, on and on.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘Penny O’Neil phoned. She laid it on the line, because she’s been getting calls from parents who want me to resign. The logic seems to be that I cross-dress so I must be sleazy. Well, that’s fine. I’ve given her my resignation. I was struggling to do the job properly anyway, living in London.’

Oddly, this news made my blood boil. St Matthew’s owed a lot to Luke. He’d helped to turn the place around after they’d had an incompetent head, and they’d gone from strength to strength ever since. It was all voluntary, though clients of Bannermans would have paid a zillion pounds for that much of his time. How dare they condemn a man who’d been their friend for so many years? Which of them could cast the first stone?

‘It’s
not
fine!’ I said indignantly. ‘It’s shoddy and it’s bigoted and it’s a bloody disgrace. After all you’ve done for them! Did Penny want your resignation?’

‘She didn’t see any alternative.’

‘Spineless.’

‘Darling, truly, this doesn’t matter. All that matters now is you. I’ve brought shame on you.’

Jim had answered his mobile yet again. He’d turned away from me, but he was clearly agitated and I overheard a snatch of his conversation.
Why the hell should she bow out?
He got to his feet suddenly, and marched to the window and back.
You’re out of your mind! You think we have SEN teachers of her calibre coming out of our ears?

We’re in trouble, I thought, Luke and I. Both of us. For better, for worse . . . and this is worse. Our world has changed again. It’s no longer safe.

I said the next words before I’d thought them through. They came out instinctively, but I knew they were right.

‘Will you come home?’

He didn’t answer me.

‘I want you to come home,’ I said clearly. ‘Just until this storm’s blown over. You can wear any damned clothes you want. You can call yourself whatever you want. We have to face this together.’

Forty-one

Simon

He couldn’t stop looking at them. Every time he looked, he wished he hadn’t.

They’d arrived by email, from an ex-schoolmate who said Simon might like to know what was doing the social media rounds; and was he aware that his father was a transvestite? It couldn’t have been much worse. Simon instantly recognised Luke, and yet it was a woman—wearing a skirt, a white blouse and a cardigan. She was nose to nose with a
Big Issue
seller. They seemed to be great mates.

Simon’s life was falling apart. Carmela had moved into the spare bedroom after their row on New Year’s Day. She said he snored when he’d been drinking. He hadn’t forgiven her for taking the children to Thurso Lane; she hadn’t forgiven him for reacting as he had. Stalemate.

‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’ he’d demanded one morning when he couldn’t take any more of her cold politeness. ‘Is this all about Dad?’

‘No. This is all about you.’

So he went to work without saying goodbye, and in the evening he lingered at the pub. This soon became a routine. It seemed easier than going home and trying to put things right.

The girl in the club was haunting him again, as she had years ago. Sometimes he dreamed about her—graphic, erotic dreams—and woke up to find himself aroused. On those mornings he couldn’t look anyone in the eye. He couldn’t even look himself in the eye.

And now this. His father, the drag queen, plastered across the internet.

Nico was looking for him, running around the house. ‘Daddy! Where are you? We have to go to swimming now.’

‘In a minute,’ Simon yelled back. ‘You get ready.’

‘I’ve got my things. I don’t wanna be late. The teacher tells us off if we’re late.’

The woman in the photos had changed since Simon saw her in the kitchen of Thurso Lane. She was much more convincing in her disguise. She had a different stance: one hand on the strap of her bag, the other delicately touching her own cheek as she listened intently to whatever the
Big Issue
seller was saying. There was no wig now. She wore her own dark hair like a woman’s. Her eyes seemed wider, her mouth fuller. She looked disturbingly feminine.

Jessica was convincing, too. Even after she admitted what she was, and lay sobbing in the rain, she seemed like a real girl. That was what was so creepy about these people.

‘Daddy, come on!’ Nico charged into the room, and Simon quickly closed the page. The first thing to do was to look after Mum. This was going to blow her apart. He must warn her before she heard it from someone else.

‘Shush a minute, I’m busy.’

‘I’ll be late,’ whined Nico. ‘I don’t wanna be late. I’ll be late, I don’t wanna . . .’

Jesus, I can’t hear myself think.
The phone at Smith’s Barn was engaged. No luck with Mum’s mobile, either. He began to write a text.

Nico tugged on his arm. ‘Pleeease! I don’t wanna be late . . .’

‘For Christ’s sake, shut up!’ snapped Simon. ‘Selfish little brat.’

Nico burst into noisy tears. Carmela must have heard the commotion, because she appeared in the doorway, holding Rosa on her hip.

‘What’s going on?’ she demanded. Nico ran to her, still wailing, and she bent to comfort him.

Simon looked up from his phone. ‘What’s going on is that someone’s managed to take photos of my father in drag, and the pictures have gone viral.’

‘No!’ Carmela blinked several times, processing the information. ‘So the secret’s out? Poor Eilish.’

‘Yep. The world is laughing at the Livingstone family right now, as we speak. I told Dad! I warned him—and now he’s done this to us.’

‘I’m sorry, Simon. We’ll talk about it later.’ Carmela looked at her watch. ‘But Nico’s going to be late for swimming if you don’t set out right now. It’s a good ten minutes’ walk.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It does,’ she said firmly. ‘Especially with all this stress. He needs normality.’

‘Fine.’ Simon stood up. ‘I’ll take him to his sodding swimming.’

Weird places, public swimming pools. There was something hellish about the smell of chlorine and the echoing water. Parents sat along the spectator benches, pretending to watch their children but actually gossiping and messing about with their phones. Perhaps they all knew. Perhaps they were looking at the pictures—yes, there were two fathers laughing at something on a screen. He couldn’t face them. He helped Nico to change and then quickly left, searching for a refuge.

There was a licensed cafe across the road; its lights beckoned through the gloom. He hid in a warm corner with a bottle of Heineken. And then another. And one more. From time to time he stole a horrified, fascinated glance at the pictures on his phone.

He was heading for the toilets when Carmela rang.

‘Where are you?’ she asked.

‘Nowhere.’

‘I’ve just had a call from the receptionist at the pool. I think you forgot our son.’