The New Woman (21 page)

‘Hi,’ whispered Lucia, horribly self-conscious. ‘Um, conditioner.’

The gym bunnies burst into gales of laughter at some remark one had made. They were still mid-giggle when the child spoke again.

‘Are you a man, or a lady?’

That was when her mother looked around. Her gaze whisked over Lucia. Her eyebrows went up. Her smile switched off.

‘Tammy,’ she said. ‘Come back here.’

Tammy didn’t move.

‘Tammy!’ The woman marched across, grabbed her daughter by the hand and tugged her away. ‘Leave the gentleman alone.’

Lucia’s illusion of herself was shattered. She was a freak, and the whole school was laughing at her. The whole world. She fled into the next aisle but there were people there too. She felt hundreds of pairs of eyes, thousands, all sneering at her ungainly body, all thinking
Monster, monster.
Every instinct urged her to bolt out of the shop.

Stand your ground, Lucia. Did you think this would be easy?

I need to get away, she thought. Let me run.

If you fail to live as a woman, you will fail to live at all.

She took several breaths and then forced herself to turn back. Her trolley was still where she’d left it, and the lycra women had gone. She steered towards the self-service machines. One of them had broken down. The others were busy. A queue was building up behind her.
Come on, come on, before Tammy and her mother arrive.
An assistant opened another till, unclipping the chain. He was a young man, probably not long out of school. A livid birthmark covered half his face—
Poor lad
,
I hope people don’t bully him
—and he had a ring through his upper lip. Why did young people do that? Lucia fervently hoped Kate would stop at her nose piercing. She tried not to catch his eye, but there was no hope of ignoring him when he beckoned her over.

At first it was all right. He didn’t even look up as he put everything into the bags she’d brought with her. When he came to the end he said, ‘Forty-two twenty, please.’

She handed him fifty pounds in notes. He cast her a casual glance and instantly knew what she was. His eyes lingered far too long on her face. He was going to smirk, or say something vile. It seemed as though the entire shop had fallen silent. She shrank away.

‘D’you have a loyalty card?’ he asked.

Confused, she shook her head.

‘Would you like one? I can set it up for you in just a few seconds.’

She shook her head again. She couldn’t speak. Her voice was a dead giveaway, and others would hear.

‘Okay.’ He counted out the change. ‘Five and two . . . Seven pounds eighty.’

She was ramming the change into her handbag, scrabbling to pick up the carrier bags. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘You’re welcome, ma’am,’ said the young man. The words were uttered without irony; without cruelty. It was a simple act of politeness, and it changed everything.

The next moment she was out, hurrying down the high street under a white-hot sun with shopping dangling from each hand. Success! She was officially a member of the consumer society—she’d even been offered a loyalty card. All she had to do now was get herself home. Someone had dropped their leftover sandwiches by the bus stop, and the ground was covered in pecking pigeons. They flew up as she rushed through them. Soon she was passing the tube station, smiling a hello to Mr Che Guevara when he waved. She searched in her handbag to find her door keys, then held them ready. They made her feel less vulnerable. One more row of houses . . . a sharp left into Thurso Lane. Ten metres, nine, eight . . . She was hurrying down the steps, her heels making quick, playful taps on the stone. Her key was in the lock. She was inside, dropping her bags on the kitchen table.
Whew
. Safe.

The flat seemed blessedly cool. She slid her linen jacket off her shoulders and shook it out. It was a truly lovely thing, a
classic shape in a crushed-mulberry colour. Even better, it was cut for someone with broad shoulders and fitted easily over the loose crepe dress she was wearing. Here, in her sanctuary, she could be the Lucia she imagined; the real Lucia—not the hybrid clown that Tammy’s mother despised. She hung the jacket on the back of a kitchen chair before filling the kettle, revelling in the swing of her skirt as she moved. She’d sit at the table now, with her tea, and get on with some more work.

She refused to be depressed by the reaction of Tammy’s mother. The supermarket trip had been a milestone, and the assistant had proved that not everybody hated her on sight. Tomorrow she might even tackle the tube. Lucia wasn’t used to feeling such hope. It intoxicated her.

She hummed as she made herself tea. The kettle was hissing loudly. She wasn’t on her guard; not at all. Out on the street she was always ready for attack, but not here. She might be lonely in her spartan cave, but at least she was safe.

Until the kitchen door opened.

Simon

The woman looked all wrong. She had his father’s face. She had his father’s height, his shoulders, the crease on his brow, the aquiline nose. Yet she had a bust, and curving hips. She had waves of brown hair. Earrings. Bold, bright lipstick. She wore shoes with heels, and tights. The components of what he was seeing spun through his mind, but they could not fall into place because the whole was so very, very wrong.

And then she spoke.

‘Simon,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you.’

Dad’s voice, coming from the mouth of that monster, set off a flare in Simon’s chest. His rage took control—dancing forward in a blast of energy, smashing his fist into the painted mouth. The face jerked backwards, and Simon felt the jar of impact with a jubilation that frightened him. He heard the creature shouting
something, but he didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop. He wanted to choke it out of existence. He made a grab for the neck—Jesus, there was even a necklace.

‘I warned you,’ he yelled. ‘I fucking warned you!’ He squeezed his hands together, feeling their power, feeling the neck begin to give. The curly wig was coming off. It slid sideways, revealing Luke’s own dark hair. Simon saw his father’s face, with gold earrings and crimson lipstick, smudged now and mingling with blood from the blow to his mouth. He was staring at Simon; not struggling, just staring in horror.
What am I doing?
For a moment, Simon froze, and his foot slipped on the lino floor. At the same time Luke drove his own fist up, hard. It was undeniably a man’s fist, and that of a man who was fighting for his life. The blow caught Simon squarely in the solar plexus. He doubled up as the breath was forced out of his lungs. His vision blurred.

For at least a minute, there was no sound in the flat but the two of them coughing and gasping for air. Luke seemed to recover first. He dragged himself over to the sink, poured a glass of water and drank half of it straight down.

‘You all right?’ he wheezed. His lip was dripping blood, and there was blotchy redness around his neck.

Simon felt bile in his own throat. He’d damn near killed his own father. He’d
wanted
to kill him. ‘I’m leaving,’ he muttered.

‘No! Don’t go.’

‘You’re finished.’ Simon waved his hand at the creature in the dress. ‘Look at yourself!’

‘Don’t go. Don’t go. I’m sorry you saw . . . I’ll get changed.’ Luke limped across to the door. ‘I’ll only be a minute. Look, it’s all right. Just . . . please don’t go.’

Simon slumped against the wall. He desperately wanted his father back. He wanted him to return in two minutes transformed into his old self, in a sober sweater and polished lace-up shoes. He would be calm, cultured Luke Livingstone. Simon longed to see that man again. He loved and admired that man.

A cupboard door creaked from somewhere in the flat. Simon thought of the colourful clothes scattered joyously, obscenely, across the floor. Christ, Dad must have been trying them on! He’d been outside, walking the streets in a dress. What the hell was he doing right now, in that room full of women’s things? Wiping off the lipstick, presumably. Unclipping the earrings before brushing out his wig. There was no calm, cultured Luke Livingstone. There was no father. There never had been. The whole loving-father thing was a lie.

When the door smashed shut behind him, it seemed to shake the sky.

Luke

I pulled on lace-up shoes, fumbling in my hurry. My throat and mouth ached and my heart was still thumping in panic, but that didn’t matter now. I had to be quick. There was so much that I wanted to say to Simon. This was my one chance. Perhaps now, in the aftermath of violence, we would listen to one another. If not—if I failed—I was sure he’d never visit me again. I needed to look as male as possible, as fast as possible.

I was reaching for a shirt when I heard the street door slam. I froze, turning my head towards the window. Footsteps ran along the pavement outside. They were blows: fast and heavy and final. I groaned in disappointment, sinking onto the bed. My lip was throbbing. My mind was throbbing.

Cocked that one up
, chuckled The Thought.
Can’t go back, can’t go forward. Might as well throw in the towel. Do your family a favour. Do yourself a favour. You’re a zero.

Simon, six years old, was standing on a chair so as to reach the bench. We’d taken our men’s working tea out to the carpentry shed with us, and were making a model biplane. It was almost finished. Simon’s task was to glue the struts. He approached this as he did everything, even at that age: with anxious solemnity. The evening sun slanted through the cobwebs in the windows,
turning dust motes into a swirling cloud of fireflies. Kate was newborn, colicky and screaming; poor Simon had melted down after the fiftieth visitor asked if he was proud to have such a beautiful baby sister. I’d done the same—privately—because I longed to nurse her. He and I had come out here for some baby-free time together.

When he finished his gluing, I tidied it up a bit for him. He was weary by now. As I worked, I felt his head resting against my arm. I could smell his apple shampoo. Gradually, his whole body sagged against me.

‘It’s coming along very well,’ I said, tousling the apple-clean hair.

‘Mm. Yes.’ He eyed our creation, yawning. ‘It’s a terrifical plane.’

‘D’you want to go inside now? I’ll read to you. Nearly bedtime.’

‘Nah.’ A little shake of the head. ‘Let’s stay here. I love woodworking with you, Dad.’

‘Just you and me, eh? The desperate duo.’

‘One day you and me and Mummy will make a great big plane, and go flying all around the world, and see lions and tigers.’

‘Let’s do that,’ I said.

‘But we won’t let them eat us, will we?’

Still leaning on me, he picked up the plane and flew it across an imaginary sky. His hand looked small and soft as he gripped the fuselage. Warmth surged from my head to my chest. I must keep my boy safe from the world and its horrors. I vowed to protect him forever.

‘No,’ I said. ‘We definitely won’t let them eat us.’

The last brilliance of the day. Dust motes danced in my basement bedroom, as they once had in the shed.
Stupid vow
, I thought as I lay curled on the lonely bed, in the lonely flat. Just another promise I couldn’t keep. My lip was torn, my neck bruised by those same enchanting little hands. What a bloody awful mess I’d made.

Something nudged my outstretched arm. It was the crepe dress; Lucia’s dress, that felt so weightless and flowing when she wore it. I draped it over myself so that it hung down on either side of me, as though Lucia were embracing me. It gave me comfort. And if I wept, that’s my business.

Twenty-three

Simon

Three pints down. Linseed oil and timber resin. Just him and Dad, weaving magic in their dragon’s lair. Making that toy plane stood out as one of Simon’s earliest, happiest memories. Dad’s arm was just the right height for leaning your head on.

Did you have lipstick in your pocket, Dad? Were you wearing lace knickers?

As the years passed they made go-karts, picnic tables, a music box, and, only last spring, a gate for Simon’s house in London. As they worked, they talked. Simon used to treasure those times with his father.

After his fourth pint, Carmela phoned, more irritated than worried. ‘Are you coming home?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘You said that two hours ago. Where are you? I know it’s a pub.’

‘By the tube station. Look.’ His tongue wasn’t working properly. ‘I’m sorry, I got talking to some people. I’ll be home soon.’

‘What really happened in the flat?’

‘As I told you: Dad came home. He was cross-dressed. I left.’

A long, suspicious silence. ‘And that’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

Five pints down, and his thought process had begun to splinter. He was far too tired for heavy drinking. Images spun and merged and contorted. It was like living in a kaleidoscope. Aching knuckles. A human face. Blood. He wasn’t used to punching anyone, let alone his own father. He winced at the memory of impact.
Crack.
He felt overwhelmed by . . .
no, no
. He bloody well didn’t feel guilty. That wasn’t Dad back there. That was more like a demonic possession. Tights
. Jesus.
Wig, dress, heels.

I could have killed him. What if his larynx is damaged? Shit, he’s by himself.

Once the thought had occurred to him, he had to check. He knew how dangerous strangulation could be. He called Luke’s number and while it rang he got to his feet, pulling the keys to the flat from his pocket.
He might have collapsed. I’ll have to go back.

Then Luke answered; his voice was friendly and quiet as always.

‘Hello, Simon? . . . Simon?’

Not mortally injured, then. Simon switched off his phone.

Someone was talking to him. The woman from behind the bar, collecting glasses from tables. She was bird-thin.

‘All right there?’ she asked again.

‘Fine.’ Simon tried to look fine, wiping his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. He hadn’t noticed the tears. ‘Thanks.’