The New Woman (33 page)

Even in broad daylight, the girl from the club was a work of art. Jessica Stent was her name: a real live person, not a lager-induced mirage. He kept his hands to himself now that they were both sober. They sat by the river, talking all afternoon, sometimes kissing. They cared about the same things. Jessica was one of two siblings, like him, and she also had a father who was a lawyer. She liked Simon. She really liked him. Someone as wonderful as her liked geeky, awkward Simon Livingstone.

He didn’t tell his friends; he knew how they talked about women. At night he imagined tearing her clothes off; but by day, when she firmly removed his hands from her bottom, he respected her for it. This wasn’t just about sex. She was special. He caught himself daydreaming about her all the time. He thought he was falling in love with her.

They were walking through the botanical gardens when he told her so. It was raining, and he’d lent her his jacket. She stopped in her tracks, grasping his hands.

‘You mean it?’ she whispered.

‘Of course.’

‘Yes, but you really mean it?’

Simon sank down onto one knee. ‘Allow me to express my undying adoration.’

‘Thank you! Oh my God, I never thought this would happen to me. But you’ll change your mind when you know me better.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

She laughed, shook her head, laughed again—and promptly burst into tears. He put his arms around her, feeling baffled. Weren’t girls meant to be pleased when you said you loved them?

‘You’ll hate me,’ she sobbed. ‘You will.’

When he got home, Quinn—one of his housemates—was eating noodles out of a bowl. The two students punched their knuckles together in greeting.

‘Been in the library, Livingstone?’ asked Quinn.

‘Nope.’

‘Why are you grinning like a blithering idiot?’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are!’ Quinn paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Did you just get laid?’

‘Is that all you think about?’ Simon was opening a tin of baked beans. Nobody in the house ever did any washing up. Plates and other crockery lay in piles over every surface. New life forms had grown in the fridge, and the pantry was home to the fattest, sleekest colony of mice in the world.

Quinn finished his noodles and dumped his bowl in the overflowing sink. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, wiping his mouth. ‘You can tell Uncle Quinn.’

‘Okay. It’s the girl from Moroney’s.’

Quinn stared. Then he chuckled uncertainly, as though hoping Simon had just made a joke.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Why would I be kidding?’

‘Seriously, Livingstone. You’re banging that blonde we saw you hooking up with in Moroney’s?’

‘I’m not banging her. I’m just . . . seeing her.’

‘Whew.’ Quinn wiped his brow. ‘Lucky.’

Simon was annoyed. ‘What the hell are you on about? She’s a stunner.’

‘The chambermaid from the White Hart? Legs up to her armpits? Mate . . .’ Quinn had begun to smirk. He seemed embarrassed, but at the same time he was obviously enjoying himself. ‘Look, you’ve got to know. Um, how do I put this? She’s not a
she
. She’s a
he
.’

‘You’ve got the wrong girl.’

Quinn was trying to hold in the laughter, but it escaped in a great gush of sound. ‘He’s a tranny!’ he gasped, as he sobbed with mirth. ‘He’s packing all the tackle you’ve got, and more. Fergus was chasing him a while back. The DJ warned him off. Sorry, mate, we should have told you. We thought you’d grope him and get the fright of your life . . . but you came home and never said anything, and I haven’t seen you since.’

Simon remembered Jessica gripping his hands, tears on her cheeks. ‘You’re having me on.’

‘Mate, that’s a tranny. Ask the DJ at Moroney’s, his sister works at the White Hart. That leggy blonde was seen taking a shower. He’s got tits! He’s saving up for the op, going to have it in Thailand.’

Without another word, Simon retreated to his bedroom. He sat on the floor, feeling sick. Soon he heard his other housemates coming home. At first there was suppressed laughter, and then gales of it. They weren’t good at keeping their voices down, and what he heard made him hate them all.
Snogged a lady boy!
. . .
Is he a shirt lifter?
. . .
Poor old Livingstone, didn’t know he was that desperate!

He wanted to kill somebody. When he opened his bedroom door, someone said, ‘Hi, Simon,’ as though nothing had happened. Then they all exploded. They slapped him on the back—in a friendly, patronising way—and asked him how it was, and were her tits real, or silicone?

He smiled weakly and accepted the cans of warm lager they offered him. He drank quite a few of them. Later, when the others were watching
Doctor Who
, he quietly left the flat. His blood was racing by the time he got to the White Hart. His mind was on fire. He’d got down on one knee . . . he’d said the word
love
! Hell, he–she would be laughing at him now. Simon would make him–her stop laughing.

It was dark behind the hotel. Very dark. Not quiet, though, because people were coming home from the pubs. Beer bottles lay discarded beside the recycling bin. He picked one up by the neck, and smashed its base against a wall. Then he sent a text.

Come out. I’m round the back, by the bins. I’ve got something for you.

They decorated the tree together, singing along to Christmas carols on the stereo. The fairy lights didn’t work, and Simon had to nip out and buy some more, but that was all part of Christmas. Even Rosa seemed interested, until she began to whimper, and then wail.

Nico gently touched her face. ‘She’s hungry,’ he said. ‘You’d better stick her up your jumper, Mummy.’

‘There are already some presents to go under the tree,’ Carmela told Simon as she swung the baby off her back. ‘In the cupboard where I keep my shoes. Could you get them?’

Simon looked through the pile of presents, leaving aside the four with his father’s handwriting on them. He’d give those ones away. He put the rest into a pillow case, slung it over one shoulder and carried it downstairs, making Father Christmas ho-ho-ho noises.

‘You’re not fat or jolly enough to be Santa,’ said Carmela. ‘And if you ever grow a white bushy beard, or prance about with a pack of elves, I shall divorce you.’

Nico had parked himself on a stool, watching his mother feed the baby. He’d got used to the sight and didn’t seem at all jealous.
Later that evening, Rosa would be grumpy, and her parents would carry her up and down, up and down; but right now she was tucking in with happy murmurs.

When Simon emptied his sack under the tree, Nico scrambled off the stool. ‘Will the proper Santa be coming?’ he asked, looking at the treasure.

‘Mm. Down the chimney.’ Simon felt guilty about lying to his son. He considered himself an honest man, and yet here he was, spinning a right old whopper. Next year, he thought, I’ll tell him the truth. Or maybe the year after that.

‘Does the sleigh come down the chimney, too?’

‘The sleigh . . .’ God, what lie was he supposed to tell now? ‘Um, I think it stays on the roof. But, hey, we’re going to ask Granny and Kate to come on Christmas Day, and see our tree.’

‘Will Grandpa be coming?’

Simon’s smile froze.

‘Well?’ asked Carmela, her eyebrows raised in sarcastic inquiry. ‘I think you’d better answer the question. Will Grandpa be coming?’

Nico was standing beside the Christmas tree, fiddling with the front of his T-shirt. His excitement had been popped, like a pin in a balloon. Simon remembered how it felt to be small and anxious. He sat down and drew Nico close.

‘Shush,’ he said. ‘Let’s not worry about that now.’

‘He will be coming, won’t he?’ Nico’s voice was high, and he twisted the front of his T-shirt in both hands.

How could Dad do this to us? How could he be so selfish?

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Grandpa can’t come anymore.’

Thirty-four

Lucia

I got dressed, looked in the mirror, and knew I had to do better. I had higher standards now. Genetic women have had all their lives to learn how to be women; even the ones who wear jeans and trainers. They’re socialised as women. They
are
women. When Kate was younger she had a stack of teen magazines, full of make-up and fashion and hair. She pretended to despise them, but she still bought them. She can do femininity when she wants to.

I’d tried to give myself a crash course, but the internet was no longer enough. The wig was too young for my face—I saw that now. My make-up was clumsy, my clothes were dated, my posture wasn’t quite right. I gave myself away with a thousand tiny signals.

I needed help.

When I phoned her at home, Judi sounded as though Christmas had come early.

‘You want me to do a Trinny and Susannah on your wardrobe?’ I could imagine her rubbing her hands. ‘How about tomorrow morning? I’ll come around to your place.’

When Judi says she’s going to do something, she delivers. She arrived bang on time, clutching two suitcases full of her cast-offs,
which, she said, dated from skinnier days. Some of the clothes looked brand new.

‘Off you go,’ she said briskly, holding out a swirling skirt and a blouse. ‘Let’s see these on you. I bought them in a sale and it was a big mistake, but I think they’ll suit your colouring.’

‘You want me to try these on?
Now?
’

‘I’ll wait here while you change in your room. Don’t forget your shoes and falsies, will you? Never try on clothes with the wrong shoes or underwear. That’s the first rule of shopping.’

‘How d’you know I even own falsies?’ I asked, feeling myself blush.

‘Lucky guess. It’s nothing new. Flat-chested women have been wearing padded bras forever, and I know more than one who owns a pair of bottom-enhancing knickers. Why not? Been going on ever since Henry VIII padded out his codpiece.’

I changed slowly, mortified at the idea of parading around cross-dressed in front of a colleague. I had to steel myself to walk back into the kitchen, but Judi was supremely relaxed. ‘Give us a twirl,’ she said, and I did. By the time we’d got to the third outfit, I was having fun. There were dresses, skirts, smocks and voluminous blouses; a sumptuous, impossibly soft pashmina and a floaty cardigan. Of course they didn’t fit perfectly. Many were too roomy, especially across the bust; some were too tight in the shoulders or the waist. Judi made them work—a belt here, or a scarf, or a button moved across; she’d brought a needle and thread for the purpose.

Leggings were a revelation to me. ‘They’re marvellous,’ I said, as Judi showed me how to layer them with dresses or smocks. ‘Neither Eilish nor Kate owns a pair, I’m pretty sure.’

‘Eilish is too classy. Kate would probably rather be seen dead. I love ’em, though. They’re forgiving to those of us whose waists aren’t exactly hourglass.’

We took a break for coffee while she looked through my existing wardrobe with a critical eye. I felt intensely self-conscious, as though she were reading my diary. I’d begun hiding clothes the
day I locked a stolen petticoat into my tuckbox in the attic. I had never shown anybody before.

‘Hmm, quite old-fashioned,’ said Judi, holding up a blue dress. ‘The colour’s not right for your skin, it’ll be ageing. I think the whole effect is a bit . . . granny. You’re not old, Livingstone, you’re in your prime! Rock it! And what’s this? Oh my God, no . . . Where in the name of Hades did you get this monstrosity?’ She was staring in horror, as though it might bite her, at a frilly pink blouse.

‘That? Oxfam.’

‘What were you
thinking
of?’

‘I liked the colour,’ I admitted sheepishly. ‘What’s wrong with it? A bit too lurid?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with it—except the cut, the colour and the fabric. It has to go, unless you plan on standing on street corners?’

Next, she pulled a chair in front of the mirror and suggested a make-up lesson. Eilish wore very little; she had a natural kind of beauty. Kate neither needed nor wanted warpaint. Judi, on the other hand, was the sort of woman who never left the house without lipstick. The golden rules, she said, were subtlety and contouring. She showed me how to apply foundation while avoiding the mud-pie effect, and blusher without it making me look like a Russian doll. She warned me off red lipstick. ‘You need less flashy colours,’ she said, producing one from her handbag.

As she messed about, we discussed the ‘rollout of Lucia Livingstone’, which was what Judi called my transition at work. She treated it like any other office project, including the major software overhaul we’d endured the previous year.

‘You’ll have to let the management team know well in advance,’ she said. ‘Give them a date when you’re going to be fetching up as a babe.’

‘I don’t want to do it.’

‘They can’t kick you out. Look down . . . look up . . . See how I’m just brushing that onto your upper lashes? Keep still, if you don’t want to be a panda.’

‘Come on, Judi. There are ways and means of levering me out. We both know that.’

‘What date do you have in mind? How about January? New year, new woman.’