The New Woman (39 page)

‘Wait . . . wait.’ I was spluttering. ‘Think about it, Judi! This is it. This is no going back; goodbye, Luke.’

‘I thought you’d already made that decision.’

‘Yes, but . . . I’ll have to walk in here with a new name, new clothes, a new gender. You won’t be able to move for people laughing. Clients will take their work elsewhere. I’ll bring Bannermans into disrepute.’

Judi had rested her chin on the back of her hand, and was nodding as though I were giving her a shopping list. ‘Yep . . . yep . . . yep. All of that.’

‘I’m seriously thinking about early retirement. I could move away, somewhere nobody knows me, then quietly transition. That’d be easier for Eilish. Much less public.’

Judi let me finish, and then she tapped the desk. ‘Listen. Are you listening? This is a really, really big thing for you. I know that. But it isn’t a really big thing for this firm. There are over five hundred people in our London office alone, and every one of them has their hang-ups. Over the past ten years I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go. We’ve had partners caught having sex
in the lift. We’ve had someone become a reality TV star. We’ve had someone arrested for shoplifting. We’ve had three people die, in various ways. Those are just the things I can remember off the top of my head. The thing is, Livingstone—and I mean this nicely—you aren’t such a big deal. There will be tranny jokes for a few weeks, but after that you’ll be old news. You’ll just be Lucia, who’s as competent and decent as Luke ever was. Only better dressed.’

‘I think you underestimate how disturbing this is for people.’

‘I think you underestimate their tolerance.’

I still got a kick out of my job; at the moment, it was all I had. I needed the income, too. Divorce is very expensive and I hadn’t planned for it. I couldn’t afford to retire.

‘You win,’ I said. ‘July it is.’

Judi couldn’t suppress a victorious chuckle. I watched the words appear, flowing from her pen and onto the page of my diary. Magical, dangerous, exhilarating words. I had dreamed of them. I never thought to see them.

Lucia’s birthday.

I began to have doubts as soon as Judi left my office. They started as a niggle, but by the end of the afternoon I was in a cold sweat. It was almost March now . . . how could I be ready by July? I was staring at the words she’d written in my diary when my desk phone rang. It was Izzy, at reception.

‘I’ve got Penelope O’Neil on the line for you,’ she said.

I was pleased, if a little surprised. Penny O’Neil, headmistress of St Matthew’s school. We got on well. I liked her earthy sense of humour and straight talking.

‘Penny!’ I cried expansively, when she’d been put through. ‘What a pleasure.’

There was no warmth in her voice. ‘I think it won’t be a pleasure,’ she said. ‘Luke, we’ve got a problem.’

Forty

Eilish

‘You need to get rid of all this,’ said Stella, emerging from the downstairs cloakroom with an armful of Luke’s jackets and coats.

‘I will,’ I promised, taking them from her. ‘I’ll send them on to him. I just haven’t got around to it yet.’

‘Darling, it doesn’t get easier! I should know. Why don’t you let me sort everything out? He’s not going to come home and wear them.’

She was helping me with the spring issue of the parish newsletter. I’d first offered to edit the publication a decade ago, and still hadn’t found another mug to take it on. Luke thought this hilarious; he reckoned I did it in a desperate attempt to put credit in the heavenly account. The newsletter came out once a month, but in early March we pushed our bumper issue through every letterbox in the parish.

It had been a heart-lifting day, tinged with the first softness of spring. I’d picked a bunch of daffodils and they were in a vase on the kitchen table. I was writing the editor’s letter while Stella organised the layout—she’s a whizz at that kind of thing. The sun went down as we worked, Turkish-delight colours flaming through the copse.

‘You should announce it in here,’ Stella said, as she typed and clicked.

‘What?’

‘Luke. In your editor’s letter.
It’s been a busy and exciting year for East Yalton and Cottingwith parish. We have a dishy new vicar, the Reverend . . .
’ Stella’s brow furrowed. ‘Damn. Can’t remember the Rev’s name.’

‘Somebody Vallance.’

‘That’s it.
Somebody Vallance, who looks about eighteen and is adored by all the flower-pot hats. St Matthew’s Church of England Primary School is proud to announce that they have a new IT suite, at vast expense, and also that its chair of governors is to be known henceforward as Miss Lucia Livingstone.
’

‘There’d be fireworks,’ I said. ‘Luke’s been such a pillar of the community, and for so long.’

‘Mm. And the higher your pedestal, the more satisfying a crash you make when you fall. I discovered that after Steve got arrested.’

Once we were on the home straight, we opened the bottle of wine Stella had brought with her. I was just beginning to think about supper—I had a stew in the crockpot—when I noticed her peering out of the window.

‘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?’