The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (23 page)

Since I left Smith’s Barn I have researched and taken advice. The process is complicated; I don’t know exactly how things will unfold. What I can promise is that from now on I will tell the truth.

I’ll soon start taking oestrogen and something to block the testosterone. If I can find the courage, I will eventually try to live as a woman. Not just any woman—one woman in particular. I’ve known her all my life, because she is me. Her name is Lucia.

Each of you will have to decide what this means to you. I fear what lies ahead, and I would welcome your company on the journey. My dream is that you will accept me as I am.

Even if you cannot walk with me, perhaps you could try to forgive me.

With my love always,

Lucia

Kate read the letter three times. Then she shut her eyes and did as he’d asked. She imagined looking into a mirror and seeing a grown man. She imagined being a spy behind enemy lines, in constant terror of discovery. And, just for a moment, she thought she understood.

Eilish was in the kitchen. Her face was set, as pale as the letter on the table in front of her. ‘That’s that, then,’ she said, taking off her reading glasses.

She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want a cup of tea. Kate followed her as she marched down to the garden shed. It doubled as Dad’s woodwork room, and smelled of timber and linseed oil. Eilish emerged with a pair of clippers and began to slice the heads off roses—all the roses, whether they needed pruning or not. Mostly not.

Eilish

‘He’s certifiably insane,’ yelled Simon, who’d jumped out of his car and was waving the letter at me. ‘He’s actually signed himself Lucia!’

I completely agreed with him. Kate had gone off to meet a friend in the Bracton Arms, leaving me to wreak havoc in the garden. My hurt throbbed and pulsed and threatened to explode. Perhaps I’d feel better if I screamed and hit things. The foulest words were forming in my mind: things I’d like to say to Luke, things calculated to hurt him back. Seeing it all written down—knowing he had sent the same message to all the family—was too much. He claimed to have fallen head over heels in love with a girl called Eilish French.
Love?
Love didn’t mean lying. Love didn’t mean hijacking another person’s life
just to make your own look conventional. Love didn’t mean making someone feel diminished and humiliated and used.

‘He says he wants hormone therapy,’ bellowed Simon now. ‘Well, I’ll help him with that! I’ve castrated four dogs today. I’ll be happy to oblige.’ He made a snip-snipping motion with his fingers. I did the same with my secateurs, decapitating another rose. Soft heads carpeted the ground around my feet. The destruction wasn’t as therapeutic as I’d hoped.

I wished Simon hadn’t driven straight out here in this towering rage. I had enough rage of my own. He looks ill, I thought. He’s too pinched, too shadowy around the eyes. And he smells of alcohol. He must be hard to live with—poor Carmela, poor little Nico. Luke’s selfishness is like a pebble thrown into a pond, causing ripples that spread and spread, ruining people’s lives. How did I ever love such a self-centred, vain creature?

‘You’ve got to have him sectioned,’ said Simon. ‘
You
have to do it. I can’t. You’re his wife.’

‘What, locked up?’

‘Locked up, yes, until they cure him. They’ll give him massive doses of testosterone, I expect. Something for psychosis. It has to be curable.’

I knew this idea was ridiculous. I was sure that Simon knew it too, in his heart. Still, the thought of Luke being cured was an attractive fantasy.

‘Male hormones,’ I said, edging out from between two prickly rosebushes. ‘Nice idea. I don’t think it’s as easy as that, though.’

I headed across the lawn towards the shed. It was another burning day. Simon fell into step. Even his walk was agitated. Sweat darkened his shirt between his shoulderblades. ‘Look, Mum, I’ve asked around and I’ve got a name for you. A really good solicitor. No connection to Bannermans.’

‘To advise me about the Mental Health Act?’

‘To advise you about divorce.’

I stopped in my tracks.
Divorce
.

‘There’s no rush,’ I said. ‘Plenty of time for that.’

‘No, there isn’t plenty of time. You need to get on with it, pronto! This woman I’ve found is meant to be a real terrier. She’s in Oxford. I think you should ask for an emergency injunction to protect the house, your savings and the pension. We’ve got to get the money tied up before he blows it on having himself turned inside out in some weird Asian hospital.’

‘He’s not a fiend, Simon.’

He began to speak with forced calmness. I found it patronising. ‘Mum, we have to face the facts. He’s not rational. He’s behaving like a kid in a sweetshop. Grab, grab, grab, not caring what damage he causes. How’s he paying for these hormones? Can he get them on the NHS?’

Thinking back, I remembered what Luke had said over lunch. ‘He mentioned a clinic . . . he wanted to talk about money. I expect he’s paying out of the joint account, or maybe with one of the credit cards. We’ve never divided our finances.’

Simon clutched at his head. ‘Oh my God! Call the bank. Tell them to freeze everything. You’ll end up on the streets, with your life savings in the pocket of some dodgy backstreet quack.’

Luke’s the enemy now, I thought as I logged into our internet banking in the airless study, and ran my eye down the transactions. He was my comrade. Now he’s a shadowy foe who’ll steal all our money if he gets the chance.

‘Found it?’ asked Simon.

‘Um . . . can’t see anything unusual coming out of the bank accounts. Hang on, let’s look at Visa. There’s a few internet purchases—what are they? And . . . yes. This is it. Two payments, each a hundred and fifty pounds . . . they’re to something called
Baytrees Clinic
.’

Simon was looking over my shoulder. ‘It’s just the beginning. The cost of this will be astronomical. Hormones won’t be cheap, and when it comes to surgery, the sky’s the limit. You might lose this house.’

‘He couldn’t take out a mortgage on Smith’s Barn without my knowing,’ I said, trying to convince myself. ‘We own it jointly.’

‘Mum, open your eyes! You’ve got to start fighting back.’

Luke’s letter was still lying on the kitchen table. He’d added a handwritten line:

Eilish, I know my lie was unforgivable. But I want you to know that you have saved me, year after year. I wasn’t lying when I said I love you. Thank you.

You asked too much
, I thought.
You took too much. You have broken me.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s call that solicitor.’

Twenty-five

Kate

Mathis was driving. He seemed to have no sense of danger at all, and Kate had her hands over her eyes for much of the journey. There was thunder in the air. She was sticking to her seat.

‘Turn left here,’ she ordered. ‘Then at the end of the—Christ’s sake, mind that bike!’

Mathis braked sharply, and they all slewed forward. Kate felt lucky to be alive as she staggered onto the pavement outside what used to be her home. Behind her, Mathis reversed the car into a tiny space intended for motorbikes.

John had got out too, and took her arm. ‘Wait till he’s parked. We need a surgical strike.’

‘This isn’t an SAS raid,’ she protested. ‘Owen isn’t an evil genius. He’s a common or garden wazzock.’

‘Kate, we watched you being a nanny to that boy for two years. He’s more controlling than any psychopath, and we’re not taking risks. We’re going to grab your things and get you out of here.’

‘I’m the getaway driver,’ added Mathis, coming around the car. He did something in radio, and had the kind of wistful beauty that made schoolgirls giggle. John was a cherubic accountant, born with a receding hairline. He finally came out of the closet as a student, when he fell in love with Mathis. They were the only
people she’d told about her father. There was nobody else she could trust not to laugh.

‘See us as your bodyguards,’ said John, ‘wearing shades and earpieces.’

They had reached the front door, and were squeezed between dustbins and an overgrown hedge, limp and dusty after weeks without rain. Kate was about to press the bell when the door opened. The last scales fell clattering from her eyes. Owen looked peaky and petulant, and he was wearing an orange T-shirt she’d always loathed.

‘Ah,’ he said sarcastically. ‘What an honour. I was going to dump your stuff at Oxfam.’

‘Hilarious.’

‘Hello, Mathis, hello, John. Did she tell you she vandalised my best shirt?’

He turned his back and walked down the hall towards a pile of boxes, bin bags and a stereo system. Mathis and John swooped on them and began carrying armfuls out to the car. Kate was following suit when a small, barking object burst out of the bedroom, ricocheted around the confined space and knocked Owen’s bicycle right over.

‘Baffy’s missed you,’ said Owen, turning back. He was smiling.

She picked up the little dog, nuzzling his fluffy head while Owen gave her a blow-by-blow account of the night Baffy ate chicken bones and had to be rushed to the vet. She followed him into the kitchen so that she could write down a forwarding address. Before she knew it, they were both sitting at the table. Owen’s hair was sticking up and his socks were half off his feet. He looked defenceless. He needed somebody to care for him.

‘How are your parents?’ he asked.

‘Fine.’

‘Say goodbye and thanks from me. I’ll really miss those weekends at Smith’s Barn.’

The words rushed out of her. ‘They’ve split up,’ she said. ‘He’s moved out. She’s seeing a solicitor today.’

He looked genuinely shaken. ‘You’re joking! Those two?’

She shrugged, clamping her lips together in case they quivered.

‘Got time for coffee?’ asked Owen, putting on the kettle. ‘Hell. That was one marriage I didn’t expect . . . You must be gutted.’

John came bustling in. ‘Grab a box, Kate,’ he said. ‘No time.

We still have to get to Mile End. Your dad’s expecting us.’

Five minutes later, the car was packed. Owen came outside in his socks, holding Baffy.

‘Thanks for packing up for me,’ said Kate.

‘It wasn’t my pleasure.’

Mathis was a terrible getaway driver; it took an age for him to manoeuvre the car out of its space while Owen and Baffy watched, both of them looking hangdog.

‘Lucky we came along,’ declared John, as they finally escaped. ‘That guy is devious. Did you see his socks? And his hair? It must have taken hours to get the neglected orphan effect.’

Kate felt weighed down. After all, that awkward little scene—these bin bags—were the end of something that had once been lovely. She was dreading the next hour, too. What if Dad was cross-dressed? She wasn’t sure she could handle that.

Luke appeared on the pavement as they drove up. He was in his shirtsleeves, with a loosened tie, and Kate felt a great rush of relief. Leaping out of the car, she ran to hug him. Then she stopped. His lower lip was swollen and bruised.

‘What the frig’s happened to you?’

‘Slipped on the steps. Clumsy old sod.’ His speech wasn’t as clear as usual.

‘Which steps? These ones? When?’

‘Last week. No harm done. Evening, lads,’ he said, turning to John and Mathis. ‘It’s very good of you to lend your car and your muscle to Operation Rescue Kate from Owen.’

It was an efficient unloading process, accompanied by rolls of thunder and a sullen sky. The flat had only one bedroom but they managed to fit everything behind the sofa. As they worked, Kate kept glancing at Luke. He looked like her dad, he talked like her
dad, he behaved towards her friends with his usual self-effacing charm. The odd thing was, though, that thinking of him as female wasn’t quite as impossible as it used to be. There was something about him; some kind of ambiguity. Perhaps—she struggled to admit this to herself—there always had been.

‘He’s happy,’ whispered Mathis, when Luke was out of earshot.

‘You think so?’ Kate made a face. ‘He must be lonely.’

‘I’m sure he grieves for your mother, I’m sure he has guilt, but . . . no, his spirit is happy. Can’t you feel it? There’s a lightness about him. He has less weight pressing down on his shoulders.’

The last box had been carried in from the car when Kate noticed a spot of rain darken the pavement. As she looked at it, another arrived. Then another. Within a few seconds they were standing in a downpour. Mathis whooped and held out his hands to catch the drops. Passers-by were running, yelling cheerfully, holding newspapers over their heads. London was weary of drought.

‘Hurray!’ cried Luke. ‘Come in and have a drink to celebrate . . . In fact, can you stay for supper? Yes? Great! We have a choice of takeaway places.’

For a time they stood at the open garden door, watching the deluge. The lawn was so parched that water formed pools, unable to sink in. A flash of lightning lit up the fig tree; they counted the seconds to the next drum roll. Luke went away and came back with a bottle of wine, and invited them to take an armchair each. Soon he and the young men were deep in conversation.

Kate couldn’t stop looking at her dad. He’d taken off his tie, and undone the top button of his shirt. The swollen lip frightened her. It made him seem too vulnerable.

‘Did someone hit you, Dad?’ she asked suddenly.

‘I’m just a no-good street brawler, you know me. Always picking fights.’

John leaned closer. ‘Actually, Luke, in this light I can see a bit of bruising . . . just here.’ He pressed his own Adam’s apple.

‘Where?’ Kate looked too, and saw mottled smudges. A horrible suspicion came to her. ‘Oh my God. Did you do that to yourself? Did you try to . . . Dad, did you try to hang yourself?’

‘No, no!’ Luke was hurriedly buttoning his shirt. ‘Don’t worry, Kate. I
promise
you this isn’t self-inflicted. I just had a misunderstanding with someone, and we got into a bit of a scuffle.’

‘You’ve never been in a scuffle in your life.’

‘Well, I have now. Forget it.’

Kate couldn’t forget it. Who would attack her lovely dad and do all this damage? She imagined a gang of thugs setting on him in some darkened street. Maybe they’d seen him cross-dressed?