The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (26 page)

‘Sure about that?’

I really shouldn’t share intimate secrets with Judi, or with anyone in the firm. Not yet; not until I’d told the management team. So I began to lie, as I always had. It felt awful, as though I were lifting my burden again.

I stopped in mid-sentence. I was finished with lying. I put the heavy burden down.

‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘There is something I should tell you.’

‘This may disappoint you,’ said Judi, as we sat in her favourite French cafe, ‘but I’m not surprised.’

‘You’re not?’

To my astonishment she was looking faintly smug, rather than shocked. ‘Completes the jigsaw. You know how there’s always one piece missing, down the back of the sofa or in the Hoover bag? Drives you nuts. Well, I’ve just found it. I knew you weren’t gay. I knew you weren’t having an affair, because I’ve seen that many a time and I know the signs. But I was bloody sure you were hiding something fundamental about yourself. And I was right.’

‘You don’t think I’m mad?’

She snorted. ‘Heck, no. Why would I think it’s mad to want to be a woman? It’s great, being a woman. Look at me! I love it. Mad
not
to want to be a woman. The more the merrier, so far as I’m concerned. Are you taking hormones?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, I am. HRT. I can tell you all about it.’ She cut her
pain au chocolat
in two, and handed me half. It was a casual gesture of friendship, or even—was I imagining this?—of sisterhood. My relationship with Judi had shifted subtly in the past half-hour. She’d relaxed some kind of guard in herself. She liked me as I was. I liked that.

She took a bite of her half, and tapped the table in front of her. ‘So what’s the plan, Luke?’

‘I’m playing this by ear. It’s new territory.’

Her eyes narrowed as she chewed. Judi’s a problem solver. She weighs up possibilities and finds solutions, and that was precisely what she was doing now. ‘No good,’ she said briskly. ‘If you’re going to become a woman you must have your ducks in a row. We’ll have to coordinate the rollout of the new you—and we need a time frame. How long do you need?’

‘Whoa! Hang on!’ I cringed at the idea of coming out to colleagues and clients. Hundreds of people would be watching me take my first tottering steps as a woman, smothering laughter, making crude jokes about my genitalia. No.

‘I’ll have to resign,’ I said.

‘Rubbish! This is nothing new. I read a piece in the paper . . . yesterday’s, was it? . . . anyway, it was about this really macho guy, a US Navy SEAL from the unit that carried out the final raid on Osama bin Laden. Trained killer. Beard. Tattoos. Colossal gun. He’s come out as a woman. Isn’t that amazing? And remember that City trader? His bank were very understanding. And now I think about it, there’s an army officer in Australia. Stunning woman.’

I knew about these people, but it wasn’t helping me now. Their battles were not mine. ‘It might be easier for Eilish if I quietly resign,’ I said. ‘She’s very hurt.’

‘I’m sure she is, poor lass.’ The line of Judi’s mouth softened, and she touched my upper arm. ‘Luke, listen. Your marriage has been a success. You’ve amassed a million good memories; but sometimes enough is enough. For richer, for poorer; for better, for worse, blah blah blah—but not necessarily till death do us part; not if you’re bloody miserable. Thousands of people reach our age and want something else out of life—though, I’ll grant you, what you’re after is a bit . . . um, unusual. D’you know how long the average marriage lasted in the twelfth century? I’ll tell you: eleven years and six months. That’s because somebody always died—normally the poor woman, in childbirth. And d’you know how long the average modern marriage lasts? Take a wild guess.’

I took a guess. ‘Eleven years and six months?’

‘Exactly. People don’t die all the time anymore, so they have to get divorced instead. You and Eilish have been together nigh on three times the national average. You’ve seen your children into adulthood and beyond. That’s more than can be said for most parents.’

‘She still believes our marriage can be salvaged.’

Judi looked sceptical. ‘Just as long as you promise to throw away your satin camiknickers? I don’t see how she’d ever trust you. Can’t see how she’d ever fancy you again, either. It’s not exactly sexy, is it?’

‘I don’t own any camiknickers, satin or otherwise.’

‘No? Well, now I know what to get you for your birthday.’

I didn’t smile. My head was filled with Eilish, with Nico, and with Rosa, who might never hear my name. I could be father and grandfather and husband. I could pretend to be those things. I needn’t end my days as a lonely joke.

‘Luke.’ Judi leaned closer and looked me in the eye. ‘If you’re going to U-turn now, you’d better be bloody sure. You seriously think this genie will fit back into the bottle?’

I imagined burying Lucia deeper than ever before; burying her alive, just as she’d begun to breathe. I could almost hear her screaming. I imagined the suffocation stretching on, and on, to the end of my days.

I tried to phone Simon that evening. He must have installed one of those gadgets that tell you who’s calling. The handset was lifted—I heard a childish voice, but faintly, as though in the background—and then put down again.

I tried again, hoping Nico had accidentally cut me off. Same thing.

Finally I got hold of Kate. She’d been to the hospital already, and was buzzing.

‘She’s
unbelievably
ugly,’ she said fondly. ‘Like a baby-shaped walnut. She’s in an incubator at the moment, but you can touch her.’

‘Was Nico there?’

‘Yep. Being proprietorial and talking nonstop.’

I felt an ache—really, a physical ache. Nico would have taken my hand and led me to see the new arrival. ‘So he’s pleased with his sister?’ I asked.

‘He’s pleased with the pedal car she’s given him.’

‘Did you take any photos?’

She groaned. ‘Yes, but Simon doesn’t want you to . . . oh, bugger Simon. Yes, I’ve got some on my phone. I’ll send one.’

We were about to end the call when I had a thought. ‘I ordered some flowers,’ I said.

‘Um . . . they were delivered.’

‘And?’

‘Simon gave them straight back to the nurse. She said she’d find a home for them.’

I was thinking about those flowers—feeling sorry for myself—when the magical photo arrived to distract me. I sat and stared at it. I suppose, really, it was just a baby in an incubator. We’ve all seen pictures like that before: the babies in them look vulnerable and exposed, so small as to be barely human. This one had long black lashes and curled-up toes. She was wearing a little red hat. Behind her loomed the round face of her brother, looking in with wide-eyed wonder. His hair was tousled, his nose flattened against the perspex.

I printed out the picture of my grandchildren and leaned it on my bedside table.

That night, I dreamed of a baby in a forest. It was very dark. There were wolves.

It was a Saturday morning, and Rosa was ten days old. I took a cup of tea back to my bedroom, smiling at the latest photographs of her and Nico. Thanks to Kate, I was amassing quite a collection. Rosa had been allowed out of the neonatal unit, and today they were taking her home. She already had her mother’s determined pout. I could see that Nico was growing up, too. He’d started at school, and had a proper boy’s haircut. He’d just turned five. I’d sent him a card. I hoped it had got to him.

I took a shower with soap that smelled of roses, and dressed in a calf-length skirt and pale blue jersey. My hair was growing. If I brushed it forward around my face, it looked quite feminine. Not young—a bit granny—but feminine.

The post had arrived. Letters and leaflets lay scattered on the wet doormat, next to my umbrella. While my coffee was
brewing I flicked through them. Mostly advertising. All except one: a brown envelope. It had rain spots on it, and was slightly creased. I had some vague thought that it might be about my father’s will, though that had all been finalised months ago.

I slid a knife under the flap and pulled out its contents.

I should have expected it. But I didn’t.

She’d walked up the aisle to Mendelssohn. The church was full to bursting, its ancient air scented by flowers. The world had come to my wedding; all except Gail. Dad had bought a new suit for the occasion; Mum had bought herself several outfits. Benjamin Rose caught my eye as he came into the church, and winked. I sat in the pew near the pulpit, straightening the collar of my morning coat and checking that Toby still had the ring. Then I heard the sudden silence, the shuffling, and I knew she’d arrived.

This was it: the first moment of my new life. I was twenty-five years old, and from now on I would be whole. I was going to be the son my father wanted; the husband Eilish deserved; the father my future children needed. I made a solemn promise both to Eilish and to myself that day.

My new mother-in-law was weeping under her designer hat. Katrina French never pretended to like me much; I think she saw through me. As the music began, and Toby and I rose to our feet, he muttered in my ear:
Last chance to make a break for it, cuz.

I didn’t want to make a break for it. I wanted to see her. Unable to resist, I turned around.

She was breathtaking. There’s no other word for it. She was a beautiful woman on her wedding day. It was a dazzling October morning outside, and the light from a stained-glass window tinted the lace of her dress and the ivory flowers in her hair. She looked supremely relaxed, holding her father’s arm and mouthing
hello
to people as she passed them. Tom looked far more nervous than his daughter. Good old Tom; we did love him—though how
he ever came to marry her mother is a mystery to me. Then she met my eye, and we both smiled.

She walked up the aisle to Mendelssohn, to stand by my side. We stood side by side for the next thirty years. Our story began in the magical light of a stained-glass window.

And what heralded its end? A damp, slightly creased brown envelope from the county court, containing a petition for divorce.

Twenty-eight

Eilish

The weeks passed. The sky became higher, the mornings sharper. The poplars in the copse were embossed with gold. When I left for work each day, Gareth’s tractor was already rumbling along the rows. I like autumn, but this time the dying of the year felt melancholy. Our wedding anniversary came and went. I wept for it alone. No party. No fireworks.

Instead, the divorce ground on. Luke behaved impeccably. He returned the acknowledgement of service to the court and agreed to everything my solicitor and I wanted. In the days and weeks that passed we talked often about the practicalities of our divorce. It was a bit like arranging a funeral: you’re grieving, you’re denying, but you still have to choose the readings and organise a caterer. We agreed to divvy up some of the savings now and take account of it in the final settlement. We talked reasonably and sensibly, as though we were no more than business partners. And all the time my heart was tearing right across the middle. I could actually feel it. I think his was too.

He wanted news of the children. He pressed me for every tiny detail, and chuckled adoringly when I described seeing Nico kiss Rosa one day when he thought nobody was looking.