The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (28 page)

‘It’s a peer support group,’ Usha said. ‘People at every stage of transition. Why not give it a try?’

‘What do I wear? Will they throw me out if I don’t turn up cross-dressed?’

‘There are no dress codes.’

‘As a male I feel like a fraud. As a woman on the tube, I’ll probably get beaten up.’

‘Well. What are your options?’ Usha sat with one raised eyebrow, waiting for me to answer my own question. She had this obsession with me finding my own solutions. It was irritating, because sometimes I just wanted information. I daydreamed occasionally about getting revenge: she’d come into Bannermans and ask me for urgent legal advice on some corporate matter—not likely, I know—and I’d sit back and smile enigmatically, like the Sphinx, and say, ‘Well now, Usha. Let’s unpack that, shall we? What are your options?’

‘All right,’ I conceded huffily. ‘Perhaps there’s a middle course.’

At four o’clock the following Wednesday, I was on my way to Barking. In the end I’d settled on black trousers, a silk blouse and my mulberry jacket. I kept my head down on the tube and didn’t notice anyone staring at me. Another milestone.

According to the map, the place wasn’t far from the station. Yes, there it was—a brick-built church squashed in among jumbled housing and an Italian restaurant. A door at one end stood open. I read a board propped up against the wall:
Jenny Marsden group.
My steps faltered; then I scurried right past. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk into that place, and meet a bunch of strangers, and try to be one of them. My limbs felt shaky, so I sat down on a low wall.

It was one of those times when I felt too tired to go on. I missed Eilish. I missed being able to walk down the street or travel on the tube without fear. I felt panic, deep in my chest, and had to shut my eyes and mouth to stop it from breaking out in a great yell.

I didn’t hear the footsteps.

‘Hi,’ said a voice.

I looked up quickly, brushing my eyes on my sleeve. Jesus was standing there. Well, he looked like the Jesus you see in children’s picture books. He was a young man, thin as a breadstick, with a wispy beard and soulful eyes. He was smiling gently at me. I half expected him to hold out his hands and show me the wounds. Perhaps that meant I was Doubting Thomas.

‘I’m Neil,’ he said. His accent was East London, rather than first-century Palestine. ‘Were you looking for the Jenny Marsden group?’

‘I was, but I’ve just remembered . . .’ I began to stutter, racking my brains for some excuse to run away. ‘I’ve just remembered this appointment . . . Okay. Yes, I was.’

‘You’ve found us. Come on in.’

It was impossible to refuse. He led me back along the street, chatting all the way. He wondered whether I might be Lucia. He’d read my email. People often missed the place. They needed a bigger sign.

The parish lounge had been partitioned off from the body of the church, carpeted and given a false ceiling. I gathered, from all the crayoned pictures on the walls, that a Sunday school met there. People stood around in small groups, and I heard a murmur of conversation.

‘What’s your poison?’ asked Neil, stopping by a hatch into a kitchen. ‘Coffee? Right.’

‘Who was Jenny Marsden?’ I asked.

He pointed to a glossy photograph on one of the noticeboards: a smiling girl wearing a mortar board and academic gown. It was the sort of graduation photo that people display proudly on their mantelpieces and Facebook profiles. ‘Jenny was a research scientist,’ he said, handing me a mug. ‘She was also a trans woman. She took her own life.’

‘When?’

‘Back in the nineties. Her family didn’t want anyone else to feel as isolated as she did, so they set up the trust in her memory.’

I looked again at the picture. Jenny had curly hair and apple cheeks. She didn’t look despairing.

‘It’s easy to smile, isn’t it?’ said Neil. ‘When people are watching you.’

‘True.’

‘You’re welcome to come along on the twentieth of November. That’s the Transgender Day of Remembrance. We light a candle for Jenny as well as the others.’

I’d had no idea such a day existed, and made a mental note to look it up; but I didn’t have time to ask more because Neil was steering me across the room. ‘I’d like you to meet Chloe,’ he was saying. ‘She’s here today for the first time, like you, and she’s a bit nervous. In fact, she accidentally walked straight past, too.’

Seconds later, I found myself face to face with a young warrior princess, albeit one sporting a leather miniskirt and cut-off top. She was standing awkwardly holding a glass mug, though she should have been driving a chariot.

‘Chloe,’ said Neil. ‘Meet Lucia. This is her first visit as well.’

Chloe’s features melted into a wide and artless smile. She was a beautiful girl; tall—strikingly tall—with dramatic features, a bronze complexion and long, braided hair.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘So you’re another new kid on the block.’ It was a deep voice, unmistakably male. For a moment I was tongue-tied. I’d lived with gender dysphoria all my life but never knowingly spoken to a real-life trans woman before, let alone one in a miniskirt. I wanted to scuttle outside, leap into a taxi and hightail it back to the flat. This was a world outside of my experience.

Hypocrite!
I scolded myself.
Snob!

I wasn’t sure of the etiquette. Should I shake Chloe’s hand, or would that give me away as a stuffy old trout: white, middle-aged and middle-class? She was wearing perspex platform shoes. Dear God, I thought, why does someone with legs like that need platforms? There was a generation gap even with us outcasts.

Chloe didn’t seem to notice my confusion. She was happy
to talk; all I had to do was listen, and that suited me. Within a couple of minutes Neil had moved on, leaving us deep in conversation. Chloe had a habit of laughing uproariously when she got to the most painful parts of her story. It was unsettling. She told me that she was twenty-two, and from a town near Manchester. She’d started taking hormones when she was fourteen, in an attempt to stop her adolescence in its tracks.

‘Fourteen?’ I was surprised. ‘So . . . were you at the children’s clinic?’

‘The where? Oh, the kids’ place! D’you think my mum would let them anywhere near me? No!’ Laughter. ‘I bought the stuff myself. Internet.’

I was shocked at the idea of a fourteen-year-old ordering hormones on the black market and experimenting alone. I was so rattled that I didn’t think before I asked my next question; it was a stupid mistake. I asked her what she did for a living.

‘I’m a working girl.’ She said it carelessly, assuming I’d understand. When I didn’t, she dissolved into more laughter. ‘There are guys out there who’ll pay a premium for what I’ve got. I’m a bit of a niche market.’

‘Oh!’ I was desperately trying not to look scandalised. ‘I see. At least, I think I see. That must be . . . um, actually, I’ve no idea what that must be like.’

For once she didn’t laugh. She shrugged, and her eyes were blank. ‘Pays the bills,’ she said. ‘I’ve got qualifications, just can’t get a better job.’

‘What’s your training?’

‘Computing, catering . . . I used to be duty manager in a restaurant. Anyway, that’s enough about my boring life! How about you? How do you pay your bills?’

This vibrant young woman had just revealed that she was a prostitute. As life stories go, it was a hard act to follow. I had to confess that I was a city solicitor and spent most of my days helping multinationals to push vast sums of money around. I’ve never felt so square. Chloe lit up, however, because her cousin
was a legal executive. She and I were getting on like a house on fire when Neil called the group together. My new friend stuck to me like glue, folding her long legs into the chair next to mine and whispering that she didn’t know anyone. I felt protective.

We were a mixed assortment of human beings: men, women, people whose place on the gender continuum was impossible to categorise. To my astonishment, it turned out that Neil had begun life as a girl. There were twelve of us in all, sitting in a circle. That’s when I felt the bubbles of nervous laughter inside me. I wished Eilish were there. Perhaps I could phone afterwards and tell her about it? No, perhaps not.

They didn’t make me say anything, so I said very little beyond introducing myself. Other people talked about their week; about their challenges and triumphs. One person was upset about a speeding ticket, another was worried about her father’s dementia. A girl called Joanne had at last received her new birth certificate, and brought along birthday cake to celebrate.

When the meeting broke up, Chloe left with me and we walked together to the tube station. I noticed some sidelong glances. I suppose we were a bizarre duo: a glamorous young Amazon in perspex heels, striding beside a middle-aged androgynous creature wearing a blue silk blouse. Chloe was Kate’s age, and yet she’d already faced down the world. I wished I’d had her mettle when I was young. We chatted as we walked. She said she was almost two years into her RLE. Ah yes, the Real Life Experience.

‘How’s it going?’ I asked.

‘Oh. My. God.’ Chloe made an anguished face. ‘You know.’

‘I don’t, actually. I haven’t done it.’

‘It got a lot easier once I had help with my hormones. But will my body behave? No, it won’t! Those ole levels are still up and down like a kangaroo. I’ve had my moments.’ She held up crossed fingers. ‘But I’m getting there.’

‘What brought you to London?’

‘Um, well, to be honest, my home town got a bit small. I lost my job. They said it was a redundancy but . . . you know.
And my family aren’t talking to me. My mum reckons I’m dead to her.’ She chuckled fondly, as though her mother was terribly witty. ‘My brother said he’d make sure I was
really
dead if he saw me again.’

She told me she’d been for an interview the day before. It was at a cafe that was looking for a manager. Right up her alley; she could have done it standing on her head. I asked how it had gone, and she shrugged. ‘As soon as they saw me they said they had somebody else in mind. That’s okay. No problem. Something will come up.’

We walked on. I imagined the cafe owner hearing Chloe’s deep voice and thinking,
No way
. I felt angry for my new young friend. My mind was skimming across the employment laws, wondering if she should take a stand.

‘It’s okay. If they don’t want me, I don’t want to be there,’ she said, as though she’d read my thoughts. ‘I can almost pass, most of the time. I just need to work on my voice.’

‘You certainly can pass. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.’

She looked me up and down with a critical eye. ‘’Course you will! You’ve got the face for it. You’re not too tall. Just wait till you’ve been on hormones for a while, and get boobs.’

‘I can’t even walk right.’

She took my arm and danced me down the street. She seemed hopeful and vital and oddly naive. I hated to think of her plying her trade.

‘Watch and learn,’ she said, laughing. ‘Watch and learn.’

Thirty

Eilish

November the tenth was my birthday. Jim Chadwick buttonholed me at school, and asked if he could take me out for dinner. I was able to say no without having to search my conscience, because Carmela—such a thoughtful daughter-in-law—had invited me to London to spend the night with them.

Jim was undeterred. ‘How about some other time? Absolutely no strings attached. I promise.’

‘Not for a couple of weeks, anyway. I’ve got parent meetings and reports and the school play.’ I was making excuses; putting off the decision.

He grinned. ‘Good enough for me,’ he said, before pelting away to stop a violent brawl in the quad. I could hear him yelling, ‘Break it up! C’mon, break it up! Haven’t you lads heard of the Queensberry Rules?’

A parcel from Luke arrived on my birthday. I opened it to find emerald earrings glowing on a velvet cushion. They matched my engagement ring. What was the proper response to such a gift from the man I was divorcing? Should I mark the parcel
return to sender
and shove it in the nearest post box? Should I give it to charity?

I did neither. Instead, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror
and slid them into my ears. They were single stones set in gold, and truly beautiful. Luke had chosen well. He always did have good taste. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to imagine that he was standing very close behind me. We were still happy, still together, still off to Tuscany next year.

I was deep in this daydream when the phone rang. Talk of the devil.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Luke. ‘Happy birthday.’

I never admitted it to him, I barely admitted it even to myself, but I felt warmer when I heard his voice. You can’t just drop a friendship like ours into the recycling bin.

I thanked him for the earrings. ‘They’re perfect,’ I said. ‘Though I’ve a feeling my solicitor would disapprove. We’re supposed to be dividing our assets, not giving more of them to each other.’

He asked about work, and I fumed about the size of Walter’s ego, which was in inverse proportion to his competence. Luke was worried about the Rayburn—did it need servicing? Was the house warm enough? And how were the grandchildren?

Once we’d covered all these topics, there was a long pause. Neither of us wanted the conversation to end. This can’t go on, I thought. I have to understand his new world. If I don’t do that, I can’t even be his friend. I took a breath.

‘So,’ I said. ‘What’s happening about your . . . gender problems?’

He sounded pleased, but wary. ‘You don’t really want to know.’

‘I think I’d better. It’s probably time my head came out of the sand.’

He talked; slowly at first, hesitantly, as though afraid I’d slam down the phone. He’d been to a gender clinic but had taken no hormones yet. He was also seeing a counsellor, though he wasn’t sure why.

‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘You’ve got professional help.’

‘The further down this road I go, the more I feel as though I’m coming home. Do you know what I did last week? Well, of
course you don’t know.’ He gave a small, nervous laugh. ‘I’m going gaga.’