I’d decided to tackle the supermarket today. It was the most intimidating sortie yet, which was probably why I found myself procrastinating. I fired up my laptop and sat working at the kitchen table—contentedly, with the soft fabric of my skirt falling around my legs.
I was immersed in work for several hours. One of the trainees had made a mistake and was stressing about it. In the end, I phoned him and disentangled the problem. Then there was a query about a prospective client—a Greek oligarch. According to the risk management unit, he wasn’t squeaky clean. Well, I thought, which of us is? I wondered how they’d describe me, if they saw me doing Bannermans work in a dress.
Finally, I got around to reading my private emails. There was one from Wendy:
My dear brother,
I’ve spoken to my minister. He’s a wonderful man, and we prayed together for you. He is absolutely clear: this is not NATURE, it is NURTURE. You can be cured, but first you MUST fight this, as you would any other temptation!!! He suggests counselling, which our church can provide. Please, please come and talk to him.
I sighed. Facepalm, as Kate would say.
Talking of Kate, there was a message from her too. This was far more welcome. It was chatty, as all her communications had been since I left. She never mentioned what I was doing; I had a feeling she was hoping the problem would just disappear. She wrote that she was leaving Smith’s Barn the following week. Mathis and John had offered her a room in their flat in Swiss Cottage. The place was affordable, but it was the size of your average cat-litter tray, she said, so could she nip over and leave some of her gear with me?
Of course, I replied. Any time. It would be lovely to see you.
I scanned the rest of my emails. Nothing urgent. Nothing from Simon. Pity.
Right, I thought as I shut down the laptop. Never mind the Greek oligarch; never mind Wendy’s wonderful minister! It’s time to go.
I slipped into a linen jacket, found my handbag, and checked my make-up in the mirror.
‘Ready?’ I asked Lucia.
‘As I’ll ever be,’ she said.
Twenty-one
Simon
It was the hottest day of a sweltering week. Nico seemed to be coming down with something, and had fallen asleep on the sofa. He was due to start school in a few days; hard to imagine their baby as a schoolboy.
Carmela was organising a birthday card for her grandmother. She sat barefoot at the writing desk they’d inherited from Grandad Livingstone. She wore a cotton maternity dress and a pair of reading glasses, and her hair was coiled at the nape of her neck. The combination of the glasses and put-up hair was slightly prim and rather sexy, like a librarian in a porn film—though the effect was rather ruined by the baby bump.
‘Which is best for Abuelita?’ she asked, holding up two cards. ‘This one with the lake, or this one with the flowers?’
Simon shrugged and said they both looked fine. He was trying to phone his mother, but was in that extreme state of tiredness when the world seems monochrome. He’d been on call for the past three days, and seemingly every cat, dog and cockatoo in South London had decided to have some kind of medical emergency. His working day had begun at two o’clock that morning: a much-loved family moggy with breathing problems, followed by a red setter with a tricky labour. He’d finished the morning’s surgery at lunchtime, and now—thank God—he had forty-eight hours off. His eyes drooped as he listened to the rhythmic lullaby of the ringing tone. His brain began to shut down.
Kate’s voice jerked him into consciousness. ‘Hello?’
He didn’t want to talk to his sister. He was sure she was in contact with their dad. He wouldn’t put it past her to be actively encouraging his madness.
‘Kate,’ he said. ‘You’re still there, are you? Is Mum in?’
He ought to ask what she’d been up to. He ought to ask how she was feeling about the nerdy ex-boyfriend. But all he wanted to discuss—all he’d thought about for the past six weeks—was their father.
‘’Fraid you’re out of luck,’ said Kate. ‘She’s at some seminar thing at the school.’
‘She’s back at work, then?’
‘Term starts next week. Good thing too, if you ask me. She jumps every time the phone rings. Still hopes he’ll change his mind.’
Simon carried the phone across to the window. With the hosepipe ban, the lawn had turned to straw. The neighbour’s pug had got in again; it was trotting about, curly tail bouncing like a spring. Bloody animal behaved as though it owned the place.
‘I’ve talked to one of the other vets,’ he said. ‘He thinks we could have Dad sectioned.’
‘You’ve told people about this?’
‘Just Sven. In strict confidence.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Simon’s hackles rose at the note of sarcasm. ‘I bet you’ve told someone.’
‘Mathis and John. They’re hardly going to gossip about something like this, are they, since they’ve been on the receiving end of redneckery in our society? No, Simon. We can’t have Dad sectioned. We’d have to get a whole gang of shrinks to say he’s suffering from a mental illness.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem! He’s obviously delusional.’
Kate sighed exaggeratedly. She was such a smart-arse, his sister. ‘Bedlam was reformed quite some time ago. We can’t lock up our parents just because they embarrass us.’
‘Embarrass us? We’ll get bricks through our windows! How long will it be before everybody knows? Those gossips who run the Bracton Arms—’
‘Ingrid and Harry.’
‘Ingrid and Harry. That’s right. They’ll find out any day now, and then Mum might as well pack up and leave the area, because she won’t be able to hold up her head.’
Simon heard Carmela’s soft steps crossing the room behind him, and then her arms slid around his waist. The warmth of her body carried a breath of scent: Ralph Lauren something-or-other. Her mother gave her a bottle every Christmas. Whenever he smelled that scent, wherever he was, he felt close to Carmela.
‘I don’t want to take sides,’ said Kate, and rang off.
The conversation left Simon jangling. Nobody seemed to get it. Their father was becoming a bloody trans—what was it? Transvestite? Transsexual? Whatever. Soon he’d be gone forever. He had to be stopped before the story got out.
The girl in Moroney’s nightclub burst into his consciousness. She’d had stupendous legs, and her eyes were dark blue. She’d made him think of a summer’s day. He was nineteen.
‘That little mongrel is digging up the pansies,’ said Carmela.
‘He’ll pee on the washing line next.’ Simon knocked on the window with his knuckles. ‘Oi! Beat it!’
The dog looked towards the window and seemed to grin before waddling off to ferret in the compost heap. He was an enthusiastic fellow—always snuffling, always cheerful. Simon was secretly quite fond of him.
‘I want to kill my father,’ he said.
‘Shh.’ Carmela joined her hands in front of his chest, rocking herself and him from side to side. ‘No, no. Not that. He is your dad. You love him very much.’
‘Ha! He isn’t. Turns out I never had a dad. Not sure what that makes poor Mum. Not sure what that makes me, either.’
The rocking continued, and he felt her cheek resting against his shoulderblade. Normally her presence calmed him, but today he wished she’d leave him alone and stop being so bloody reasonable. Then he disliked himself for wishing it. What a mess.
‘They’re sickening,’ he said loudly. ‘People like him. Sickening.’
‘Why does it frighten you so much?’
‘I’m not frightened, I’m furious! He’s a confidence trickster. Can’t believe I share his genes.’
The girl in the club had been a work of art. Simon and his student friends had arrived in a hunting pack, and it didn’t take him long to spot her. Denim miniskirt, white sleeveless blouse. The music was so loud, they had to bellow into each other’s ears. Simon wasn’t confident w
ith girls, but this one seemed to get past his shyness. Her name was Jessica. She was a chambermaid at the White Hart, saving up to go travelling. She was still with him when it came to the last song of the evening. ‘Nights in White Satin’. He could feel the smoothness and swell of her body against his.
Stop it! Stop thinking about that. Action. He had to take action.
‘I’m going to the flat,’ he said.
‘I think that’s a terrible idea.’
‘It’s a bloody good idea! He wanted to talk to me. Well, now’s his chance. I’m going to have it out with him.’
Simon hadn’t felt such energy in weeks, not since his father had lobbed a grenade into the family. It wasn’t a pleasant energy—it throbbed, like an electric surge—but at least he had a plan. He strode through to the kitchen, rummaged in a drawer and pulled out the spare keys to the flat.
Carmela followed. One hand was spread across her stomach, shielding the baby from this trouble. ‘Don’t make a scene,’ she said. ‘What he’s doing may be wrong, but he is a good man.’
‘A good man?’ Simon snorted. ‘That’s an unfortunate choice of words.’
‘Simon, don’t go.’
He stood in the kitchen doorway, bereft, feeling like a small boy. He was going to cry if he didn’t control himself.
‘I want him not to do this,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I want him to be who I thought he was.’
The reedy wail of a saxophone echoed around the tunnel. Simon ran past the busker, arriving on the northbound platform just in time to step onto a train. There were plenty of spare seats but he didn’t take one. He needed to keep moving. He stood holding the bar above his head, rocking on his feet as the darkness flicked past.
Lights were flashing. Disco lights. Jessica’s dancing seemed to become slow motion, her white shirt iridescent. He could see the black bra underneath it. She swept her hand through the air, and in the strobe it looked like fifty hands. She was mesmeric. This is lust, he thought as he slid his hand under her shirt. Or is it love?
The escalators had broken down at Mile End, but the electric surge coursed through him and he sprinted up the stairs, past the Big Issue seller and out into a blast of heat. The daylight seemed blindingly bright. Soon he was striding along Thurso Lane, down the steps, pounding his fists on the door of the flat. The madness had to end. He hammered again, without success. Damn. He cupped his hands and leaned to look in through the window. A laptop was open on the kitchen table. Dad wouldn’t go out and leave it there all day, in full view. Either he was in or he’d be back soon. Simon pulled the keys from his pocket and opened the door.
The kitchen smelled of toast. Washing-up lay piled on the draining board. Simon called out, but there was no answer. He had nowhere to put his rage, and it bubbled up. His phone rang. He answered it as he paced around the room, looking for signs of . . . what, exactly? Debauchery? An orgy?
It was Carmela. She sounded agitated; her accent was more pronounced than usual. ‘Simon? Did you get to the flat yet?’
He stopped to leaf through a pile of letters and papers. Bills, circulars. Nothing interesting. His fingers were shaking, and so was his voice. ‘I’m here. He’s not.’
‘You haven’t really broken in?’
He left the kitchen, checking the other rooms. ‘I’ve got a right to be here. It’s Mum’s flat too. Hell!’ He’d stopped dead in the middle of the bedroom. Suit trousers and a jacket hung over a chair. It was the only tidy corner; the rest of the room was in chaos. Clothes were strewn around as though someone had been trying on different combinations before discarding them. A dress was flung across the bed; colourful things lay in a heap on the floor.
This can’t be Dad’s mess, he thought. Dad’s tidy. He’s organised. He has that bloody annoying motto which used to make us groan when we were teenagers: A place for everything, and everything in its place.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Carmela.
‘Hang on.’ Simon nudged the pile with his toe. There were floral garments of some sort. A bra. On top of the chest of drawers he spotted powder, lipstick and other make-up. These things weren’t his father’s. No. Obviously not. That was impossible. Simon veered away from the unbearable, inevitable conclusion.
‘He’s got a woman staying here,’ he said.
‘Leave now, my darling.’
‘He’s got a mistress.’ Laughter leaped into Simon’s throat. Hell, what a relief! Some power-shouldered siren from work perhaps, too alluring for Dad to resist. It was despicable, but normal. Thousands of people had affairs. ‘I don’t believe it—the old dog! He’s shagging some woman. D’you think it’s another partner?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Whoever it is, she’s a messy tart,’ he said, looking at a collection of silk scarves draped over the mirror. ‘Stuff everywhere. This whole sex-change thing’s been some kind of smokescreen. Bizarre, isn’t it?’
‘Good. Terrific. Now leave.’
‘Just a sec.’ Simon’s head jerked around at the sound of a key turning in the front door. ‘Someone’s coming into the flat. I’ve got to go.’ Ignoring Carmela’s protests, he ended the call and moved quietly into the passageway. There were heels on the kitchen tiles—tap-tap-tap—not a man’s shoes. He thought he could hear humming too, as he pushed at the kitchen door.
She stood with her back to him, facing the kettle: a tall brunette in an unflattering purple dress. Flowing hair. Quite beefy. His brain was still playing its tricks, stubbornly protecting him from reality. It was hard to tell from this angle, but she didn’t look like an illicit lover. Perhaps Dad had a cleaner?
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
The cleaner stopped humming, and turned around.
Twenty-two
Lucia
She wished she had an invisibility cloak. She used her trolley as a shield, sliding along the aisles with her head down. If she sensed somebody looking at her, she would instantly grab an object from the shelves—a packet of biscuits, a bottle of vinegar—and read every ingredient on the list. In the case of the vinegar, that didn’t take very long.
The supermarket’s air conditioning felt luxurious. Tights, she’d discovered, were not designed to be worn on such a hot day. The wig was worse. All the same, she caught sight of the tall brunette in the shop’s closed-circuit TV monitor and felt a small thrill of joy. She wasn’t beautiful. No, indeed, by no stretch of the imagination. She would love to be beautiful, but then didn’t many women wish for that? Many men too, for that matter. Still, she dared to hope she might just pass, in the dusk with the light behind her. Passing was what mattered above all else. She hoped she’d get better at it.
It had been a good trip. She was beginning to feel rather proud of herself. She’d managed to find all the things she needed, keeping it small because she wanted to go through the self-service checkout. The supermarket was the place to get things that would raise eyebrows in smaller shops—tights, for example; moisturiser and hair removal cream. She wouldn’t buy any alcohol here though, because the machine would need her age verified and an assistant would have to come over and look at her face to do that. She wasn’t ready for people to look at her face.
In the hair-care section, she stopped to choose a bottle of conditioner. She’d read in an article that using leave-in conditioner was a good idea for trans women, because a man’s hair tends to be coarser than a woman’s. It had to be worth a try. She didn’t want to wear a wig forever. She wanted to be real.
Further down the aisle, two lycra-clad mothers gossiped over their trolleys. They looked as though they’d just jogged out of the local gym. One had a baby, and neon-hued trainers. Her friend sipped from a can of Diet Coke while complaining bitterly about the hidden charges on a low-cost airline. Judging by her tone of incandescent rage, you’d think the airline had held her family hostage and tortured them. Her small daughter was dancing up and down the aisle.
Lucia ignored them. She’d never bought leave-in conditioner before—in fact, it w
as some time since she’d even bought her own shampoo, because Eilish tended to do all that. She had no idea there’d be so much choice. It was fun to browse, reading all the labels. She enjoyed the brushing of her crepe dress against her calves, and the heaviness of her hair at the nape of her neck. Wearing heels made her ankles feel slender, her posture much more feminine. The air conditioning really was heavenly. Soon she’d forgotten to worry about how she looked from the outside. In her mind she was just a woman, taking pleasure in a small but new experience. She was herself. She was content.
A childish voice made her jump. ‘What are you getting?’
The little girl had stopped dancing and was gawping up at her face.
‘Hi,’ whispered Lucia, horribly self-conscious. ‘Um, conditioner.’
The gym bunnies burst into gales of laughter at some remark one had made. They were still mid-giggle when the child spoke again.
‘Are you a man, or a lady?’
That was when her mother looked around. Her gaze whisked over Lucia. Her eyebrows went up. Her smile switched off.
‘Tammy,’ she said. ‘Come back here.’
Tammy didn’t move.
‘Tammy!’ The woman marched across, grabbed her daughter by the hand and tugged her away. ‘Leave the gentleman alone.’
Lucia’s illusion of herself was shattered. She was a freak, and the whole school was laughing at her. The whole world. She fled into the next aisle but there were people there too. She felt hundreds of pairs of eyes, thousands, all sneering at her ungainly body, all thinking Monster, monster. Every instinct urged her to bolt out of the shop.
Stand your ground, Lucia. Did you think this would be easy?
I need to get away, she thought. Let me run.
If you fail to live as a woman, you will fail to live at all.
She took several breaths and then forced herself to turn back. Her trolley was still where she’d left it, and the lycra women had gone. She steered towards the self-service machines. One of them had broken down. The others were busy. A queue was building up behind her. Come on, come on, before Tammy and her mother arrive. An assistant opened another till, unclipping the chain. He was a young man, probably not long out of school. A livid birthmark covered half his face—Poor lad, I hope people don’t bully him—and he had a ring through his upper lip. Why did young people do that? Lucia fervently hoped Kate would stop at her nose piercing. She tried not to catch his eye, but there was no hope of ignoring him when he beckoned her over.
The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 15
