‘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.
‘It was a big, smacky kiss,’ I said. ‘Right on her nose.’
‘Little chap!’ After a short pause he added, ‘I wish I could see them.’
‘You could see them.’
I was blackmailing him, as I had the day Rosa was born. I knew it, even as I said it—and why not? Surely I had a right to use every weapon in my arsenal to salvage our marriage? I’d spoiled the conversation. Soon after that, we ran out of things to say.
We’re resilient, us human beings. More so than we think. I kept going; I functioned. One Sunday morning in late October, I had Neil Young on the stereo and was designing a series of lesson plans. I hadn’t been to church that morning. In fact, I hadn’t darkened its doors for several weeks. People were becoming more insistent when asking about Luke, and I wasn’t prepared to answer their questions. I hadn’t told anyone but Stella that we’d separated, because . . . actually, why hadn’t I? Because they would ask why he’d gone.
I’d made quite a bit of headway when I spotted Jim Chadwick’s green MG driving by the window with its roof down.
‘Chadwick!’ I cried, stepping outside to greet him. I thought fleetingly of the moment I’d last opened this door to Luke; that morning back in July, when he came in soaking wet, and our world changed forever. By contrast, Jim looked confident and uncomplicated and definitely male. That was something I used to take for granted in a man.
‘Is this a bad moment?’ he asked.
‘On the contrary, your timing is inspired. I was about to stop for coffee.’
‘Oh good. I’ve come to drum up your support,’ he said, getting out of his car. ‘We have battlements to storm.’
It was cheering to see my colleague striding towards me across the gravel. I found myself admiring the laughter lines around his blue eyes, and his sandy hair, receding a little. He brought energy and honesty at a time when I needed both. I felt my spirits lift.
‘Neil Young!’ he exclaimed, as he stepped inside and heard the singer’s reedy voice permeating the house. ‘Takes me back to my misspent yoof.’
‘Luke says the man’s a poet.’
I made coffee while Jim explained his mission. He was dean of year nine, and wanted my alliance in his latest skirmish with the school’s management. It had been triggered by a gifted but chaotic boy who could read anything, but was unable to write legibly. Jim wanted him to be allowed to use a laptop in all his classes.
‘I’ve hit a brick wall. Wally Wallis says it’ll open the floodgates,’ he complained, as I pottered around the kitchen. ‘He’s hell-bent on screwing up this kid’s education. I’m not having it. Could you assess him, and write a report that Wally can’t ignore?’
‘It sounds rather like dysgraphia. If I . . .’ Suddenly, I felt tears crowding into my eyes. Treacherous things. I fiddled with the coffee plunger, blinking them away. ‘Luke’s left,’ I said. ‘We’re in the throes of divorce.’ I pressed down on the plunger, listening to Jim’s silence. ‘You don’t take milk, do you?’
When I turned around, he was staring at me. ‘I’m so sorry, Eilish.’
‘Sorry, perhaps, but I doubt you’re surprised. You must have been wondering by now. Everyone must be wondering. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.’ I laughed at myself even as I spoke. What foolish, empty words! Why do we deny our grief?
‘It does matter. You and Luke are an icon of conjugal bliss!’
I turned off the music and led the way through the folding doors. It was still warm enough to sit outside. We sat looking across the garden, exactly as Luke and I used to do. Charlotte’s maple tree had turned a deep red. Nearby, Robert’s sapling was thriving. Luke’s daughter. Luke’s father. It felt odd to be there with someone else, another man, knowing that Luke was gone forever.
‘What happened?’ asked Jim.
I began with that July morning, and told the story as best I could. Jim’s characteristic energy was now channelled into listening. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, gazing at the paving stones, nodding sharply from time to time. There wasn’t the flicker of a smile. No remarks about dresses. No hint that he found Luke ridiculous.
‘What’s especially hurtful,’ I said, ‘almost inconceivable, is that he’s prepared to lose contact with Nico and never meet Rosa. Luke and Nico were like this.’ I held up two fingers twined around one another. ‘They’re a mutual appreciation society. I just don’t understand how Luke can break that bond. It’s as though he’s infatuated with this idea of himself as a woman.’
‘Hmm.’ Jim pushed a pebble around with his foot. ‘Maybe it’s evidence of his desperation?’
‘Or—as Simon thinks—that he’s a kid in a sweetshop. He wants it all, and he wants it now, and he doesn’t seem to care who gets hurt. He’s going to wake up one day and realise what he’s lost.’
‘Maybe.’
I wasn’t impressed with my friend’s reaction. I was the wounded wife, after all. I was the innocent one and I expected outrage on my behalf. I told him so.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We can take it as read that you are blameless. I didn’t think it needed to be said.’
‘But I feel stupid.’ I smiled unhappily. ‘I mean, how blind and gullible can you be? I shared a bed with that man for three decades.’
‘It’s not your fault. You know that. I know that. The gossips in the village pub and the staffroom will certainly agree. So you can take blaming yourself off your to-do list. Have you researched this problem of Luke’s?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘I’m not alone. You spot a new story in the paper every week once you start noticing. There are lawyers and accountants and prostitutes
. There are famous people: a Vogue model called April Ashley. Jan Morris, the writer. She was the Times correspondent—male—with Hillary and Tenzing when they made it up Everest. She and her wife have stayed together. Um, who else? That American whistleblower . . . Memory like a sieve at the moment, I can’t remember his name.’
‘Bradley Manning.’
‘That’s the one. There’s even a clinic in London that helps children. I covered this once in training, but I’ve never come across it in the classroom. Have you?’
To my surprise, he nodded. ‘More than once.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Left it to the school counsellor.’ He was tapping out a drum solo on the bench with his hands. He’s a restless type, is Jim. More like rapids, where Luke is deep and still.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I knew someone at university.’
‘Really?’
‘Mm. Francis Bates. Fran. She was flamboyant, wore miniskirts. She was taking hormones. I didn’t know her well. None of us did, though she was very affable. She asked us to use the feminine pronoun, which we didn’t do because we were so bloody small-minded. We used to call her Frank, just to be clever. The university put her in a male hall of residence. Nowadays there are rules about that kind of thing.’ Jim stopped, rubbing his cheek. ‘One night she was attacked by a gang of yobs. Young, pissed people coming out of a club—girls, too—who objected to her using the female public toilets.’
‘What happened?’
‘They chased her onto the roof of a multistorey. Seven floors up. Baying for blood. They got her down on the ground and they all kicked her. It came out in the papers that one of them was flashing a knife around. He said he was going to finish the job. You know. Cut off her genitals. Later, he claimed that he never really meant to mutilate anyone, just to teach “that pervert” a lesson. Anyway, we’ll never know, because someone was monitoring the CCTV cameras and the police turned up.’
The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 20
