‘That’s enough about my outfit,’ she said. ‘You’ve been on the hormones for a while now. You should come out before questions are asked.’
‘They can’t have had any noticeable effect,’ I protested. ‘It’s like adolescence. It takes months. Years.’
She looked me up and down with a sceptical half-smile. ‘You’re changing fast, Luke,’ she said. ‘And you know it. It’s not just a visual thing. Maybe it’s some kind of sixth sense, I don’t know, but my radar tells me you’re changing. I don’t even think of you as male anymore, to be honest. Not sure I ever did, but I certainly don’t now. I see you as kind of . . . hinterland. You just don’t . . . I don’t know . . . you don’t smell male. You don’t talk male, or walk male. Your skin’s not male. Lucia is taking over. People will notice. Then they’ll talk.’
I knew she was right. It terrified me. It delighted me.
‘Let’s have a timetable for this rollout. May I?’ she said, opening my desk diary with her manicured fingers. ‘You must be the last person in this firm to use a real diary as well as a virtual one. Christmas present, was it?’
‘Good guess. From my mother.’
‘What else do you need to do?’
I scribbled a list on a memo pad. More voice training, deportment coaching, finish the electrolysis, allow time for the hormones to take effect; time for our divorce to be finalised, which I hoped would make things easier for Eilish, give her time to distance herself from me.
Judi was leafing through my diary. ‘Weren’t you meant to be taking a three-month sabbatical this year?’
‘We were going to Italy. We cancelled it.’
‘Okay. Well, let’s aim for July. You’ll have been separated from Eilish a year by then. In mid June, we brief the management committee and give them time for feedback. On July eleventh, you disappear for two weeks. While you’re gone we send out a memo to everyone, and change your name on the website and stationery. You get a working woman’s wardrobe together—I’ll help with that. Have your hair done, get another laser zap on your face. What else? Leg wax, eyelash tint. Ear piercing.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Man up! And, for God’s sake, have those eyebrows sorted out by someone who knows what they’re doing.’
‘Femininity is so complicated and painful.’
She sighed. ‘Darling, try being in labour for thirty hours with an eleven-pounder. After that, everything’s a cinch. Anyway, you return to work on the twenty-eighth of July as . . . drum roll, please . . . Ms Lucia Livingstone.’
I glanced anxiously at the diary. ‘That’s only five months away.’
‘Probably too long. If you leave it any later than that, you’re going to be outed before you’re ready. Disastrous.’
‘True.’
‘Shall we make it a fixture?’ Her pen was poised.
‘Wait . . . wait.’ I was spluttering. ‘Think about it, Judi! This is it. This is no going back; goodbye, Luke.’
‘I thought you’d already made that decision.’
‘Yes, but . . . I’ll have to walk in here with a new name, new clothes, a new gender. You won’t be able to move for people laughing. Clients will take their work elsewhere. I’ll bring Bannermans into disrepute.’
Judi had rested her chin on the back of her hand, and was nodding as though I were giving her a shopping list. ‘Yep . . . yep . . . yep. All of that.’
‘I’m seriously thinking about early retirement. I could move away, somewhere nobody knows me, then quietly transition. That’d be easier for Eilish. Much less public.’
Judi let me finish, and then she tapped the desk. ‘Listen. Are you listening? This is a really, really big thing for you. I know that. But it isn’t a really big thing for this firm. There are over five hundred people in our London office alone, and every one of them has their hang-ups. Over the past ten years I’ve seen ’em come and I’ve seen ’em go. We’ve had partners caught having sex in the lift. We’ve had someone become a reality TV star. We’ve had someone arrested for shoplifting. We’ve had three people die, in various ways. Those are just the things I can remember off the top of my head. The thing is, Livingstone—and I mean this nicely—you aren’t such a big deal. There will be tranny jokes for a few weeks, but after that you’ll be old news. You’ll just be Lucia, who’s as competent and decent as Luke ever was. Only better dressed.’
‘I think you underestimate how disturbing this is for people.’
‘I think you underestimate their tolerance.’
I still got a kick out of my job; at the moment, it was all I had. I needed the income, too. Divorce is very expensive and I hadn’t planned for it. I couldn’t afford to retire.
‘You win,’ I said. ‘July it is.’
Judi couldn’t suppress a victorious chuckle. I watched the words appear, flowing from her pen and onto the page of my diary. Magical, dangerous, exhilarating words. I had dreamed of them. I never thought to see them.
Lucia’s birthday.
I began to have doubts as soon as Judi left my office. They started as a niggle, but by the end of the afternoon I was in a cold sweat. It was almost March now . . . how could I be ready by July? I was staring at the words she’d written in my diary when my desk phone rang. It was Izzy, at reception.
‘I’ve got Penelope O’Neil on the line for you,’ she said.
I was pleased, if a little surprised. Penny O’Neil, headmistress of St Matthew’s school. We got on well. I liked her earthy sense of humour and straight talking.
‘Penny!’ I cried expansively, when she’d been put through. ‘What a pleasure.’
There was no warmth in her voice. ‘I think it won’t be a pleasure,’ she said. ‘Luke, we’ve got a problem.’
Forty
Eilish
‘You need to get rid of all this,’ said Stella, emerging from the downstairs cloakroom with an armful of Luke’s jackets and coats.
‘I will,’ I promised, taking them from her. ‘I’ll send them on to him. I just haven’t got around to it yet.’
‘Darling, it doesn’t get easier! I should know. Why don’t you let me sort everything out? He’s not going to come home and wear them.’
She was helping me with the spring issue of the parish newsletter. I’d first offered to edit the publication a decade ago, and still hadn’t found another mug to take it on. Luke thought this hilarious; he reckoned I did it in a desperate attempt to put credit in the heavenly account. The newsletter came out once a month, but in early March we pushed our bumper issue through every letterbox in the parish.
It had been a heart-lifting day, tinged with the first softness of spring. I’d picked a bunch of daffodils and they were in a vase on the kitchen table. I was writing the editor’s letter while Stella organised the layout—she’s a whizz at that kind of thing. The sun went down as we worked, Turkish-delight colours flaming through the copse.
‘You should announce it in here,’ Stella said, as she typed and clicked.
‘What?’
‘Luke. In your editor’s letter. It’s been a busy and exciting year for East Yalton and Cottingwith parish. We have a dishy new vicar, the Reverend . . .’ Stella’s brow furrowed. ‘Damn. Can’t remember the Rev’s name.’
‘Somebody Vallance.’
‘That’s it. Somebody Vallance, who looks about eighteen and is adored by all the flower-pot hats. St Matthew’s Church of England Primary School is proud to announce that they have a new IT suite, at vast expense, and also that its chair of governors is to be known henceforward as Miss Lucia Livingstone.’
‘There’d be fireworks,’ I said. ‘Luke’s been such a pillar of the community, and for so long.’
‘Mm. And the higher your pedestal, the more satisfying a crash you make when you fall. I discovered that after Steve got arrested.’
Once we were on the home straight, we opened the bottle of wine Stella had brought with her. I was just beginning to think about supper—I had a stew in the crockpot—when I noticed her peering
out of the window.
‘Little green sports car. Shall I nip out and see who it is?’
‘I know who it is,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’
I wasn’t surprised. Jim was still a frequent visitor, utterly unabashed by what had happened—or rather hadn’t happened—on New Year’s Eve. Today, though, he looked harassed.
‘Sorry not to phone first,’ he called out, hurrying across from his car. ‘Just on my way home. I need to talk to you. Urgently. You’ve got somebody here?’
I stood back to let him in. ‘Stella, this is Jim Chadwick. Jim, Stella Marriot . . . It’s all right. Neither of you has to be discreet. You both know about Luke.’
Stella was charm itself, but as soon as Jim’s back was turned she made meaningful faces at me. When he realised he’d left his lights on and ran back out to his car, she clutched my arm.
‘Is this the one who was chasing you? Phwoar!’
I chuckled. ‘Stel-la! We aren’t teenagers, and this isn’t the youth club. We don’t snog behind the bike sheds.’
‘So? Whoever said teenagers get a monopoly on romance? I’d be inviting him in for more than a glass of plonk, if I was in your shoes.’
Before she could warm to her theme, Jim strode back inside and took a glass out of my hand. Stella and I settled on the ragged sofa beneath the gallery, leaving an armchair free for him, but he didn’t take it. He paced around—across to the big windows, then back again.
‘You had something to talk about?’ I asked.
‘I did.’ He scratched his head. ‘I hate to be the bringer of bad tidings, but . . . well, really, I think I have to.’
‘Get on with it then. And for heaven’s sake, take a seat. We’re getting sore necks just watching you.’
‘Okay.’ He threw himself into the armchair. ‘It’s out.’
‘What’s out?’
‘Luke’s out.’
I heard an intake of breath from Stella.
‘He’s been seen in London,’ said Jim. ‘Wearing a skirt and carrying a handbag.’
‘Who saw him?’ I asked.
‘I’ve traced it to a lad who left school last year. Went to be a chef in one of the hotels. Ricky Tait? He had a job in the Bracton Arms for a while.’
I knew Ricky. I’d taught him. A good-looking lad; quite a charmer.
‘Is he sure it was Luke?’ I asked, clutching at a very small straw. ‘I mean, wouldn’t he look very different in those clothes? And it was probably just a glimpse. Ricky can’t actually prove it was Luke. Nobody’s going to believe him.’
‘Eilish.’ Jim leaned forward in his chair, demanding my attention. ‘Luke stopped to talk to a Big Issue seller. Ricky had time to take photographs on his phone.’
A photograph on a teenager’s phone. It took a moment for the significance to sink in. When it did, I stopped breathing. I put my hands to my face.
‘He shared them?’
‘They were all over the internet within ten minutes,’ said Jim. ‘They’ve been shared on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and WhatsApp and Snapchat, and other media I don’t even know about. They’re still being shared, right now. Those pictures are everywhere.’
‘WhatsApp?’
‘Smartphones. They were causing a sensation in the staffroom just as I was leaving. Mick Glover, Graeme Nelson . . . everyone knew. By tomorrow morning there won’t be a soul at Cottingwith High who hasn’t seen those photos.’
I felt faint. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Look, I think you should take a few days off work. It’s far too late to get them off the internet. It was too late the moment Ricky shared them, and that was ten seconds after he took them.’
‘Stable doors,’ said Stella.
‘And bolting horses,’ agreed Jim. ‘I’ll go and see Wally tomorrow morning, make him think about a damage limitation exercise.’
‘Have they looked at them?’ I asked. ‘Mick and Graeme, and the others?’
Jim looked sickened. ‘’Fraid so. Mick had them on his tablet. He was flashing them around. I threatened to ram the bloody thing down his throat.’
‘Quite right,’ muttered Stella. ‘This Mick’s an idiot, whoever he is.’
‘Have you seen them?’ I asked Jim.
‘No. But those who have assure me that it is unmistakably Luke.’
My private grief had become public gossip. It was breaking news, all over the district, right now. Guess what? Guess what? Have a look at these . . . Oh my God, that is a crack-up!
‘Couldn’t we pretend he was on his way to a fancy-dress party?’ suggested Stella.
‘The pictures were taken this morning, in broad daylight. Apparently they don’t have a . . . fancy-dress look about them.’
‘Poor Luke,’ I said.
Jim smacked his hands on his knees. ‘Eilish! For God’s sake, never mind poor Luke. You must understand—you must be ready. This is going to make your professional life bloody difficult. And your personal life.’
‘I’d better warn him straight away, before those photos get to Bannermans.’
‘Darling,’ said Stella, reaching for my hands. ‘Luke isn’t your problem.’
The phone rang. I stood up to answer it, but my mind was elsewhere. I was trying to take in what this meant; trying to focus on what I must do. There was absolutely no chance of hushing the whole thing up. I’d never been a great fan of social media—I’d only ever been on Facebook so I could see Kate and Carmela’s photos—but I knew that once an image has been released into the wild, it can never be recovered.
‘Eilish. It’s me.’ Luke’s voice.
‘If you’re phoning to tell me that you’re a celebrity, don’t bother. I already know.’
‘Oh, my love.’ He sounded shaken. ‘I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I didn’t think it would come out like this . . . I thought we’d have time, it could all be kept under control, you could distance yourself from me in advance. This is a nightmare. I don’t know how it’s happened.’
‘I do.’ I told him about Ricky Tait. ‘The kid should go into journalism,’ I said bitterly. ‘He has the killer instinct.’
‘I don’t blame him. Mrs Livingstone’s husband in drag! Quite a scoop.’
My mobile rang—stopped—then rang again. I didn’t look at it. Luke and I talked around and around the situation, both of us trying to understand the implications of what had happened. The news hadn’t reached Bannermans yet, but the clock was ticking because several of Luke’s colleagues lived in our area. He’d arranged to meet the management committee that same evening.
We were in for a hell of a storm. A part of me thought—as Kate would say—Bring it on! Screw the bastards. So Luke was cross-dressed. So he and I were a spicy scandal. So what? Real friends would stick by us; fair-weather ones would head for dry land.
‘I’ve a feeling we’re about to find out who our friends are,’ I said, watching as Stella put the kettle on, mouthing Tea? at me. In the background, Jim was quietly answering a call on his mobile phone. From his closed expression and hushed voice, I gathered it was about Luke.
My own mobile beeped. I had two missed calls and a text, all from Simon.
Call me. It’s about Dad.
‘It looks as though Simon’s heard the news,’ I said. ‘His hair will be standing on end.’
‘Oh dear—already? It’s like the Big Bang: from nothing to everything in a nanosecond. And it’s still expanding exponentially. People will be sharing it and sharing it, on and on.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Penny O’Neil phoned. She laid it on the line, because she’s been getting calls from parents who want me to resign. The logic seems to be that I cross-dress so I must be sleazy. Well, that’s fine. I’ve given her my resignation. I was struggling to do the job properly anyway, living in London.’
Oddly, this news made my blood boil. St Matthew’s owed a lot to Luke. He’d helped to turn the place around after they’d had an incompetent head, and they’d gone from strength to strength ever sin
ce. It was all voluntary, though clients of Bannermans would have paid a zillion pounds for that much of his time. How dare they condemn a man who’d been their friend for so many years? Which of them could cast the first stone?
‘It’s not fine!’ I said indignantly. ‘It’s shoddy and it’s bigoted and it’s a bloody disgrace. After all you’ve done for them! Did Penny want your resignation?’
‘She didn’t see any alternative.’
‘Spineless.’
‘Darling, truly, this doesn’t matter. All that matters now is you. I’ve brought shame on you.’
Jim had answered his mobile yet again. He’d turned away from me, but he was clearly agitated and I overheard a snatch of his conversation. Why the hell should she bow out? He got to his feet suddenly, and marched to the window and back. You’re out of your mind! You think we have SEN teachers of her calibre coming out of our ears?
We’re in trouble, I thought, Luke and I. Both of us. For better, for worse . . . and this is worse. Our world has changed again. It’s no longer safe.
I said the next words before I’d thought them through. They came out instinctively, but I knew they were right.
‘Will you come home?’
He didn’t answer me.
‘I want you to come home,’ I said clearly. ‘Just until this storm’s blown over. You can wear any damned clothes you want. You can call yourself whatever you want. We have to face this together.’
Forty-one
Simon
He couldn’t stop looking at them. Every time he looked, he wished he hadn’t.
They’d arrived by email, from an ex-schoolmate who said Simon might like to know what was doing the social media rounds; and was he aware that his father was a transvestite? It couldn’t have been much worse. Simon instantly recognised Luke, and yet it was a woman—wearing a skirt, a white blouse and a cardigan. She was nose to nose with a Big Issue seller. They seemed to be great mates.
Simon’s life was falling apart. Carmela had moved into the spare bedroom after their row on New Year’s Day. She said he snored when he’d been drinking. He hadn’t forgiven her for taking the children to Thurso Lane; she hadn’t forgiven him for reacting as he had. Stalemate.
The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 29
