‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’ he’d demanded one morning when he couldn’t take any more of her cold politeness. ‘Is this all about Dad?’
‘No. This is all about you.’
So he went to work without saying goodbye, and in the evening he lingered at the pub. This soon became a routine. It seemed easier than going home and trying to put things right.
The girl in the club was haunting him again, as she had years ago. Sometimes he dreamed about her—graphic, erotic dreams—and woke up to find himself aroused. On those mornings he couldn’t look anyone in the eye. He couldn’t even look himself in the eye.
And now this. His father, the drag queen, plastered across the internet.
Nico was looking for him, running around the house. ‘Daddy! Where are you? We have to go to swimming now.’
‘In a minute,’ Simon yelled back. ‘You get ready.’
‘I’ve got my things. I don’t wanna be late. The teacher tells us off if we’re late.’
The woman in the photos had changed since Simon saw her in the kitchen of Thurso Lane. She was much more convincing in her disguise. She had a different stance: one hand on the strap of her bag, the other delicately touching her own cheek as she listened intently to whatever the Big Issue seller was saying. There was no wig now. She wore her own dark hair like a woman’s. Her eyes seemed wider, her mouth fuller. She looked disturbingly feminine.
Jessica was convincing, too. Even after she admitted what she was, and lay sobbing in the rain, she seemed like a real girl. That was what was so creepy about these people.
‘Daddy, come on!’ Nico charged into the room, and Simon quickly closed the page. The first thing to do was to look after Mum. This was going to blow her apart. He must warn her before she heard it from someone else.
‘Shush a minute, I’m busy.’
‘I’ll be late,’ whined Nico. ‘I don’t wanna be late. I’ll be late, I don’t wanna . . .’
Jesus, I can’t hear myself think. The phone at Smith’s Barn was engaged. No luck with Mum’s mobile, either. He began to write a text.
Nico tugged on his arm. ‘Pleeease! I don’t wanna be late . . .’
‘For Christ’s sake, shut up!’ snapped Simon. ‘Selfish little brat.’
Nico burst into noisy tears. Carmela must have heard the commotion, because she appeared in the doorway, holding Rosa on her hip.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded. Nico ran to her, still wailing, and she bent to comfort him.
Simon looked up from his phone. ‘What’s going on is that someone’s managed to take photos of my father in drag, and the pictures have gone viral.’
‘No!’ Carmela blinked several times, processing the information. ‘So the secret’s out? Poor Eilish.’
‘Yep. The world is laughing at the Livingstone family right now, as we speak. I told Dad! I warned him—and now he’s done this to us.’
‘I’m sorry, Simon. We’ll talk about it later.’ Carmela looked at her watch. ‘But Nico’s going to be late for swimming if you don’t set out right now. It’s a good ten minutes’ walk.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does,’ she said firmly. ‘Especially with all this stress. He needs normality.’
‘Fine.’ Simon stood up. ‘I’ll take him to his sodding swimming.’
Weird places, public swimming pools. There was something hellish about the smell of chlorine and the echoing water. Parents sat along the spectator benches, pretending to watch their children but actually gossiping and messing about with their phones. Perhaps they all knew. Perhaps they were looking at the pictures—yes, there were two fathers laughing at something on a screen. He couldn’t face them. He helped Nico to change and then quickly left, searching for a refuge.
There was a licensed cafe across the road; its lights beckoned through the gloom. He hid in a warm corner with a bottle of Heineken. And then another. And one more. From time to time he stole a horrified, fascinated glance at the pictures on his phone.
He was heading for the toilets when Carmela rang.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Nowhere.’
‘I’ve just had a call from the receptionist at the pool. I think you forgot our son.’
There can be no sight more forlorn than that of a five-year-old boy clutching his swimming bag and waiting all alone. Nico was wearing only one sock, his jeans were wet and his sweatshirt was on inside out.
‘Buddy,’ cried Simon, rushing into the pool’s foyer with outstretched arms. ‘I’m so sorry!’
Nico must have been putting on a brave face for the receptionist; but when he saw his father, the facade crumpled.
‘You left me,’ he whimpered, and burst into tears.
‘He thought you weren’t coming.’ The woman wasn’t amused. ‘The other children have been gone half an hour. He thought you didn’t want him anymore.’
Simon dropped to his knees and hugged the little boy.
‘Heartbroken,’ added the woman, whose job description seemed to include making parents feel as guilty and inadequate as possible.
‘D’you want some crisps, Nico?’ asked Simon. ‘Or chocolate?’
Even bribery didn’t work. Simon gathered the wailing child into his arms, thanked the receptionist—who managed a frosty smile—and carried him outside.
‘You left me,’ said Nico, between sobs. ‘You left me, Daddy.’
‘Shush, buddy. I’m sorry. I got held up.’
‘Held up where?’
‘Shush.’
‘You left me.’
Simon carried his son all the way home, which was no mean feat. ‘You’re getting heavy,’ he puffed, but Nico just pressed his face closer and held on tighter.
As they turned into their street, Nico seemed to cheer up a bit. ‘Nearly home. Mummy’s going to be cross with you.’
‘Yep. I’d say that’s a fair assumption.’
‘The swimming pool lady was very cross with you. She said she was sick of people using her as a babysitter.’
Carmela was waiting at the front door. Nico scrambled down from Simon’s arms and ran to her. She took one look at her husband, guessed exactly where he’d been all evening, and was furious. He knew the telltale spots of crimson on her cheeks.
‘You were drinking,’ she said.
‘Just a swift half.’
‘Or two.’
‘He’s fine,’ protested Simon. ‘He’s just been chatting.’
‘He’s not fine. He was really distressed. They told me when they rang.’
Simon looked at Nico, who had his face buried in Carmela’s jersey. ‘What’s up with him nowadays? He never used to cry all the time.’
‘He senses things, Simon. He feels the atmosphere. He’s not stupid.’
She swept the child away, hissing insults at Simon in Spanish. For the next hour, she was completely focused on the children. She gave Nico supper and a bath, and tucked both him and Rosa up in bed. Meanwhile, Simon sat in the kitchen, feeling truculent and demolishing a bottle of wine. He was distinctly the worse for wear by the time Carmela reappeared.
‘I don’t believe it!’ she cried, glaring at the bottle. ‘More alcohol? After you forgot our son?’
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Grab yourself a glass.’
She turned around and walked out of the room.
‘Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,’ he yelled after her. He knew he was drunk; he was too drunk to care. ‘And other clichés.’
He desperately wanted her to storm back into the kitchen and yell at him. She didn’t. After half an hour he began to feel uneasy. He walked around the house looking for her. In the end he found her sitting at the writing desk with her face in her hands. He made his way to an armchair—stumbling once or twice—and sank into it. God, what a bloody awful day this had turned out to be. He didn’t know what to say; he couldn’t think how to put all this right.
‘What’re you doing?’ he asked.
She shrugged.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I was thinking about those photos. I lost track of time.’
‘We can’t go on like this, Simon.’
This sounded ominous. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘You are drinking too much. You are angry too often. You are not a good father anymore. The children will suffer if this continues, and I have to protect them.’
He stared at her, processing what she’d said. Not a good father? Christ almighty, that wasn’t fair.
‘Are you serious? I was late collecting Nico—okay, I put my hands up for that heinous crime; fair cop, probably a capital offence—but the world didn’t end.’ When she didn’t respond, he punched the arm of his chair. ‘Fuck’s sake! Why does every little mistake I make have to be a massive drama?’
‘There you go again. Shouting and swearing. Angry straight away. Why so angry?’
‘Too bloody right, I’m angry! Today was the day my father’s perversion got splashed across the internet. Everyone will know by now. And you took my children to see him. I can’t get over that.’
She was shaking her head sadly, as though he were a hopeless case. ‘You know what? I think you are grieving for your father. I think you feel as Nico did this evening. Abandoned. Bewildered.’
‘Oh, God. Now we’re an amateur psychologist, are we? I’m not five years old.’
‘No, Simon, you are not. So get over it, and forgive, and move on.’
He wasn’t up to this. He felt very drunk now, and unpleasantly close to tears. He stood, swayed, and grabbed the back of a chair. ‘I can’t handle a fucking stupid conversation. I’m going to bed.’
‘No. Don’t run away again.’
He wanted to be somewhere else, away from her. ‘I’ve had enough of you telling me how to think, Carmela. I’ve had enough of the whole lot of you. I’ve had enough, okay?’
‘Go then!’ shouted Carmela, as he hauled himself up the stairs. ‘Run away, you coward. You will lose more than your father.’
He managed to get into the bathroom, where he took a pee. The walls seemed to be whirling slowly, as though he’d just stepped off the roundabout in the playpark. As he lurched across the landing he heard Rosa begin to cry. His baby girl would be pleased to see him, even if nobody else was.
She was sitting up in her cot, wearing her red all-in-one suit and gripping the bars like a miniature prisoner. When she saw him, she held out her hands and cried extra loud. Even in his addled state, he knew that he loved her.
‘C’mon moppet,’ he said, lifting her out and sitting down in the one small armchair that would fit in the room. There was a child’s cup of water standing on the table. She reached for it as he handed it to her, and held it to her own mouth. Clever girl. He heard the slurping sound she made, and held her closer still.
The room was in darkness except for a nightlight in one corner. Rosa’s little body relaxed, and he felt her head lolling against his chest. His own head felt heavy. He closed his eyes.
At the age of nineteen, Simon Livingstone learned something about himself. He learned that he wasn’t capable of pushing broken glass into the face of another human being. He hurled the bottle against the wall.
‘I should kill you,’ he said. ‘Someday, someone will kill you.’
She reached to touch his face, and he felt her fingertips. He took hold of her shoulders and pushed with all the strength of his fury. It was like knocking over a rag doll. She hit the ground hard, and lay in a puddle.
‘I am Jessica,’ she sobbed, again and again. ‘I am Jessica.’
For a moment he felt sorry for her. Then he remembered the sniggers of his flatmates. This freak had made a fool of him, and he–she was still manipulating; still trying to get sympathy. Well, the games were over. He strode out of the car park and away through the centre of town. He’d fallen for a guy. He had touched and kissed and lusted after a guy. What did that make him—gay? Perhaps he was. After all, he’d been attracted to another man. He felt filthy. He felt betrayed. He couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy or normal again.
The next day, Quinn reported that the lady boy had left his job at the hotel in the middle of the night, without stopping to collect his wages. At around the same time, a text arrived on Simon’s phone. He read it, deleted it, and blocked the number. But he couldn’t erase the girl in the club from his memory.
So so sorry I didn’t tell you before. Thanks for the happiness. I am Jessica.
Forty-two
Luke
Judi had gathered nine members of the management committee in a conference room, and made sure there was coffee. I was pleased to see both Benjamin Rose and the senior partner, Sarah Arkwright. The managing partner, a bean counter called Giles Lea, and some of the practice heads I knew very well; others less so. They were politely baffled to be collared in this way, looking at their watches.
‘I need to be away by eight,’ warned Sarah. ‘I’ve got another meeting elsewhere.’ She was an indomitable warhorse who struck terror into the hearts of trainees.
‘You will be, Sarah,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk fast.’
I was getting much, much better at this. I had my spiel ready, and it took exactly three minutes. When I’d finished, there was a lot of leg shuffling, and throat clearing, and Benjamin asking unhurriedly, Let me just understand this, Luke. You’re telling us that you are transsexual? One of the litigation partners—Hugh Tolly—fired up his iPad and began reading emails. Others looked stunned, or intrigued, or amused.
‘What are the implications?’ asked Sarah. Her voice was crisp. She wanted to cut to the chase so that she could get away.
I began to answer, but was interrupted by Hugh Tolly. ‘Are you going to have a sex change?’
‘I’ve already told you that I’ll be presenting as female. So yes, that will be a change of gender.’
‘Oh, come on.’ There was a taunting, school-bully ring to his voice. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Are you going to have The Operation?’
I smiled at him. ‘If you mean will I be having gender reassignment surgery at some point in the future, the answer is that I haven’t yet made that decision. Also that it’s none of your business. It isn’t generally regarded as polite to ask intimate medical questions.’
‘Why haven’t you resigned?’
‘I’m not sure it’s called for.’
‘Of course it’s bloody called for. I’m calling for it. From what you’ve told us, there are compromising photos of you all over the internet.’
Judi leaned towards him across the conference table. ‘You’ll be aware of the discrimination laws,’ she said pleasantly. ‘If you look at our website, we do rather brag about our equal opportunities record. Look on the bright side! This will be a feather in our diversity cap.’
‘This isn’t about discrimination,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s about loyalty to this firm. We rely on professional relationships. We’re going to lose half our clients if they have to take advice from a wolf in Granny’s nightie. He needs to clear his desk.’
Sarah had clearly heard enough. ‘Shut up, Hugh, before you get us all into expensive trouble.’ She had a very penetrating voice. Hugh shut up.
To my own surprise, I found I was thoroughly enjoying this meeting. I was running on adrenaline and it felt terrific, like flying. After years of hiding, years of fear and shame, I had finally broken cover and was standing in the open. I was who I was. My mind was clear and focused.
‘I would like to transition at Bannermans,’ I said. ‘That means present myself full-time as female. Judi and I had planned to roll it out in an organised way: give out plenty of information, allow the whole thing time to normalise. It’s been done before, as you know. There are transgender people in the legal profession—well, in every walk of life. We had a detailed timetable, working towards July.’
‘But you’ve been outed,’ said Benjamin, without rancour.
‘I have, Benjamin. And I’m sorry.’
He brushed away the apolog
y. ‘Which changes everything. So your new plan is . . . ?’
‘We have hours, days at the most, before these photographs arrive on the first screen here. Once that happens they’ll be on every screen. It’s no good hoping people will refuse to look or share them—of course they will. Heck, I would, if Hugh was wearing his Spider-Man costume.’
There was some laughter. Hugh scowled at me.
‘We’ll have to pre-empt the arrival of those photographs,’ said Giles Lea. ‘Damage limitation.’
Judi took a stack of paper from a file, and slid copies of a document across the polished surface of the table. Like me, she was in her element. ‘I’ve already prepared a memo. Here it is. My suggestion is that I send it out at eight o’clock on Monday morning, by email, to absolutely everybody, including support staff and caterers. You can see I’ve included links to a website—it’s excellent, very informative about gender identity. I’ve also sourced an organisation who can come in and run training workshops, if you think that’s necessary.’
Hugh snorted and asked how many man hours did we intend to squander? Political correctness gone mad, he said.
‘I hate to agree with Hugh, but I can’t see why training would be necessary,’ remarked Sarah, who’d scanned the letter within five seconds. ‘Surely we can educate ourselves. Have we taken advice on how to handle the situation?’
Judi nodded. ‘I’ve just come off the phone from an ex-colleague of mine who’s experienced something very similar. The advice is that Luke should stay at his desk for the next week. It won’t be much fun for him, with these images floating around, but if he simply disappears it’ll fuel more speculation—quite apart from the practical difficulties of rescheduling his diary. From next Friday, he’ll take some leave. While he’s gone, we change the website details and letterheads and do other admin. He’ll return to Bannermans in the new gender role on March the ninth. We’ll send out another memo closer to the time, about feminine pronouns and other landmines to avoid.’
The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 30
