The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (17 page)

‘Make-up. Shoes. You know.’

I could have slapped him. ‘I
don’t
know, Luke. These revelations may all seem perfectly run of the mill to you, but they are, in fact, utterly bizarre. Do you own a wig?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘Do you plan to?’

He looked guilty. It was almost comical—a few weeks ago I would have laughed uproariously at the idea of Luke wearing a wig. ‘This is early days for me,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know how to do these things. I’m learning.’

‘How do you learn?’ While he hesitated, a dreadful thought occurred to me. ‘Oh no. Have you been going to clubs? I’ve read about men who lead a double life. They’re Larry in one town and Lola in another. Some have . . .’ I recoiled from uttering the
words. ‘Some meet up . . . they have sex with people they meet on the internet. Is that what you’ve been doing? Have you been fantasising about sex with men, all our married life? Did you think about men when you were with me?’

‘No!’ He was shaking his head before I’d finished my sentence, looking shocked. ‘Come on, Eilish! You know me.’

‘I don’t, as it turns out.’

‘You
do
. I am still me. I haven’t changed.’

I could see a couple nearby, gazing into one another’s eyes like a pair of cats. They reached across their table to hold paws. Luke and I were like that once, I thought. Those two ought to be careful. They’ll burn their joined hands on that candle, and then they won’t look so bloody smug.

‘This has nothing to do with sex,’ insisted Luke. ‘Everybody seems to assume I’m planning on behaving like a rabbit on Viagra but—ah. Thank you.’

The waiter had arrived, bearing our meals aloft. He would have had to be stone deaf not to have overheard but, to his credit, he kept a poker-straight face as he refilled our glasses. I was sure my nose was beacon red, and he’d know I had been crying. While the waiter messed about with the pepper grinder, I was watching Luke. What was it about him that had changed? What
was
it? Suddenly, it hit me.

‘I don’t believe it!’ I cried, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. ‘You’ve been plucking your eyebrows.’

He looked shifty but didn’t try to deny it. The effect was quite subtle but now I’d spotted it, the difference was obvious. He crinkled his face in a pantomime of pain, prodding one shaped brow with his fingers. ‘Exquisite agony,’ he complained. ‘And time-consuming. Do women really do this stuff?’

‘I go to a threader called Shilpa, at the station. For ten quid she’ll give you beautiful curved arches. That’ll go down well at Bannermans.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Of course it bloody hurts!’

He stared down at his hands. His poor thumbnail was raw around the edges where he’d chewed it. ‘This morning I went to see a GP,’ he said.

No
. I thought I’d felt awful before, but this was ten times worse.

‘I can get help on the NHS,’ he continued. ‘Counselling, advice, hormones. But they’re overstretched. If I go down that route it’s going to be extremely slow. It’ll be months before I get a first appointment, then more months before a second. I’ll probably have to live as a woman before they give me hormones.’

‘Live as a . . . What does that mean?’

‘Present as a woman in public, every day. They call it the “RLE”. Real Life Experience.’

‘Real. Life. Experience,’ I repeated dazedly. ‘Sounds like a computer-simulated game.’

‘But it isn’t simulated, it’s real. It comes with real dangers and real problems and real humiliation. And the thing is . . . the whole process will happen much faster if I pay for my own treatment. I’d like to go to a private clinic. Baytrees. It will cost.’

Ah, I thought. So that’s where all this is leading. Money.

‘There are financial things we may need to talk about,’ said Luke.

I could imagine what Simon would have to say on the subject. He’d already been nagging me to see a solicitor and get the assets tied up.
He’s mentally unstable, Mum, he’ll drain every penny you have!

‘Are you planning on having surgery?’ I asked.

I was pleased to see him wince. ‘That’s a long, long way down the track. Most transgender people don’t go that far.’

‘And where does this leave our marriage? You want to kill Luke. You want to make me a widow.’

‘No.’

‘Yes! What other possible outcome can there be?’

‘I’ve never pretended to be the muscled caveman type, have I? You’ve always known that. All I’ll be doing is taking off the
mask. I will still be the same person. And I’ll never stop loving you.’

I shoved risotto around my plate, turning his words over and over in my mind, trying to find the flaw in them. The smoochy-cat couple leaned further towards one another and rubbed noses. Her hair was dangling dangerously close to that candle flame.

‘What are you suggesting?’ I asked. ‘That we live together as two women—or one woman and one weird hybrid? Is this really your grand plan?’ I shuddered. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Luke, I’m not a lesbian.’

‘No, no. I couldn’t ask for that. I’m suggesting we stay friends, close friends. All right—not living together, I understand that’s not possible for you, but surely we can salvage something? Our marriage wasn’t built on sex, was it? It was about love, and understanding, and—’

‘And trust, which you have betrayed.’

‘Did you love me because I was a man?’ He sounded desperate now. ‘Or because I was myself?’

‘The two are inseparable. Go on with this journey, if you must,’ I said, abandoning lunch and picking up my bag. ‘But you will be alone. I won’t support you in any way.’

The waiter seemed concerned as Luke paid the bill. Had we enjoyed the meal? We hadn’t wanted dessert, or coffee? He fetched my jacket and held it out for me to put on; but he didn’t hold out Luke’s Burberry, because Luke was a man and, apparently, men are capable of putting on their own coats.

Eighteen

Lucia

Evedale College had won the toss, and opted to bat second. Livingstone and Wilson were their openers. Theirs had been a successful partnership all season, the pair of them blasting the opposition bowlers to all four corners of the ground, and today was no exception. They were accumulating runs fast.

Livingstone felt a quiet anticipation as she leaned on her bat, waiting for the fielding team to get their act together. With a bit of luck she’d make a century with this next ball, which would be her third in three successive games. The last person to achieve such a hat trick was her own father, when he was captain of Evedale’s First XI. Poor old Dad would be on tenterhooks right now! She imagined him crouched in the scorebox, chewing on his knuckles while muttering maniacally to himself.

A welcome breeze rippled her shirt. She was always happier at the crease, when the human race became a blur of figures in white. It was one of those rare times when she needn’t be afraid of giving herself away. Out here she was just another batsman, judged on her ability to hit that ball—and she was good at doing that; she revelled in the tactics and skills of this game. She was fit, too, and that was a great feeling.

Distant shouts floated from a crowd of children playing tag. Half-term began today, and her teammates’ little brothers and sisters had come along for the picnic. Parents and teachers were lounging along the perimeter of the ground, pretending to watch while gossiping and knocking back the wine they’d brought in their cool boxes. Getting tipsy, probably. She could see her mother flirting with Mr Van Breda, the music teacher. Lucia thought Mr VB was a pompous twit. Mum thought he was the spitting image of Christopher Plummer, and was always making excuses to talk to him.

At the non-striker’s end of the pitch, Dan Wilson peeled off his cricket sweater and handed it to the umpire. Dan was going to join the army after leaving school. Lucia wondered whether she should do the same thing, instead of law. Nobody would ever suspect her while she was in uniform. Her father would be delighted; it might even make up for her not going to agricultural college and taking over the farm. And maybe—just maybe—military life would make her feel like a man.

The Hollyoaks bowler she was about to face was the lankiest boy she’d ever seen; what Dad would call ‘a streak of weasel’s piss’. He was taking himself very seriously, polishing the ball on his inner thigh while having a confab with his team captain. They kept glancing her way, plotting against her. It was funny, really. These lads were sixth formers; they all had gap years, or apprenticeships, or university life ahead of them. Soon they’d be soldiers and farmers, lawyers and plumbers. Yet right here, right now, winning this game was all that mattered.

At last the field was ready—and so was she. As the bowler began his run, the world seemed to shrink until there was nothing but that ball. She watched as the lanky figure bounded and coiled. When he turned sideways, he almost disappeared. Even before the ball had left his hand, she knew exactly where it was going to pitch.
Yep, here it comes—right on leg stump
.

Always satisfying, that resounding crack, and the knowledge that the ball was sailing to the boundary.

‘Century!’ yelled Dan Wilson, charging up to slap her on the back. Lucia couldn’t keep the jubilation from her face. She wasn’t often happy, but she was happy right now. She’d go down in the school record books. Dad would be proud as punch. Mr Van Breda shouted, ‘Bravo!’, though she knew that was just to ingratiate himself with her mother.

They finally got her out for a hundred and seven. Ah, well. She heard a smattering of applause as she strolled back to the pavilion, but to her ears it sounded weary. The parents were bored, and sunburned, and they’d probably run out of booze. They wanted to go home. Her father wasn’t bored, though. He’d taken a break from his duties in the scorebox and was scurrying across to meet her, clapping as loudly as was humanly possible.

‘Well played,’ he bellowed. ‘Good man!’

Her happiness collapsed. It was fragile, after all, and easily crushed by a ton of shame. It was time to become Luke again. It was time to be a Good Man.

So he walked on across the field, a lone figure in white, swinging his bat. When he reached his father, they shook hands.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ he said.

Luke

I felt his strong farmer’s hand clasping mine. He looked as though all his Christmases had come at once. Guilt darkened my victory. The darkness hung over me still, as I woke in my lonely bachelor pad. Today was the day. Sorry, Dad. The shadow was with me while I dressed and set off for the Baytrees Gender Clinic.

It was very discreet; just a short walk from Archway tube station, in a row of identical Victorian houses. There was no sign outside, just the number. You could live next door and not know it was there. I bet the neighbours wondered who these people were who came and went so quietly; perhaps they thought it was the headquarters of some arcane cult.

I rang the bell, and a young woman—discretion written all over her face—showed me into what looked like an upmarket dentist’s waiting room, but without that unsettling smell of mouthwash. She offered me coffee, which I declined, and gave me a form to fill in. My medical history, my families’ history, my GP’s address.

It was like visiting another country. The clinic was a tiny, secret principality in the middle of London where the normal rules didn’t apply. After a lifetime of being an alien who might at any moment be unmasked and deported, I’d arrived in a land where I belonged. I was welcome. I had a passport.

There was a carriage clock in the waiting room. It sat above the fireplace, busy with its tick-tick-ticking. We’d had one just like it when I was small. Every Sunday evening, while we were eating our leftover chicken sandwiches, Mum would put up her feet with a cup of tea and the
Radio Times
. Dad and I would reverently lift off the glass dome and wind the clock with a tiny gold key. He had such big hands, but he could do such delicate things.

See, Luke, the key goes into here . . . Now, we have to be careful not to wind it too far. Good boy. Good boy.

The receptionist gave a gentle cough. Mr Brotherton was free now, she said, if I would come this way. I was still thinking about Dad as I followed her.

I’d looked at the website and knew that Ian Brotherton was a clinical psychologist who’d pooled a group of colleagues to set up this clinic as a one-stop shop. The man who met me at the door of the room was perhaps forty, wearing a sleeveless sweater and a tie, and his shape was disarmingly teddy-bearish. I thought I detected a faint Lancashire accent. He motioned me into a leather armchair.

‘Now,’ he said, sitting down opposite and leaning towards me. ‘I have a letter from Dr Cameron, which is very helpful. I know you’ve already told your story to her, but let’s start again.’

I’d never talked about myself so much. Never in my life. It seemed narcissistic, but Brotherton was persistent. He started by
asking me about my childhood, my parents and my sisters, and the sort of family we’d been. He wanted minute detail, much of which didn’t seem relevant at all. We talked about my work. We talked about my marriage, with the usual embarrassing questions about sex. Perhaps I should get a card printed, I thought, to hand out to professionals:
Yes, I was faithful to my wife. No, sex isn’t especially important to me. No, I don’t want to have sex with men.
He asked about my general health, and my mental health, especially the episodes diagnosed as depression. Then he changed the subject again.

‘You and Eilish have two children?’

‘Three.’

His eyebrows went up. He looked again at Dr Cameron’s referral letter.

‘Two living,’ I explained. ‘Charlotte died immediately after her birth. It was a very difficult time.’

‘I think that’s an understatement.’

‘Yes. But this isn’t something I want to talk about.’

He leaned back in his chair, and it creaked under his bulk. I saw that this was something he
did
want to talk about, and sighed.

‘You never quite get over it,’ I said. ‘Eilish closed up for a long time. I went back to work after a fortnight, which I expected of myself and the world expected of me. But I had difficulty concentrating. I stopped sleeping. When I did sleep, I had dreams.’