The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (32 page)

‘I thought he stood you up.’

‘He did—then he didn’t. It’s a bit of a long story. I’ll get the kettle on.’

She was bearing flowers as well as goodies from a delicatessen, and I had a nasty feeling these offerings were designed to soften some blow. I laid the table for lunch while she told her story. It seemed Owen was in deep disgrace: partly because he’d been so late to arrive at the pub, and partly because he’d arrived at all.

‘Sounds as though he saved you from being abducted,’ I said when she described the man who’d tried to pick her up. ‘Probably a serial killer, preying on single women in pubs.’

‘Peter was out for a drink with his sister and her fiancé. I don’t think he fits the profile of a predatory killer, Mum. It wasn’t even a pick-up, really.’

‘Hmm . . . you never know. Anyway, Owen’s happy with this woman, Eva?’

‘Seems to be. But don’t you think it’s all a bit kinky? He’s not much older than her sons.’

‘I don’t think our family is in a position to judge the kinkiness of others,’ I said. ‘What I can’t quite follow is why he had to make such a meal of telling you. Was he afraid you’d be upset?’

‘Ah.’ She looked at me with a half-smile, and I knew that this was what she’d really come for. ‘Good question. At that point, I discovered what a total wanker Owen really is. He said he wanted me to come outside. So I went into the street with him, and who d’you think I saw?’

‘Was it Mrs Jones and her teenagers?’

‘Thankfully not.’

‘Um . . . Owen’s parents?’

‘Nope.’

‘I give up.’

‘Wait here. Brace yourself.’ Kate hurried out of the front door and over to her borrowed car. Curious now, I stood watching. Suddenly the quiet was shattered by a wild bark, and something came hurtling across the gravel: something white, fluffy, and far too energetic to be cooped up in a car. He ran right around the house before galloping up to me.

‘Baffy!’ I bent down to pat the dog. ‘I thought we were rid of you.’

‘He was tied up outside the pub, freezing cold,’ said Kate. ‘Wearing a stupid tartan coat, but still shivering. I had to rush him straight home to get him warm. I nipped back to the pub later, but the serial killer had left.’

‘So Owen’s going on holiday, and wants a dog-sitter?’

Kate watched as Baffy charged off again, barking at some birds. ‘Mum, here’s the thing. Eva and her sons are allergic to dogs. Well, so she says, sounds like bollocks to me. She’s probably just a control freak. Poor old Baffy is now surplus to requirements in Owen’s life. So he brought him over and dumped him on me.’

‘He can’t do that! Baffy’s no angel, and Mathis and John have just redecorated that place. It’s their pride and joy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re on the first floor. No garden.’

‘No garden, not so much as a balcony. And he goes insane if he can’t get outside.’

The awful truth was dawning on me. Lose a husband, gain a dog.

‘Um,’ said Kate. ‘I have a favour to ask.’

Thirty-three

Simon

An enormous Christmas tree was not designed to be carried in a small car.

He and Nico had chosen an extravagant one from a stall outside the tube station, but getting it home proved a challenge. In the end he managed to cram it into the car by moving Nico’s seat to the front. The top of the tree poked between them and covered up the gearstick. By the time he’d parked outside their house, Simon had a faceful of pine needles.

‘Magnificent!’ cried Carmela, as her menfolk carried it through the front door—Nico holding only the very tip, and making this-is-heavy groaning noises. ‘Birnam Wood is come to Dunsinane! Coffee’s ready, Simon, just the way you like it, and then would you go into the cellar and find the decorations? I tried to do it but the light has blown and I tripped over something. It’s chaos down there. I would have changed the bulb, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea with this passenger I’m carrying.’

She smiled over her shoulder. Rosa was fast asleep, tightly strapped to her mother’s back in a bright red cloth. Only the upper part of the baby’s face was showing. She seemed soothed by the warmth and movement. Simon could see her dark lashes
fluttering, as he stooped to nuzzle one softly curled ear. She smelled of milk, and he felt his heart swell. It was one of those good moments. This—now—was all he wanted. Nico wandered off to play with his Lego.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Carmela.

‘That’s a worrying opener.’ Simon made a mock-frightened face. ‘You’re planning on real reindeer this year? Think of the mess.’

She walked away, into the kitchen, and he followed.

‘Christmas can’t be a family gathering at your mother’s house,’ she said. ‘Not this year.’

‘No.’ Simon felt his shoulders sag. No more happy family events.

‘So I think we should invite your mother to come here.’

‘Great idea! But she’ll bring that maniac of a dog. I can’t believe Kate dumped him on her.’

‘We can cope with Baffy,’ said Carmela, smiling as she handed him a cup of coffee. ‘So shall we also ask Kate, and Meg, and even Wendy? Let’s gather them all here, around our tree. The children will keep things happy.’

Simon drew her closer to him. She was so thoughtful; so good at caring for his family. He knew how much she missed her own.

‘You are a wonderful, wonderful girl,’ he said fervently, kissing her. ‘I’ll phone Mum.’

‘And what about your father?’

The perfection of the moment died. Simon dropped his arms. ‘He’s out of the picture,’ he said flatly. ‘We agreed.’

‘It’s Christmas, Simon, and he’s alone.’

‘For Christ’s sake! Do we have to have this conversation? He’s made his bed.’

‘It is still Christmas, and he is still alone. He has not even seen his granddaughter.’ Carmela reached back, touching the fluff of Rosa’s hair. ‘She is the most precious treasure, and he’s excluded. He sent presents today, they came in the post. And . . . you know what? I think you miss him.’

Simon drained his coffee. ‘I’ll change that light bulb,’ he said, and stomped out of the room.

Carmela was tenacious. She followed him to the top of the cellar steps, her shape outlined in the light from the hallway behind her. Simon was up a ladder by then, changing the bulb.

‘Why won’t you admit that you miss him?’ she asked.

He ignored her. This wasn’t fair. Nobody should have to argue with a stubborn woman when they were risking their neck in a pitch-black cellar.

‘Why, Simon? Nico asks all the time, “Where is Grandpa, where is Grandpa?” What shall we tell him?’

Sometimes, if he was dogged enough in his silence, she’d give up. But not this time.

‘This is your problem too,’ she persisted. ‘What do we tell Nico?’

‘Fucking bulb, it’s broken off in the fitting. Hang on . . . bloody hell, now I’ve cut myself, I’m bleeding all over the place . . . Look, do we really have to discuss this now?’

‘I think we do.’

‘Ouch, that’s sharp. Okay. How about we tell him Grandpa’s ill?’

‘And have him develop some morbid fear that Luke is about to die? No.’

‘All right. We’ll say he’s been really, really naughty and we don’t want to see him anymore. That’s the truth.’

She sounded doubtful. ‘Naughty?’

‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘I know what will come next. He’ll ask if Luke’s sitting on the bottom stair. That’s where naughty people go, in Nico’s world. The bottom stair.’

‘Try the switch now.’ Simon felt a dull satisfaction as the light went on. ‘Bingo! And then there was light. Right, where are these decorations?’

‘In the plastic box. No, not that one. There, behind those rolls of wallpaper.’

Simon carried the box upstairs, licking his forefinger as Carmela bolted the cellar door behind them.

‘You tell him, then,’ she said. ‘You tell him his grandpa can’t be his friend anymore.’

‘Okay, I will.’

‘Now?’

‘Next time he asks.’ Simon dumped the box next to the Christmas tree. ‘He might never ask again. It’s been months since he saw Dad. He’ll soon forget.’

Rosa stirred in her papoose and opened her eyes. She was a sleepy little clam peering out of its safe place. Simon stroked her head. He had to protect her, and Nico too. He hated to think of the sniggers and teasing, if other children knew they had a freakish grandparent. He’d heard that kind of laughter before.

Even in broad daylight, the girl from the club was a work of art. Jessica Stent was her name: a real live person, not a lager-induced mirage. He kept his hands to himself now that they were both sober. They sat by the river, talking all afternoon, sometimes kissing. They cared about the same things. Jessica was one of two siblings, like him, and she also had a father who was a lawyer. She liked Simon. She really liked him. Someone as wonderful as her liked geeky, awkward Simon Livingstone.

He didn’t tell his friends; he knew how they talked about women. At night he imagined tearing her clothes off; but by day, when she firmly removed his hands from her bottom, he respected her for it. This wasn’t just about sex. She was special. He caught himself daydreaming about her all the time. He thought he was falling in love with her.

They were walking through the botanical gardens when he told her so. It was raining, and he’d lent her his jacket. She stopped in her tracks, grasping his hands.

‘You mean it?’ she whispered.

‘Of course.’

‘Yes, but you really mean it?’

Simon sank down onto one knee. ‘Allow me to express my undying adoration.’

‘Thank you! Oh my God, I never thought this would happen to me. But you’ll change your mind when you know me better.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

She laughed, shook her head, laughed again—and promptly burst into tears. He put his arms around her, feeling baffled. Weren’t girls meant to be pleased when you said you loved them?

‘You’ll hate me,’ she sobbed. ‘You will.’

When he got home, Quinn—one of his housemates—was eating noodles out of a bowl. The two students punched their knuckles together in greeting.

‘Been in the library, Livingstone?’ asked Quinn.

‘Nope.’

‘Why are you grinning like a blithering idiot?’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are!’ Quinn paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Did you just get laid?’

‘Is that all you think about?’ Simon was opening a tin of baked beans. Nobody in the house ever did any washing up. Plates and other crockery lay in piles over every surface. New life forms had grown in the fridge, and the pantry was home to the fattest, sleekest colony of mice in the world.

Quinn finished his noodles and dumped his bowl in the overflowing sink. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, wiping his mouth. ‘You can tell Uncle Quinn.’

‘Okay. It’s the girl from Moroney’s.’

Quinn stared. Then he chuckled uncertainly, as though hoping Simon had just made a joke.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Why would I be kidding?’

‘Seriously, Livingstone. You’re banging that blonde we saw you hooking up with in Moroney’s?’

‘I’m not banging her. I’m just . . . seeing her.’

‘Whew.’ Quinn wiped his brow. ‘Lucky.’

Simon was annoyed. ‘What the hell are you on about? She’s a stunner.’

‘The chambermaid from the White Hart? Legs up to her armpits? Mate . . .’ Quinn had begun to smirk. He seemed embarrassed, but at the same time he was obviously enjoying himself. ‘Look, you’ve got to know. Um, how do I put this? She’s not a
she
. She’s a
he
.’

‘You’ve got the wrong girl.’

Quinn was trying to hold in the laughter, but it escaped in a great gush of sound. ‘He’s a tranny!’ he gasped, as he sobbed with mirth. ‘He’s packing all the tackle you’ve got, and more. Fergus was chasing him a while back. The DJ warned him off. Sorry, mate, we should have told you. We thought you’d grope him and get the fright of your life . . . but you came home and never said anything, and I haven’t seen you since.’

Simon remembered Jessica gripping his hands, tears on her cheeks. ‘You’re having me on.’

‘Mate, that’s a tranny. Ask the DJ at Moroney’s, his sister works at the White Hart. That leggy blonde was seen taking a shower. He’s got tits! He’s saving up for the op, going to have it in Thailand.’

Without another word, Simon retreated to his bedroom. He sat on the floor, feeling sick. Soon he heard his other housemates coming home. At first there was suppressed laughter, and then gales of it. They weren’t good at keeping their voices down, and what he heard made him hate them all.
Snogged a lady boy!
. . .
Is he a shirt lifter?
. . .
Poor old Livingstone, didn’t know he was that desperate!

He wanted to kill somebody. When he opened his bedroom door, someone said, ‘Hi, Simon,’ as though nothing had happened. Then they all exploded. They slapped him on the back—in a friendly, patronising way—and asked him how it was, and were her tits real, or silicone?

He smiled weakly and accepted the cans of warm lager they offered him. He drank quite a few of them. Later, when the others were watching
Doctor Who
, he quietly left the flat. His blood was racing by the time he got to the White Hart. His mind was on fire. He’d got down on one knee . . . he’d said the word
love
! Hell, he–she would be laughing at him now. Simon would make him–her stop laughing.