The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (33 page)

It was dark behind the hotel. Very dark. Not quiet, though, because people were coming home from the pubs. Beer bottles lay discarded beside the recycling bin. He picked one up by the neck, and smashed its base against a wall. Then he sent a text.

Come out. I’m round the back, by the bins. I’ve got something for you.

They decorated the tree together, singing along to Christmas carols on the stereo. The fairy lights didn’t work, and Simon had to nip out and buy some more, but that was all part of Christmas. Even Rosa seemed interested, until she began to whimper, and then wail.

Nico gently touched her face. ‘She’s hungry,’ he said. ‘You’d better stick her up your jumper, Mummy.’

‘There are already some presents to go under the tree,’ Carmela told Simon as she swung the baby off her back. ‘In the cupboard where I keep my shoes. Could you get them?’

Simon looked through the pile of presents, leaving aside the four with his father’s handwriting on them. He’d give those ones away. He put the rest into a pillow case, slung it over one shoulder and carried it downstairs, making Father Christmas ho-ho-ho noises.

‘You’re not fat or jolly enough to be Santa,’ said Carmela. ‘And if you ever grow a white bushy beard, or prance about with a pack of elves, I shall divorce you.’

Nico had parked himself on a stool, watching his mother feed the baby. He’d got used to the sight and didn’t seem at all jealous.
Later that evening, Rosa would be grumpy, and her parents would carry her up and down, up and down; but right now she was tucking in with happy murmurs.

When Simon emptied his sack under the tree, Nico scrambled off the stool. ‘Will the proper Santa be coming?’ he asked, looking at the treasure.

‘Mm. Down the chimney.’ Simon felt guilty about lying to his son. He considered himself an honest man, and yet here he was, spinning a right old whopper. Next year, he thought, I’ll tell him the truth. Or maybe the year after that.

‘Does the sleigh come down the chimney, too?’

‘The sleigh . . .’ God, what lie was he supposed to tell now? ‘Um, I think it stays on the roof. But, hey, we’re going to ask Granny and Kate to come on Christmas Day, and see our tree.’

‘Will Grandpa be coming?’

Simon’s smile froze.

‘Well?’ asked Carmela, her eyebrows raised in sarcastic inquiry. ‘I think you’d better answer the question. Will Grandpa be coming?’

Nico was standing beside the Christmas tree, fiddling with the front of his T-shirt. His excitement had been popped, like a pin in a balloon. Simon remembered how it felt to be small and anxious. He sat down and drew Nico close.

‘Shush,’ he said. ‘Let’s not worry about that now.’

‘He will be coming, won’t he?’ Nico’s voice was high, and he twisted the front of his T-shirt in both hands.

How could Dad do this to us? How could he be so selfish?

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Grandpa can’t come anymore.’

Thirty-four

Lucia

I got dressed, looked in the mirror, and knew I had to do better. I had higher standards now. Genetic women have had all their lives to learn how to be women; even the ones who wear jeans and trainers. They’re socialised as women. They
are
women. When Kate was younger she had a stack of teen magazines, full of make-up and fashion and hair. She pretended to despise them, but she still bought them. She can do femininity when she wants to.

I’d tried to give myself a crash course, but the internet was no longer enough. The wig was too young for my face—I saw that now. My make-up was clumsy, my clothes were dated, my posture wasn’t quite right. I gave myself away with a thousand tiny signals.

I needed help.

When I phoned her at home, Judi sounded as though Christmas had come early.

‘You want me to do a Trinny and Susannah on your wardrobe?’ I could imagine her rubbing her hands. ‘How about tomorrow morning? I’ll come around to your place.’

When Judi says she’s going to do something, she delivers. She arrived bang on time, clutching two suitcases full of her cast-offs,
which, she said, dated from skinnier days. Some of the clothes looked brand new.

‘Off you go,’ she said briskly, holding out a swirling skirt and a blouse. ‘Let’s see these on you. I bought them in a sale and it was a big mistake, but I think they’ll suit your colouring.’

‘You want me to try these on?
Now?
’

‘I’ll wait here while you change in your room. Don’t forget your shoes and falsies, will you? Never try on clothes with the wrong shoes or underwear. That’s the first rule of shopping.’

‘How d’you know I even own falsies?’ I asked, feeling myself blush.

‘Lucky guess. It’s nothing new. Flat-chested women have been wearing padded bras forever, and I know more than one who owns a pair of bottom-enhancing knickers. Why not? Been going on ever since Henry VIII padded out his codpiece.’

I changed slowly, mortified at the idea of parading around cross-dressed in front of a colleague. I had to steel myself to walk back into the kitchen, but Judi was supremely relaxed. ‘Give us a twirl,’ she said, and I did. By the time we’d got to the third outfit, I was having fun. There were dresses, skirts, smocks and voluminous blouses; a sumptuous, impossibly soft pashmina and a floaty cardigan. Of course they didn’t fit perfectly. Many were too roomy, especially across the bust; some were too tight in the shoulders or the waist. Judi made them work—a belt here, or a scarf, or a button moved across; she’d brought a needle and thread for the purpose.

Leggings were a revelation to me. ‘They’re marvellous,’ I said, as Judi showed me how to layer them with dresses or smocks. ‘Neither Eilish nor Kate owns a pair, I’m pretty sure.’

‘Eilish is too classy. Kate would probably rather be seen dead. I love ’em, though. They’re forgiving to those of us whose waists aren’t exactly hourglass.’

We took a break for coffee while she looked through my existing wardrobe with a critical eye. I felt intensely self-conscious, as though she were reading my diary. I’d begun hiding clothes the
day I locked a stolen petticoat into my tuckbox in the attic. I had never shown anybody before.

‘Hmm, quite old-fashioned,’ said Judi, holding up a blue dress. ‘The colour’s not right for your skin, it’ll be ageing. I think the whole effect is a bit . . . granny. You’re not old, Livingstone, you’re in your prime! Rock it! And what’s this? Oh my God, no . . . Where in the name of Hades did you get this monstrosity?’ She was staring in horror, as though it might bite her, at a frilly pink blouse.

‘That? Oxfam.’

‘What were you
thinking
of?’

‘I liked the colour,’ I admitted sheepishly. ‘What’s wrong with it? A bit too lurid?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with it—except the cut, the colour and the fabric. It has to go, unless you plan on standing on street corners?’

Next, she pulled a chair in front of the mirror and suggested a make-up lesson. Eilish wore very little; she had a natural kind of beauty. Kate neither needed nor wanted warpaint. Judi, on the other hand, was the sort of woman who never left the house without lipstick. The golden rules, she said, were subtlety and contouring. She showed me how to apply foundation while avoiding the mud-pie effect, and blusher without it making me look like a Russian doll. She warned me off red lipstick. ‘You need less flashy colours,’ she said, producing one from her handbag.

As she messed about, we discussed the ‘rollout of Lucia Livingstone’, which was what Judi called my transition at work. She treated it like any other office project, including the major software overhaul we’d endured the previous year.

‘You’ll have to let the management team know well in advance,’ she said. ‘Give them a date when you’re going to be fetching up as a babe.’

‘I don’t want to do it.’

‘They can’t kick you out. Look down . . . look up . . . See how I’m just brushing that onto your upper lashes? Keep still, if you don’t want to be a panda.’

‘Come on, Judi. There are ways and means of levering me out. We both know that.’

‘What date do you have in mind? How about January? New year, new woman.’

‘Far, far too soon.’ I couldn’t move, because she was still wielding a mascara wand millimetres from my eyes. ‘Maybe the following year.’

‘Your hair’s getting quite long,’ she said, spraying it with water. ‘I think we can do something with it. I had a talk to my stylist last night, and he gave me some tips on—I’d stress that these are his words, not mine—on making guys look like gals. Ultimately, he says, you need a fringe, just to soften your forehead. That’ll make a huge difference.’

I’d never had mousse in my hair before. Actually, I didn’t know such stuff existed. I was fascinated by the way it expanded with a quiet fizz when Judi sprayed it into the palm of her hand. She made me tip my head upside down and blasted it with a hairdryer (‘to give it bounce,’ she explained, as I spluttered), and then dried my hair in layers so it framed my forehead and jaw. I watched the transformation in the mirror, and I wanted to dance.

‘You’re a genius!’ I cried. ‘An artist!’

She put down her hairdryer and regarded my reflection with a half-smile. ‘D’you know what, Lucia? You scrub up pretty well. I think those hormones are having an effect already. It’s hard to put my finger on it . . . D’you think your skin’s softer?’

‘Impossible,’ I scoffed. Secretly, though, I agreed with her. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I did feel different: more serene, somehow. My sex drive was definitely less—I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but it was a fact. And that morning, for the first time, I’d noticed a soreness and sensitivity across my chest.

‘Let’s go out for lunch,’ she said.

My euphoria slid away. ‘I can’t. I’ve never eaten in public. People will read me.’

‘
Read
you? What does that mean?’

‘It means that they’ll see me for what I am.’

‘Well, that’s all right then, because what you are is a friend of mine.’ She picked up a pair of earrings and handed them to me to clip on. ‘
Your
first visit to a cafe as a woman.
My
first visit to a cafe with a transsexual woman. Sounds like fun! Let’s go.’

I lay in bed that night with a cup of tea by my side, wishing Eilish were there to share my triumph. Things were happening! I’d filled my wardrobe with new clothes; I’d been made up, my hair blow-dried. I’d wandered through Spitalfields market dressed in a long, full skirt, and browsed the jewellery stalls, before eating tagliatelle and sharing an excellent bottle of chablis with a girlfriend.

I never thought I’d see the day.

Thirty-five

Kate

This was her first Christmas as the child of a broken home. She had friends who’d been through it when they were small; they talked about shuttling from Mum to Dad and back again, eating two Christmas dinners, opening two lots of presents and generally being carved up like little Christmas turkeys. They always ended up blubbing by the end of the day. Christmas was a nightmare for them.

Kate’s memories couldn’t have been more different. The routine had been the same, year after year. She and Simon got up early and sat on each other’s beds to open their stockings. At ten, the family walked along the lane to church. Afterwards, Kate, Simon and the other village children would play kick the can in the graveyard while their parents were queueing up to shake hands with the vicar.

There was always a crowd at lunch: lots of family, and whichever cat they had at the time scoffing turkey giblets from a bowl on the floor. Normally there’d be a distant cousin or aunt, or some waif or stray with nowhere else to go—like Stella, when she was between husbands. To Kate, as a child, it was all perfect.

So she had no right to grumble about the fact that at the age of twenty-three she finally had a broken-home Christmas. Simon and Carmela had issued a general invitation; general to everyone,
that was, except her dad. Kate was wondering what to do about this when she had a call from her grandmother.

‘Carmela’s so kind to ask me,’ said Meg. ‘I think I should meet this new baby. But what about poor Luke? I hate to think of him alone on Christmas Day.’