The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone (43 page)

Kate had the grace to grin as she wiped her face. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just me banging my drum again. The flowers were a lovely touch. Judi’s a star.’

It had been an odd time for me; a revelation. Broadly speaking, people were divided into four camps: the openly hostile; the slyly hostile; the genuinely relaxed; and the
oh-my-God-I’d-better-be-cool-about-this brigade, whose eyes were rigidly fixed on my face but occasionally strayed to my chest.

Kate held up her glass. ‘Here’s to you! I’m so proud of you. You are the bravest, cleverest, most beautiful father in the world!’

With that she leaned across the table—knocking menus to the floor—grabbed my face in her hands and kissed me on the cheek, three times.
Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!
People glanced around at us. A middle-aged woman met my gaze and muttered something to her companion, who promptly turned to stare.

Kate had spotted her. ‘Excuse me,’ she said loudly. ‘You—yes, you, madam, in the grubby anorak. Do you have a problem with my father?’

The woman pretended she hadn’t noticed. I heard laughter from other tables. ‘Shush, Kate,’ I whispered. ‘No. Don’t do it.’

‘Let me tell you something about my father.’ Kate’s voice carried across the hushed room. ‘She’s a bloody good woman. She’s a hell of a lot better-looking than you. She’s a very successful lawyer but she’s got time for everybody. And she doesn’t judge other human beings after one glance.’

‘Kate!’ I hissed. ‘Stop right now, or I will leave.’

The two women gathered their shopping bags and hurried out. I felt mortified, but to my surprise there was a flutter of amusement and even appreciation in that crowded bar. I think it was Kate’s charisma that did it, rather than any sympathy for me.

I shook my head at her. ‘You can’t square up to every single person who gives me a sour look,’ I told her. ‘Thanks . . . but please don’t do that again.’

‘She was a cow.’ Kate downed the rest of her drink. ‘I’ll be home at the weekend.’

I was surprised. ‘Again?’

She looked evasive, flicking non-existent crumbs from the table. ‘Yeah, well. I’m having dinner with someone. Anyway, I think we should celebrate your coming out. Why don’t we get a few people round and open some bottles of bubbly?’

‘People won’t come.’

‘They will if you ask the right ones. Granny, for one. Stella. Mr Chadders—he’s got the hots for Mum, but he won’t hear a word against you. People like Mr and Mrs White—they were fantastic, weren’t they? Sophie, Ingrid and Harry from the pub, Bryan the postie . . . and, um, Peter will definitely come.’

‘Peter?’

‘Peter Vallance. The vicar.’

There was something in her tone; the penny dropped. ‘You aren’t . . . it’s not him you’re meeting for dinner?’

‘And why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Well, because he’s a . . . clergyman.’

‘Is he? I hadn’t noticed. He looks a bit like Sean Bean, don’t you think? I met him in a pub in Swiss Cottage, believe it or not, while I was waiting for Owen. Anyway, relax, Dad. It’s not sex. It’s just dinner.’

I was still reeling from this piece of gossip when Kate nipped along to the bathroom. I wanted to go too but didn’t dare. I wasn’t yet confident enough to use the ladies’ room, and the men’s was out of the question. I’d just have to tie a knot in it, and wait for the unisex one on the train. When my phone rang, it took me several stressful seconds to locate it. I felt in my breast pocket, where it normally lived . . . damn, I didn’t have a breast pocket anymore . . . so where was the bloody thing? Ah—my handbag! I scrabbled to pull it out, saw who was calling, and grinned.

‘Chloe!’

‘So how did it go?’ asked my friend, without bothering to say hello. I felt safer for hearing her voice. She was so young, but she cared so much.

‘I did it!’ I gasped.

‘And you’re still alive?’

‘I’m still alive.’

‘Woo-hoo! Go, Luce! Did the guys all wince and cross their legs when you walked by?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘You never saw such leg-crossing and wincing.’

Laughter. ‘So . . . how d’you feel?’

I ruffled my hair, then realised I’d be messing up the blow-dried waves. ‘Oh gosh, Chloe, how do I feel? I’m sitting in a bar at the station, wearing a skirt suit, and nobody’s thrown me out. The name Lucia Livingstone is on my door at work. I can’t take it in. I can’t believe it’s real.’

‘It’s real, all right.’

‘I feel wonderful. I also feel . . . knackered. And tomorrow I’ll get up and dressed and do it all again.’

‘And the day after that, and the day after that. It gets easier. Soon you won’t have to think about every move you make.’

Kate was coming back, threading her way between the tables. She was wearing her usual drab clothes but moved with artless grace. I saw people glance admiringly at my daughter as she passed, and felt proud.

‘What about you?’ I asked Chloe. ‘What’s happening in your world?’

There was a slight pause, then a rush of words. ‘I’ve got a date, actually. I’m going to the cinema with a real-life, very lovely guy who isn’t a client.’

‘That’s great! Who is it?’

Chloe was wildly excited. I could hear it in her voice. ‘I met him in the supermarket. We got chatting in the queue, then we carried on chatting after we’d gone through, then we went to Starbucks and he asked if he could see me again. His name is Adam, he’s taller than me and he isn’t a weirdo.’

‘Does he know . . . ?’

‘Come on, Lucia. Everyone knows as soon as I open my mouth. How long did it take for you to clock me? We’ll work that side of things out.’

I felt joy for her. Chloe deserved to be loved. Kate was gesturing to ask if I’d like another drink. I looked at my watch, saw that my train left in a few minutes and shook my head.

‘I think that’s wonderful news,’ I told Chloe. ‘But if he isn’t a gentleman, you let me know and I’ll handbag him.’

She said she’d take a selfie of the two of them for me, and that we needed to catch up. How about grabbing a bite to eat one evening? Thursday? And could Kate come too?

‘You’re on. I’ll ask her.’ I stood up, thinking about the train. ‘In the meantime, you take care, you hear me?’

She sighed, imitating a grumpy teenager. ‘Yes, Mum.’

Kate came as far as the barrier with me. I relayed Chloe’s news as we ran.

‘You’re not the only one with a date,’ I said. ‘Though I bet her fella isn’t wearing a dog collar.’

‘Nobody uses the word fella anymore, Dad. Not even incredibly old, decrepit people like you.’

We arrived, panting, on the station concourse. They’d just opened the barriers, and the crowd was moving very slowly through the bottleneck. I joined the back of the queue and Kate kept me company.

‘There was one other thing I wanted to run by you,’ she said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘I’m trying very hard to get my head around this thing you’re doing.’

‘I know you are.’

‘Mm.’ We were inching forward, packed like sardines in a can. ‘But every time I call you “Dad”, it trips me up. For me the word “Dad” conjures up male things. It’s you . . . but it isn’t you. And you sure as hell aren’t Mum. I’ve got a mum already, and one is enough. So I thought, if you didn’t mind, I’d try calling you Lucia.’

We’d got to the barrier. I turned back to give her a grateful hug. ‘Please do,’ I said. ‘That would be perfect.’

The train was full, and I didn’t get a seat until three stations before my own. I didn’t mind. It was as I stood in the aisle, letting my body move and sway with the train’s rhythms, that I finally grasped what I had achieved that day. The nameplate on my door wasn’t a dream, it was real. The woman looking back at me from
the dark windows of the train wasn’t a dream; she was real.
You are me
, I thought.
I am Lucia Livingstone.

A young man was sitting at a table, watching a film on his iPad. I don’t think he cast more than a glance in my direction, but perhaps he registered the grey in my hair, because he stood up and offered me his seat. I declined it with a smile, but my soul was singing.

Woo-hoo
, I thought.
Go, Luce.

Forty-six

Eilish

What makes us who we are? Countless things; more than humanity is ever likely to understand. All I know is that by becoming a woman, Luke didn’t lose himself. She found herself. For seven months I’d raged and grieved for what I’d lost. I still grieved, but now I also celebrated her new-found peace. I’d loved him enough to love her, too.

She made mistakes, of course. In her first week at work I twice had to stop her from heading off to work looking like a Christmas tree.

‘So many pitfalls,’ she complained on Thursday morning, as I made her remove a silk scarf that clashed with the rest of her outfit. ‘I used to open the wardrobe and grab the first clean shirt. Now it’s just a constant stream of decisions.’

‘Um, I’m afraid that necklace doesn’t show above your collar,’ I said. ‘Here—d’you want to borrow mine?’

She looked into the mirror, touching the string of green glass beads. ‘This was a birthday present from Chloe. I thought she’d be pleased if I was wearing it this evening.’

‘And it’s lovely, but it’s the wrong length. Hang on, I think I can adjust it.’ I managed to clip the necklace several links further down, so that it was short enough to show. ‘How’s that?’

I wanted to protect her fragile happiness. I wanted people not to sneer. Her hairstyle softened the outlines of her face, and she was humming under her breath. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that she was once Luke. She turned around with a smile. ‘Perfect! Thank you,’ she said, and kissed me on the cheek.

She was drinking coffee while I pottered about. I’d made it for her in our one remaining red and yellow cup. Bryan turned up with the post as well as the newspaper, and I looked through the mail. Two bills, a bank statement, an invitation to somebody’s silver wedding anniversary.

And one other.

I tasted bitterness in my mouth when I saw that last one. I’d been expecting it. I didn’t want to open it.

Lucia looked up from her newspaper.

‘From the court?’ she asked. ‘Go on. It might just be a speeding ticket or something.’

With a heavy heart I slid my hand under the flap, took out the paper and scanned its contents. ‘Decree absolute,’ I said. ‘We’re divorced.’

That bitter taste grew stronger. For a time, we were both silent. There were no words for this. I couldn’t look at her.

‘We knew it was coming,’ said Lucia. ‘I can’t expect to stay here with you forever.’

I put the letter to one side, and took her hand. ‘But we’re still family, aren’t we?’ she added, with a desperate smile.

I agreed that we were. Then I rushed off, saying I must get ready for school. Those wretched tears arrived as soon as I reached my bedroom. I had to hide for a while; in fact, it was a good half-hour before I felt composed enough to come out.

‘We’re both running late. I’ll give you a lift to the station, if you like,’ I called, as I hurried along to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When Lucia didn’t reply, I came out of the bathroom onto the gallery, holding my toothbrush. She was standing by the kitchen table.

‘Luke? Oops, sorry, Lucia? Did you want a lift?’

She looked blankly up at me, rocking slightly on her heels, backwards and forwards.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘He’s . . .’ She walked right around the table, hitting herself on the upper arms. It was a primeval gesture, as though she were a creature in pain. I dropped the toothbrush and ran down the stairs. As I reached her I saw that she was horrified. Her eyes were wide.

‘You have to tell me,’ I said, frightened now. ‘Is it Kate?’

When she finally managed to get the words out, they seemed to choke her.

‘He killed her,’ she said.

Police have released the identity of a transsexual sex worker found dead in a South London bedsit on Monday evening. The mutilated body of Callum Robertson, 22, who also used the name Chloe, was discovered by police after a neighbour reported hearing screams. Adam Stuart Walsh, aged 35, was arrested near the scene. Police are not seeking anyone else in connection with the incident.

An autopsy has yet to be carried out. Police sources indicate that the attack involved a sharp object or objects, and described it as savage and sustained.

The neighbour, who asked not to be named, told reporters that she looked out into her hallway after hearing sounds of a struggle in the bedsit next door. ‘I saw a man walking towards the stairs, covered in blood,’ she said. ‘He told me, “I think I’ve killed something.” So I locked myself in my room and called the police.’

Callum’s mother, Kirsty Robertson, has made a plea for the family’s privacy to be respected. ‘We are broken-hearted. Callum was a good lad who made some wrong choices. We just want to get him home. He needs to be among his family again.’