The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone

by Charity Norman

  ‘They certainly are not. Mathis and John are as committed to one another as any married couple I’ve ever known. And far happier than most.’

  ‘It’s . . . you know, it’s what they do . . .’ Wendy screwed up her face in delicate disgust. ‘You’re quite right to love them as people, but what they’re doing is a sin.’

  ‘A sin.’ Kate put down her knife and fork, while Simon mentally donned a tin hat. ‘Tell me something, Wendy. Do you know Mathis or John? No, you don’t. So what makes you qualified to have an opinion about them?’

  ‘Some things are natural. Some things simply are not. And what they do is—’

  Wendy hadn’t finished her sentence before Eilish was on her feet, mumbling something about a headache. She charged upstairs, and a moment later the house shuddered as a door slammed shut. Everyone winced.

  Mum doesn’t slam doors. Kate slams doors.

  Silence.

  ‘Why did Granny run away?’ asked Nico.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Luke, as he stood up too. ‘Sorry. I’m sure she’ll be fine. Please carry on without us . . . Kate, Simon, could you make sure everyone has what they need?’ He took the stairs two at a time, and disappeared.

  ‘Now Grandpa’s run away as well!’ cried Nico, and he began to cry.

  ‘Was it something I said?’ asked Wendy.

  Luke

  I found her leaning her forehead against the window, looking out across the drive towards the woods. This room knew everything about us. It had seen a young and hopeful couple setting up their first home together; it had been the backdrop as they travelled through the passing years. It had witnessed passion and grief and helpless laughter, arguments and makings-up, and raucous Christmas mornings with wrapping paper scattered across the floor.

  Other things, too. It had watched me at those times when Eilish was out and I’d given in to my desperate need. It knew everything.

  She spoke without looking around. ‘Why did you marry me?’

  ‘Because I was in love with you. I still am.’

  ‘Oh. Nothing to do with convenience, then? Nothing to do with providing a respectable cover? I think it was that.’

  I crossed the room to join her at the window, ransacking my mind for true answers. I had to be honest now. No more secrets.

  ‘Wasn’t I enough?’ she asked.

  ‘You were more than enough!’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘The opposite is true,’ I protested. ‘You were so miraculous . . . I thought you could save me. I really thought I could conquer this thing, if I had you.’

  We stood side by side, a universe apart. I could almost hear her heartbeat. Noises filtered up from downstairs: a murmur of conversation, the quiet clattering of crockery, and eventually the thud of a car door. Someone was leaving. I really ought to go down there to see them off. It was my duty to play yet another role—that of the cheerful and apologetic host whose wife has suffered a sudden migraine. ‘Don’t worry,’ I would say. ‘She’ll be fine after a lie-down—she’s so sorry, it just hit her—please don’t feel you have to leave, let’s have a cup of tea.’ I knew all about playing roles. I was an old hand.

  As Mum’s car headed down the drive, Eilish moved listlessly. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘We still have guests.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you alone.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s you who’s hurt me, though, isn’t it?’

  She was broken, and I couldn’t put her together again.

  When I walked downstairs I was met by a reception committee. Kate and Simon were standing by the cleared table, waiting for me. It was years since I’d seen them look so unified.

  ‘Granny’s gone. She’s dropping Wendy at the station,’ said Kate. ‘Carmela and Nico are playing on the hay bales. Dad, please. This is awful. Tell us what’s going on.’

  Simon nodded. ‘If one of you is ill, or if there’s some serious problem, I think we have a right to know.’

  They eyed me with wary determination. My children. This pair, and their mother, were at the centre of my existence. I would die for them if I had to. In fact, that’s what I’d intended to do, that very week.

  Out in the garden, a thousand birds seemed to be singing. There were roses in a bowl on our kitchen table. I could retire soon, and travel with my beloved wife, and be a sedate grandfather. My children were clever, good, contented people; my grandson was the apple of everyone’s eye. And I was about to lose it all.

  For one last breath, I wavered. Perhaps it was not too late. Perhaps I could still turn back.

  ‘We deserve the truth, Dad,’ said Kate. ‘We’re adults.’

  Nine

  Kate

  She laughed. She laughed, loud and long. He was obviously joking. Her oh-so-respectable Dad with a wig and false boobs, tottering along the street! Frigging hilarious.

  ‘You are kidding.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  Everything had been cleared away, except Eilish’s yellow roses. More petals had fallen. They lay on the lace cloth, curling up as though they were in pain. Kate sat at the table, opposite her father. Simon leaned his hands on the kitchen counter, staring down at the floor between his feet. It wasn’t until later that Kate realised he’d been stunned. Literally, stunned. Their dad might as well have hit him on the back of the head with a spade. One minute Simon was waltzing through his smug life—just a normal, boring, basically quite nice guy—and the next minute he was flat out on the ground with a big hole where his respectability used to be.

  ‘Gender dysphoria,’ he kept muttering. ‘I don’t get it.’ Each time he said that, Dad patiently found a new way to explain.

  ‘You’re having us on,’ said Kate. She was still trying to giggle, as though by laughing she could make it all a joke. What she really wanted to do was run away. ‘You’re my dad. Ergo, you are a man.’

  ‘Yes, I am your dad. And I am a man.’

  ‘Glad to hear it!’

  ‘At least . . . I have a male body; but that body feels completely wrong. It’s as though they got the wrong model off the shelf when I was born.’

  Kate knew of people who’d experimented with their gender; she’d once had a lecturer who was a trans woman. She wished them well. But this was different. This was her father.

  ‘D’you mean . . . you want to cross-dress?’ she asked now, hoping he’d scoff at the idea.

  He didn’t scoff. He nodded, and she felt her world shake.

  ‘Shit. Have you ever actually . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I have cross-dressed.’

  No. You can’t have. You really can’t.

  ‘Look, this isn’t about what I wear,’ he said. ‘It’s about who I am. Who I really am.’

  This is a weird dream, she thought, and picked up a yellow petal. It was so soft. When she rolled it between her finger and thumb, it crumbled into almost nothing. Funny how roses look loveliest when they’re dying and bits are falling off them.

  Abruptly, Simon seemed to come back to life. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ His voice was too loud.

  ‘I’m not playing, Simon.’

  ‘Please tell me this is a hoax! I’ve got news for you, Dad. Listen, and listen carefully. You are male. You’re a father and a grandfather, and a brother and a husband, and you’re fifty-five years old. Jesus Christ! It’s a bit late to decide you’re a screaming shirt lifter.’

  ‘I’m not gay.’

  ‘You want to put on a dress. You fancy men. I’ve met perverts like that before.’

  ‘Not perverts,’ said Kate. ‘They’re—’

  ‘Shut up, Kate, for Christ’s sake! Spare me the political correctness. This is our father, not one of your trendy gender-bender mates.’

  Luke raised his hand. ‘I don’t fancy men. Not at all. This has absolutely nothing to do with my sexuality.’

  ‘What is it about, then?’ asked Kate. ‘If not sexuality?’

  ‘Gender.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’
/>
  ‘The two are completely separate. You know that, Kate! Ask John and Mathis.’

  Simon had stormed off to the other end of the kitchen during this exchange. He seemed to be in physical pain, unable to stand still. Now he was back, with his fists pressed to the top of his head. ‘You dress in women’s clothes! How can you do this to Mum?’

  ‘Not . . . all right. Yes, I sometimes do—but the clothes aren’t the point. I’m not cross-dressing for the sake of it. I’m not a transvestite. That’s a different thing, you see? I identify as female. I actually—’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Go on, Dad,’ urged Kate.

  ‘I actually think of myself as female. God knows I’ve tried to deny it, tried to kill it, tried to hide it under layers and layers of other things—but it’s the inner core of me and it won’t die until I do.’

  There was a nasty tightness around Simon’s jaw, as though steel cords were knotted under the skin. Kate had seen it before, on her first boyfriend, when he was about to hit her.

  ‘I don’t care what labels you stick on this fucked-up weirdness,’ he shouted. ‘If you’ve been wearing skirts and high heels, you’re no father of mine. You’re a freak! You should’ve been drowned at birth.’

  ‘Hey, Simon,’ said Kate. ‘Hang on a minute.’

  Simon smashed his fist on the table, right in front of Luke. The bowl of roses jumped. Petals rained down. ‘What about Mum? Is she collateral damage?’

  Suddenly, this boring brother seemed menacing. Kate jumped to her feet, ready to intervene, but she didn’t have to, because Carmela and Nico chose that moment to return. Nico’s fingers gripped a bunch of wildflowers.

  ‘I picked all of these for Granny,’ he announced happily, standing in the doorway. He couldn’t quite manage his ‘r’s’.

  ‘Don’t come in. Turn around. We’re going,’ said Simon, barring their way.

  ‘Now?’ Carmela looked mystified. ‘But why? He has flowers for Eilish.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Give that Spaniard her due, thought Kate, she’s no wilting pansy. Carmela wasn’t used to being pushed around and she wasn’t scared of Simon. Kate couldn’t hear what was said, but she could tell from the furious whispering that Carmela was not impressed. While his parents argued, Nico ducked past them and trotted in through the open doors. His face fell when he saw that Eilish still hadn’t come down.

  ‘Granny?’ he asked, looking all around.

  Kate rather liked her nephew. He took no shit from anyone, and she respected that. Now his whole world was about to be turned upside down. Poor kid.

  ‘She’s still not feeling very well, little man,’ said Luke.

  ‘Aw! Still not very well?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Flowers will make her feel better.’ Nico held out his gift. ‘You can have them, Grandpa, if you promise to share them with Granny.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’ Luke’s voice was gentle. ‘This is the first bunch of flowers I have ever been given. Please may I have a kiss goodbye, if I promise to share that with Granny too?’

  Grinning, Nico hooked his arms around Luke’s neck and planted a noisy kiss on his nose. ‘Byeee!’ he cooed. ‘See you later, alligator.’

  ‘In a while, crocodile. I love you.’ Luke kept hugging the little boy, as though he might never see him again.

  Simon was back. ‘Get your hands off my son,’ he snarled, snatching the poor little bugger away. Simon didn’t sound like himself; his voice was distorted. Kate had a feeling he might be very close to tears, but it was hard to tell. Rage, grief . . . even fear, she thought. They all sound the same.

  Carmela had followed. She faced Luke, her gaze incredulous. ‘Simon has just told me . . . I cannot believe what he has just told me. Is it true?’

  ‘I’m the same person I’ve always been,’ said Luke quietly. ‘I’m not dangerous.’

  ‘See a shrink.’ Simon was on his way out, speaking over his shoulder. ‘Behavioural therapy. Aversion therapy. Electro-convulsive therapy. Whatever it takes. Please, Dad. Please. Just get yourself cured. Are you coming with us, Kate? No? Well, we’re going right now. Come on, Carmela.’

  Nico wailed all the way to the car (But why, Daddy? Why are you cross with Grandpa? Why, Daddy?), and seconds later they were off.

  Poor Jeep, thought Kate. It wasn’t designed to be thrashed like that. The engine screamed as Simon accelerated away.

  Her father’s head was bent over the table, a hand covering his eyes. He looked defeated.

  It was the worst moment of her life.

  ‘That went well,’ she said.

  Eilish

  Simon’s hurt seemed to shake the wooden floor beneath my feet. I heard a bellowed Please tell me this is a hoax; and, a little later, You should’ve been drowned at birth.

  Simon wished his father dead. His father, who had wept with joy when he was born, and never wanted to put him down; who paced the house with him all night when he was colicky; who didn’t want to send him to kindergarten (but he’s so little); who cancelled meetings to go to school plays; who got out of bed at two in the morning on countless occasions—without ever once complaining—to collect a drunken, truculent teenager from parties. This was a father who’d loved his son without question, and never asked for anything in return. This was the father who’d betrayed us all.

  Luke was speaking again, but quietly. I couldn’t hear his words. They didn’t matter. I turned away from the window and looked around the room. Our room. His chest of drawers dominated one wall, with the antique mirror standing on top. Beside that lay his ivory-backed hairbrush, a lint remover, cufflinks, a handful of loose change and a black deodorant spray. Lovely, familiar stuff. A man’s stuff.

  That was when I began to wonder.

  One by one, I opened his drawers and emptied their contents onto the floor. Sweaters. Weekend shirts. Socks. Boxer shorts. All his clothes were in muted colours: black, grey, burgundy, faun. Luke had excellent taste, and there was nothing ambivalent about the things strewn around my feet. These were masculine garments. I lifted the heavy drawers right out and piled them onto the bed, searching for hidden stashes. Nothing.

  Outside, a car was fleeing down the drive with a crash of gears. Simon and family, presumably. Good. I was glad they were leaving. Simon and I would talk later, but at this moment I wasn’t up to carrying his fear and anger as well as my own.

  When Luke and I had bought Smith’s Barn, it was just that, a barn, complete with old farm machinery and nesting pigeons. The renovation had been my project. Off one corner of our bedroom, under the eaves, I’d got the builder to make a walk-in cupboard. It’s eccentric, with a sharply sloping roof and plastered walls at crazy angles. I kept my shoes and evening dresses in there, and Luke his work clothes and cricket gear. I turned on the light and stood in the cramped space, looking along Luke’s rack: suits, ties and striped shirts in an ordered row. His shoes were lined up underneath, sober and polished. Then my gaze came to rest on his leather overnight bag, not yet unpacked from Norwich. He’d dumped it in a corner when he was grabbing things to wear today. I dragged it closer and peered inside: shirts, a tie, pyjamas. His navy-blue jersey, smelling of lanolin and Luke. Oh, how I loved that smell. I buried my face in it, and allowed myself a moment of pretending this wasn’t happening.

  A John Grisham.

  Socks, neatly paired.

  At the very bottom, I spotted a calico bag with a drawstring top. I couldn’t remember seeing it before but it looked innocuous; perhaps a hotel laundry bag. Later, I asked myself what the hell I’d expected to see in that bag. Laundry, I suppose; maybe damp swimming things. Luke had mentioned a pool at his hotel in Norwich, and he’s always liked a morning dip.

  I loosened the string, tipped the bag upside down and watched the contents tumble to the floor. They seemed to fall in slow motion.

  Kate

  ‘Whisky, gin, or brandy?’ she asked, riffling through the cupboard. ‘Oblivion is wha
t’s called for after bad news. And this is bad news, Dad. This is very bad news, to be honest.’

  His voice was muffled by his hands. ‘Tea, please.’

  ‘A nice cup of Earl Grey! How homely. See? You’re Mr Conventional, after all.’

  He smiled: his hesitant smile, which always looked as though he feared he wasn’t quite welcome. ‘You can have no idea how much I wish that were true.’

  One of Kate’s ex-flatmates had taken a course in counselling. She used to bang on about the stages of grief: disbelief, anger, bargaining and . . . well, some other things that Kate couldn’t remember. Simon seemed to have moved pretty quickly into anger, but she still held out hope that her father was going through some kind of male menopause and would soon snap out of it. She kept glancing at him as she made the tea.

  ‘Dad, this is too wacky. Even for me. And believe me, I’ve done wacky.’

  ‘I know. And I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . have you talked to a doctor? I just wondered if Simon might have a point. Maybe your hormones are all screwed up.’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ he said. ‘I mentioned it to a doctor about five years ago.’

  ‘Not Dr Ryan?’ Kate squirmed at the idea of her father facing the family GP across his desk and announcing that he was really a woman.

  ‘Good Lord, no! Don Ryan’s a governor of St Matthew’s with me. No, I made myself an appointment with a private GP in London when I was going through a very bad patch. I didn’t quite come clean with her, but I dropped hints and she ordered blood tests. My hormone levels were just what you’d expect for a man of my age. She prescribed antidepressants. I took them because I was feeling bloody awful, and they got me through.’

  Kate’s phone was vibrating. She pulled it out of her bra, where she generally kept it.

  When r u going 2 collect ur stuff?

  ‘Tosspot,’ she spluttered, and turned off the phone.

  ‘Owen?’

  ‘Owen. Never mind him.’ She thought furiously as she poured boiling water onto tea. ‘This is the twenty-first century, Dad. All those male/female role things, all those stereotypes, they should be ancient history.’