It was someone she knew, someone she often spoke to.
‘Big Issue?’ he asked.
She nodded dumbly, took a magazine and paid. She regularly bought a copy from this seller as she emerged from the tube station; sometimes she even read it. He had tightly curled hair and smoked roll-ups. Whatever the weather, he wore a red T-shirt with a picture of Che Guevara.
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the money. That was when his eyes flared in recognition. She waited for him to laugh, or spit, or abuse her. She wanted to sink into the ground.
‘You’re all right, love,’ he said quietly.
She was running. A shoe came off, slapping onto the pavement—wretched thing; she was forced to hop along as she pulled it on again. The two delivery men were arguing over a washing machine, too engrossed to notice as she darted past them and into Thurso Lane. Down the basement steps—watch the slippery one with the mould—where’s the key? Get this bloody door open.
The key was in the lock. It was turning . . . there! She was in. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, laughing. She felt as though she hadn’t breathed at all in the past fifteen minutes.
She’d done it. She’d done it.
Luke
I went bungee jumping once, when I was much younger and still had things to prove. I’ve got the photos somewhere.
We were on holiday in New Zealand. Simon was about five; Charlotte had died the year before, and that darkness was still with us. This was an attempt, I suppose, to move on. By the end of the holiday, Eilish was pregnant with Kate, so perhaps it achieved its purpose.
Our guidebook said bungee jumping was a must-do. Eilish said it was a mustn’t-do.
I was appalled when I saw the platform, cantilevered from a cliff fifty metres above a river, but I had my pride and couldn’t back out. A couple of super-cool youths buckled straps around my ankles. They were singing along to very loud, palpitation-inducing music, but I didn’t join in. I shuffled to the very edge of the dizzying drop and stood like a condemned man at the scaffold, trying not to look down. My God, that cliff was high.
Eilish and Simon had run off down the hill, hoping to get better photographs. I was glad they weren’t there to see my terror.
Behind me, the bungee crew counted down to take-off: Three . . . two . . . one . . .
This is madness, I thought. Madness. I’m a father. I’m a husband. I’m going to die.
As I hesitated, I felt a sharp shove in my back—the super-cool duo had obviously decided it was time for me to go—and then I was diving through thin air. As I plunged into that terrible abyss, my body told me I was finished. This fall was not survivable. I was too terrified even to scream.
Then the bungee stretched, and held. As I rebounded, I yelled and yodelled for the pure joy of still being alive.
It was the ultimate adrenaline rush. Simon thought I was a bloody hero.
But it was nothing compared with a walk down the street in Mile End, on a sunny morning in July.
Fifteen
Eilish
So. What do you do when your husband announces that he’s a woman?
I’ll tell you what I did. I raged at him, I blamed him, I blamed myself. Then I asked Google, and found that I wasn’t unique. There were women all over the world in my position—wives, girlfriends, daughters, mothers. Some had always known; some guessed; others discovered the secret by chance. Some were bitter, and some forgave.
I was astonished to read about wives who behave like shining saints. They listen, and they compromise, and they love, and they continue with their sex lives, and they try to understand. They go with their cross-dressed man to cross-dressed social weekends in motels on the M25, where—presumably—they watch him prancing around in their clothes while they compare notes with other shining saints. I bet they hate it, I thought. I bet it gnaws at their souls.
Good women do that. Good, loyal wives. I was not a good woman. I threw Luke out of my life. Then the pain began in earnest.
I’d loved the man; that was the trouble. Every inch of Smith’s Barn held a memory of Luke. Every song on the playlist. Every DVD, every painting, every scratch on the kitchen table. The swing—he’d made it, and pushed Simon and Kate in the summer evenings. The rosewood box on his desk, full of photographs of Nico’s christening. His wellies (I threw them up into the attic in the end, because they reminded me of our last walk together). I’d changed the sheets, but his clean, male smell was not quite gone from our bed, and it lingered in the clothes I’d put away in his drawers. He was still here, the traitor.
He kept phoning me, wanting—wanting what? My blessing? It hurt to hear his voice, so I let the answering machine take his calls. Simon phoned too, desperate to hear that his father was sane again. Meanwhile, Kate and I supported one another and lied to the world. We had an official story: Luke was up to his ears in a massive deal, very intense, lots of overnighters—he just didn’t have time to get home. Everything was fine in the Livingstone family.
My friend Stella returned from her trip to Cornwall to find a note from me, and called straight away. We arranged to meet in the car park at the foot of Yalton Hill. I’d managed to hold myself together for the past fortnight, but as soon as dear Stella hauled herself out of her car, I burst into tears. Bless her, she was so kind: hugging me and squeezing my shoulder and gasping, ‘Good Lord, he’s lost his mind.’
Stella Marriot has been married three times, and I’ve been her bridesmaid—maid of honour, whatever you call it—twice. Her first husband, Bob, was the father of her two daughters. He had a massive heart attack when he and she were playing in the final of the mixed doubles tournament in the Yalton club. Their opponents were Luke and myself, but she’s never held that against us. The next, Hugh, was still in love with his first wife and turned to Stella on the rebound. The marriage was less than a year old when he and Stella agreed that it wasn’t making anybody happy.
The third husband was more newsworthy: Steve Marriot, an affable charmer who managed a chain of pubs. Stella married him at the age of fifty and he gave her a Siamese kitten as a wedding present. She was deliriously happy until the day Steve was arrested for a series of bank robberies. The police found two sawn-off shotguns and a balaclava in the boot of his car, and he was sent to prison for fifteen years. Stella divorced him because he was absent; she seemed less worried about the fact that he’d turned out to be Oxfordshire’s Most Wanted. Steve had languished in various prisons over the years, but wherever he was, Stella still visited him once a month.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said now. ‘A cross-dresser? Luke? Is it April Fools’ Day?’
‘I wish it were.’
‘What is he thinking of?’
‘Turns out he’s been doing it, or at least wanting to do it, the whole time we’ve been married. He’s not just a cross-dresser, Stella. He says he feels he’s a woman, trapped in a male body.’
She snorted. ‘We all like the opposite sex. It doesn’t mean we have to become one of them.’
We began walking up the hill. Stella’s a well-padded woman, and the climb was a challenge for her. For some time she didn’t have any breath to spare for talking, but I did. I felt as though I were turning a tap, letting the words stream out. I told her everything.
When the path levelled off, Stella managed to speak. ‘D’you think he’s serious?’
‘I don’t know. He says so. But . . . how can he be? It’s crazy!’
‘What about your anniversary party?’
‘I’ve cancelled it.’
She paused, pretending to look at the view, though I was fairly sure she just wanted an excuse to catch her breath. ‘He’ll never go through with this.’
‘You think he won’t?’
‘Nah. Look at what he’s got to lose! His family and his work. Those are the two things he really cares about—they’re the things that define him, aren’t they? And I know he’s not a proud bugger, but he won’t want people to spit on him in the street. He’ll ha
ve nothing. He’ll be nothing. Holy moley, this hill has definitely got steeper since I was here last. I need to get myself back to zumba.’
‘You okay?’
‘Stitch.’ She bent over, pressing a hand to her side. ‘Whew. Perhaps it’s male menopause. They do go a bit funny.’
‘I’m in the middle of female menopause,’ I retorted, ‘but I haven’t had a sudden urge to destroy my family.’
Once we were walking again, Stella seemed to get a second wind. ‘Look, I’m the undisputed expert on husbands around here, and my money says he’ll see sense once he’s looked into the void.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘The question is, my friend, what are you going to do when he turns up at your door and promises to be one hundred per cent male from now on? Would you take him back?’
I still hadn’t come up with an answer when we reached the trig point at the summit. Stella sank onto a rock. I leaned my arms on the marker, feeling the wind whip against my cheek. The Chilterns rolled on and on into a hazy horizon, dappled by the racing shadows of clouds.
‘I just want him to come home,’ I said. ‘I want him to be his old self again. D’you think I’m a fool?’
‘No. The man’s an absolute gem.’ Still puffing, Stella ticked off Luke’s good points on her fingers. ‘Not dead. Not in love with someone else. Doesn’t even point shotguns in people’s faces.’
‘He wears dresses, though.’
‘Mm.’ She considered this fact. ‘And that has to stop. You can hardly be expected to find a man attractive when he’s cavorting around in a petticoat—so no more of that kinky stuff, thank you very much. That’s not negotiable. I’ll bet he’s having second thoughts already and doesn’t know what to do about it. Go and see him, Eilish! Tell him his bridges aren’t burned. Good Lord, you’ve been together long enough. You must know how to get through to him.’
You can see for miles from the top of that hill. The miniature houses of East Yalton looked chaotic, straggling around the limestone church with its square tower. Beyond them lay fields and woods, and Gareth’s farmyard. I could just make out the roof of Smith’s Barn.
‘The last time I came up here was with him,’ I said. ‘New Year’s Eve. We opened a bottle of bubbly and stood right here, by this marker. We didn’t need a watch to know when it was midnight.’
‘Fireworks?’
‘Spectacular! All over the countryside, all at once. Mind you, it was bloody freezing.’
It had been all I could do to get Luke to come with me up the hill. He’d been going through a low patch. Even getting out of bed had seemed an effort.
‘Another year gone,’ he’d said, as we huddled together under his overcoat.
‘And another begins!’ I reminded him, and began to prattle on about my plans for the year ahead. I was used to these dark moods of his; they were just a part of him. I honestly thought the right strategy was to be Tigger to his Eeyore. Was that where I went wrong?
Now, standing by the trig point, I found myself gazing at the roof of Smith’s Barn. Perhaps he’d already come home. I imagined walking into the kitchen to find him waiting for me; and that, by some miracle, he was his rational, handsome, male self again.
Sixteen
Luke
The Bathgate Road surgery was jammed between a pawnbroker and a betting shop. It had eight GPs, and a receptionist so short she could barely be seen above the counter. She said I had to fill in a form since I was a new patient. My hand shook uncontrollably as I wrote. The waiting was over. In a few minutes’ time I was going to say the words out loud.
The receptionist smiled warmly when I handed back the form. Of course she did: I must have appeared a well-turned-out, well-spoken chap, more than welcome in her waiting room. I wondered whether she’d be so polite if she knew what I was.
‘You’ll be seeing Dr Ford,’ she said, and gave me a ticket with a number on it, as if I were in the delicatessen at a supermarket. My number was sixty-six. People sat on plastic chairs, staring at breakfast TV on a large screen. I stood, chewing around my thumbnail and trying to distract myself by reading the message boards. There were notices for carers of dementia patients, for diabetics, for people who didn’t speak English. There was one for teenagers who thought they were gay, and others offering help with depression and addictions and eating disorders. I could see nothing at all for people whose bodies didn’t match their minds.
Once, long ago, I thought my body and my mind might be in harmony after all. I was young, and it was summertime. Eilish and I had booked five days in a little hotel in the Dordogne. We were—I apologise for the cliché, but there is no better way for me to say this—madly in love. Madly, but also sanely. Before her I’d had several girlfriends, all of whom complained that I shut them out. Eilish was unlike anyone I’d ever met. She quelled my inner conflict. With her, I could be a man.
I wasn’t yet a partner at Bannermans, and was expected to be at my desk from eight in the morning until all hours of the night; sometimes all night. At the time I was working on a merger with a corporate partner called Benjamin Rose. I liked and trusted Benjamin—I still do—and he was the one person I told about my plan to propose to Eilish. He laid a fatherly hand on my shoulder and suggested a little jeweller’s shop he knew off Chancery Lane.
‘Off you go,’ he said, in his rumbling voice. ‘No time like the present.’
The ring was an antique, with three emeralds. It could have been made especially for Eilish, with her green eyes. I bought it on sale or return (the jeweller winked at me, said he was sure it wouldn’t be returned) and smuggled it back to my desk. For the rest of the day, I felt the box next to my hip, but my mind kept sneaking away, leading me to Thurso Lane and pointing accusingly at the suitcase I kept under my bed. That’s where I kept my precious stash, gathered over the years; those things that brought comfort when masculinity became unbearable.
I didn’t need it anymore. It had to go.
That night, I carried my treasures out into the wilderness that I called a back garden. I pushed them into a dustbin, doused them with petrol and set them alight. I even did a little victory dance around the fire. I’d beaten the addiction. I would be a man forever.
I so wanted it to be true. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be happy. Who doesn’t?
The electronic board was flashing: 66. Hoof beats in my chest. Come in, number sixty-six, your time is up. Come in and confess your shame.
Dr Ford had sparse hair and an air of near-retirement. ‘Morning, Mr . . . er, Livingstone. Take a seat. What can I do for you?’ he asked, looking me over with professional politeness. He’d be seeing nothing unusual, just a pair of chinos and a stripy shirt. Men who looked and dressed like me were probably two a penny to him. Prostate? he’d be thinking. Heartburn?
I gripped my knees. Then I did it. I said the words.
‘I believe I have gender dysphoria.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Gender dysphoria. I identify as a woman.’
He coughed. ‘Are you joking?’
‘No.’
He leaned back in his swivel chair. ‘You don’t look remotely like a woman.’
‘I know that, but nevertheless . . .’ I remembered the script. I’d canvassed BK in the chatroom before this visit, and knew what I wanted to achieve. ‘I would like you, please, to arrange for me to be referred to a gender identity clinic. I believe I’ll need a psychiatric assessment.’
‘And what would be the point in my doing that?’
I was taken aback. I hadn’t expected open hostility from a GP. ‘I’ve battled with this for decades,’ I said. ‘I’ve had depression. I desperately need help. Please help me. Please help me.’
‘Look,’ said Dr Ford, pinching his nose between forefinger and thumb. ‘I’m not au fait with the terms you people like to use, but let me tell you that this is an emotional problem, not a physical one. Are you married?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Sex okay?’
He rolled his eyes in exasperation, as though I were a rebellious teenager. ‘There’s no point in your coming to see me if you disregard my advice. I assume you have a problem with erectile dysfunction?’
‘No.’
‘It’s very common at your age. I can help you with that.’
‘No thanks.’ I’d stopped feeling nervous. ‘This has nothing to do with my sex life.’
‘D’you have children?’
‘They’re adults now.’
‘Lucky you,’ he said. ‘Many of my patients have no family at all. They go through life completely alone—which is what you’ll be if you don’t snap out of this nonsense! What are your children supposed to think when their father swans in looking like Dame Edna Everage?’
Keep calm, I told myself. Don’t storm out.
‘Now.’ Ford was jabbing his biro in my direction as though trying to take out an eye. ‘In my professional opinion, you haven’t given this enough thought. I can examine you if you like, give you a clean bill of health.’
‘Not necessary.’
‘I can also take some blood tests, to exclude some kind of hormonal imbalance.’
‘That won’t help.’
‘Then let me give you some advice. What you are experiencing is a midlife crisis. I think you need to take more exercise. What about cycling? Many men of your age find that taking up cycling has all sorts of benefits. Good for your waistline, your fitness levels and your libido. You could join a club. A colleague of mine has found a whole new lease of life. He’s just cycled across the Andes.’
‘Are you going to refer me or aren’t you?’
He was typing now; he wanted to be rid of me. I sensed deep anger in the man. ‘I can give you a private prescription for Viagra. That should sort out any little, er, problems with sexual function.’
The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 11