The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone

by Charity Norman

  ‘Carmela?’ he called.

  To him his voice sounded uncouth, as though he’d shouted during a funeral. He hoped she would appear at the top of the stairs, with a finger to her lips and a sleeping baby in her arms. She didn’t.

  Suddenly frightened, he shouted again before sprinting up the stairs to look in every room. It was like a horrible detective game. Their toothbrushes were gone from the bathroom. Nico’s duvet had been taken from his bed. The baby’s travel cot was no longer on top of the cupboard on the landing, and neither was Carmela’s big suitcase.

  There was no text on his phone, no missed call. It took him a long time to find the note, though she’d left it where he should have seen it straight away. It lay on the table in the hall, right next to the keys he’d dropped so casually.

  Dear Simon,

  I feel that I have no other choices. I have taken the children away from what is happening to us. We’ll be staying in Suffolk, by the sea. You’ll be angry, you’ll probably think that I’m being manipulative, but I am not. Nico needs a holiday from the tension, and so do I. I have informed his school. As for the future, I don’t know.

  I think it would be kind if you don’t tell your parents yet. They’re going through this terrible time, and they would only blame themselves. It’s not their fault. It is our fault.

  I will turn my phone on from time to time, in case there are messages. I think this is a good thing for you as well as for me. You and I both need time to think, and time to decide what is best.

  My love, take care of yourself.

  Carmela

  P.S. Soup in the slow cooker. Your dry-cleaning ticket is pinned to the noticeboard.

  All the wine in the house couldn’t dull the pain.

  He imagined them in a holiday cottage by the sea, happy and excited. He imagined Nico playing on a beach, running and shouting; he imagined Carmela with Rosa on her back, and saw her hair lifting in a breeze. He wished—fiercely, desperately—that he were with them.

  It took him most of the night to write a simple text. He composed it first on the back of an envelope, since it was probably the most important message he’d ever send. The envelope was soon covered in his handwriting. The problem was that he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He drafted long and convoluted messages; he drafted bitter messages, pleading messages, irrational messages. He paced around the garden in the dark, trying to get it right. What did he want to say?

  He tried to be angry with her. That would be so much easier than being angry with himself. He tried to think her faithless, selfish, a total bitch; but the truth was that even as he’d feverishly searched the house for his family, he’d known they were gone, and he’d known why.

  I drove them away, he thought, staring at his scribbles on the envelope. Why was I so destructive? Perhaps it was a form of self-harm, like cutting myself. I thought I’d grown out of that; haven’t done it since I left school.

  By the time he lay down on his bed, he still hadn’t sent any message. According to the bedside clock it was three-eighteen. He felt light-headed with exhaustion, but he wasn’t at all sure he’d sleep. He’d been going to bed alone since New Year’s Day, and hated it. This was far worse. He slid under the covers and lay very still, listening to the emptiness. There was no life in the house. No Carmela, no Nico, no smiling Rosa; no hope that tomorrow would be different.

  Finally, he knew what he wanted to say.

  Five words.

  Terrified. Please come home soon.

  Forty-five

  Luke

  I was grateful to Ricky Tait, who’d invaded my privacy and shared my secret with the world. He was the super-cool teenager who’d pushed me off the edge of the cantilevered platform. I’d been hesitating, looking down into the abyss, until he gave me that final nudge. I dived into thin air, and so far I had survived. So had Eilish.

  Of course the world gossiped about me. I’d have done the same, in the world’s shoes. I was too alien for some: those parents who called Penny O’Neil and demanded my resignation; Hugh Tolly, who never did quite meet my eye; the couple who walked out of the Bracton Arms that first day; the woman beside me at the altar rail who turned the chalice around as though afraid she might catch transgender-person germs. My sisters. My son.

  Ah, but then there were the others—so many others, who looked beyond their fear and revulsion and accepted me. It came from the most unexpected quarters, and it carried both Eilish and me through those first days.

  Two weeks after Ricky took his photographs, a tall fifty-something woman walked up to the main doors of Bannermans. It was eight o’clock in the morning. An expert had done her hair; it was very dark, but with streaks of silver, and it bounced around her face in waves, softening the lines of her jaw and forehead. Another expert had chosen her understated clothes: a cream blouse and charcoal skirt suit, beautifully cut; she had pearls around her neck and in her ears. Her make-up was subtle, her shoes elegant. Her nails were polished and carefully shaped. She drew few second glances from passers-by. One or two stared just a little too long, as though puzzled, but she kept smiling. She felt intensely feminine, determined and nervous in equal measure.

  She didn’t allow herself to hesitate. Up the steps. In through the revolving doors.

  The two women at reception had been well primed.

  ‘Morning, Ms Livingstone,’ said Izzy, with a bright smile.

  Ms Livingstone returned the greeting warmly, crossed the lobby—her heels tapping on the marble floor, feeling eyes on her back—and swiped her security card before calling the lift.

  Behind her, she heard Izzy pick up a phone and whisper to someone: He’s here. No, sorry; shit, I’ve done it already . . . God, this is going to be impossible . . . I mean, she’s here.

  The lift doors opened. Empty, thank heavens. She stepped in. What a relief: for about half a minute she was alone, and could lower her guard.

  She had a busy day ahead of her.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re straight in at the deep end,’ Judi had warned her. ‘Your secretary tells me they’ve had to schedule two client meetings for your first day back.’

  ‘Clients still want me to act for them?’

  ‘Livingstone, you’re more in demand than ever. Apparently they’ve been fighting ’em off. Don’t kid yourself, though—this popularity isn’t because of your incisive legal brain. They couldn’t give a toss about that. They just want to see how you’ve done your hair. Welcome to womanhood.’

  I wish I were, thought Lucia now. I wish I were welcome to womanhood.

  The lift reached her floor. There were—as always—several people around. She was back on display, and she had to walk down the corridor. She thought of a small child in green shorts, sobbing on her first day at school. One or two colleagues said hello, how nice to have you back, and she smiled brilliantly at them. She guessed they’d all had the fear of God put into them: no staring, no smirks, no careless remarks that might be taken to an employment tribunal.

  At last she reached her own office. The sliding door was open. Judi was waiting by the desk, holding an immense bunch of flowers.

  ‘You made it, then,’ she said.

  ‘I made it.’

  For a moment they smiled at one another, taking pleasure in a hard-fought victory. Then Judi nodded towards the open door. ‘Did you notice something?’

  Lucia stepped back outside to look. When she saw the new nameplate, her heart almost burst.

  ‘Flowers?’ echoed Kate. She sounded incredulous. ‘They gave you bloody flowers? Have they ever given you flowers before, in the decades you’ve worked there?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘So what kind of naked stereotyping is that?’

  I laughed. I could see where this was going. ‘The good kind.’

  ‘You know what the implications are, don’t you, Dad? Female equals soft and sweet-smelling and non-threatening. We’ll never smash through the glass ceiling with flowers in our hands.’

  ‘Never mi
nd the flowers—what about my new nameplate? Lucia Livingstone.’

  ‘Yeah,’ conceded Kate. ‘That was cool.’

  ‘I had two meetings today, both with large teams of people, during which my advice was listened to, flowers or no flowers—though I did notice quite a few people staring at my boobs, obviously trying to work out if they’re real or not.’

  ‘Are they real?’

  ‘Not very. Not yet.’

  ‘Men look at women’s chests,’ said Kate. ‘It’s what they do. They can’t help themselves. They don’t even know they’re doing it.’

  ‘Not all men,’ I said mildly.

  ‘No. Well, I’m sure you never did. You weren’t that sort of man.’

  We’d met for a drink at the station to celebrate my first day as a full-time woman. Kate had Guinness. I asked for a white wine spritzer and remembered to sit in the way I’d learned: knees together, ankles tucked to the side. The satin lining of my skirt felt luxurious. Still, I couldn’t relax in case I made a mistake; I hadn’t been able to relax all day. I was triumphant but dog-tired, and longing to get back to Smith’s Barn. I knew I’d have to learn to do without Eilish, but for now she was my refuge.

  ‘You know, Kate, I’m fighting a pretty big battle here. I think I can safely say that as a transgender woman—technically, a lesbian transgender woman—I’m a bit of a pariah. It seems to bring out a primal fear in some people. Like a snake does.’

  ‘Can’t deny that. A lawyer, too! Ouch. Triple whammy.’

  ‘I can’t fight on two fronts,’ I said. ‘I applaud your ideals. I do. I think you’re right, there is a glass ceiling, and having heard the way many men talk at the urinals, I know we’ve a long way to go before it’s shattered. But I can’t—and I won’t—feel angry when someone gives me flowers or holds open a door. I’ll just be grateful. If there’s a glass ceiling for me, it isn’t because I’m a woman. It’s because I was once a man. You do realise you’ve got foam on your nose?’

  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.