The New Woman (12 page)

I heard Kate shift in the straw. ‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Not really. How about you?’

‘I’ve been telling myself to get a bloody grip. Be cool. Nobody’s died.’

‘True,’ I said. ‘Nobody’s actually died.’

‘It feels like somebody has, though.’ Her legs appeared over the edge of the bale as she sat up. ‘Nothing’s what I thought it was. Up’s down. Right’s wrong. Front’s back . . . I mean, he’s my dad. I
know
him. I know he chews all around his thumbnail when he’s bothered about something. I know he secretly loves babies, goes all smoochy over them. I know what makes him giggle: Baldrick off
Blackadder
. I know what pisses him off.’

‘Holocaust deniers,’ I said. ‘Insurance companies. Traffic wardens. Arctic oil exploration.’

‘Bossy check-in chicks.’

‘People who kick cats.’ Yet he’s a fraud, I thought; a fraud with silky secrets. When nobody was watching, he put them on.

‘We used to play British Bulldogs in this field,’ said Kate.

‘How could I forget?’ I smiled at the memory. ‘Every teenager for miles around seemed to congregate at our place.’

‘Sophie Baxter and I used to sneak off and smoke under that lime tree.’

‘I knew about you and Sophie smoking.’ I looked across at the tree, covered now in pale blooms. Luke and I had stood beneath its canopy on our last walk, listening to the hum of bees.

‘I remember him singing bedtime songs,’ said Kate. ‘Dad. Taking us camping. Giving cuddles when things went wrong. D’you remember the day he brought Casino home, up his jersey, after he found him dumped at the railway station?’

I did remember that—and a thousand other things: Luke holding the newborn Simon as though he were made of porcelain, tears spilling from his eyes.
He’s perfect
, he whispered.
Perfect. Perfect
. I closed my eyes. I could hear the chuckling of the stream.

‘A fox!’ breathed Kate suddenly. ‘See?’

I saw it: a lithe shadow trotting through the half-light. He paused near our bale, swivelling dark-tipped ears. Perhaps he’d
caught wind of the presence of humans, but he seemed quite relaxed. I held my breath as he loped by. There was something magical about this glimpse of a wild creature. I felt a tug of sadness when he disappeared into the trees.

Kate and I sat on, watching the slow melting of evening into night, and the glittering of the first stars. I thought I heard the phone ringing back at the house, but perhaps it was only a bird calling. It didn’t matter. I was sinking into a stunned stupor. The air was laced with the scent of wild garlic, and owls hooted from somewhere in the dreaming mass of woodland. We’d been so lucky, I thought, and we hadn’t known it. So very lucky. We had lived a charmed life.

It was fully dark when Kate sighed. ‘How can the world be so beautiful and so shitty, both at the same time?’

Luke

I listened to the ringing tone. One, two, three . . . and the answering machine. Perhaps Eilish had guessed it was me and didn’t want to talk.

‘It’s only me,’ I said to the machine. ‘I’m . . . Well, anyway, I was wondering how you are. Both of you. Let me know you’re all right, will you? Speak later. Bye.’

Life without Eilish yawned ahead of me. It looked bleak.

Evening always came early at the flat because it was almost subterranean; the kitchen window looked out onto dustbins, stone steps and the feet of passers-by. I’d bought the place with a massive mortgage just before I met Eilish, and we’d kept it as a London base. It had a small garden backing onto a railway line. I turned on the overhead light, a pitiless strip of neon, and two flies immediately smashed themselves into oblivion. A wail of sirens swelled and receded into the night.

I heated a ready meal but didn’t eat it. I poured a glass of whisky but didn’t drink it. I still had to phone my mother, and I was dreading it. She answered at the second ring.

‘All Eilish would tell me,’ she said, ‘was to ask you. So, I’m asking you a straight question, and I’d like a straight answer. What’s going on?’

I was getting better at the explanation: better at saying the words, better at coming out with it. She listened without comment until I’d told her everything. Even when I came to the end, she said nothing.

‘Are you still there?’ I asked. ‘Mum?’

‘Thank God Robert isn’t alive to see this.’

‘I know. Poor Dad.’

‘Poor Eilish! What did she do to deserve such a slap in the face?’

‘Nothing. She did nothing. It’s all my fault.’

There was another silence. I heard the flick of a lighter, and an inhalation.

‘Let’s not pretend I had no idea,’ she said. ‘Let’s not pretend that. You and I have memories, don’t we? I’m to blame.’

‘You? No!’

‘Oh, I think so. I think I am. I’m going to ring off now, Luke, because you’ve given me a lot to think about and I don’t want to cry when I’m on the phone. Don’t worry, I’m not having a heart attack or anything. I’m not going to be found dead in my bed. I just think it’s best if I . . . Let’s talk again tomorrow. You’re all right, are you? Good.’

She sounded completely winded. I think I would have preferred tears and recriminations.

After that, the silence screamed at me. The silence and the emptiness, stretching on forever. I felt completely alone. My eyes strayed to the cupboard below the sink. The rope still lay in there, coiled up. There was a hook in the ceiling that would take my weight. My letters were all ready and folded in the briefcase.

I couldn’t manage this without some kind of help. It was too much, too terrifying. I was setting out on a journey with no map, compass or guide—and without Eilish.

I slid my laptop out of its case, fired it up and typed into the search bar:
help advice transgender.

Within a second, those three words had brought up over twelve million results. I blinked, astonished.
Twelve million
? If only Google had been in existence forty years ago! I grew up believing myself to be the only person ever, in the history of the world, to feel as I did. Later I discovered that there were others like me, but I had no idea how many.

I could see forums and chatrooms. Lots of them. I searched for a site that didn’t only push online dating and eventually chose one called
TransChatterers
. It looked innocuous enough.

I clicked on the icon for
chat
.

Register now.

Damn. Why did I have to register? It was one thing to sign up to the National Trust or Friends of the Royal Ballet; it was quite another matter for a partner at Bannermans to be hobnobbing on a website called
TransChatterers
. Perhaps my identity could be traced? I might be blackmailed or publicly outed. I didn’t even know where
TransChatterers
was based, if anywhere. The USA? Russia? Nigeria?

Still, I was desperate, so I clicked. The next page asked for my email address. No, no, this was asking too much! They’d find me. I imagined an army of men with handbags chasing me down the street, banging on my door in the middle of the night; or perhaps beautiful Asian girls with penises, trying to sell me something I didn’t want to buy. I got up and walked five times around the table, chewing my thumbnail.

Listen to yourself, Livingstone! You’re awfully bigoted for a man who keeps lipstick in his briefcase.

Right. I was going to do this. I sat down again, typed in my email address and agreed to their terms and conditions. A final message sprang up:

Nearly there! Please enter a username.

A new name, for a new world.

Lucia.

Instantly, the site responded with the clanging of electronic gongs.
You are logged in! Welcome Lucia!

Euphoria swamped my anxiety. I was Lucia, and I was welcome! I had no idea what to do next. Suddenly, more words appeared on the screen. This time, they were from a real person.

BK: Hi, Lucia!

I didn’t expect that. I ducked, as though they could see me; as though I could hide. Someone knew I was here.

BK: What brings you to our community?

Good question. I laid my hands over the keys, took a long breath, and typed.

Lucia: I just need advice.

BK: Ur among friends here. Are u trans?

Lucia: I think so.

BK: Have u come out to anyone?

Lucia: Yesterday. To my wife. Terrible.

BK:
Sorry to hear that. My parents didn’t want 2 know me but my sister came round. Hang in there Lucia.

I’m not alone, I thought. My God, I’m not alone.

BK: What’s next for you?

Lucia: I don’t know what to do.

BK: I am m2f, transitioned 5 years ago.

It took me a while to make sense of the shorthand. Ah yes, I’d got it. BK was born male, but she’d been living as a woman for five years.

Lucia: Are you happier now?

BK: Let me answer that another way. Can you go on as you are?

I hadn’t yet responded when my mobile rang. It was Simon. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mum.’

I stood up, eager for news of Eilish. ‘How is she?’

‘How do you think? How do you bloody
think
? I want you to promise that you’ll never, ever give in to these urges again. I want you to see a shrink and get yourself cured. Then she might even have you back.’

‘This isn’t something that can be cured. I wish it were.’

‘Sort your shit out, Dad! You can control this thing, if you really want to.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Meet me tomorrow and let me explain better. There’s so much to say.’

‘If I see you, I truly think I might kill you.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Oh, I mean it.’ His breathing sounded ragged, as though he were running uphill. ‘I want to kill you for what you’ve done to Mum. Don’t you dare start mincing down the street in a dress. If you do that, she’ll be finished. And you’ll be dead.’

‘Simon,’ I said. ‘Simon?’

He’d hung up. I slumped back down into my seat, terrified by the new void in my life. That was Simon making threats—my rational, adored son.

The gong sounded on my computer.

BK: U there Lucia?

Lucia: Sorry but I have to go. This is too destructive. Thanks.

I closed my laptop and sank my face into my hands. It was too much; it was impossible. I couldn’t go on, and I couldn’t go back. I had no future.

Hi, Luke!
breathed The Thought, popping breezily into my consciousness.

‘Go away,’ I said out loud.

It had no intention of going away. It draped itself around me, hypnotising with whispered promises of peace.
Remember Plan A? It’s still the best option! Look at your funeral in East Yalton church. The pews are packed for such a well-liked, public-spirited, decent man! See Eilish? She’s in the front row, wearing that black dress. Doesn’t she look elegant? Such a respectable widow. See Simon? He’s standing with one hand on your coffin, talking movingly about the father he loved. And there’s your mother, bless her. She still has a son, even if he’s dead. They can hold their heads up. Nobody’s laughing at them.