The New Woman Read Online Free PDF Page B

little laugh. ‘I know exactly who you are! You’re a man. You’re my man. This is crazy.’I’ll wake up in a minute, I thought. I tried to shake myself out of sleep, but it didn’t work. ‘You expect me to believe that you’ve felt . . . been hiding . . . this . . . what, since the day we met? You wouldn’t do that to me. I know you wouldn’t. I know you. You’re Luke.’
    He put his face in his hands. Casino jumped onto his lap and began to knead.
    ‘I’ve got to explain,’ Luke said. ‘Please let me try.’
    I was too stunned to interrupt as he described how he had always thought of himself as female, even when he was a little boy. He said again and again how sorry he was; he would understand if I divorced him, but he could no longer keep up the pretence that he was a normal man. He said he didn’t want to lie anymore. He said that he loved me.
    I sat and listened without comprehending, and thought about how he’d walked all night in the storm. A nail had begun to work its way out of my chair. Quite deliberately, I pressed my shoulderblade against its sharp tip. The pain was at least real and tangible in that nightmare fog. The world was tipping, and I was going to fall off. Water began hosing against the windows. Spouting’s buggered again, I thought, as though it mattered about the bloody spouting.
    ‘Do you mean you’re gay?’ I asked suddenly. ‘Is that what this is all about—you want to sleep with men? You’ve never really wanted me at all?’
    ‘No. I’m not gay. That would be so much easier.’
    I laughed, because it was absurd. ‘ Easier? ’
    ‘Less complicated.’
    ‘So . . . what does it mean? I don’t understand what this means. Are you leaving me?’
    My question was still hanging above our heads when the phone rang. It seemed irrelevant. Through the mist, I heard Simon’s voice on the answering machine. Poor Simon. He sounded cheerful. He thought his world was still whole.
    ‘Hi, Dad. Hi, Mum. Um . . . I expect you’re still asleep, sorry if I’ve woken you up. Dad, just wondered if you caughtthe interview on Radio Four just now, about mediation across cultures? Pretty interesting, thought you might . . . er, anyway. You can always listen to it online. Hilarious, what they say about non-verbal communication with Norwegians. Um, Carmela sends her love. She’s fine—tired, obviously, but blooming. We’ll see you both tomorrow, if we’re still coming for lunch? I thought I’d check that’s still on, but I’ll assume it is unless I hear from you. Hang on . . . Nico wants to say hello.’
    A pause. Whispers. Heavy breathing. Then the careful tones of a four-year-old who’s been allowed the adult privilege of talking into the telephone.
    ‘Hello, Grandpa . . . Hello. Hello? . . . He’s not there, Dad.’ There were more whispers before our darling grandson spoke again. This time he used his formal message-leaving voice. ‘Hello, Grandpa and Granny. It’s fish for breakfast. I have a new baby bruvver or sister coming. When are we going to make the wooden plane? Bye.’
    I pictured Nico crashing down the receiver before racing back to his fish-for-breakfast. Then there was silence in our kitchen. Water gushed against the glass.
    ‘Are you going to leave me?’ I asked again.
    ‘I think that’s up to you. All I know is that I have to change. I can’t go on pretending to be something I’m not.’
    Then I remembered something I’d read once, in a magazine at the hairdresser’s, about a woman who found her husband’s stash of women’s clothes. It turned out he wore them often, as soon as her back was turned. It was the worst day of my life , she said. I read it with prurient interest while they did my foils. The husband had announced that he wanted to be female. There was a picture of two women, and one of them looked downright odd.
    ‘You’re married,’ I said now, with an obstinacy born of terror. ‘You have children and grandchildren. You are Luke Livingstone