A new life brings new opportunities for a divorcé, even three floors up in an IKEA ghetto.

If you don't live in Britain, or don't remember the Seventies, please accept my apologies as this story refers to television programmes and personalities you've probably never heard of, not to mention a lot of stuff about our national obsession with the housing market which nobody understands.

Our marriage was mercifully brief. Emily and I had problems from the very beginning, and while they were not insurmountable, they were difficult for us to discuss. Emily had run up a lot of debts, of which I knew nothing, and I was optimistically hoping that wedding cake would cure my transvestism. Discovery was inevitable when we moved in together, as were the recriminations. The divorce was relatively painless, although I believe we still loved each other enough for it to hurt a little it was a lot easier than the arguments. Our house sold quickly, at the top of the market, providing us both with the means to make a new start.

Home became a single bed flat in a new tower block. While that may have appeared grim to some, the freedom that came with living alone excited me. I had always shared homes with others, forced to crossdress in secret for fear of what they might have said. Slipping into women’s clothes at the drop of a hatbox was a delightful novelty that just refused to wear off. With nothing to hide I could shave, wax and pluck to my heart’s content, and the bathroom shelves filled with cosmetics, toiletries and perfumes. Not that it was all mincing about.

Developers had thrown up new towers on every brown-field site in town; big, bland buildings with large windows, and small rooms. My third-floor flat overlooked the railway station on one side, and a derelict factory on the other. Its walls were several insipid shades of beige, its floors an almost realistic laminate, and to disguise how low they really were, its ceilings a uniform white. It was home, but in an IKEA ghetto. Neighbours dragged flat-pack furniture along the corridors, sweating, and swearing into their identikit boxes far too frequently for me to want to follow suit. Instead, I scoured the small-ads in search of the cheaply unfashionable, and became a regular at local sale rooms.

The flat’s kitchen and bathroom came fully-fitted, so there was little scope for individuality, which left the lounge and bedroom. Growing up in the Seventies, I had been sold a dream of modernity up to which all later modernities failed hopelessly to live. It had also been the time when I realised that girls had far nicer things to wear than boys. Within a matter of weeks of moving in, I could drape myself over a G-plan sofa admiring my platform-soled boots and California-tan tights. Sipping Campari by the flickering glow of a lava lamp - sipping very slowly as it is far fouler than Lorraine Chase ever cared to mention - I was only a fondue-set away from nirvana.

Another fantasy emerged in the bedroom. Pokey as it was, I managed to squeeze in a Victorian bed and wardrobe, with room still for a dressing-table. Beige gave way to burgundy, shortly before the invasion of a lace bedspread, brocade curtains and a barely moth-eaten Indian rug. With the addition of a washstand, a few ornately framed, but otherwise hideous prints, and some smaller items of Victoriana, I had almost completed my image of a romantic boudoir — albeit one which I suspect to an objective eye looked more like a gothic bordello. However, there was still room for a dressing-table.

The right one took months to find. I had seen enough episodes of ‘Cash in the Attic’ to know what I wanted, and embarked on the bargain hunt — sorry - tape-measure at the ready. With growing frustration I made almost daily visits to sale rooms, and spent hours on the telephone chasing up any classified advertisement that held even the faintest whiff of promise. I was close to abandoning hope, when I happened to drive by an old house being cleared by builders. On the pavement outside was my dressing-table, a little more distressed than I had envisaged, but otherwise perfect.

“You can take it mate,” their foreman had told me with a pitying look; he even gave me a hand securing it to the roof of my car. It weighed a ton, so much so that we had to remove the drawers before we - I say ’we’ it was mostly him - could lift it. Trying not to think about the next stage of its journey I happily drove off, no doubt leaving him pondering the eccentricities of blokes in ties, and their taste in roadside tat. I will not describe how it made its way from car to flat, save to say that, I did some things of which I am not proud, and it is best not to mention.

With the dressing table sat in my Seventies lounge, like an elderly aunt at a discotheque, I got down to work. Having no expertise in furniture restoration, I was delighted to find that, under the layers of grime, it was in excellent condition. Best of all, I was sure that its bevelled mirror was original. A few hours later, I had dragged it into place in the bedroom, and was carefully folding my ‘unmentionables’ into its freshly pomandered drawers.

With uncharacteristic restraint, I refrained from enacting the final stage of my boudoir fantasy until the following weekend, contenting myself with evenings spent, swaying to the Bay City Rollers in my tartan hotpants.

Saturday morning sped by, as I rushed to complete the weekend chores, all done at a canter. I am one of those people who cannot begin to enjoy themselves, until everything is dusted, in its place, and dusted again. Emily always said it was one of my more annoying traits. Even when I have something exciting to do, I just have to nail down the domestic beforehand. The trouble is, by the time I am ready to start I often need a nap first to recharge my batteries.

It was a little after three o’clock, when I emerged from the bathroom pinkly clean in a cloud of lavender scented steam. ‘Miss Foresight-And-Planning’ had laid out her clothes in the order in which she would put them on. First, heavy, black stockings, secured on each thigh by a pretty garter. A white silk camisole, and long drawers, both deeply trimmed with delicate Belgian lace, followed these. More than a century old, I had carefully laundered them over a period of weeks until they shone. Any remaining mustiness had been banished by the orange and clove pomander.

My stays, while appearing authentic, had been purchased new. As much as I would have loved a truly vintage example, women’s waists were tiny in those days for their foundations to fit me. I had been coaxing myself into the corset for more than a month, lacing it a little tighter each time. Its bones and mine had come to an accommodation, if not a comfortable one. A long over-bust model, it first had to be tightened enough to secure a pair of breast pads in my camisole. This done, I looped the laces over the bedpost, exhaled and walked forward until its black satin sides bit. Repeating the process, three or four times, gave me a slightly top-heavy hourglass shape, and a borderline case of the vapours.

Sitting stiffly at the dressing table, I gave myself an appraising look in the mirror. While ‘Seventies me’ wears a long, straight, blond wig, my own brown hair was then just long enough to pull back into a bun of sorts, without creating a ‘Croydon facelift’. Beards had never troubled me overmuch, and a light foundation was quite able to conceal whatever shadow struggled to the surface. I could never confidently pass close inspection, but with make-up, I was at least presentable. Knowing when to stop had always been my problem, and as this Victorian idyll required a largely gilt free lily, I had laid out a small few cosmetics; a pot of rouge for lips and cheeks, a simple kohl pencil, and an impressively sized puff, for historical pallor.

With a nagging feeling of a job half done I set about adding the final touches, a tiny pair of pearl drop—earrings and a plain black silk ribbon choker. This done there was nothing left but to primp and preen, but I could not resist resetting the items on the tabletop. Hairbrush in hand I turned again to my reflection and was confronted with another woman’s face. That is not a metaphor for my transformation, there was literally another person gazing back at me from the mirror. Blond where I was brunette, naturally pale and green eyed. I followed my first instinct, running from the room as fast as corsetry allowed.

Mirrors have, I believe, a particular fascination for the transgendered. They show us what is, and what might have been; for a few of us, they show what might yet be. Therefore, though shaken I crept back to the bedroom where the other woman still gazed calmly from the mirror.

“Who are you?” I asked, “What is it you want?”

I had read enough ghost stories to be sure that she was there to seek my help. Her only response was to raise a gloved hand as if pressing on the glass from the other side. On impulse, I covered it with my right hand.

The air already heavy with lavender, orange and clove seemed to stir around me, a scent of musk and roses invading the edges of perception. Fainter still, but growing, something brushed at my nape like a feather drawn across my skin. I should have been terrified, but it brought back fond memories of Emily who had shamelessly exploited this particular sensitivity of mine. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, held the perfume in my nose and let my breath escape in a low moan. When I reopened them, she was gone.

I could not recall the woman to the mirror, though I spent the remainder of the afternoon, and all evening, trying. Lying awake that night I imagined that the dressing table must have had the answer secreted about it somewhere. By first light, I had stripped out the drawers to search over the carcass, finding nothing. I dressed again exactly as I had the day before, same clothes, same make-up all to no avail. Staring dejectedly at my reflection, I remembered throwing the drawers into the back of the car before lifting the dressing table onto its roof. There seemed a good chance that whatever was missing dropped out then, and could still be in the car. What happened next is impossible to explain.

My newfound feminine freedom had never once crept beyond my front door. Contriving somehow to forget this I dashed into the corridor, running on stockinged feet for the closing lift. Skidding to a halt, I realised I was not alone, and despite their studied indifference it was obviously a surprise to be confronted by a man in Victorian underwear. I could have fled, the doors were still open, but whatever had propelled me this far kept me from leaving. Blushing furiously, I crawled as far into a corner as I could for the trip down, mumbling my apologies.

Had I not been so intent on searching the car I might have felt flattered by the wolf whistles directed at my bottom as I delved under its seats. Everything else was an irrelevance, however, as my hands groped blindly without really knowing what they were grasping for. As you may have already guessed my car was no haven for litter, and until I probed under the driver’s seat my hands had come back empty. At first, I thought it was probably a tissue, or a stray till receipt, until I brought it into the light. Scrunched into a ball was a twin for the mirror woman’s black lace glove.

The glove slipped easily onto my right hand, which at least proved she was a reflection, and not trapped in some sinister way behind the glass. It also meant that what I had on was the glove she had worn, not its partner. Trembling, I sat down at the dressing table expecting her to reappear immediately, only to be greeted by my own dishevelled face - I was far from presentable. Removing the glove, I set about repairing my hair and make-up. Once satisfied that I was again fit to receive company, I retrieved the glove.

The doorbell rang with a staccato burst of sharp, insistent presses. Hurriedly wrapped in a dressing gown, I trudged to the front door to face whatever residents I had offended. Panicking, I wondered how I could account to them for my behaviour when I could not even explain it to myself. Not answering seemed to be the best option but a fresh burst of rings called me to the door. Gulping back the smallest fraction of my nerves, I put my gloved hand to the lock.

“Very Michael Jackson, can I come in?” Emily’s jokes often soared far above my head, and I was still puzzling over it as I showed her into the lounge. One glove, of course!

My antics had been observed by a colleague of Emily’s - the poisonous Penny - who lived on the fourth floor, and who had wasted no time reporting it. I had, by then, had a few minutes to invent an excuse. It was not all lies, there had been a string of robberies in the car park, and I had left something in the car. My wallet just happened to be a more satisfactory explanation than the truth.

Emily’s eyes darted between me, and the ‘Generation Game’ conveyor that was my living room. For my part, I simply stared at her, watching the look of concern she had worn in fade with each smile of recognition my Seventies paraphernalia inspired. My ex-wife was prettier than I remembered, but then she was neither shouting, nor crying.

“Don’t touch that, it’s red hot,” I said, as her hand strayed towards the lava lamp.

“Of course, it would be,” she laughed. With a very direct look Emily added, “you’re different to how I imagined, especially here, I expected you to be wearing a miniskirt,” her eyebrow arched, “or tartan hotpants.”

Although I did not want Emily to leave, the scent of musk and roses was calling. I made something up about having an early night, and regretfully showed her to the door. My stomach was churning the way it had when as a boy I waited for my parents to leave me alone at home. Back then, it had been the anticipation of a secret pleasure safely indulged. Quite why it had returned I did not know, but I hardly registered Emily’s hug at the door, or a parting peck on my cheek.

The heady perfume drew me to the bedroom in a half dozen skipping steps. Blood was singing in my ears, my breath, by then a shallow panting, barely fought the corset’s constraint. I sat without ceremony, facing the mirror, which briefly reflected my open mouthed excitement, before my visitor returned. Her face, as before, betrayed no emotion as she raised her gloved palm to the glass. In that moment, in the instant I met it with my own, a strange calm took me. My heart no longer pounded, and my lungs filled with the increasingly musky air as I felt the first brush at my neck.

“At last,” growled a rasping voice at my shoulder. Something coalesced behind the woman, which had no shape, a black absence. My reflection reappeared before it — screaming - as talons ripped through silk and skin. Agony had all but screwed up my eyes, when a torpedo shaped object shot past my cheek to crash into the mirror.

Emily’s expression was difficult to read, as she had four fingers wedged into her mouth. That at least, explained which, very hot, Seventies design icon had been the instrument of my salvation. I would have laughed had I not been wiping blood from my neck; my camisole was ruined.

Wounds tended, we spoke in low voices, sticking to the facts, there would be time for speculation later. I recounted my experiences that weekend, and the real reason why I had been running around in bloomers. Emily had gone no further than the lift, worried by my later behaviour she had returned to find the front door open. After knocking without answer she had found me in the bedroom, surrounded by a dense vapour streaming from the mirror. I shushed her apologies for throwing the lamp; it seemed a small price to pay.

“Aren’t you going to clean up the mess in the bedroom?” she asked, rather archly. The husband Emily had known would have been itching to employ dustpan and brush.

“I’m not going in there until daylight,” I replied, “and I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight anyway.” It would be some time before I slept anywhere but the sofa, and then only after returning the bedroom to beige.
We carried on chatting for ages, revisiting good memories, and catching up on our few months apart. Obtuse as I am, it took a while to realise that she was staying to keep me company. When the realisation finally hit I offered to change into male clothes, Emily said it was not an issue, but I did look out of place in my Seventies lounge. As I prepared to make a dash for the wardrobe, she chuckled into her Campari.

“Do you still have those tartan hotpants?”

author's note: the characters, and interiors, described in this story are fictional and in no way reflect the author's tastes in interior design, and clothing... OK I own the corset, but not the hotpants. Honest!