I must have fallen asleep whilst reading, because the light was still on when I woke at four, needing a wee. I nearly fell over the book which was on the floor, which suggested I had dropped it. It looked a bit battered, with pages bent and buckled and I felt a bit ashamed that I could treat books so badly. I picked it up bent it back into shape and shoved it on the bedside unit, underneath a heavier book, which might help press some of the creases out of the pages.

The book was 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff. I remember the film with Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins, which had me in tears. I must watch it again some time, I really enjoyed it.

Back in bed and thinking about the story, I missed Simon, then started to think about Des again and felt very sad. I was trying not to cry, but I lost the battle and had a good bawl. I felt so confused. Here I am engaged to the nicest man I’ve ever met, grieving for someone I felt uneasy with and who I turned down several times. At the end he stopped trying to bed me, and I don’t know if he would really have tried it anyway; some of it I’m sure was just a game.

To be honest, I was afraid of him–or of his reputation as a lady-killer. I was also afraid of my own inadequacies as a woman: in the first instance, I was pre op, then afterwards, I was very inexperienced and frightened of the whole idea. I was mindful of my betrayal of my relationship with Simon, which would occur if I had been persuaded.

I’d always wondered if Des was serious or just playing games with me, as he knew my history. I suppose from his letter, he wasn’t joking. Can I forgive him for falling in love with me, when he knew I wasn’t available, that I was promised to his good friend? I suppose I have to.

I wondered if he was going to change his will after he proposed to Stella, but died before he could. If he’d known she was carrying his child, surely he would, wouldn’t he? After all, it’s not something I could do for him, however much he loved me or made love to me. I was so envious of Stella–at the end of the day, her being a real woman against my manufactured one, won hands down. I know she wouldn’t see it like that, but at this moment at half past four on a Tuesday morning, I did. I was a simulacrum, a facsimile, a travesty. How could anyone love me?

I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning I awoke as a total wreck. I felt like something that had been through an old fashioned wringer, at least twice. My eyes were red and sore and my head felt like it had turned into a bucket and someone had given it a hard whack with a shovel. I’d only had two glasses of wine, so it wasn’t a hangover.

I thought back to my feelings in the night. It wasn’t a hangover, it was a hang-up. Ms Erin Lovejoy, may, or may not be aware of my history, so she may be forgiven for seeing me as a real woman, but I’m not–I’m a fake. I went to the loo and then back to bed.

I was awoken by the doorbell ringing. My head had felt bad before now it was really thumping. I looked out the window, there was a flash car parked outside, a Mazda sports thingy, not the MX whatever, but the one with the rotary engine, what do they call them–wanker or something? Wankel, that’s it, a Wankel engine.

I pulled on my housecoat and ran down the stairs, who could it be–and more importantly, what did I look like? I opened the door and there before me stood Ms Erin Lovejoy. I nearly died.

“Oh dear, late night?” she asked.

“No, I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you slept on?” she enquired and I nodded, “and you feel even worse?” I nodded again, even though it hurt my aching brain, it was less effort than talking. “Have you taken anything?”

“What do you mean?” I wondered if she was on about recreational drugs.

“I mean for your obvious headache? Are you on or something?”I began to cry, and she shut the front door and hugged me. “Come on, tell your Auntie Erin all about it.”

I cried for several minutes and she held me, rubbing my back and making soothing noises. Finally I stopped and felt even worse. She led me to the kitchen and after sitting me down, she put the kettle on and before I knew it she had produced a cup of tea and was urging me to drink it, whilst she sat and sipped her own.

“Thank you, I feel such a fool.”

“Why is that?”

“Performing like this in front of you.”

“I’ve seen worse. I have teenage kids, two girls. I know when they’re on, it’s licence to kill time.”

“That’s just it.”

“What is?”

“I can’t come on.”

“Dearie, you must see the doctor, you have a problem somewhere.”

“Yeah, a big one–I’m not really a woman.”

I heard her gasp and she put down her cup very slowly. “What are you then, some sort of alien?”

“No, I’m transsexual.”

“Yeah, so–from where I’m sitting I’m talking to a woman and I’m looking at one, who despite her dishevelled appearance, is still very attractive.”

“But I’m not am I?”

“Doesn’t that depend upon how you feel about yourself? Being a woman is more than having ovaries and the right hormones; it’s about personal identity, how you see it and feel about it and how the rest of the world sees it and you. As far as I know, that’s as beautiful woman.”

“It isn’t how I feel.”

“Isn’t it? Everything about you screams female to me. So what are you feeling?”

“A fraud.”

“How?”

“Well, if I do this programme, I’m purporting to be something I’m not.”

“So what do you want to do to correct that–show ‘em your dick?”

“I can’t, I don’t have one–not any more.”

“You’ve had the operation?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re a woman, aren’t you?”

“Not according to my birth certificate.”

“Why, because you haven’t changed it yet?”

“No, I can’t do that for a few more months.”

“Big deal, it’s a technicality, that’s all. Look, honeybunch, being a woman isn’t about having bits of paper, it’s about what comes over to other people, your inner self; and let me tell you, you are one of the most attractive females I have ever met. Even Imogen was on about how sexy you were, she was jealous of you.”

“What? That’s bloody silly.”

“You may think so, but it happens to be true.” She glanced at her watch. “Right, I have your contract here. I shall be back in one hour, you Missy, will get yourself tidied up and be ready to go somewhere nice for lunch, where we will discuss it. I shall be back in exactly one hour–be ready.”

I sat there for another four or five minutes, feeling like shit. I had a sip of my tea, but it was cold. I slowly got up and took myself upstairs and got in the shower…it nearly killed me, but I was ready, wearing a skirt and jacket and even some heels–oh and some makeup. My eyes were still sore, but they didn’t look too bad with some mascara and liner.

“Attagirl, now look in the mirror and tell me what you see?”

I stared into the mirror in the lounge. “Somebody who looks like a woman.”

“No, somebody who is a woman. Look harder, there’s no sign of a boy is there?”

“I suppose not.”

“Right, let’s go. Oh and by the way, I have put the word out that a new documentary on a sexy beast is being made by a sexy woman, and I have some interest from as far afield as Australia and Canada.”

“What?”

“Come on, let’s go and I’ll tell you all about it.”