After demolishing the pizza I could see she was tired, no surprise given the events of the day and her sleeping rough the previous night.

“Let’s postpone the heavy discussion until tomorrow, eh? We’ll go shopping in the morning and get that out of the way first.”

We made the bed in the spare room and I got her a new toothbrush and toothpaste and told her she could go to bed any time and I’d see her in the morning. She surprised me by giving me a big hug and “Thank you so much.” in my ear.

Smiling inwardly, I left her to do her ablutions and did the washing-up, not that there was much of that.

So then I did my usual computer things, had a couple more glasses of Chardonnay, watched some TV, showered, went to bed and amazingly had a good night’s sleep. Doing the right thing must be good for the soul.

In the morning I didn’t have to wake her. I probably made enough noise just being my usual solitary self. When you’re on your own you no longer have the civilized manners that you should have, so you grunt, fart and belch unconsciously. My wife would have given me a right bollocking had she still been with me.

We passed like ships in the night, having presumably both done our business and she joined me in the kitchen, wearing last night’s dressing gown.

I had my keeping-me-alive pills, orange juice, coffee, and biscuits. There was enough in the fridge for her to have her share of the OJ, a cup of coffee, a couple of boiled eggs and a slice of toast. The milk and sugar just barely made it.

Later she had put back on her shorts and top. Shopping was a necessity. She couldn’t wear the same old things all the time. Silly of me not to have put them in the washing machine and clothes-dryer last night. I suppose you can’t think of everything.

So here I was, still dithering about how much I was going to tell my unexpected guest about my own situation, but that could stay on the back burner for a while. The first priority was to get her a few decent outfits so that she could feel like a young girl should.

I took her back to the same mall at Indooroopilly where I had discovered her the previous day. It’s the closest major mall even though it’s technically Northside. The way the river wraps around our city makes it easily accessible for me. I drew out $500 from the ATM at the nearest bank. I gave her $300 and pointed her at Target. I’m still old-fashioned enough to like cash. Credit cards are fine until one of your providers goes down. Then you can’t buy anything, particularly when shops refuse to take cash.

“Will that be enough? Target’s cheap but they’ve got some reasonably good stuff.”

“Oh yes, dope.” She looked down, unable to believe the amount of money in her hand. “You’ve just given me $300. Aren’t you afraid I’ll run off with it?”

I looked her in the eye and saw nothing but honesty there.

“You could, but I hope you won’t, and I don’t think you will. I’ll meet you back here in an hour. I’m going to Coles to get some groceries.”

So we parted company and I did wonder if I’d see her again. If she wanted to do a runner now was her chance. It was her choice.

For once I didn’t mind shopping at the supermarket. One of my constant gripes was that they didn’t cater for single people. I know I’m a grumpy old bugger, but it annoyed me to have to throw away unconsumed items because they were too far past their “use by” date. Today I was buying for two and it was almost a pleasure. I hoped she would be there to use it. I bought things I hadn’t had for years, Weetbix, Vegemite, icecream (!), more milk, more meat, more veggies, replenished the eggs, orange juice and sugar. Even when my wife was still alive she had the appetite of a sparrow for her last few years.

Anyway, shopping done, I walked back to our designated meeting place and, lo and behold, she was already there with half a dozen bags surrounding her. I really was happy to see her, a silent sigh of relief passing my lips.

When I got up to her she tried to offer me about thirty dollars and change.

I almost laughed but restrained myself. “Keep it for MacDonalds or something,” I told her. “Did you get everything you need?” I was actually impressed that she hadn’t spent everything I gave her and she offered money back.

“Oh, yes. They do have some nice stuff.”

I know that. I’ve bought quite a bit there myself.

“All right, let’s go home then.”

So that’s what we did. This time we both put our bags on the back seat and she sat with me in front, an obvious sign of trust.

Bugger, I can get used to this very easily.

When we got home she couldn’t wait to show me what she had bought, mostly skirts and tops, some more underwear, a couple of pairs of shorts, some trainers, and a pair of sandals with a kitten heel, all suitable for a teenager. She gave me a private fashion show. I have to admit I was a little jealous. I wanted to hug her, but I was afraid of getting too familiar.

She looked lovely in her new outfits and she was just so delighted in having them. I patted myself on the back, money well spent.

I couldn’t help but remember that I had spent my eighteenth and nineteenth birthdays in similar gear, or its forty-plus-years-ago equivalent. Mary Quant, I loved your styles. Miniskirts were us!

I knew the time would come when I could procrastinate no longer. There were clothes in the wardrobe in the second bedroom that could only belong to a woman and women and girls are all curious. I know that because I’m one of them.

Inevitably the question came. “Mac, who are you really?”

No point in subterfuge anymore. I went and got my computer and called up the fifty-odd pics of me that I liked, the ones that my make-over lady had taken of me properly dressed and made up.

Confession time! I knew I had to be honest with her. Shit or get off the pot.

“Ali, have a look at these and you will see why I had to help you yesterday.”

We sat at the table in my living room and she became the first person to see the real me (other than myself and Arpi, my make-over lady) in about forty-five years, or the first who I had let in to my secret. I had burnt all the pics from my teenage years in fear of being discovered. I now wished I hadn’t but those were the years of paranoia. The nineteen-sixties were not kind to girls like me.

We sat together and scrolled through my collection. I’m quite proud of them. They say cross-dressing takes ten years off your age and I reckon at least that. I just hate the term “cross-dressing”. I know when I’m dressed right.

Ali took her time viewing my collection and then turned to me with tears in her eyes “Why aren’t you living like this? You’re beautiful. And your name isn’t really Mac, is it?”

Shot down in flames at the first pass.

“Thank you, dear, but I’m well over sixty, so hardly beautiful. Maybe once, many years ago, when I was just a little over your age, but times were different then, much harder. I got scared and went back to being a male, got married, so I had a wife, had a job, had a son, friends even. I couldn’t risk it all to indulge myself. My real name is Joanne. I’ve known that since I was about eleven.”

“But you’re on your own. You could dress how you like.”

“It’s not that simple. I’ve still got a family who don’t know about me. I don’t know how they would react, and don’t want to risk being cut-off from my grandchildren. Yes, I know. I’m a coward.”

I looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction but I couldn’t. Whatever. She would make up her own mind. Nothing I could do. “Anyway, do you still want to stay with me? You’re welcome, you know?”

“How can I? you’ve spent a ton of money on me already. How can I repay you?”

“We’ll worry about that later. I’ve not got a lot to spend my money on other than basic living expenses, plus Christmas and birthday prezzies for my family and you can help me out there. I’m a bit out of practice in choosing gifts. We have to do some more shopping and I need things for my daughter-in-law and my grandkids. My son’s easy; a good bottle of wine will be all right for him. As for you, you’ll need a computer and a phone. That will be my Christmas present to you.”

“You can’t do that. It’s too much.”

“I can and I will. Let someone spoil you for a change. It’s pretty obvious your family didn’t.”

That’s when I had an idea.

“Listen, I bet nobody’s ever given you any real help in being a girl. How about I see if Arpi can fit us in for a session in the next few days?”

“Who is Arpi?”

“She’s the one who took the photos.”

“What, your make-over lady?”

“Yep, she’s down on the Gold Coast. It’s only an hour’s drive. What do you say?”

“Awesome! I’d love to. What can she do for me?”

“She can make you look gorgeous and show you how to use make-up properly. Let me give her a ring.”

I called Arpi and explained the situation. I would like a double appointment for me and Ali, the works, a holiday special. She thought it was a great idea and we booked a session for the day after tomorrow. We’d have to get there by 10.30 and we could have four hours.

Arpi is a specialist in makeovers, make-up and clothing. She actually attended University in Perth and graduated in Beauty Management and Theatrical Cosmetics. She was lucky that her mother recognised that she was transgendered at an early age. She had told me that she could remember wearing dresses at age five. I reckoned she was a miracle worker for what she could do for me.

“Well, I think Ali will be a treat for you,” I told her. “For a change you won’t have to put the make-up on with a trowel.”

She laughed. “You’re not that bloody difficult, Joanne. We’ll make your girl into a star, I promise. Clothes for two as well? See you Thursday.”

All arranged. I knew she would get something age-appropriate for Ali and she already knew what I liked. Her rates were very reasonable, but I usually restricted myself to one visit a month. I was running out of wardrobe space.

So I told my Ali. When did I start thinking of her as MY Ali?

Nobody could have been more excited. A little bit of TLC goes a long way.

“OK, more shopping, and do you like Chinese? We’ll have lunch at Yum Cha. They do authentic Hong Kong and Shanghai.”

“Oh yes! Do they have sweet and sour pork?”

A Westerners view of Chinese food!

The couple who owned the place knew me and I would give them the wink to serve us something appropriate and not too ethnic or westernized.

So the next day we went back to our favourite mall and Ali was a great help with the shopping. She picked out some lovely scarves for Kylie, my daughter-in-law, a pair of top-range Nikes for Dixie, my granddaughter, and my grandson Max got a couple of books in the Game Of Thrones (A Song Of Ice And Fire) series. He would enhance his street-cred by reading the dirty bits to his classmates. We got her the promised computer and phone, absolute essentials for teenagers in the modern world.

What did we do before we had mobile phones?

Lunch at Yum Cha and my Hong Kong friends did us proud. I introduced Ali as my niece and they fawned over her, asking what she liked and she loved both the food and the attention. There were a couple of raised eyebrows at “niece” because “uncle” and niece have some less-than-savoury connotations in Hong Kong, but I told them she was actually a grand-niece on my wife’s side of the family. That fixed that.

Of course, food was the main focus, as it is in any Chinese setting, and they made suggestions which were all good. I’m a total sucker for sha lung bao (shanghai dumplings).

“How come you know this restaurant and these people, Joanne? The food was Gucci. I want to be able to cook like that one day.”

“Shush, Ali! Today I’m still Mac. Wait until tomorrow when we go to see Arpi. Then you can call me Joanne.”

“I did start to tell you a bit about me but we didn’t get into detail. After I got married I got jobs all over. I had a couple of years in the Snowy Mountains, five years in Papua New Guinea and a spell in Fiji. I came back to Australia and did another few years in Western Queensland, a bit down near Canberra and then a few more in Mackay in Central Queensland, always following the work and the money.”

“The big break came when I was offered a job in Hong Kong, and I spent twenty years there. That’s how I know these people and why I eat Chinese food. You do like it, don’t you?”

“Yes, it’s awesome, really sick. But what did your wife do?”

“She came with me everywhere, until she got cancer six years ago. Then we came back to Brisbane and I gave up work to look after her. She died a little over two years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s OK, I didn’t tell you. It’s not something you talk about over lunch.”

She proved her femininity to me, as if it needed it, by reaching across the table and grasping my hand. Only a woman would do that.

That sort of put a damper on the conversation for a few seconds, but I revived it by saying that we should go and get some chocolates, too. So I paid the bill and thanked our hosts for a lovely lunch, left with a promise that we would return soon. My Cantonese is lousy but I know how to say thank you properly and they indulge my linguistic inadequacies, pleased to have a gweilo make the effort

So away we went to Woollies. Everybody likes chocolates, don’t they? And they’re easy to gift-wrap. Such a feminine thing, gift-wrapping.

We returned home, at least to MY home, but I was beginning to think of it as OUR home. She was a wonderful addition to my solitude, which I guess I hadn’t appreciated until she came into my life. My son and his wife came to see me maybe once a month, and called me probably once a week, but I knew they had lives of their own to lead, so I didn’t begrudge them. They had kids of their own to look after and jobs to go to.

That evening I cooked lamb chops with green beans, peas and boiled spuds, not forgetting the mint sauce even though that came straight out of a bottle. She didn’t complain and her plate was clean when we finished except for the bones so maybe I could still cook the basics. I hadn’t forgotten everything. Dessert was just ice-cream, for her, not for me. I used to be able to pack it away when I was her age, but not any more.

The lass told me she could cook too and she would be happy to show me.

“That’ll be nice. I can only do basics, so you’re welcome to spell me any time.” I resolved to question her further. Maybe I would end up eating decent meals. I guessed that's when I crossed my personal Rubicon. I was thinking of her being with me permanently.

We watched the news on TV and some programme afterwards, which sent me to sleep. She kissed me while I was slumped on the sofa and told me she was going to bed. It felt so normal.

I realized that I had unconsciously been missing human contact. Living on your own is OK but can get old pretty quickly. She was bringing a dose of companionship into my life.

Once again I had a couple of glasses of Chardonnay and played with Big Closet on my computer. That’s how I kept in touch with my friends in the TG community. When I thought about it I had more friends on line than I had in real life and more in common with them. I didn’t have to explain to them who I really was. While I may never have actually met most of them I knew them better than nearly all of the flesh-and-blood characters who I interacted with these days. It didn’t matter that they lived in New Jersey, New Hampshire, or Minneapolis or California or England, they were my friends.

The next morning we were both up quite early. Ali was bouncing up and down with anticipation of our visit to Arpi. A new experience for her and she would get her first real attention as a girl.

Now, I kept my body relatively hairless. Nair is a wonderful product, so I didn’t need to shave anything other than my face, which got special attention when I was going for a make-over. As I got older it was getting harder and harder to get to the bottom of all the nooks and crannies.

My legs, chest and arms were OK but I always wore black stockings, not because my legs were hairy but because varicose veins didn’t enhance the look. I only wore modest heels too, things that I could slip on and off easily and didn’t bother me when I was driving.

Normal long pants and a simple polo shirt meant I didn’t attract any attention when I left home, in case we encountered any of my neighbours going to my car. My bra was inconspicuous under the shirt.

However, it was Ali’s first time so I gave her some tips on what to wear. She had bought some more shorts the other day. They were fine. Naturally she had a bra, which hardly showed under a simple top. She was presenting as a girl anyway so nobody was likely to comment. She didn’t need stockings as her legs were hairless and, in any case, Arpi would produce some nice things for her to wear later on. She had a pair of sandals with about 4 cm heels to wear on the trip down so she was kitted out pretty well. She didn’t have any make-up but she hardly needed any. Her hair was long enough not to cause any comments and I knew Arpi would have some recommendations for that.

So, at about 9.30 we set off for Surfers Paradise. We didn’t encounter any of my neighbours on the way and traffic out of the city at that time of day was always relatively light on a weekday.

We didn’t travel in silence because I decided to pump her for a few more details about herself.

“OK, I’ve come clean about me; now it’s your turn. When did you know you were trans? Where did you go to school? What are your parents like?

“I went to Indooroopilly State High until a few weeks ago. I’ve got an older sister, she’s 21 and she lives in Canberra now, works for one of the big accountants. I used to borrow her clothes from when I was about eleven, but I knew I wasn’t like other boys from about age eight. Eleven was when I got big enough for most of her stuff to sorta fit. She knows about me and she doesn’t mind. She let me wear some of her clothes until she left home a couple of years ago.”

“But your parents didn’t know? What about the kids at school?”

“I was never strong enough to tell my parents,” She giggled. “I’m a bit like you!”

Ouch!

“The kids at school were mostly cool with me, thought I was a bit weird but being trans is not such a big thing these days. There was a bit of bullying but nothing I couldn’t put up with. Then a few days before I met you my parents caught me dressed in one of my sister’s outfits that she had left behind and went ballistic. We had an enormous row and they told me to be a man or get out of the house. The rest you know.”

A potted history. I could wait for more details. There was some innocuous chit-chat between us afterwards but nothing serious. A bit of sight-seeing on the way to the coast, the Hyperdome at Loganholme, Dreamworld at Coomera and Movieworld close to Helensvale. They all seem to have grown every time you pass them. We hit the Coast proper at Southport and drove along the Broadwater to Surfers Paradise.

We pulled into Arpi’s salon less than an hour later. She operates from an apartment on The Isle Of Capri which looks innocuous on the outside and is fabulous on the inside. I’ve never asked her but I think she owns the whole block of four units.

She greeted me with her usual flamboyance. She is, after all, Hungarian Australian, so a little show-woman-ship goes without saying. She can be overwhelming, and I think she scared Ali, practically dragging her up the stairs almost before I had stopped the car.

Ali looked at me in sudden fright.