Francesca closed the door behind her and let out a long breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Tea, that's what she needed now, although the thought of something more, er, fortified did cross her mind as she headed to the kitchen. Kettle on, then she took off her bobble hat, new jacket and deposited her shoulder bag on the table before collapsing onto a stool.

She'd done it, in broad daylight no less, what had she been so worried about? Well quite a bit really, being recognised, looking a fool, being recognised – yeah that possibly more than anything else. But she'd done it, without any weird looks, comments or weeing her knickers, so what if it was only to the supermarket but she'd done it.

The kettle boiling broke her reverie and for a couple of minutes making a brew took precedence over any self congratulary silliness. Returning to her seat with her mug of proper Yorkshire Tea, she became more contemplative. What was different today? So many times in the past weeks she'd gotten as far as the door and chickened out so what had changed?

It hadn't always been like this, when she was younger and in her first flat, oh the folly of youth, she'd often gone out, okay, mostly at night but she had gone out. But of course, as time went by and she started recognising the other residents, well a fear of being recognised herself curtailed those walks. And of course, when Dave, her best friend, moved to a house just a couple of streets away – well that was that, effectively, Francesca became house bound.

The longing to just go out like other women never waned, it was just courage that failed her. Her alter ego, Simon, got quite blasé about shopping for her, she was certainly not short of stuff to wear, a wardrobe full of 'stylish' clothing, if not designer labels, at least better High Street brands, and shoes enough for a small army. But sadly, apart from a few bits of lingerie, none of it had been back through the door by which it arrived.

She did have periodic clearouts, well some 'fashion' doesn't really carry to the next season, let alone to an 'older', she was thirty five now, woman. Its not that she didn't have the legs for miniskirts but frankly, well she felt they made her look tarty. Now whilst some cross dressers seem to revel in being outrageous, Francesca preferred a less high impact look.

She checked herself out in the mirror – again, quite stylish if she did say so herself, winter tights under what was really a light summer dress, the new jacket providing most of the warmth. She'd gone light on the makeup, less is more, likewise the jewellery, just a bangle and dangly earrings, a most definitely girly bobble hat on her head, shoulder bag across her torso and her biker boots on her feet. Definately kick ass, a bit edgy with the boots but it was sufficiently 'on fashion' to not make her stand out from the crowd – well too much.

How many times had she got to this point in recent weeks? Selecting an outfit, carefully doing hair and makeup, putting her coat on and then – well nothing, usually a rushed return to Simonism before going out on whatever jaunt had been planned for Francesca. In the last month alone there'd been a trip to the local multiplex, a walk through the local woods and two shopping trips.

She hadn't even planned to go out today, even as Simon but a shortage of milk made a trip to the shops inevitable. It being Sunday, Francesca was of course at home, she'd done her nails, something she hadn't indulged herself with for a few weeks, and to go out a la Simon would mean wasting all that effort. Not that it hadn't happened in the past – sometimes hours of preparation turned on its head in a matter of minutes as she chickened out at the last minute.

But today was different, she checked her bag again, keys, phone, wallet – yup all there along with a neatly folded carrier bag, several bits of makeup, tissues and her mini umbrella. A last check in the mirror and she was off, off through the front door and out onto the communal walkway. She hurried along to the stairs and quickly descended to street level turning left for the slightly longer walk to Morrisons rather than the much closer German store she or rather Simon, usually frequented.

It might be January but it was quite mild really, the wind might be blowing her skirts about but it wasn't freezing her, erm, bits off. She made a conscious effort to take smaller steps, almost heel to toe, the last thing she wanted was to be called out for walkng like a Navvie. A few cars passed and the old chap walking his dog pretty much ignored her when they crossed paths.

She'd read somewhere that mostly people will see what they want to see, the old adage of looking and quacking like a duck came to mind. So in theory at least, if you look reasonably like a woman and don't draw attention to yourself, chances are that's what people will 'see', look confident and the illusion is improved. Oh she felt exposed well enough but somehow she contained the panic within and made it to the store.

Confidence boosted, she went straight inside and tried to remember where the cow juice was in the store. At one time the very idea of shopping on a Sunday was frowned on, grocery shopping even more so but times change and the store was as busy as any other day of the week. No one was really taking any notice of her, well maybe one or two appraised her outfit, the red and white of her frock a bright interlude amongst the almost uniform black of the other women, black leggings, black skirts, black coats, only the pre teens in their princess outfits and sparkly tights brightening the wardrobe of the female shoppers.

Of course you go to the shop for one thing and end up with a basket full of other stuff, Francesca added rolls, a discounted cream cake and of all things, a jar of olives to the lait. One good thing, for Francesca that is, the big store meant self service tills, she wouldn't need to queue or interact with checkout staff. Beep, beep, beep, beep, a flash of her debit card and she was done, purchases in the carrier bag and out of store.

She shoots, she scores, oh yeah Franny can do it! Yeah you've got through the shopping girl but you've still got to get home. So of course, at this point her boots started to feel, well tight, she'd never actually walked anywhere in them before, around the flat doesn't count. It was better walking slower, even if that prolonged the chances of being outed, but its not like she had much choice in the matter.

Somehow she felt more exposed with this change in pace, as though the few other walkers she encountered could see through more easily through the thin veneer of girl to the man inside. Each time she saw someone approaching her pulse increased to a point of almost panic, of course each time the other person pretty much ignored her. Indeed far from pointing and yelling 'man' they'd smiled at her as though it was perfectly normal to see a man in a dress.

Then it dawned on her, they weren't seeing a man in a dress, they were seeing what they wanted to see, a young woman in a dress. Yeah, if it looks, sounds (?) and acts like duck there's a good chance it is a duck, apply that to Francesca and whist no oil painting, she did tick all the relevant boxes. It wasn't far to her block of flats and she was soon climbing the stairs up to number twenty one, a turn of the key and home!

You might think that having ventured out once Francesca would find it easier to repeat the excursion but of course life is never that straightforward. Two days later and she was stood in her bedroom staring into the mirror again, it was a different outfit, she'd taken inspiration from some of the local teens, collecting the components over several weeks. Trainers, some of those 'wet look' leggings, short black skirt and under her jacket, a long sleeved, wide necked T.

Looking at her reflection she could see no sign of Simon, a bit more from her cosmetic collection than Sunday added to the teen illusion. She went through the same process, checking that she had money and keys in her bag, yup, all set. She struck a few poses, blew herself a kiss, time to go girl.

Which is when she lost it. The work of an hour was destroyed in moments as she stripped off the jacket followed in short order by everything else before dashing into the bathroom to remove the makeup. She sat on the toilet, head in her hands, unsure of exactly what had just happened, cowardice or was it terror? Whatever it was the whole thing disturbed her greatly.

There was a repeat the following evening, different outfit, a pair of those pre ripped jeans replacing the leggings, a vest top and cardigan replacing the t-shirt. She had got a bit closer to leaving the flat, well as far as the front door, before cold feet or fear gripped her again. Maybe its just not meant to be, maybe Sunday was a total one off, an aberration never to be repeated?

It was a full week later before she tried again, oh she'd dressed in the interim but not with any intention of going beyond her own 'four walls'. She'd dressed for comfort rather than looks, well who was going to see her doing the laundry and doing the hoovering? Chores completed she sagged into her favourite chair with no idea what to do for the rest of the evening.

A growling stomach prompted her into action – chips, maybe one of those giant pickled onions, yeah that chippy on Eldon Street, you always get a huge portion in there. She almost leapt into action, pulling her jacket on, gathering keys and wallet before leaving the cosy confines of number twenty one. It was only when she reached street level and the cold evening air assailed her exposed ankles that her head caught up with things.

She almost ran straight back into the flats but another stomach rumble and the sound of another tenant coming down the stairwell vetoed that. The bobble hat was still in one of the jacket pockets so she pulled that on and set off for the purveyor of fried fish and potatoes. By the time she reached the corner, she was berating herself for not putting socks on, her ankles were frozen!

When she reached the chip shop, seeing a short queue inside, she nearly kept going but the delicious aroma of deep fried potato halted her in her tracks. Gathering her courage she went inside, the bright, slightly steamy interior a welcome diversion from the cold of January outside.

“fish?” the chap doing the frying enquired looking over at the new arrival.
“er just chips,” Fran got out in not much more than a whisper, “and an onion.”
“just waiting for chips luv,” he agitated something in the fryer, “'bout two minutes.”
Fran smiled back before turning her attention to studying the price list.

She didn't need to, she knew how much a portion of chips was, but it meant she avoided eye contact with anyone else in the shop. Not that they seemed interested in her, the two women serving were discussing Corrie and the two blokes in front of her in the queue the relative merits of the latest Town manager. Two minutes was more like five, more customers came in as they waited, the result being that the server barely even looked at her and the conversation went something like 'salt and vinegar? Please, one eighty.' - which was more than enough for Francesca.

There's something almost decadent about walking along the street eating fresh chips, proper finger thick chips straight from the paper. You can't walk quickly because you are concentrating on the food so the ten minute walk becomes twenty, the rest of the universe just a backdrop to your chip consumption. Fran drifted along the road savouring every bite, pausing to look in the charity shop windows just to extend the short window of ecstacy.

Indeed, she'd been stood looking at the out of fashion clothing on the mannequins for fully a minute before she noticed her own reflection.
“Eep!”

So engrossed in her epicurial delights was she that she'd totally forgotten how she was dressed, no it was most definitely Francesca looking back at her. 'Yes!' she congratulated herself, oh it was still a bit weird seeing her female self staring back but she wasn't as terrified of what that meant. But Simon says.....

© Maddy Bell 22.01.20