AUTHORS NOTE

This has had the longest gestation of any of the stories I’ve posted here on BC. It started in early 2020 as an attempt at the ‘magical transformations’ genre (which I hadn’t tried previously) but as we went into covid lockdown it became more complex, and took off in directions I hadn’t anticipated. It’s sat half written for a long time, as I waited to find out where it was taking me. During that period it has felt at times like the world is unravelling and yet also, locked down with my loving family around me, without the distractions of the outside world, at a personal level I’ve felt blessed to be able to experience periods of profound peace and joy. And the story has ended up becoming something of an attempt to try to understand all of that. As a consequence its more ambitious than anything I’ve written before, and more personal too. If all that sounds far too heavy, please be reassured that there’s still some humour to be found, and at its core, it’s a tale of redemption, so I do hope you’ll stick with it to the end! There are eight chapters, and I’ll aim to post every two or three days or so. Finally, if the ‘Aeaea’ reference doesn’t mean anything to you, do please look it up - it will help everything make more sense! Thanks for reading!

AEAEA

CHAPTER ONE

‘Canteloupe’ Captain’s Log August 17th 2022
25°N, 71°2’W

We sighted a 40 foot sloop drifting off the starboard bow at 9.23 am. There was no sail, and no sign of life on board. I took a RIB and 3 crew to go to investigate. The boat looked brand new. No visible name, or flag. Sails unused, still sealed in plastic bags below deck. No sign that any crew had ever been on board – no food, no clothes, no sleeping bags. On the mapping table I found a black, A4 sized leatherbound notebook filled with handwriting. It appears to be some form of diary – I’m going to transcribe as best I can and record its contents here. There is no title, or heading. It starts as follows:-

I am a man. David Sydos. 25 years old. That I insist. I am putting that down on paper right here, right at the beginning. Nothing that can happen to me can take that away. I AM DAVID SYDOS!
I’m writing this down to try to make sense of what’s happened to me. It’s maybe 12 hours or so since I came to, and everything has changed.
Maybe I’m still unconscious, and this is a weird nightmare.
Maybe I died in the accident and this is hell…

So. Here goes. I need to start at the beginning if this is to make any sense.

I was born in South London on December 19th, 1995. I never knew my father, and my mother died when I was only 3, leaving me to be raised in a children’s home. I went off the rails as soon as I was old enough to ride them. Starting with petty shoplifting, joining a gang, delivering drugs, and then finally, on my 12th birthday, I was arrested for stealing a car. That must have triggered the forces that be into action, because I was uplifted from London and sent to a new children’s home on the south coast near Plymouth. For a while things went from bad to worse. Without the support of the other gang members I was just a scrawny, still pre-pubescent, angry kid. I was beaten up twice in my new school and took to carrying a knife. I’m sure I’d have ended up using it if things hadn’t changed.

I’d been at the school a few weeks when, one games lesson, we went to a nearby sailing club where we were shown how to rig a small dinghy and take it out onto the water. Something clicked for me. Out on a boat by myself, thinking of nothing but the direction of the wind, the trim of the sails and the course I was steering, for the first time I was free of the chatter in my head. And I was good at it, too. I started winning the races we would have. There was another boy there, Pete, who was pretty good too, and he and I would finish miles in front of anyone else. Although he was in my year, he was a good foot taller than me, athletic and popular. He took me under his wing, we became friends and the beatings stopped. We started racing together at the club at weekends in a bigger 2 person dinghy. The combination of my skills in reading the wind and setting a course, together with his athleticism in keeping the boat trimmed and fast through the water meant that we were soon beating everyone in the club too. We graduated to regional races, then nationals, and by the time I turned sixteen we were a shoo-in for the GB team at the next Olympics.

But spending an hour or two at a time on the water wasn’t enough for me. I left school after sitting my GCSEs and hitchhiked down to the south of France, where I blagged my way onto a yacht as crew for the summer season. Pete joined me the following year and we worked our way up until two years ago I was made skipper, and Pete first mate, of a beautiful 20 metre ketch, belonging to a record industry executive from Los Angeles. We were based in the Caribbean, the owner joining us for maybe a month or so a couple of times each year, and the rest of the time taking guests out for multi day trips. We sailed hard all day and partied hard every night. I’d eventually caught up with Pete in height, wasn’t too far behind him in looks, and we enjoyed more than our fair share of girlfriends. We made a heap of money, especially in tips. Life was good, and as long as I was busy the voices in my head kept quiet too.

This summer we’d planned to take the boat back to the UK for some regular maintenance, before hurricane season kicked in. It had been 10 years since I’d been there. Pete was planning on flying back and meeting me there. I’d decided to take the boat single-handed when a couple of guys from one of the other boats we sometimes sailed with asked if they could hitch a lift in return for working the galley. Ash and Drew were both good cooks, which I wasn’t, so I was happy to take them along. And then the evening before Pete was due to fly we’d all gone to a huge party, and Pete hooked up with a girl overnight and missed his flight so in the end we all ended up sailing together. We’d got as far as Bermuda without any incident. We stopped off there for a couple of days and restocked the boat with a view to our next stop being the Azores. We left Bermuda in fine weather and with a good forecast. There was a steady south westerly blowing, and we made good progress over the first day. Around lunchtime on the second we ran into a thick sea fog. It hadn’t shown up on any forecasts and, weirdly, the wind didn’t drop. I wasn’t unduly worried since we were a good distance away from any of the main routes that bigger shipping would take, but I ordered the sails to be trimmed to reduce speed so if we did see something we’d have more time to maneuver out of the way. It was then that we hit something. Hard. I was flung across the cockpit and must have banged my head. That’s the last thing I remember.

Day 1

I came to suddenly, like a drowning man surfacing and gasping for air. I knew something was wrong straight away. I tried to stand up from the bed where I’d been lying, but my legs buckled and I collapsed onto my hands and knees on the floor. My vision was blurred – the carpet on which I’d landed a discombobulating swirl of pattern framed either side by two strangely pale and slim hands. I blinked hard. Long hair was in my eyes and I tried to brush it away, but it fell down again, either side of my face, almost to the ground. Sunlight streamed into the room from a large window opposite me, reflecting off a mirror to my right. I crawled towards it. A figure to my left dressed all in white stood and came towards me. I reached out to the mirror and a young woman, around my age, naked, with pale skin and long dark hair, reached back. I knelt up, transfixed as the woman’s hair fell across her breasts, brushing lightly against my skin. I raised a hand, bewildered, to my chest and then, in a rising panic now, back down to grasp in futility at the void in my groin. I retched violently, but my stomach was empty. I curled into a foetal position and pushed a thumbnail hard into the flesh of my palm but looking up again, the woman in the mirror was still staring back. The figure in white knelt next to me. I felt a robe placed over me, a hand gently on my back. A woman’s voice: “It’s ok. You’re ok. You’re safe here.”

I stayed curled as tightly as I could into a ball, pressing my nail into my palm, breathing heavily. “What’s happening? I’m a man. I don’t understand. I don’t understand…”
“It’s ok. You’re safe.” Despite everything, the hand was a soothing presence on my back, and my breathing slowed. I looked up at her, my vision clearing. Long, straight, white blonde hair framed a face that could have been anything between 35 and 60, but with the most extraordinary pale blue eyes. I wanted to look away, but she held my gaze whilst placing her hand softly on my shoulder. “You’re safe here.”
I took a deep breath. “Am I dead? You look like an angel…Who are you?”
She paused for a moment, and then smiled. “You can call me Chris. And this is my island. Aeaea.”
“Shit!” I suddenly remembered. “Pete! And Ash and Drew!”
“They’re ok. They’re downstairs. They’ve been waiting for you to come round.”
“I want to see them.”
“Of course.” She stood, and holding my hand, helped me to my feet. “We can go down. You should get dressed first, though. Why don’t you freshen up whilst I find something for you to wear.”
“But what’s happened to me?” I felt a rising panic again in my guts.
“Shh.” She took my hand and instantly I felt calmer. “It’s ok. You’ll feel better after you’ve bathed. We can talk then.”

I stood leaning on the handbasin staring intently at my reflection in the mirror above it whilst the bath filled. The eyes I recognised – the only part of me that I did. My hair remained thick and chocolate brown, but where previously it had been something of a tousled mop it now fell in silky waves down past my shoulder blades. My skin, previously roughened and weatherbeaten by ten years at sea, was now milky white and soft. My body, previously angular and taut from hauling sails all day was soft and rounded. Like an amputee who still felt the itch of a missing limb, I felt the absence between my legs the most acutely.

I had a million questions to ask Chris, but emerging from my bath I could manage only one. “Did you do this?”
She smiled gently and shook her head. She took the towel from around my waist and wrapped it again above my breasts and then showed me how to bend forward and wrap another like a turban around my wet hair. “Come.” She took my hand and led me, bewildered, through into another room, maybe 4 or 5 metres square, lined on 3 sides with wardrobes. The fourth wall had a window, stone mullioned and with leaded lights like the one in the room I’d woken in, in front of which sat a dressing table and chair. Chris picked a dress off a hanger and held it up against me. The dusky pink material flowed softly over my body and for a moment I stood admiring the resulting image in a mirror, before shaking myself back to reality.
“Fuck! I keep thinking I’m going to wake up, but I don’t. I can’t believe this is happening! I’m not going to wear a fucking dress!”
Chris recoiled. “I’m sorry. It’s too much. You choose – there are plenty other things.”
I was embarrassed now that I’d sworn. “I’m sorry. Maybe there’s some trousers in here? Whose clothes are these anyway?...”
I worked my way around the wardrobes. There were more clothes than I could possibly imagine one person owning. Long evening dresses, sundresses, skirts, blouses, lingerie in every conceivable style and colour and enough shoes it seemed to be able to wear a different pair every day of the year.

I took a deep breath. Every minute I kept expecting that I’d awake; that reality would be restored. But as long as I didn’t, and it wasn’t, I went through the motions of doing what this strange serene woman was suggesting. I set about finding something to wear. Even choosing a pair of trousers from the range on offer was difficult. Eventually I found the plainest pair I could; black with a high waistband, but even these were widely flared and obviously intended for a woman. A simple cream coloured turtleneck sweater would do for a top.
“You’ll need something to wear underneath.”
I sieved through drawers of undergarments in an attempt to find something as close as possible to a pair of boxer shorts, but eventually had to settle on a relatively simple pair of black panties, which I slipped on without removing the towel.
“I suppose a bra’s out of the question?” Chris’s eyes glinted with humour, and in spite of, or perhaps because of, the surreality of the situation I found myself smiling. I pulled on the trousers and the top. The latter fitted a little tighter than I’d have liked, showing off curves I’d have preferred not to see. But it would do for now. I wanted to see Pete. Maybe that would allow some semblance of my real life to return to me. I wondered in a vague and detached way what he’d make of my transformation. I found a pair of flat shoes, and pulled my hair into a pony tail, making a mental note that if this situation really did continue I should find some scissors and cut it as soon as I could. I was hurrying now, but she stopped me before I could leave the room.
“Listen. I know everything feels really strange right now, but I want you to know that I’m here for you. It might not always feel like that, but I am.” She gave me a quick hug – even though I’d been rushing, I wanted it to last longer. There was something about her touch that calmed me down.

We went downstairs, through the house and into a large old fashioned kitchen. A huge pine table, scrubbed smooth by years of cleaning, stood in the centre of the room. An equally patinated dresser adjacent, opposite a wall with a Belfast sink under a window smaller than those in the rooms upstairs, but similar in design. A tall woman, dressed in dark trousers and a white blouse stood with her back to us as we entered, looking out. Even from the back, she looked awkward and ungainly. Across from her, two petite young women, both blonde and dressed in matching vest tops and cut off denim shorts, were occupied at a range cooker. A sudden realisation dawned on me. I looked back at Chris but she had gone.
“Pete?”
The larger woman turned towards us. “Dave? Oh, fuck, not you as well?”

FIVE DRESSES

Lucy’s story, as told by the people closest to her. In five parts.

PART ONE
ELLIE/1920s FLAPPER DRESS

1

It all started at the School Leavers’ Ball, or more accurately, the week leading up to it. Woolton Comprehensive in Liverpool. I was in my final year there and my kid brother Mark a year below in Lower Sixth. I was in my room, lying on my bed, reading a Lonely Planet guide to Europe. I had Interrail tickets booked for the Monday after the ball. Two whole months away. And then uni when I got back - at least, assuming my grades turned out ok. Mark had wandered into my room as he often did when he was bored.
“Hey Ellie.” He started fidgeting with a pen that was lying on my desk, clicking the top on and off until it was sufficiently annoying for me to put my book down and pay him some attention.
“Hey Little Bro. What’s up?”
“I’m a bit fed up to be honest. Mum’s on the phone downstairs, last minute planning with Derek before they go away tomorrow. And you’re off for the summer, and then to uni. And I’ve just got a summer of shelf stacking in the supermarket to look forward to, and then a whole year back in school…”
“Awww. Poor you!” I could be quite sarcastic sometimes, it wasn’t one of my better traits. Still, I tolerated him better than perhaps most big sis-ters tolerated their younger teenage brothers. We’d always been close, and since dad upped sticks and moved in with his new girlfriend two years ago we’d become even closer; coming together to help mum through the changes. He ignored my comment and meandered over to the window, half heartedly looking out at the typical English drizzle that had arrived, right on cue, at the start of our school holidays yesterday. “At least you’ll be earning some money…” I continued, “…and there’s the ball next weekend to look forward to. What are you going as?”
The Leavers Ball was usually one of the highlights of the year. Despite its name, the whole school attended, from the 11 year old first years to upper sixth students like myself. Because younger kids were there, it wasn’t set up like a prom, where you had to come with a date, but instead was just a huge fancy dress event on the Saturday at the end of the first week of the holidays.
He grunted in response. “Me and my mates were going to go as orcs - you know, from Lord of the Rings…”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s no wonder none of you have girlfriends…”
He ignored me, and carried on. “But all the hire costumes are so expensive, and I’m broke until I start at the supermarket next week. So. I dun-no. Maybe I just won’t go this year.” He turned towards me, looking particularly sorry for himself.
I sat up on the edge of the bed. An idea crept into the corner of my brain. “What if I could fix you up with something that you didn’t need to pay for?”
He looked up, hopefully. “That would be great, yeah.”
I’ve wondered once or twice since then whether if I’d stopped at that point, things might have turned out differently. But maybe I knew subcon-sciously, and that’s why I made the suggestion. “Why don’t you go in drag? We’re pretty much the same size - that growth spurt you keep claiming is just around the corner hasn’t materialised yet, and there’s that outfit I wore last year you could borrow if you like - you remember, the flapper dress I got from that vintage shop?”

He froze for a moment and looked at me, that way people do when they think the other person knows something but they aren’t sure. I knew I’d have to press on so he didn’t have time to back out. I strode over to the wardrobe and lifted out the dress.
Every time I touched it, it still gave me that same shiver of excitement I’d felt when I first found it. It was the most beautiful dress I’d ever worn - ivory satin, with a scoop neck decorated with sequins in leaf shaped patterns. Above the bust was a line of matching tassels that extended six inches or so down to the waist. Between them the sequin decoration continued down to a second line of tassels which ran all the way around the dress from hip to mid thigh, dipping in an elegant v shape at the front where the sequins were arranged into a diamond shape. And under them another strip of satin fabric with a further hoop of tassels down to just below the knee. I’d hold it up and run my fingers through them, en-tranced as they flowed like liquid over my hand.
I didn’t ask again, but held it out in front of him. “Here, try it on”
He hesitated.
“Oh, come on, don’t be so daft; it won’t bite” I grabbed his t-shirt at the waist and before he could resist I had it off over his head. That left him only wearing a pair of thin football shorts and in one moment I held the dress above him, instructing him to hold up his hands.
It was too far gone now for him to get out of it.
He gasped as the cool satin of the dress slid down his body.
“There! I’d say that’s a perfect fit! How does it feel?”
The tassels swished over his bare legs as he turned to face himself in the mirror on the back of the open wardrobe door. For a moment his body softened, his arms resting elegantly by his sides, one leg in front of the other, his feet arched as though in heels. I looked back at him over his shoulder and smiled but his expression changed and his body stiffened.
“Take it off me. Now. I’m not going to wear your stupid dress!” He was pulling at it violently and I thought it might tear. I pulled it back over his head and he grabbed his t-shirt and fled my room without saying another word.

Later that evening I knocked softly at his door. “Hey. Can I come in?”
He didn’t reply, but I opened the door anyway and went in. I perched at the foot of his bed. “Sorry about earlier.”
“Forget about it.”
“You were trembling. When you wore the dress.”
“Look, I said forget about it, ok?”
“Have you worn if before?”
“Of course I’ve not bloomin’ well…”
I interrupted him. “It’s just that a couple of times I’ve found a sequin from it on the carpet in my room. Like someone’s had it out from the ward-robe. But I’ve not worn it since last year’s party.”
He stared silently down into his lap.
I slid closer so that we were sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the wall alongside the bed, our feet overhanging on the opposite side.
He still didn’t say anything so I continued. “The first time I wore that dress it made me tremble a bit inside too. It feels really nice wearing it, doesn’t it?”
He turned to me silently and nodded quietly and I took his hand in mine.
“What if your friends didn’t know it was you at the party? Would you like to wear it then?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me and my friends instead. I’ll introduce you to them as my cousin or something. I think you could definitely pass as a real girl.”
“I dunno, sis.”
“Remember when we used to play dress up when you were little?”
He smiled. “Yeah. You had that old bridesmaid’s dress you used to make me wear. And you used to pretend to be a knight, and come to res-cue me.”
“I don’t know about making you wear it. It was always you begging to be the princess.” I grinned and he punched me in the arm. “Anyway. Mum’s away with Derek tomorrow for a week. Why don’t you let me try - we’ll get you dressed, put some make up on you and stuff. We’ve a week before the party. If you’re happy we’ve got time to work on mannerisms, getting your voice right, getting you walking like a girl, that kind of thing. And if you’re not we can just stop and forget the whole thing.”

2

Mum and Derek left for their holiday as planned the following day.
“You’re the oldest, Ellie, so you’re in charge” she said, as she packed her suitcases into the boot. Mark had grumbled, of course.
As their car turned the corner at the end of the street I turned to him. “So. Are you still up for what we talked about yesterday?”
He nodded shyly.
“Well then. You heard mum. Go and jump in the bath. Use my shampoo on that greasy mess on top of your head. Conditioner too. I’ll be up in a few minutes to see how you’re getting on.”

Mum was a hairdresser. Not that you’d have known it from the bird’s nest of a hair-do that belonged to her son. But I’d helped her out in the sa-lon on more than a few occasions and I thought if I could get his hair looking ok, everything else would follow. He complained of course when I suggested trimming it, but I told him it would be reversible and I sensed that he was more intrigued about how he’d pass as a girl than he was concerned about passing as a heavy metal fan when he reverted to being a boy. Parted in the middle, it was just over shoulder length, which was perfect for what I had in mind. Setting about it with scissors and comb, and then dryer and straighteners, and then finally back-combing it with loads of hairspray it took me a couple of hours to make it into a more than passable stacked bob, curled under at the ends so it framed his face, and shorter at the back but with more volume so it sat higher on his head. I’d given him a short robe to wear whilst I worked and by the time I’d finished he was already starting to look quite cute.

So it turns out there’s no textbook titled ‘Turn Your Brother into a Girl in Five Days’, which is a shame, because it would have been really handy. In terms of looks I knew he stood a pretty good chance of passing, and with his hair and make up done I could have taken a photo and 99 out of 100 people would have said it was a girl. The tricky bit was once he started moving and talking. We decided we’d go all in down the method acting route. He’d stay in character 24/7 for the rest of the week. To make him commit I did his nails - full on extensions that I’d learnt how to do from working in mum’s salon, lacquered pink. We spent hours watching films we thought would help like Tootsie and Priscilla, and even My Fair Lady. And we also looked at some weird and wonderful sites on the internet as well. It was a bizarre week - as though normal reality had been suspended. We didn’t see or speak to anyone else for four days. We used so much hairspray experimenting with different styles I swear it felt like I was hallucinating half the time. But we laughed almost non-stop. One day he was getting dressed and wearing a slip, and it fell to his an-kles and he bent down to lift it up again and said that the problem was a loose elastic. And I just started giggling. And he asked what the matter was and I told him that could be his drag name - Lucy Lastic. And that started him giggling as well and we were helpless, rolling on the floor for about half an hour.

The day before the ball I nipped out in mum’s car to get a few things we’d need before she got back. I tried to persuade Mark to go with me dressed as Lucy as practice but he wouldn’t so I left him at home. When I got back I parked up opposite our house and realised I’d forgotten to get something to eat for tea that night. So I phoned our local chippy and ordered a couple of pizzas to be delivered. And then I had a wicked idea. The guy that usually did the deliveries was in my year at school- Gary, his name was - my friend Patsy had gone out with him for a while the previous year. I waited until I saw him get to the end of our street with the food and then rang Mark’s phone - “Hey Mark - I’ve forgotten my key - can you let me in when I knock?”. He answered the door wearing my short pink satin dressing gown. He’d obviously been taking ad-vantage of my absence to play around with his feminine side because his hair was different to how I’d done it - he’d mussed it up into a full head of loose shoulder length curls and then - bless him - tied a ribbon through it that matched the dressing gown. He looked adorable - even from the other side of the street his long legs, exposed from mid thigh, would have been spectacular had they not ended in his ‘Liverpool FC’ woolly slippers. His face was a picture - the initial shock at seeing it wasn’t me at the door was followed by a lightning fast shift into Lucy mode. He took the pizza and went to close the door but Gary kept talking so he couldn’t get away. That happened a couple more times until eventually Gary made his way back down the drive, a beaming smile on his face. I ducked below the car window so he wouldn’t see me and waited until he disappeared from view before letting myself in. I was helpless with laughter. Mark was waiting for me, hands on hips.
“So I suppose you think that’s funny then?”
“Oh, brother! Your face when you opened the door and saw it wasn’t me!”
“And what if he’d known it was me? Mark? Your brother, all dressed up like that?”
“Relax. It would be fine - he’s a cool guy. I know him from school.”
“Hmmph.” He frowned. Despite everything, he had remained in character as Lucy. He folded his arms, and his breasts, that we’d created using balloons filled with flour and water paste, shifted upwards, straining against the satin of his gown. His pouting lips, perfectly outlined in a creamy pink lipstick.
“What did he say to you anyway?”
He paused for a moment, as though wondering whether he should tell me or not, then looked up at me sheepishly from under his mascara-clad lashes. “He asked me if I was going to the ball tomorrow.”
I shrieked in laughter “Lucy’s got an admirer! Lucy’s got an admirer!” I sang.
He lifted a leg and removed one of his slippers and batted me over the head with it, and we fell onto the sofa, giggling.

3

So maybe you’re reading this and thinking “Oh my God, what an understanding sister you are!” And maybe if you’re trans, you’re thinking “I wish my sister/brother/mum/dad/partner had been half as understanding when I’d been in Mark’s situation.” And maybe I had been - for most of that week at least. I think I knew deep down that there was more to it than Mark just liking dressing up - the way he acted as a girl; the way he behaved when he was dressed up. But the fact is that the day before the ball Tommy Wainwright, the boy in my history class that I’d fancied for about half the year, texted me to ask if I was going, and from that point onwards any thoughts about my little brother possibly wanting to be my little sister paled into the background.
When, on the evening of the ball, he sat next to me at my dresser, doing his own make-up; as natural as you like; I was thinking only of Tommy.
When he slipped into the dress, and pulled the opera gloves over his elbows, and arranged the jewelled headband around his cute-as-a-pixie bob hairstyle, looking to all the world like he’d stepped straight off the set of ‘The Great Gatsby’ I might have said something about how good he looked, but my mind was with Tommy.
And when he stepped out of the taxi, greeting my friends with hugs and squeals of excitement at their outfits, as though he’d known them for years, I was already scanning the crowd to see if Tommy had arrived.

It was only when I saw him interacting with my friends as ‘my cousin Lucy’ that it finally dawned on me just how comfortable he was in his role. The Kate Bush song ‘Running Up That Hill’ was booming through the speakers and my friend Sadie had turned to him excitedly.
“Oh my God! This is like my favourite song at the moment!”
“Oh my God! Mine too! The whole album is totally amazing.”
“And Kate Bush is like the coolest woman ever.”
“Totally. The way she writes all her own stuff. And dresses how she does. Like she’s just being true to her own creativity, and not just doing it to look sexy for boys…and I love her hair. When she started out, and she had it in like that kind of crimped style. And she was always photo-graphed with it backlit, and it looked like a big mane or something. You should try yours like that Sadie - it would totally suit you.”
I’d stopped listening to the conversation I’d been a part of a minute ago. All I could think of was “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” Instantly those thoughts I’d been having about Mark wanting to be a girl - that hadn’t quite formed consciously before - were now clear. But then Tommy appeared and all thoughts of my brother vanished from my head. Lucy was still chatting away with Sadie and barely no-ticed when I made my excuses. Me and Tommy had an amazing night. But that’s our business and this story is Lucy’s so I’m not going to go into any details!

The sun was already up when I got home the next morning. I tiptoed through the house and up the stairs, and poked my nose around the door of my brother’s room to see if he was in. A body shaped lump below the duvet confirmed he was, and I took to my bed, relieved that he’d made it home ok.

It was well into the afternoon by the time I got up. Mum and Derek had come back from their trip, and I could hear them chatting to Mark downstairs. I pulled my dressing gown on and joined them.
“So I hear you had a good night then, at the ball” My mum gave me a big hug when I appeared in the kitchen, where they were stood around the table whilst the kettle boiled.
“What?…” I glanced at Mark. His hair was a greasy mess and he was wearing a ‘Metallica’ t-shirt and a pair of jeans that might have jumped into the washing machine by themselves if he hadn’t been wearing them. It was as if the presence of Lucy this week had all been a figment of my imagination.. “Oh, yeah. Great night, thanks.”

Afterwards, I meant to get him on his own to talk about Lucy, I really did. But that week was so busy, sorting things out for my trip. And then I was away for two months, and only came home for a few days before starting uni. I’d been offered a place at Liverpool to study English, and even though we lived about half an hour away by bus I’d managed to persuade mum to let me stay in halls so I could make some new friends. And with all the excitement of that, I confess I barely thought of Lucy at all until one day in late November when I bumped into Sadie in the student union.

When I’d said my goodbyes to go travelling she’d told me she was planning to go to London to study fashion. But it had turned out that she didn’t get in, but had instead taken up a place at the School of Art here in Liverpool to study theatrical costume design. She’d not been too hap-py at first with the thought of having to stay in Liverpool, but like me, she’d managed to move out from home, and was sharing a flat with some other art students not far from the college. We must have spent a couple of hours chatting away over a coffee, catching up about the last few months. And then, just as we were about to say our goodbyes, she said it.
“So how’s Lucy getting on?”
I looked at her, to try to gauge if she knew something but wasn’t giving it away. But her expression was blank.
I took a breath. “Listen. There’s something you should know about Lucy.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
She grinned.
We ordered another coffee and she told me the story of what had happened four months ago at the School Leavers’ Ball.

FRANKIE

I clicked the top back onto the lipstick and replaced it carefully in the dressing table drawer along with the other make up I’d used. Studying myself in the mirror, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I felt relaxed - for the first time in a long while. Perhaps for the first time since my sister, two years older than me, had left home to go to college in the US ten weeks ago. I missed her enormously. We were close - much closer than most siblings, but we had our parents to thank for that.

Our mother was petite, blonde and blue-eyed. From a working class background in the north of England, she was the first of her family to go to university and after graduating, whilst travelling in the Yucatan area of Mexico, she’d met my father. He was tall, dark, handsome and rich - the owner of several thousand acres of cattle ranching land around Oaxaca. They say that opposites attract and I guess that must have been the case initially at least, but even when I was a young boy they’d regularly fight like cat and dog. On those occasions my sister would take me by the hand and lead me up to her room, where we’d escape the conflict downstairs by creating an alternative, secret, reality. In that world, it seemed the most natural thing for me to be her sister, and we’d raid her dressing up box and become princesses, trapped in an ivory tower, awaiting rescue from a handsome prince.

I took the curling tongs from another drawer in the dressing table, and loosened my hair from the elastic band that kept its true length disguised. Alone now, but still secure in the make believe world of my sister’s room, I slowly took each strand and curled it tightly, before clipping the curls into an elaborate ‘up-do’ that she had taught me just a few weeks before she’d left.

As we’d grown and entered our teen years the opportunities to play dress up had reduced. My father did everything he could to make me into a rancher, but I hated riding, hated shooting even more, and hated the idea of eating cows so much that, aged 12 and to his great disgust, I declared myself a vegetarian. I’d come back from those sessions feeling ashamed and inadequate, wash off the grime and the stench of the ranch, and creep into my sister’s room. Like a worker returning home to find a meal laid out for them on the table, my sister would have an outfit ready for me to wear, and I’d slip into it hungrily. I was old enough then to be conflicted, to realise that my behaviour wasn’t normal for a boy, but the sense of belonging I felt from the simple pleasures of dressing and behaving like a girl was too strong. I studied fashion magazines, learnt how to do my make up and style my hair, and listened enviously as she told me about her dates with a boy from school.

And now she’d left for college, leaving me alone with my parents as their fighting escalated. Two years to go until I too could escape. She could see how upset I was when she’d left, and as she’d hugged me farewell she’d whispered in my ear “Anything I’ve left. If you feel like you want to use it. If things get too much…”.

Happy with the way I’d arranged my hair, I stood up from the dressing table and untied the satin robe I’d been wearing. I was already dressed in the prettiest lingerie she’d left - a dusky pink satin bra and panty set, which complimented the smooth caramel tones of my tanned skin, and a matching suspender belt, to which I’d attached sheer stockings. Hanging on the wardrobe door was the Holy Grail - my sister’s quinceañera dress.

Layers and layers of soft, rose coloured tulle swished deliciously over my legs, flowing down from my waist, made tiny by the satin lined, crimson velvet bodice. It was the most feminine thing I’d ever worn, and I was captivated. So much so, that I failed to notice the rap at the door and my father enter.
“Francisco, Is that you? My God! What the fuck!…You fucking little sissy!”
As I turned, too late, I saw his arm swing out. His fist connected full in my face, and I remembered nothing else.

Eighteen months later…

“Pass! Pass! Here!”
I picked the ball up from the base of the scrum and looked around to see who was calling for it. Too late. The opposition flanker peeled off and hit me like an Exocet missile. I crashed into the mud, the ball spilling from my grasp and bouncing over our try line. Another opponent fell onto it gleefully to take their team into the lead. I traipsed dejectedly back to join my team mates assembled under the posts awaiting the conversion.
“For fuck’s sake, Frankie! How many times do we need to tell you to decide what you’re going to do with the ball before you pick it up?”
“You fucking useless little spic!”
“He only plays so he can watch us in the shower, the little queer!”

My mother and I had arrived in England days after I was discharged from hospital; my father’s assault on me the final straw as far as their marriage was concerned. Without his money we were broke, but she’d managed to sell some jewellery, and we’d been fortunate to secure a small council house in a town near where she had grown up. She’d started training to become a teacher, and I’d enrolled at the local secondary school. She’d tried to speak with me on several occasions about what had happened the day my father had hit me, but I had refused to talk about it. A new country gave me an opportunity for a new start. Away from my sister I was determined to be the man my body dictated. I’d cropped my hair short and even taken up rugby in an effort to become what was expected of me. For the first few months it had been manageable, but recently it had become increasingly difficult to keep up the charade and my mental health had declined significantly. Were it not for my friends, I wasn’t sure I would still be here.

Anna had taken me under her wing on my first day at the new school. She was Puerto Rican, and thrilled with the idea of no longer being the only Latin American in the school. My English consisted solely of being able to say my name and ask where the toilet was, so having someone that could translate for me during those first few weeks as I picked up the new language was a blessing, and we became firm friends. Shivani and Sharon completed the group. Shivani was second generation UK Indian. She was top of the class in almost all her subjects, but as well as being academically bright she was intuitive and empathic. I liked her a lot, but always felt that she could read how I really was, so I’d double down on trying to be macho sometimes and that would make me feel awkward; like I wasn’t being honest with her. Sharon was the opposite. Loud and proud, she had us all in fits regularly. She was blonde and well endowed. The boys loved her, and she loved them.

And then there was James. I’d signed up for cookery classes not long after arriving in England. We’d been spoiled by having servants in Mexico and neither my mother nor I could even boil an egg. James was my partner in the practical sessions. He was hoping to become a chef, and was probably a better cook than our teacher already, so how he had the patience to put up with a complete novice like myself I don’t know. But he was kind, full of good humour, and had a smile that could light up a room. We shared a passion for American soul music and would often head off to Manchester at the weekend to spend the day trawling secondhand record shops for new discoveries.

I think it was about the third cookery class when I knew I’d fallen for him. I’d poured my béchamel sauce into a blender to try to get the lumps out, but not put the lid on properly, and I’d managed to cover myself in it. He’d wiped a blob from my nose with his finger and licked it .Those big blue eyes of his flashing with humour, he’d said that it might be lumpy but at least it tasted good. I wanted so desperately to tell him how I felt, but Sharon had already told me how they’d dated briefly the previous year, so I knew he wasn’t gay. So my love went unrequited and became something else that I had to hide every day. And recently it had felt like he’d become a little colder toward me. Outside the cookery class I hadn’t been seeing him as much as I had previously and I worried he had a new girlfriend.

Whilst I was increasingly miserable, Anna, Shivani and Sharon were increasingly excited about the forthcoming school prom. They’d invited me to go dress shopping with them in Manchester and I’d acted cool and reluctant but secretly I was delighted. Even though I wasn’t attending myself I was enjoying the preparations vicariously. After touring all the various high street shops we headed off to Afflecks Palace, an old warehouse in the city’s Northern Quarter, which was now home to lots of cool independent retailers, from second hand record shops and tattoo artists to vintage fashion and up and coming designers. No sooner had we entered than we bumped into James perusing vinyl in one of the music stores. Sharon spotted him first.
“James!” She shouted at the top of her voice, and most of the people in the building must have turned to watch as she skipped towards him and flung her arms around him. “What brings you here?”
“Oh, you know…” he shrugged. “A bit of record hunting. Hey Shiv, Anna. How are you guys? Frankie!” He gave me a most out of character matey slap across my back, “How’s things?”
Before I could answer Sharon continued. “We’re shopping for prom dresses. Me and Shiv are sorted, but Anna here is super fussy.” She grinned. “Fancy a coffee? We’ve one more shop to go then we’ll have a break.”

The final shop belonged to a really cool new designer. They had some gorgeous clothes that had all the girls oohing and aahing, but not too much suitable for a prom. But there was a discount rack by the door. There was a dress there that caught my eye in an unusual khaki satin fabric. I lifted it off the hanger.
“Hey Anna! What about this one? It’s kind of different, but it would look really good with your colouring.” For a moment I thought I’d gone too far in expressing my interest, but no one noticed. Anna took the dress and held it up to herself. It was full length, with a cowl neck and a deep cut-out to the rear, criss-crossed by satin ribbon, which tied in a bow in the small of the back.
“Ooh, that’s nice!” She shimmied over to a mirror and turned from side to side, considering her reflection. “But maybe not for me. Thanks, though!” Still holding the dress up to her shoulders she stepped across and gave me a hug.

It must have been static in the fabric, but when she stepped back the dress had clung to me. I swear it was as though I was wearing it. The cool liquid satin cascaded over my contours like water flowing over rock and for a moment I felt transformed, my harsh masculine angles eroded to soft smooth curves. I couldn’t help looking at my reflection in the mirror. Shivani was looking back at me, strangely. Anna giggled and peeled the dress away from me. “Suits you Frankie! Maybe you should wear it to the prom!”. I blushed and looked away, but inadvertently caught the eye of James, and I blushed again. The whole episode must have taken only three or four seconds, but it had felt much longer. Sharon, bless her, came to my rescue. She’d missed what had happened, engrossed in the contents of another rack. She looked up. “Come on then. Coffees everybody. Let’s go!”

It was the Tuesday after the prom. I was at home, alone, doing some homework when the bell rang. It was Shivani. I looked over her shoulder, expecting to see the other girls but she was on her own.
“Hey Frankie.”
“Hi Shiv. Come in. Coffee?”
“Sounds good.”
We made our way through to the kitchen and she sat at the table whilst I poured some hot water into a couple of mugs and pulled a milk bottle from the fridge.
“So you had a good time at prom, then.” I was making small talk. She’d already told me all about it at school the previous day.
She nodded, absently.
I sat opposite her and pushed a mug across the Formica tabletop and she took a sip.
“Frankie? Can I ask you a personal question?”
I was a little taken aback. “Well, yeah, I suppose so…”
She made eye contact and I squirmed awkwardly. “The girls and me. Well, we’ve kind of always assumed you were gay…”
“Shiv!”
“Hang on, don’t get upset. I mean, you try to act all tough but when your guard is down. The way you express yourself; the way you talk and move sometimes.” She paused. “And the way you look at James…”
“Oh fuck. Shiv, I’m…”
“Hang on Frankie, let me finish.” She reached a hand across the table and laid it on mine, which were clenched tightly together. “The thing is, I don’t think that’s it. Last weekend, when we went to Manchester and Anna tried on that dress and it stuck to you. And you looked at yourself in the mirror and your expression - I can’t describe it. It’s like you were happy and sad at the same time.”
I squirmed again.
“Frankie?” She paused. “Are you trans?”
She held my gaze. It was like I couldn’t look away even though I wanted to. I tried to take a breath, but it came in short gasps as my whole body began to tremble. I nodded silently and bowed my head and she reached over with her other hand to take both of mine in hers.
“Oh, Frankie!”
I sobbed quietly for a few minutes whilst she held my hands and then, over the rest of the coffee I told her my story, from dressing up with my sister as a way of avoiding our parent’s arguments, to my father hitting me, and coming to England. When I’d finished Shiv moved across to my side of the table and gave me a huge squeeze.
“We love you Frankie. Me, Anna and Sharon. You know that don’t you? We’re here for you.”
I sniffed and wiped my eyes and nodded.
“You’ve seemed so sad recently. We’ve been worried about you. Now it all makes sense. My God, you poor thing, having to carry that around with you all the time…” She leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek, and we sat quietly for a while.
“You’ve got to be truthful to yourself, you know. You can’t live a lie.”
“I know, but it’s hard…”
“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like.”
“I know I need to do something. I just don’t know how to start…”
“We can help you Frankie. We’re here for you.”

The following week at school I had my head down in my locker retrieving a text book when Shivani sidled up alongside. I looked up. She was holding out an envelope.
“For me?”
She nodded.
I took it. It was blank on the outside. Tearing it open, inside was a card. Printed on it in an ornate calligraphy was an invitation which read “Francisco Francesca is cordially invited to a Girl’s Night In. Sharon’s place. Saturday. 6pm.”
I looked at Shiv. “Really?”
She smiled back, and nodded. “Come as you are. I mean, not in school uniform, obviously. But we’ll sort the Francesca thing out when you’re there.”

I walked round the block twice before knocking on Sharon’s door. Even then, I was still a good ten minutes too early. My stomach was somersaulting. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and Shivani had been deliberately obtuse when I’d quizzed her for more details. Anna answered and let me in. Sharon and Shivani were in the living room waiting for me. They sat me on the sofa and stood in front of me in a line, like a reception committee.
Sharon spoke first. “So we, err. After Shiv told us, you know. We wanted to help.”
Anna chipped in “We felt really guilty. I mean, we’ve been going on and on about the prom for weeks on end, and dragging you around dress shops with us and everything…”
Shiv continued “…and you must have been, I mean, it must have been so hard for you to see us having fun like that, and not being able to take part. So we decided we’d offer you the next best thing. We can’t take you to a prom, but we thought you might enjoy, you know, getting dressed up and everything. Being pampered.”
Sharon continued. “My sister’s studying beauty at the college and I’m probably going to do that too, so we could, you know, give you a bit of a makeover. What do you think?”
I stood up and gave them a big group hug. “I think I’d like that very much.”

I was dispatched to the bathroom where a tub brimful of hot soapy bubbles awaited me. A short satin robe hung on the door for me to slip into when I’d finished and I ran the back of my fingers down the soft cool fabric and then over the coarse cotton of the t shirt I’d arrived in. For a second I was intensely aware that I could either step into the bath, or walk back downstairs and out of the house, and that decision would frame the rest of my life. Pulling off my clothes I slid into the water.

The girls were waiting for me when I emerged a few minutes later, all smooth and soft and flushed from the heat. They sat me down at the dressing table in Sharon’s room and, giggling, presented me with a couple of plain white cardboard boxes.
“What are these?”
“Open them and have a look.”
I took the lid off the first box and lifted out a gelatinous flesh coloured blob. Breast forms!
“No way! Where did you get these?”
Sharon answered. “My sister’s college. They’re only on loan, so don’t get excited. But we err…You’ll see why we needed them later.”
I shot her a quizzical look, which she ignored.
“There’s some spray glue here. We need to stick them on.”
I surrendered myself to my friends whilst they opened the front of my robe and, still giggling, carefully set the forms in place. They felt a bit cold and weird at first, and I thought they’d fall straight off, but as Sharon started on my make up they slowly started to warm up to my body temperature and the weight of them on my chest felt strangely reassuring.

Anna set to work with a set of acrylic nails and a bottle of gloss red polish whilst Sharon did my face. The last time anyone but myself had done my make up had been my sister when I was maybe nine or ten, and I luxuriated in the smells and sensations of the powders and paints as they were brushed over my skin. I’d have been in a trance if it wasn’t for Sharon keeping up a running commentary on everything she was doing.
Eventually, she paused. “How are you doing Frankie?”
“I’m good. It feels great.”
“No second thoughts?”
“No. Not about this, anyway”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe later. Telling everyone at school. Especially James.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well. I mean, now we know. About you. It kind of makes sense.”
“He’ll hate me.”
“He won’t. I think he’ll be ok about it.”
“What do you mean? Oh God, you haven’t told him, have you?”
She shot a glance across at Anna, but because I was facing away from her I didn’t notice.
“I mean, he’s a cool guy. He’ll be fine about it.”
“Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. I’m pretty sure he’s got a girlfriend now.”
She glanced at Anna again. I noticed this time.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. But you shouldn’t worry.”
My make up finished, Sharon reached into her wardrobe and took out a box containing a long, wavy, chocolate brown wig. She set it carefully in place and then teased it with a brush for a while. Only then did she let me look at myself in the mirror.
She grinned. “What do you think?”

My eyes had always been my best feature. Big and brown and doe-like, with long, thick lashes, Sharon had outlined them with a soft pencil and used browns and creams across the socket and brow to emphasise depth. Above them, years of surreptitious plucking back in Mexico had given my brows what everyone had taken to be a natural arch which Mother Nature, in the eighteen months I’d been in England, had mercifully done little to recolonise. Below them, my lips were a shock of primary red, full and soft in a creamy matt lipstick. The colours worked perfectly with my natural skin tones. No longer caramel and tanned from the Mexican sunshine, but still olive and exotic and latin.

I was still giving Sharon a huge thank you hug when Anna appeared, beaming from ear to ear, with my dress. I say my dress - I knew right away. It was the khaki one from the shop in Manchester.
“Oh my God! How did you?..I mean, when did you?..Oh my God, it’s gorgeous! You lot are…Oh my God, you’re going to make me cry!”
Anna passed it to me and I held it up. It was just as beautiful as I’d remembered.
“Shiv phoned them a couple of days ago.” Anna explained. “We weren’t sure they’d still have it, and it was touch and go it would get here for today, but it came in the post this morning. It’s a present. From the three of us. It feels like a kind of birthday. Francesca’s birthday.”
I stepped eagerly into it, and pulled the soft fabric up my legs and over my hips. Reaching down, I took the straps and slid them into place at my shoulders, arranging the cowl over my breasts and smoothing the front down over my belly whilst Anna patiently laced up the ribbon in the back of the dress, tying it in a bow in the small of my back.
“Here.” Shiv placed a pair of strapped, patent, gold sandals with a three inch heel on the floor in front of me and I stepped into them.
Sharon fussed one last time with my hair, arranging it asymmetrically so it fell in soft waves down over my right breast. “There. Done.” She stepped back, and the three of them stood in a line opposite me, as they had when I’d arrived a couple of hours earlier, beaming.
“You look beautiful.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you just doesn’t do it justice. You’re amazing, all of you. I can’t believe you would do all this for me.”
“Here.” Shiv had a bottle of Prosecco and passed me a glass whilst raising her own. “To Francesca.”

We were interrupted by a knock at the front door.
“Ah! I think that might be the takeaway I ordered.” Sharon ran over to answer.
I heard muffled voices and then the door to the living room opened and James was stood there. I locked eyes with him for an instant and then, hitching up my skirt, ran past him as fast as I could, almost knocking him over. Up the stairs and into the bathroom, where I locked the door and slumped against it, tears rolling down my face. Footsteps followed me up the stairs. A knock on the door. James’ voice.
“Frankie?”
“Go Away!”
“Frankie, I just want to…”
“Go away, James. Why would you possibly want to have anything to do with someone like me?”
“Look Frankie, I’m not going away, ok? Now will you just shut up and listen to me for a minute?’
I’d never heard him raise his voice like that before. I leant against the door, silently.
“Thank you. Now.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is. I mean I…” he sighed loudly. “I need to say sorry. I mean, I’ve been avoiding you for the last few weeks. I’m sorry if that’s hurt you. The thing is, I realised that I…well…that I was attracted to you. And that kind of freaked me out. I mean, I didn’t think I was gay. I’ve always liked girls. And I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to ignore it. And you as well.”
I sniffed, and wiped my eyes, and then realised I was wearing make up, and I’d probably smudged it all over my face. He continued.
“And then when I saw you in Manchester two weeks ago. And Anna was trying on that dress, the one you’re wearing now. And it clung to you when she gave you a hug. And Shiv noticed it too, and I spoke to her afterwards and she went to see you that evening. When you told her, you know, about yourself. And we talked again afterwards. And I told her how I felt. And she told me what they had planned for you today. And, well, here I am, I suppose…”

I stood up, checked my make up in the mirror and somehow, miraculously, it was all still where it was supposed to be. I smoothed out my dress, took a deep breath and opened the door. James was wearing a black dinner suit with a white shirt and a black bow tie. His normally unruly thick wavy hair had been carefully combed into a neat parting and the collection of hairs on his chin he’d been cultivating so assiduously had been shaved smooth.
He smiled, his big blue eyes sparkling. “Fucking Hell, Frankie. You’re beautiful. I mean, when Shiv told me about you I thought you’d make a pretty good looking girl, but wow, you’re gorgeous!”
I beamed.
“I brought you this.” He held out a red flower. “It’s a gardenia. Billie Holiday always wore a white one when she was on stage.” He tucked it gently into place in my hair. “There. It suits you.” He smiled as I peeked back into the bathroom mirror. “So, I wondered whether you’d like to be my prom date tonight?”
I giggled and nodded nervously.
“I mean, obviously, it’s not the prom anymore. But I’ve kind of made up a plan B. If that’s ok?”
He took my hand and led me back downstairs.

We stood the five of us together in the tiny front hall whilst I hugged each of the girls in thanks and they wished us well on our date, and we had to pose for lots of photographs before they let us leave. Stepping out onto the front path we paused.
“So I, er, I was going to hire a limo. But they’re really expensive, and it was either a limo or a dinner suit. And I though I’d look a bit odd turning up in a flashy car but wearing a t-shirt and jeans. So you remember my friend Steve? The one that’s been doing up that old vintage mini? Well, he finished it.”
We turned onto the pavement and the car was in front of us. It was bright post office red with gleaming chrome bumper bars. Someone had tied a red ribbon from the drivers door window down to the radiator grille and back to the passenger side, like you see for a wedding. It was the cutest thing. As we walked towards it, Steve climbed out. He was wearing a suit too, and a slightly odd peaked cap. “Don’t laugh.” James whispered. “His grandad was a train driver. It’s the closest thing we could get to a chauffeur’s hat.” I giggled, and pulled him close, one arm through his, the other holding up my dress to stop it from trailing over the tarmac. I’d never previously been dressed anywhere other than the sanctuary of my sister’s bedroom and as we walked my senses were in overdrive. The clip of my heels on the pavement, the movement of the air around my freshly shaved legs, the caress of the satin over my body with each step. We got to the mini, and Steve opened the door, and lifted up the seat so we could climb into the back.

I turned to James, excitedly. “So where are you taking me?”
“Ah, well. I need to explain that as well. I really really wanted to take you out for a fancy meal, but it was going to be even more expensive than the limo. So I thought ‘What would Frankie enjoy?’ And I thought it might be nice to make you some proper Mexican food. I know you said neither you or your mum cook, and there aren’t any good Mexican restaurants around here, so I thought you’d maybe not had any for a while?…”
“Mmmm. That sounds lovely!”
“I’ve been practising all week. We’ve got ceviche, and some tamales, and tacos…”

Steve dropped us off and James ran round the back of the car to take my hand to help me out. He kept hold of it tightly as we walked down the side of his house to the back door. He fumbled for a moment for the keys in his pocket and then threw open the door.
The kitchen twinkled invitingly. Candles had been lit on a small table in the middle of the room, set for dinner for two, and also around the kitchen worktop, and on top of the wall units around the room. A delicious aroma of Mexican food spilled out of the door.
I turned to face him. “Oh, James, it looks beautiful! And smells amazing too!” He smiled shyly, those gorgeous blue eyes of his sparkling in the candlelight. “It’s all perfect! The food, the candles, the cute little car, you in your suit…You’ve made me so happy. You, and the girls. I don’t know what to say…”
He placed his hands on my hips and pulled me gently in towards him. I placed mine on his shoulders as he bent, kissing me softly at first and then, my hands entwining around his neck, more passionately.

THE END

GAMBIER TERRACE

There are places I’ll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain

All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all

1

Gambier Terrace, Liverpool. Twenty-odd years ago, it had been the home of my hero, John Lennon, when he’d been a student at the nearby School of Art. For me, searching for a place to live in the ‘for rent’ section of the local paper, the name had jumped out of the page. By all accounts, back then it had been a scruffy and run-down place that he’d occupied with his best friend Stu Sutcliffe. Looking around now, it didn’t look as though things had much improved. Once the grandest of the Georgian terraces in the city, years of decline had rendered it the architectural equivalent of Miss Havisham.

The room I was enquiring about renting was a few doors down from John and Stu’s. A young woman answered the bell. She was tiny next to the huge, panelled hall door, but her smile was as wide as the Mersey. I liked her straight away.
“You must be Jude? About the room?”
I nodded.
“Come in. I’ll show you around. Then you can meet my flatmates. I’m Fee, by the way. Short for Fiona.”
The hall smelled of prolonged damp, the floor cracked and curling linoleum, but the staircase up to the flat at first floor level would not have looked out of place if Scarlett O’Hara had swept down it in a ballgown. I followed Fee up. She was about my age, dressed in ex-army combat trousers and an enormous baggy woollen jumper that stretched almost down to her knees. Spiky purple hair was held in place with a bright floral bandana. Thick hiking socks and Donald Duck slippers completed the look. In my brand new jeans and freshly pressed shirt, I suddenly felt very conscious that I was entering a new world of studenthood – living away from home for the first time.

The room available for rent wasn’t quite as awful as the hallway – bigger than the one I was used to at home, and generally clean, even if it was a bit neglected in terms of decoration. There was an old boarded up fireplace on one wall, almost buried beneath layers of chipping paint, a 1970s chipboard wardrobe running the length of one wall and a window overlooking a weed filled back yard. The wallpaper was peeling in several places, but nothing that couldn’t be covered up with my posters. It would be fine. Along the landing at the front of the house in contrast the living room was spectacular – at least 12m long, maybe 4m high with a glass chandelier and three huge sash windows overlooking the Anglican cathedral opposite. As we entered, two guys who had been sat there rose to greet me. Fee made the introductions.

Jim and Andy were, like Fee, art school students, but where she was studying fashion they were both painters. Jim was tall – well over six feet – and almost as wide, with a mane of ginger hair, a matching bushy beard and an enthusiastic handshake that almost crushed my fingers. Andy seemed quieter and content to let Jim and Fee lead the conversation. We made small talk for a while. I explained that I was about to start chef school at Liverpool College.
“Wow, I’ve heard that’s pretty good – a mate of mine that works in a restaurant in town tried to get in, but didn’t make the grade…”
“Yeah, it’s tough to get in to. I was really lucky. We had to prepare a specific meal for the entrance exam and it was one of my favourites…”
Jim grinned. “We’re all crap at cooking here. Spend far too much on takeaways, as you can see.” He patted his belly. “I don’t suppose you’d be needing to do much homework, then?”
I smiled back. “HaHa. Yeah; I’d probably need to do quite a bit of practice at home. And if somebody wanted to make sure the food didn’t go to waste…”
Fee intervened. “Honestly, Jude, don’t let that big ginger slob bully you into making his dinner every night…”
“No, it’s ok. I’d love to. I mean, not necessarily every night of course, but…”
Jim grinned again. “Sorry. Fee’s right. Don’t feel like you have to. But it would be great to have some proper home made food once in a while.”
We talked and laughed for almost an hour – about food, art, fashion, football, music. I found myself getting on with them all really easily. But there was something I needed to tell them before they decided whether they wanted me as a flatmate or not. I’d rehearsed what I was going to say several times, but it still felt awkward.
“Listen. Before you guys decide whether you’d like me to move in or not. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“He’s a serial killer” Andy deadpanned, and Jim burst out laughing. Fee gave him a look and he quietened. “Sorry mate.”
I continued. “I promised myself I’d be upfront with anyone I was going to move in with. It’s that, well, I like dressing up. Cross dressing. As a woman.” I paused, staring at the floor.
There was silence for a split second, and then Fee shrieked “Yes! That’s so cool! I bet you look amazing too. I can’t wait to see you!”
I looked up towards Jim.
“Cool by me mate. We’re all art students here. Go for it. So do you just like dressing up or do you want to be a girl?”
“Jim!” Fee interrupted. “You can’t ask questions like that! Don’t be so personal! Jude, ignore him!”
“No, it’s ok, honestly. I’d rather you asked, and we can be straightforward about it rather than beating around the bushes. The honest answer is I’m not sure. I’m trying to work through things at the moment.” I stared down at the carpet again.
Fee was next to speak. “It takes guts to come here and say that Jude when you barely even know us. For me, I’d love you to come here and move in with us, and if I can help you with anything you’re wrestling with then I’ll try my best.”
“Me too.” Jim added. “Sorry, I can be a bit blunt at times, but Fee will tell you my heart’s in the right place. It would be great to have you here as well. Andy?”
I looked up from the carpet to catch their flatmate’s eye. He hadn’t said much the whole time I’d been sitting there as Jim and Fee dominated the conversation. He certainly wasn’t extroverted the way they were. For some reason George Harrison came to mind - happy to let John and Paul hog the limelight, but just as important to the dynamics of the group. I could tell from the way Jim had asked for his opinion that Andy was equally essential to him and Fee. He returned my gaze, silently, for what felt like ages. I was sure he was going to disagree with them, to say he didn’t want me moving in. I was about to mumble an excuse for why I wouldn’t be able to take the room myself in order to avoid the rejection when he turned away and nodded towards Jim. “Cool by me.”
Fee shrieked again “Yes! This is going to be great!”

It was about a month after moving in. We’d finished our evening meal and I’d retired to my room with a volume on nineteenth century French cuisine to digest in addition to the food. Fee knocked on the door with a mug of tea whilst Jim and Andy dealt with the mountain of washing up I gleefully left for them every time I cooked.
“Hey – how’s it going?”
I put the book aside and took the tea. “Great, thanks.”
“You all settled in now? The room’s looking good, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I’d brought some new bedding along from home, together with a couple of rugs to cover the worst bits of the carpet, and a couple of posters – of John Lennon and Marilyn Monroe respectively – to cover the worst bits of the wallpaper.
“How’s the course?”
“Great. I could do with more cooking and less reading, though.” I pointed at the book.
“Listen. I hope you don’t mind me asking – tell me to mind my own business if you want, but you know when you told us about cross dressing when you came to look at the room for the first time?”
“Ah! You’re going to ask how come you haven’t seen me…”
Fee nodded.
“I suppose…I mean…” I sighed. “I probably need to tell you the story from the beginning.”
“Are you ok with that?”
“Yeah. I think it’ll help talking about it.” I took another sip of tea and a deep breath.

“So. I grew up the youngest of four. Three older sisters and my mum – my dad had left when I was a baby. One of the first memories I have must have been when I was around three. My sisters were always playing dress up and this particular day they were all princesses whilst I’d had a cowboy outfit set aside for me. I remember squealing that I wanted to be a princess too.” I looked at Fee and she was smiling at the image. “I don’t think I particularly wanted to be a girl or anything, I don’t know. I think it was more just a case of thinking I was missing out on something my big sisters were having. So anyway, after that, every time they dressed up as princesses I was one too, and I was very happy with that. And we’d play dress up a lot – most of the time I was home from school I became pretty much a fourth sister. My mum didn’t seem to object – she was busy just trying to be a single parent and I was happy, so why interfere I suppose. And that’s how it went until the girls got too big to be interested in playing any more, by which time I was more or less secondary school age. Puberty came and went without having much effect. I was still small and skinny and smooth skinned and my sisters joked that I was the prettiest one of them all. But other than that my teenage years were fairly normal – I was a good footballer - in the school team - so that saved me from the bullying that my looks might otherwise have attracted. And then two years ago my mum died. All my sisters had left home by then – either at university or working away. There was usually at least one around most weekends - I think they made sure between them that there was always someone keeping an eye on me to check I was ok – but most of the time during the week after school I was on my own. I don’t know – they say grief can make you do strange things, but I remembered the times we’d had when I was little and found comfort wearing my sisters’ things. There were wardrobes full of the stuff they’d left behind when they moved out, and all of it fitted. I spent hours trying it all on, teaching myself how to do make up and styling my hair, which I’d always worn anyway. The more I did it, the more I wanted to do it. Pretty soon I was living as a girl full time from leaving school until going back the following morning, every weekday. And then I came here.”
“Shit, Jude. That’s a tough childhood. I’m sorry about your mum.” Fee reached over and placed a reassuring hand on my knee. “Do your sisters know about you dressing?”
“Yeah. Lucy – she’s the youngest – came home midweek one time and caught me. I don’t think they were surprised, not after everything we’d done when we were kids. They were pissed off at first that I’d been wearing their things without telling, but they gave me a bunch of clothes and make up that they didn’t use anymore and made me promise not to touch their other stuff. That was just a few weeks before I came here.”
“So how come you’ve not dressed here then?”
“I don’t know. Cold feet, maybe. I think also when I got here I thought a change of scene might reduce the desire to dress a bit, you know? Like I was moving on? So I left it awhile to see how I’d feel.”
“And how do you feel? Do you still want to?”
I nodded. “Uh huh. But its been six weeks since I moved in, and I thought maybe you’d all forgotten about me mentioning it, and I felt awkward raising it again..”
“Oh, Jude!” she reached across and wrapped me in a big hug. “You should have said!”
I lay there quietly, comfortable in her embrace.
“Would you like me to tell the boys that you’ll be showing up dressed at some point?”
I nodded again.
“Cool. When would you like to try?”
“Tomorrow?”
She grinned. “That desperate, huh?”
I laughed, quietly. “Yeah…”
She smiled reassuringly “Can I help you at all? Getting ready? I used to be a hairdresser you know before starting here. I’ve been itching to see what you look like ever since you mentioned it! I think I’m almost as excited as you are!”
I laughed again. “Sure. That would be nice! I raised my mug of tea in a toast. “Tomorrow, then?”

The next day I was so nervous I almost didn’t make it into college. It was a half day at chef school and I ran all the way back to the flat as soon as we’d finished, my stomach a mass of butterflies. The others were all out and I knew I’d have the flat to myself for a couple of hours at least, so I ran a bath and carefully shaved my legs and washed and conditioned my hair. By the time Fee came home later that afternoon my skin was smooth and moisturised, my damp hair wrapped up inside a towel, and I was sat at my desk in front of an illuminated make up mirror that I’d purloined from my mum’s room at home, wearing my favourite black lace bra and panty set and a short satin robe. I’d always found putting on my make up to be a kind of meditation and it was several seconds after she first knocked that I realised Fee was outside my door, with a stage whisper. “Jude? You ok? Are you in? Can I come in?…”
She entered with her characteristic beaming smile. “Wow! Look at you! Look at those legs!”
I beamed back.
She sat down on the end of the bed. “You know my friend Estelle lived here last year, but she dropped out and went home in the summer. I was hoping we’d get another girl to move in, but this is even better! We’re going to be such good friends! What are you going to wear? Oh, and I forget - do you have a girl’s name, or?…”
“Jude kind of works both ways I suppose so you can still call me that. And yeah, I’ve a dress I was planning on. Here.” I got up and opened the first set of wardrobe doors to reveal hangers packed with dresses, skirts and blouses.
Fee’s eyes bulged. “Shit! Are all those yours? You’ve got more clothes than I have…”
“Well, that’s what having three sisters does I suppose.” I opened the next set of wardrobe doors and there was more of the same.
Fee got up from the bed and walked over, taking a full length strappy satin evening gown off a hanger and holding it up against herself. “I’ve got like one full length dress like this and you must have, like, what, ten? What size are you?”
I smiled. “Ten usually. Sometimes twelve.”
“Damn. I’m too small for all of it too.”
I grinned. “Well, you’re welcome to try anything just in case.”
She hung the evening dress back up and pulled out another one. “I can’t believe it; you’re so lucky. I’ve got two older brothers - all I got is that huge woolly jumper I wear around the flat when its cold…” she laughed. “So what are you wearing then?” She pirouetted, the static in the gown making it cling as she spun. “Something slinky and glamorous?”
“Well. I was tempted, I must admit. But I thought something a bit simpler and less OTT. I just want to look like a regular eighteen year old girl. Here, what do you think?” I pulled out a short black knitted woollen dress; off the shoulder, fitted, with long sleeves.
“Ooh, that’s nice! You’ll look cute in that! And you’re right, that’s more the sort of thing you’d see someone wearing out in town on a Friday night!”

By the time the boys came home I was dressed and Fee and I had carefully arranged ourselves in the living room on the sofa, artfully reading some of Fee’s fashion magazines, awaiting their reaction. Fee had done my hair into what she called a stacked bob - she’d straightened it and curled it under at the ends so at the front it framed my face, whilst at the back it was shorter, just at the nape, but with more volume. I was equal parts excited at being dressed for the first time in weeks and nervous at Jim and Andy’s reaction, but I tried my best to appear nonchalant when Jim burst in, panting from climbing the stairs.
“Hi Guys! Sorry; I know it’s my turn to cook tonight but I only remembered ten minutes ago so I’ve picked something up from the takeaway. Hope that’s ok.”
“No surprises there!” Andy grinned, coming in behind him.
Jim dropped the food on the table and collapsed into a chair. “Honestly, you’ll never believe what happened today…” And he launched into a long story about the art school whilst we helped ourselves to the Chinese food. As Jim told the tale, Andy embellished the details and Fee chimed in with suitable reactions. I sat there quietly, my food untouched. As soon as he’d finished eating Jim got up. “Sorry - need to crack on. I’ve an essay to finish tonight.” No sooner was he gone than Andy left as well, out to meet another friend for some drinks. Barely half an hour after I’d entered the room, filled with trepidation, it was quiet again. I looked across at Fee.
“Is that it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’d kind of expected a bit more of a reaction, you know.”
“Welcome to womanhood. You’re not the first to have got all dolled up and then have the man in her life not make any mention of it.” She laughed, and then seeing my look of upset she continued. “Its probably my fault. When I spoke to them last night, I said they should try to act normal so’s you didn’t feel awkward.”
“Well, that was definitely them being their usual selves…”
“You didn’t want a long discussion about gender or anything, did you?”
“God no!”
“Or them telling you how beautiful you are”
“Ugh, that would be creepy!”
“So there you are. Normal.”
There was silence for a second. “I suppose. It just feels a bit of an anti-climax.”

That ‘normal’ first night extended into a normal few weeks. Jim and Andy were as good as their word. If they were at all fazed by my dressing they didn’t show it, and their acceptance increased my confidence. I’d change most evenings when I got home. The feminine mannerisms and gestures that I’d unconsciously absorbed as a child and then carefully practised during my time at home alone became more natural; to the point that I was having to concentrate hard not to fall into them at college. Fee had become a huge support, encouraging me to take my first steps out, going to the cinema and out shopping one Saturday, although I wasn’t yet brave enough to go out to a pub or club where I might have to deal with boys. Even Andy had come out of his shell a little - he’d declared an interest in learning to cook and started coming home early to join me in the kitchen once or twice a week. Away from Jim and Fee he was more talkative and open, and his dry sense of humour made our time together something that I’d started looking forward to each week.

A couple of weeks before the end of term Fee said she had an idea she wanted to talk to me about. She sat on the end of my bed with her mug of tea.
“So we’ve got our Christmas show on the last Friday before we break up. It’s not as big a deal as the end of year show in summer when we have a full runway set up in the school and we have to present a whole collection, but we’re showing two designs - a new evening wear piece based on a theme of Autumn, and what they call a technical precedent, where we’re supposed to demonstrate our skills in dressmaking by recreating a piece of fashion from the past. I’ve been playing around with the idea of making a big ballgown from autumn leaves for the main design, and it looks like it’s going to be amazing, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do about the technical thing. I wanted something that might go with the autumn idea, but it was only a couple of days ago that I knew what.”
“So where do I come into it?”
“It was you that gave me the idea. Or rather your room.”
“What?”
She nodded across over my shoulder to the Marilyn poster on my wall. It was the classic photo of her, hands behind hips, leaning toward the camera, wearing the gold lame gown with the plunging neckline from the ‘Gentlemen Prefer Blondes’ film.
“Its such an amazing dress, and quite tricky to make, what with all the pleats and stuff, so if I get it right I should get loads of marks. And the gold goes really well with my autumn theme.”
“Glad I could help. It’s certainly an amazing dress.”
“Yeah.” She grinned. “And I’d like you to be my model for it, too.”
I coughed into my tea. “What?”
“I mean, come on, don’t tell me you’ve never looked at that poster and wondered what it would be like to wear that dress.”
I didn’t reply.
“And I thought seeing as you kind of gave me the idea, it would be cool if you wore it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“Fuck! You’re right! Why not?” I almost burst with excitement at the idea. “That would be fantastic!” I jumped up and gave her an enormous hug. I was so happy - my decision to be open with my flatmates about my dressing had generated friendships that I couldn’t have imagined just a few weeks ago. And here I was, about to become a model; and wearing that dress, too. Everything seemed to be clicking into place.

The days leading up to the show were a blur. During the day I was flat out at chef school working on dishes for a Christmas banquet and in the evenings I’d rush over to Fee’s studio in the Art School for dress fittings. Fee and her colleagues had teamed up with some students from the hair and beauty course at my college for the show. One evening all of them ganged up on me to get my hair dyed blonde. “After all,” Fee had said “there’s no point recreating the dress without trying to recreate Marilyn as well.” In truth, I was so excited with the whole thing I didn’t need much persuasion.

The show was to be held in the Roxy nightclub in the town centre. It was one of the smarter less student-y clubs, with a big double height dancefloor overlooked by balconies where an audience of guests, including Jim and Andy, could sit. There was a state of the art lighting and sound system. The show would start early evening and there would be time for a small drinks reception to celebrate afterwards before the public came in for the regular clubbing.

The day of the show I headed off to the hair and beauty school after lunch with an arrangement to meet Fee at the club at six and get changed there. Those few hours at the college salon even now rank as one of the most enjoyable afternoons of my life. I’d never been in a proper salon before. Jo was my hairdresser and Sue my beautician and between them they made it a magical experience. Transforming me into a blonde was the first step, whilst Sue started on my nails, giving me a full manicure and pedicure as the dye did its work. The smells of the peroxide and the nail varnish were new and exotic, the feel of the foil in my hair and the sight of my long, buffed, luscious nails against my smooth, pale skin all assaulted my senses in ways I hadn’t experienced before. Jo took the foil out and my hair was rinsed and a new parting made. Tight curls were formed and held in place with pins. Then it was Sue’s turn. She’d managed to find in the college library an old magazine article by Whitey Snider, Marilyn’s make up artist, and she placed it next to my chair, consulting it carefully as she progressed step by step. She talked me through what she was doing as she worked. There were ‘peaks’ made by plucking and defining my eyebrows, to make my forehead look wider. There were ‘swoops’ made in chocolate brown pencil eyeliner at the corner of each eye, which were then further defined in a black pencil, and then a liquid liner. There were five different layers of lip liner and lipstick in subtly different shades to highlight and gloss my lips. For someone for whom, up until that point, eyeliner was either black or brown, and lipstick one coat with maybe a liner or gloss if I was being really fancy, it was all a delicious sensory revelation.

My make up finished, it didn’t take long for Jo to take out the pins from my hair and then brush and tease it into place before applying a final coat of hairspray.
“There.” She pulled down the towel that she’d earlier placed over the salon mirror to stop me peeking. “What do you think?”
I stood silently staring at my reflection for several seconds. There was only one way I could express what I felt. “Fucking Hell!”
For a moment the girls looked worried but as a broad smile broke on my face they both laughed and that made me laugh too, and we hugged, and laughed some more.
“This is going to be amazing!”
We got ready to leave for the club, and then Jo stopped. “Shit! Nearly forgot!” She rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out a couple of small boxes. “You’ll need these. The latest thing. Just in from America.” She opened one up and took out a jelly like flesh coloured blob. “Breast forms. For mastectomy patients. You can stick them on with surgical tape. You’ll not be able to wear a bra with your dress, remember.”
It was my turn to swear again. “Shit! I’d not thought of that!”
So I peeled off my blouse and my bra, taking out the water balloons that I filled it with, and they carefully taped the forms into place. “There. How does that feel?”
I gave them a small exploratory shake, feeling quite ridiculous. “Okay, I suppose.”
“They don’t feel like they might fall off?”
“I don’t think so.”
I laughed again. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation!”
The girls grinned. I got dressed again, and we left for the club.

The Roxy was already a hive of activity by the time we arrived. Outside there were a couple of transit vans at the entrance, offloading racks of clothes. Inside, the main dancefloor was empty save for a couple of technicians setting up the lighting, but off that the private party room had been commandeered as a backstage area and it was packed - a riot of noise and colour, and some of the most extraordinary outfits I’d ever seen. It took us a while to navigate our way through the throng, but eventually I spotted Fee’s autumn dress at the far end of the space. Fee was kneeling on the floor with her back to us next to a huge pile of leaves as though she’d just finished raking the garden. Chloe, the beautiful Nigerian student in the year below Fee who was modelling the dress, and who I’d met at one of the fittings, was wearing an exasperated look but she broke into a big smile when she saw us approach.
“Hi guys! How are you doing? Wow, Jude, I didn’t recognise you, you look amazing! You guys did a fantastic job.”
Fee spun around. She looked tired and stressed, but stood up and gave me us all a big hug. “Great work, girls. Jude - your dress is there on the rack.” She pointed back across the room. “There’s a bag on the hanger with some shoes and jewellery. Can you manage yourselves? - I just need to finish sewing these last leaves into place. Honestly, if you ever take up fashion design, take my advice - never make anything that can’t be fastened with a zip.”
I laughed and gave her another hug. “It’s going to be amazing - don’t worry. Your dress looks incredible.”

With all the prep we’d already done at the salon, it took us only a couple of minutes to finish dressing. I slipped the dress on, Jo zipped me up at the back and Sue helped me into a pair of strappy gold patent sandals. I clipped into place two long pendant earrings, matching the ones in my poster at the flat. And that was me ready. I’d worn the dress only a couple of days ago at the last fitting but now, with my hair dyed and curled, my nails shaped and polished, and my lips painted and glossed, it felt completely different. The swooping back line and the plunging neck line combined to expose more flesh than I’d ever done before and the gentle caress of the fabric over the legs I’d freshly shaved that morning felt delicious.

Like the dressing, the show itself was over far too quickly. The technical outfits were to be shown first, and I was the last of fifteen models. I emerged onto the dancefloor runway in a blaze of photographic flashes and sashayed down to the far end of the floor and then turned, posing for a moment in a recreation of the poster in my room, hands behind hips. Another blaze of flashes. In the corner of my eye, up on the balcony I could make out Jim and Andy cheering wildly. Then it was back across the floor again and a final turn into the main space, knees together and slightly bent, hands together with palms facing outwards, fingers raised upwards directing the gaze to my neckline. The second classic photograph of Marilyn from the same session as my poster, I’d practised the pose a hundred times. Then, backstage again, a hug for Fee. And for Chloe, and Sue and Jo. And then back into the main room, to stand on the sidelines to cheer as the main dress designs were paraded up and down. And finally one last entrance, as each of the students, accompanied by their models, took the applause of the audience. It had been an absolute blast, and I was intoxicated with excitement.

Jim and Andy came down to join us just in time for the first glass of bubbly. After a final round of photography, Chloe had disappeared to get changed out of the leaf dress - it looked fantastic, but it must have been incredibly scratchy to wear. For me, I felt like I wanted to stay in my dress for the rest of my life. Overall, the show had gone brilliantly and the vibe in the room from all the student designers was joyful. With all the audience and friends now joining us, we spilled out from the backstage area into the main club. Someone put the music on and we started to dance. And before we knew where we were the club was in full swing, open to its regular Friday night punters, packed to the gills.

Dressed as I was, I was attracting a lot of attention. Lots of girls came over, asking where I’d got the dress, or how I’d done my hair. And even more boys; trying their luck asking for a dance. If I was honest, I was enjoying the attention. I’d never experienced anything like it before and, on top of the adrenaline and bubbly, it was giving me a real buzz. But I wasn’t so high that I couldn’t be careful, and I kindly declined all of their offers. There was one time with a particularly persistent boy that Jim had to raise himself up to his full height and tell him to clear off, but apart from that, there hadn’t been any problems.

It must have been well past midnight. Fee had gone to the bar to get drinks. Jim and Andy were away with some of the other students. Sue and Jo and myself were sat at a table resting our feet when the guy that Jim had warned off earlier came back.
“Come ‘ed. We’re goin’ dancin’.”
I smiled politely. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me up from my chair.
“Ow! That hurts! Let go!”
He ignored me and continued pulling me towards the dancefloor whilst I tried my best to resist. But he was twice my weight, and in heels I had no purchase on the floor, and I couldn’t stop him. I was looking anxiously back towards my friends when Andy suddenly appeared from nowhere.
“Leave her alone, mate. She’s already said you’re hurting her.”
“And who the fuck do you think you are, eh?”
He let go of my arm and swung a punch at Andy, connecting with him square in the face, and he fell to the floor. After that, things happened quickly. A couple of bouncers appeared from nowhere and dragged the guy off, protesting. I knelt next to where Andy had fallen as he sat up, one hand on his face, blood running from his nose. And then hands grabbed me again. More bouncers dragged Andy and me out to the side door of the club, where earlier that day vans had been delivering the outfits for the show. They pushed us unceremonially outside, and the door slammed shut behind us.

“Fuck!” I banged on the door, but there was no reply.
Andy was sat on the floor leaning on the wall, head forward between his knees, one hand clamped over his nose. There was blood on his shirt and jacket, and on the asphalt between his feet.
I knelt down next to him. “Are you ok? Here, let me take a look”
“I’m ok.” He raised his elbow so I could see his face whilst he still kept his nose pinched between thumb and forefinger. I touched it gently, just on the bridge.
“Does that hurt?”
“Ow! Yes!”
“Hmm. I’m not an expert, but it doesn’t look broken. Are you feeling dizzy? Do you know where you are? What year is it?”
“Hollywood 1953 I think”
“Haha. Very funny. So you’re probably not concussed then.”
He grinned. “I’ve had harder slaps than that from old girlfriends.”
“Yeah, okay. No need to brag.” I smiled back. “Listen. Thank you. Though you shouldn’t have got involved. I can look after myself.”
“It looked like it…”
“Yeah, well…I was just giving him a chance before I started my kung fu on him.”
He grinned again. “Hmm. That would have been something to see.”
I stood up and offered him an arm.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve no bag, no keys, no money…”
“I’ve keys, but I spent up in the club.”
“Looks like its a walk home then.”

My feet were already ruined from dancing all night in heels, so we didn’t get far before I had to stop and take off my sandals, hitching up my dress so it didn’t trail on the floor. By the time I’d done that I was shivering, so Andy wrapped his jacket over my shoulders and we held hands, clinging tightly together as we made our way back up the hill to Gambier Terrace. We must have looked a sight, but once clear of the town centre it was quiet and we got home without further incident.

I left Andy on the sofa and grabbed a cloth and a bowl of hot water from the kitchen.
“Let me have another look at you.”
He sat quietly as I gently dabbed the blood from his nose and lips. I was only inches away from him, concentrating hard on being as gentle as possible. I could feel his gaze resting intently on me as I worked and became conscious of how I was sat, my bare leg, protruding from the slit in my dress, straddling his, my free hand resting on his chest suddenly aware of the pounding beneath it. I traced the cloth slowly over his lips to remove the last of the blood and met his gaze and he stretched forward, his lips brushing mine, gently at first and then, finding no resistance, more passionately. He pulled me closer to him and I moaned softly as his hand traced the contours of my thigh. And then my brain took over from my heart and told it how ridiculously it was behaving, and how this could never work. And my body responded to my brain, pushing Andy away and saying “No. No. I can’t, I’m sorry.” And my heart tried to resist but it was too late. My brain called for my legs to run, and all my heart could control now were the tears pouring from my eyes. And before I knew it I was in my room, on the floor, my back to the locked door. Andy on the other side asking me why. But I couldn’t say. I didn’t have the words. And even though our bodies were only separated by a few millimetres of timber panelling, I knew he’d gone now, to a place where I couldn’t be with him. That was the way it should be, my brain told me. But my heart still made the tears flow.

I sat there for hours, leaning against the door. At some point Fee came back in, and she knocked gently, asking if I was alright, but I didn’t answer. Eventually, as the first rays of light rose over the slate roofs opposite my window I crawled into bed, but I still didn’t sleep. I knew Andy was leaving early in the morning to travel home for Christmas but when I heard Jim and Fee saying their farewells I still didn’t get up. The sun had sunk again by the time I finally rose. The flat was dark and cold. A small flicker of light came from the tv in the living room. Fee was waiting for me there. A news bulletin was on the screen, with a picture of John Lennon. Fee looked across at me, her eyes red from crying.
“He’s dead, Jude. Someone shot him. Last night. In New York.”

2

We sat in the dark, hand in hand. The whole city was silent, the usual background hum of traffic on Duke Street was gone. Outside the window, the cemetery that we overlooked at the back of the cathedral felt closer than usual, as though we could fall directly into it from our flat. It was Fee that spoke first.
“Jude! Fuck, what a shitty twenty four hours. Andy told me what happened at the club. That must have been horrible!”
I shook myself out of the thoughts I’d fallen into to answer. “He told you what happened at the club?…”
“Yeah. He’s got a fat lip this morning and a swollen nose, but he’ll be ok. It’s a shame you couldn’t see him off…”
“Oh Fee! That’s only half of it. I’ve fucked absolutely everything up. I don’t know what to do.”
She pulled me in close, my head on her shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
I looked up. “Andy kissed me last night.”
“He kissed you?”
“No, no, I mean we kissed last night. I wanted to. Well, I thought I did. I mean, I like him, Fee. He’s funny and he’s kind of cute and we walked home last night and I felt so close to him and we’ve been cooking and…” my voice trailed off. “And then when I was kissing him it felt amazing and everything, but a little voice popped up in my head and said ‘You can’t do that’ and ‘You’re a man’ and all that stuff and I got confused and pushed him away and I think I’ve really upset him and he’s never going to speak to me again. And it’s all too complicated and I wish I was just a man and it was straightforward and people wouldn’t get into fights and get hurt because of me.” I paused and took a breath. “And now John’s gone, too.”
Fee was quiet. She pulled me in tight and it felt like she was about to say something, but I interrupted.
“I’m a fucking man, Fee. It’s as simple as that. I just need to get on with it. I can move out. Make a fresh start somewhere new…”
“You’re not a fucking man, Jude!” I don’t think I’d ever heard her raise her voice quite as much, and I sat up bolt upright.
“It doesn’t matter what’s between your legs, it’s what’s in here that counts.” She pounded her breast with her fist. “Tell me. Honestly. Have you ever been as happy as you were yesterday, before that prick showed up trying to get you to dance?”
I shook my head.
“And all this talk of going back to being a man again, full time. Does that make you happy thinking about it?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Never mind the buts, you’ve got to listen to what’s in here.” This time she prodded me hard in my chest. “Not here.” I flinched as her finger met my temple. “What if The Beatles had given up when they got turned down by whoever it was before they signed their first contract?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry I…”
“Don’t apologise. There’s no need.” She paused for a moment. Her tone softened. “Listen, Andy’s a nice guy. Just have a chat with him when he gets back next term. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
I nodded, and she went on.
“I don’t know about you but I wasn’t planning on going home for a few days yet?”
“Yeah, me too.”
“There’s a vigil for John tomorrow in town. We could go.”
“Yeah, that would be good.”

I slept through until mid afternoon the following day. In the evening we went into town along with several thousand others to pay our respects. Then, with term over now for both Fee and myself, we spent a few relaxing days together before she had to go home. We didn’t particularly do anything special, but after all the trauma of the last few days, it was good to get up late and go for long walks through town visiting the galleries and spending hours chatting in coffee shops. We spent a whole day with Fee trying on all the contents of my wardrobe, eventually finding some clothes that fitted - a couple of skirts and a slinky cocktail dress that I gave her as a Christmas present. And on the last evening before she left I cooked her a special meal as a thank you for everything she’d done for me. By the time she left to go home for the holidays I was feeling much better. I’d decided to stay in the flat by myself over Christmas. I had an invite from one of my sisters, but her boyfriend was a jerk and I didn’t feel like I wanted to get into everything that had gone on over the last few weeks with them. So I spent the holiday week snugly ensconced under a duvet watching festive telly, eating nice food, and playing scenarios in my mind where Andy would come back, we’d talk and set everything right, and then afterwards have the most fantastic make up sex ever.

Jim and Fee were both back at the flat shortly after New Year, but I had to wait until the Sunday before the start of term for Andy to return. We’d been relaxing watching tv when we heard the front door go and Andy’s voice: “Hi Guys, anyone home?”
“In here!” The door to the living room swung open and Andy stood there. Next to him was a pretty blonde girl, smiling nervously at us as Andy introduced her. “Hey you lot. This is Tracy. We hooked up over the hols - her mum and dad live a couple of streets along from mine. She doesn’t start uni ’til next week, so I said she could stay for a few days. Hope that’s ok.”
I looked across at Fee. She was staring back at me, anxiously.

Andy’s return hit me like a sucker punch. All of the positive energy I’d built up over the Christmas break drained out of me completely. Monday morning came, and I couldn’t face going in to college. Neither could I face staying in the flat and letting Fee see me being so pathetic - not after everything she’d done for me. So I turned out at my usual time and wandered aimlessly in pouring rain down into town, eventually finding myself in the library where at least it was warm and dry and I could stay without anyone bothering me. I pretended nothing was wrong when I came home again - I’d become adept at hiding my true self over the last few months and it was surprisingly easy to act as though everything was fine.

I didn’t go into college at all that week, or the next. On the Monday of the following week I was sat in the library staring blankly into the day’s newspaper when Jim flopped himself down suddenly into the seat opposite me at the table.
“Boo!” He grinned cheerily. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in college?”
I looked up at him. He could tell straight away that something was wrong and his smile disappeared instantly. “You okay, Jude?”
I sat there, blinking like a rabbit in headlights. My first instinct was to try maintain the charade, but I was a terrible liar and knew that the game was up. When I didn’t answer, he continued, more softly. “Fee told me about you and Andy. I’m sorry - it must be really difficult you both being in the same house and all.”
“It’s not that. Well, not just that.” I looked up at him. “I’ve not been in chef school since the start of term, I just can’t face it. Having to go back to being a boy every morning. It’s doing my head in. I can’t do it anymore.”
I’d been squirming in my seat as I spoke. Jim took my hands in his and squeezed them gently. Like the rest of him, they were huge. Warm and calloused, with paint engrained below his fingernails.
“Maybe it’s time to stop changing back.”
I groaned. “I know. You’re right. But it’s hard, Jim, you’ve no idea how hard. I miss my mum. And now I’m fucking up chef school as well and they’re probably going to kick me out ‘cause I’ve not been showing up. And then there’s John, too. Even though I never met him, it’s like he was my brother that I never had. Shit, I’m sorry.” I was crying now. I pulled my hand away from his to wipe my eyes but placed it carefully back afterwards, comforted by his touch.
He squeezed them again. “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling. But we’ll try to help you as much as we can, Fee and me.” He paused, and we sat quietly for a few seconds. “Shall we go home?”
I wiped my nose and nodded. We stood up to leave, and he gave me one of his huge bear hugs. And we walked back up to the flat hand in hand. The rain had stopped, and a tiny chink of spring sunshine pierced the cloudy sky.

I made an appointment with our school head the following day. Jim, bless him, insisted on coming along as support. I’d had no idea what to expect, but the school couldn’t have been more supportive. A lady from welfare attended, as well as the head and my personal tutor. They told me about all the support and counselling they could provide through the college and also gave me details for other organisations that might be helpful. And to my great relief they were happy with my assurances that I could catch up on the work that I’d missed, and so I wouldn’t need to go back and resit the whole year.

It felt like a huge weight had been lifted. I plunged myself back into the course with renewed enthusiasm. I knew I’d been doing okay over the autumn term, but now it was like I’d discovered a whole extra gear. No longer stressed by shoehorning myself into a masculine persona for my classes, my creativity soared. Inspired and happy, my grades steadily began to rise.

Life at the flat had settled back down as well. One evening I’d been preparing dinner in the kitchen, headphones on, humming along to a song on my Walkman when Andy had appeared. I’d barely spoken to him since Christmas beyond everyday necessities.
“I was, er, wondering if I could give you a hand?”
I slipped the headphones temporarily from my ears to answer. “Yeah, I suppose.” I gestured across to the worktop opposite. “There’s vegetables there need peeling.”
The rhythmic tap of his knife on the cutting board added a percussive layer that was out of synch with my music. I turned it off and removed my headphones again. He looked across.
“I, er, I wanted to say. About when I came back to the flat at the start of term. With Tracy.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have brought her. I was showing off. After what happened with us. I wanted to make you feel bad. I’m sorry.”
I put down my knife and turned to face him.
“Yeah. Well, it worked.”
He opened his mouth to say something and then stopped. He looked genuinely contrite. I couldn’t be angry with him.
“Ah, I’m sorry too, Andy. It’s not you that needs to apologise. I’m still mortified about the night of the show. I didn’t…I was so confused. I couldn’t put it into words at all. I should have talked to you. But then the holidays happened, and then you came back with Tracy. And my head’s been all over the place…”
“No, thats ok. I understand, I think. You look good. I mean, you look happy. Jim told me you’ve sorted stuff out at college. And you’d decided about, well, you know, going full time and that.”
“Yeah, things are going better.” I smiled and reached over to the chopping board. “Touchwood! How about you?”
“Yeah, I’m ok. Me and Tracy finished.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be - there was never anything in it.”
We stood there in silence for a second or two.
“Friends, then?”
“Friends.”

The remainder of spring term passed mercifully free of drama. Andy and me slipped back into our routine of cooking together a couple of nights each week. His experiences over Christmas had, if anything, only increased the sharpness of his humour and the kitchen would often ring to the sound of me helplessly giggling away at his stories. Fee had started planning what she was going to do for her final summer show and Jim had been asked to show some of his paintings in an exhibition in London and had travelled down to help set it up. Spring was always a great time of the year in Liverpool. As the temperatures rose, excitement in this football mad city mounted with their team’s progression to the last stages of the European Cup competition. The mood in the city was mirrored within our flat. Although I didn’t play anymore, I was still a huge Liverpool fan, and Jim and Andy were both season ticket holders. Jim was devastated when he found out that his exhibition meant that he’d miss the European semi final, and even more so when the tickets that they’d applied for weeks ago, and weren’t sure they’d get, arrived in the post a few days before the match.

“So you fancy coming instead of Jim, then?” Andy stood at my room door with the match tickets.
“Yeah, that would be amazing!” I’d never been to watch Liverpool before. Jim and Andy had both said they’d take me last term, but with one thing and another it hadn’t happened.
“Great!” He spun round to head back to his room but I called him back.
“Andy?”
“Yeah?”
“Just friends, yeah?”
“Yeah, of course - why?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to, you know…it’s not a date, or anything.”
“Course not. Absolutely not a date.” He grinned, his eyes flashing, and almost indiscernibly my pulse fluttered.

We caught the bus across town to Anfield, Liverpool’s ground. I’d dug out a Liverpool football shirt that I’d had when I was sixteen and wore that tucked into a pair of my sister’s jeans, with another sister’s leather jacket over the top. I had butterflies again. I was excited about the game, but I’d also taken extra care with my hair and make up, and, at the last minute before we turned out, dabbed on some perfume, despite hardly ever wearing any. The area around the ground was packed with fans, and Andy grabbed my hand as we stepped off the bus. “Just so we don’t get separated.” He grinned. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be holding hands. Unless we were on a date. Which we’re not. Of course.”
“Of course!” I smiled back, wrapping my fingers around his, allowing him to pull me in closer as we negotiated the crush on the way into the ground.

The atmosphere inside the ground was electric. Liverpool were 2-0 down from the first leg, needing three goals to progress to the final. Standing in the middle of the famous Kop, the home supporter’s stand, was like being adrift in a big sea. Andy had me positioned carefully in front of him, and he would hold my shoulders so that I didn’t trip or fall as the crowd rippled up and down the terracing in response to the action on the pitch. As the fans swayed and chanted, I’d be pressed back against him and our contours would align for a brief moment before separating again as the movement ebbed. As the match progressed, Liverpool pulled a goal back and then equalised. Finally, with almost the last kick of the game, they scored the winning goal. I turned to Andy, arms raised to celebrate, and we were pushed tightly together as the crowd went wild around us. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him, and he kissed me back, and we stood, entwined together, until the last of the fans had left the ground, the singing and rejoicing had faded into the distance, and the stadium lights eventually clicked off and plunged us into darkness.

We walked home slowly, hand in hand, stopping every few yards for another kiss, basking in the warm glow of love and happiness that radiated through the whole city that night. Eventually, we got back to Gambier Terrace and I leaned against the stone column at the entrance to the house whilst Andy kissed me for the hundredth time. From one of the upper flats of the terrace, possibly the very one that John and Stu had occupied all those years ago, The Beatles rang out timelessly into the still spring night.

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new

Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

Andy took my hand. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

THE END

HOW THE TROJAN WAR WAS AVERTED

The scene: a hillside near the ancient city of Troy. A handsome young shepherd is tending his flock. There is a flash of lightning; a crash of thunder. Three beautiful women appear suddenly before him. The first steps forward.
“Fear not, young Paris, for you have been chosen by Zeus himself to judge which of the three of us is the most fair. I am Hera, queen of the gods. Choose well, and I will give you dominion over men; legions of warriors to command; untold power.”
The second woman spoke. “I am Athena. What good is power without wisdom? Choose me, and I will make you the wisest of men. Others will travel from all corners of the earth to seek your guidance. You will be renowned and revered.”
The last woman stepped forward. “I am Aphrodite. What good is wisdom or power without love? Choose me, and I will give you the most beautiful of mortal women, who will cherish you until the end of your days.”
Paris bowed. “My ladies, you do me great honour, but the task you give me is indeed Herculean. One question, if I may.” He turned to Aphrodite. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of making me the most beautiful woman in the world?…”

KAI

For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.

I stared blankly at the GCSE exam past paper on the desk in front of me, then at my watch for perhaps the fiftieth time this lesson, then out of the window where the sun was streaming down onto the tarmacked playground below. Only a few minutes to go now, a couple of hours to kill at the library, and I could go home and escape. For a few hours anyway. I’d been planning it for weeks. My stomach had been turning butterflies all afternoon in anticipation.

Eventually, the bell rang and I raced the ten minutes or so it took to get to the library down the road at the end of the High Street. The row of PCs at the back of the main reading space was empty, and I sat down at my usual one and logged in to YouTube. I’d seen the tutorials a thousand times now and felt like I could do them in my sleep, but tonight would be the first time I’d be trying them for real and it wouldn’t do any harm to run through them one last time. Where usually I’d lose myself in them and hours would go by without me noticing, this time I was nervous, looking up at the time in the corner of the screen every few minutes until at last it showed 19.30 and I figured it would be ok to go home. My mum would be safely out of the flat now – out with her friends in the West End until who knew when. Sometimes she’d be home in the early hours with a man in tow and they’d spend the rest of the weekend locked away in her room; sometimes she’d be away all weekend and I’d not see her again until I was back from school on Monday evening.

I headed back to the estate. Zee nodded at me briefly as I walked in and for a second I thought he was going to ask me to run an errand and my plans for the evening would have to be shelved. But he let me continue. I pushed through the doors into the entrance lobby of the block. The lift was still broken and I turned into the staircase, trudging up the seven flights to our floor, along the dingy corridor and into our flat. I called out to check if my mum was home. No answer. I took a deep breath, dropped my schoolbag to the floor, put the chain on the door and walked through to the bathroom.

It would have been nice to be able run a long, deep bubble bath and lie soaking in there for a while, but there was no chance of that in this flat. I boiled a kettle and added the hot water to half a basin full of the cold that was all we could get out of a tap. I wiped the condensation from the mirror above and took a last look before I got undressed. I was not much to look at – a skinny half caste boy dressed in a scruffy oversized school uniform that I was supposed to have grown into by now but never had, which was complemented by an equally scruffy and oversized beanie that I wore every waking hour to conceal what I’d been cultivating beneath. But all that was going to change tonight.

I stripped off the beanie. A thick mass of tight caramel curls sprang out. Spreading beyond the full width of my shoulders and down past the nape of my neck, with shorter bangs handing over my forehead, they framed my face like a mane. The effect was transformational. I hurriedly pulled off my uniform. Now, for what I was doing, my underdeveloped teenage body was a positive. I dipped a razor into the warm water and shaved my pits and pubes. Everywhere else, thankfully, I was still soft and smooth.

Reaching down I carefully slid the panel below the bath out of its position just enough for me to reach in and grab the bag that I kept hidden there. Over the past few weeks I’d been putting together a collection of my own make up – I’d realised as soon as I’d started experimenting with mum’s that her colouring just didn’t work for me. I say ‘putting together a collection’ – what I really mean is I’d carefully researched online what I’d need and then shoplifted it from several different venues one or two items at a time. But I’d not worn any of it yet – I’d stopped myself from trying until I had everything I’d need to make a full transformation. I smiled - I’d got some nice brands, and some brushes too, and just last weekend I’d nicked a gorgeous red satin bra and panty set that I knew would go with the dress that I wanted to wear tonight.

I slipped into the underwear and padded softly into mum’s room. As usual it was a tip, with clothes strewn all over the floor and every other available surface. She’d worked in fashion retail for as long as I could remember, and came home almost every night it seemed with a bag of ‘discounted’ clothes. Considering we often didn’t have enough money to both eat and heat the flat it felt like an indulgence, but one that at least now I could take advantage of. I knew almost every inch of her wardrobes. She still dressed young - she was only just past thirty - and I’d worn almost as many of her clothes as she had. She had a pretty jungle print short satin robe that I’d decided would be ideal for me to wear whilst I did my make up.

Based on the tutorials, contouring my foundation was going to be the most difficult bit, I’d decided. I’d assembled several different shades, and I experimented with them on the back of my hand before selecting a couple – one ever so slightly darker than my natural café latte colouring and one slightly lighter. I spread the lighter shade across the top of my cheekbones, the bridge of my nose and my temples, and the darker elsewhere, and then blended them carefully. It took a couple of goes, but eventually I got it looking how I wanted. Eyeshadow was next. Also a bit tricky blending a pale gold on the front of the lid and brow with a deeper copper colour in the socket. Then some big fluttery fake eyelashes that took quite a lot of concentration to get glued in place. After that, everything else was fairly straightforward – lots of eyeliner, my brows drawn in carefully, lips lined with a dark brown pencil and infilled with a natural colour and gloss. I teased my hair out and applied lots of hair spray to give it even more volume, and then stopped to check out the results. It was way better than I could have imagined!

The dress I planned on wearing was still in the same spot I’d found it in when I’d tried it on last week. The shoes I’d worn at the same time were also in the same place, part of a pile of what must have been more than fifty pairs strewn under the bed. I pulled them out. There’d be no way of putting them back in exactly the same spot, but my mum would never notice, such was the disarray there. I stepped into the dress and pulled it up into place, reaching behind to close the zip. It was a fire engine red sequinned number, with long sleeves and a hem that stopped some way short of mid thigh. The shoes were also bright red patent with a four inch heel. My heart was racing. I took a deep breath and studied myself in the full length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. I felt like for the first time in my sixteen years on the planet I was myself. I longed to be out partying like my mum, but even going outside for a walk was impossible – Zee or one of his gang would see me and want to know what a strange girl was doing on the estate. So I contented myself with walking around the flat, imagining myself dancing with a group of girlfriends, being approached by a cute boy asking for a dance, and then swaying gently in his arms to some cool, sultry R&B. And every time I imagined the cute boy, he had the face of Mr. Duncan.

Monday morning dawned, and I was back in my baggy school uniform and beanie hat. Mum still hadn’t shown up since Friday. Even though she’d done it so often, I still worried about her. I kicked myself – she wouldn’t have given a single thought to me all weekend. Although Friday had been great, I knew I couldn’t carry on much longer the way I had been. I needed to start being honest about who I was – both to myself, and the people around me. At some point I’d have to tell mum she had a daughter, not a son. I often wondered if she’d have loved me more if I’d been born a girl. Maybe if I told her I really was one we could build some kind of a relationship?

Despite being back at school after the weekend, Mondays in general weren’t too bad. We had English Lit in the afternoons, and rehearsals for the school play in the evening. I loved English. When I wasn’t watching make up tutorials in the library I’d be working my way through Jane Austen or the Brontes. I managed a smile to myself – not only had I been born into the wrong body, I’d arrived in the wrong century as well. The school play I was in was Romeo and Juliet. I’d been cast as Mercutio, and I was really enjoying the role. He seemed to me like someone who used his quick wit to cover up for the fact that he wasn’t who he seemed to be, and I could relate to that. But maybe the main reason I enjoyed both the lessons and the play was Mr. Duncan, our English teacher. He’d joined the school a couple of years ago straight out of teacher training, although he’d taken six months of that as compassionate leave after his wife had sadly died in a traffic accident. He was Scottish, with a fantastic accent that I could listen to all day long and a beautiful head full of tousled curly chocolate brown hair that I longed to run my fingers through. And he seemed to like me too – not in that way of course, but I had a gift for acting which he recognised, and I felt a warm glow pass through me whenever I was the object of his praise.

Rehearsals had gone really well, and we were just wrapping up for the night when Mr. Duncan mentioned that we’d be doing some costume fittings the following week.
“So Kai, We’ll need to get you something glam for your drag show scene at the fancy dress party.” He grinned.
For a second I felt like a rabbit trapped in the headlights. I swear that he could see right through to my soul and if I’d been white I’d have blushed down to my socks. I mumbled something and he moved on. I remembered that he’d mentioned weeks ago that we’d be basing our version of the play on Baz Luhrmann’s film but somehow, distracted by everything else that was going on in my life, I’d forgotten about the drag scene. I glanced back at my him, looking for a sign that he’d picked up my discomfort, but couldn’t see anything.

I walked home after the rehearsals deep in thought. I just didn’t think I could pull off doing drag – it was too close to home, too close to the real natural me and I wouldn’t be able to hide that, no matter how good an actor I was. My mum would be back now, too, probably. Another week of tiptoeing around her moods before I could be myself again on Friday. As much as I loved acting in the school play, the acting I was doing 24/7 to my mum, my teachers, the other pupils at school, was slowly killing me; eating me up inside. Better, surely, to just come clean and live with whatever the consequences were. I walked laps around the estate, playing out the scenarios in my head until after it went dark, then slowly plodded up the stairs and into the flat. An empty pizza box lay on the living room floor. My mum was home. I walked tentatively to her door and knocked quietly.
“Mum, It’s me. Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”

Parting is such sweet sorrow

“OK Guys, who’s going to start us off? How is it that parting with someone can be sweet?”
I looked around the classroom for a volunteer to start off the conversation. Kai would usually be first with his hand up, but this was the third week now he’d not been in school. I looked across at his empty desk. I was worried about him. I couldn’t remember him taking time off before, and we hadn’t had a sick note as far as I knew. He’d also been missing rehearsals. We’d manage with the play – his understudy was doing a great job – but it was out of character, and he’d been that way for quite a while now. Tense, and on edge. Drugs was the obvious thing that sprang to mind. I hoped not. He was the best actor I’d come across since I first got into theatre as a schoolboy myself – by a mile. And he ‘got’ English literature in a way most students never did. We had that connection that sometimes comes between a teacher and a student when they share a love of the subject. I resolved to get his address from the school secretary later and call around tonight to check whether everything was ok.

I’d knocked three times and was about to give up when the door opened on the chain and a bleary eyed blonde woman a few years older than myself peered around the jamb.
“What do you want?”
I gave my best attempt at a disarming smile. “I’m Stephen Duncan, Kai’s English teacher. He’s not been coming in to school. I just wanted to check he’s ok?”
“He’s not here.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Fucked if I care.” The door slammed. I knocked again.
“Look, just leave me alone, alright? Stupid little bastard comes up to me and says he wants to be a girl. We had a row, alright? I kicked him out. He’s gone. Leave me alone.”

The door slammed shut once again and I stood there in shock for a moment. That explained his behaviour over the last few months! At least it wasn’t drugs I thought but, fuck, how can anyone cope with being in that position and having your mum just turf you out? I walked slowly back to my car and sat in it, trying to imagine myself in his position. Where would I have gone? No money, no home, no friends that I knew of. I remembered when I’d first moved down to London for teacher training and met Julie, my future wife. She was a local, and we spent hours just walking around London every weekend. One time we were near Piccadilly, and she pointed out the young men hanging around, loitering in doorways. Rent boys, she’d said. I was such a naïve thing, fresh off the train from rural Scotland, I had to get her to explain what that meant. I wondered…

I’d criss crossed the streets around Piccadilly several times and it was getting late. I was starting to worry about my car getting stopped by the police and was about to give up and go home when I spotted Kai’s beanie in the distance. I pulled alongside and wound down the window.
“Kai! It’s me, Mr. Duncan. Get in!”
He looked awful. Even skinnier than usual. His clothes looked like he’d been sleeping in them for weeks, which is exactly what I imagined he had been doing. But when he heard my voice he looked up and a flicker of hope passed briefly across his face, before dying back into sullen submission.
“Kai! Get in, quick!”
“I’m not coming. Go away!” He walked away from the car, and I nudged it back into gear again to follow him.
He turned back to me. “I’m not going back home. Leave me alone!”
“I’m not taking you back home.”
He stopped walking.
“Listen. You can come back to mine. Have some food. A shower. If you want to, you can stay a few days, but that’s up to you. Until you get yourself straight.”
He hesitated for a second, and then opened the door and climbed in. “My stuff’s in an alley in the next street. Can we get it on the way?”

“The bathroom’s upstairs, first on the right. You can leave your clothes outside the door and I’ll put them in the washing machine. I’ve a spare dressing gown you can borrow.”
He reappeared half an hour later, my white towelling robe hanging off his shoulders and trailing on the ground as he walked. It was the first time I’d seen him without his beanie and he’d tied his hair back in a ponytail. I thought back to what his mum had said. Out of his uniform and with his hair on show, he could easily pass for a girl, I thought.
“Toast and tea?”
He nodded. I made him a couple of slices, which he wolfed down with them barely touching the sides, so I made him another couple, and then another. I didn’t want him to feel like he was being interrogated, so I let him eat in silence. As he finished off the last slice, he cleared his throat.
“How did you find me?”
“I went to your mum’s.”
“She wouldn’t have known where I was.”
“She didn’t. But she told me what happened between you. And after that it was a lucky guess.”
“She told you what I’d said?”
I nodded.
He started to cry, noiselessly, the tears cascading down and dripping onto the crumbs on his plate. “I’m sorry. I’ve really messed things up, haven’t I? I’m sorry about the play…”
“The plays going to be fine, don’t be daft…”
“What am I going to do?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ve made a bed up in the spare room. You can stay here as long as you need to.”
He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Thanks. For the bed. And the food. And thanks for coming for me tonight.”

The following morning I knocked gently on his door and poked my nose around. He was not quite awake, his hair flowing over the pillow, one eye half opening as I asked him how he’d slept.
“Great, thanks.”
“I’m off to school now.”
“OK.”
“I’ll see you later.”
“Oh, have you got my clothes?”
“Shit, sorry, I forget to put the washing machine on last night.” I paused. I wasn’t sure whether to say it or not. “There are some clothes in the wardrobe that might fit. They were Julie’s. I’ve been meaning to throw them out. I mean, there are trousers and stuff in there too, depending, you know, what you want.” I hesitated, not knowing whether I’d said the right thing. “Or you can just keep the dressing gown. Until the washing machine’s finished. Whatever. See you later.” I left, before my foot went any deeper into my mouth.

I was distracted all day at school – my teaching was all over the place. I thought about driving home at lunchtime to check up on Kai, but then decided that was too much. I didn’t know whether he’d still be there when I got back. As soon as lessons finished I bypassed the usual staff room chat and headed straight home.

A delicious smell of home cooking greeted me as I opened the front door. I called as I went inside, and Kai met me in the living room. She, for there was no doubt now that I needed to use that pronoun, was wearing a cocktail dress – one shoulder was bare and the diagonal slash of the neckline from shoulder to chest was mirrored in an asymmetrical hem that ran from knee level to lower calf. It was in a kind of ruched satin material, the folds of the cloth clinging to her body. It must have been one of Julie’s but I’m sure I’d have remembered it if I’d seen it before. Her hair was full, and her make up made her look incredible.
“I hope you don’t mind.” She smiled.
“Mind? I…”
She smiled again. “Here, let me take your coat.” She glided across the room, took off my jacket, and handed me a glass of red wine.
“I made some food. It’s only something simple. I wanted to say thank you. It’s nearly ready. You can come through and talk to me whilst I finish it off. How was your day?”
I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times before I could get any words out. “Kai, you look…I mean, that dress. And your hair. And…”
She beamed.
“Kai…I mean, I…is it still Kai? Or should I call you something else?”
“It’s still Kai. It’s the one bit of the old me that I want to keep. It can be a girl’s name too. I looked it up in the library once. In Navajo it means ‘willow tree.’”
“I like that. It suits you.”
“What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Duncan.”
“Ah, yes, well, I suppose it’s ok for you to call me Stephen now.”
She smiled, and chinked my glass with hers. “Pleased to meet you Stephen.”

So we ate, and I found myself rambling on about growing up in Scotland, and she’d laugh at the stories I told her about some of the things I’d got up to at university, and then we talked about books, and films, and acting. And she went into the kitchen to fetch dessert and I marvelled at how naturally she moved, and how confident she was compared to the scared creature that I’d brought home the previous night. And we talked some more, like old friends, until it was late and we’d finished off the wine and I said I had to go to work tomorrow and I’d help her with the dishes. And as I was carrying two handfuls of washing up into the kitchen she came out and met me in the doorway, and came between my laden arms, and stretched up, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me deeply. I dropped the plates and pulled her into me and kissed her back and she smelt amazing and tasted incredible and I knew I had to stop.
“Kai! Kai. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I pulled away from her. “We can’t. I’m your teacher, for fuck’s sake. And I’m taking advantage of you. After everything you’ve been through. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this to you.”

I took her hand and we sat on the sofa and she said she’d move out. And I told her what I’d been thinking about that afternoon at school. About my sister, who taught at a drama school in Paris. And how Kai had the talent to be an actor, and how I might be able to get her an audition there, and how she might start a new life.

For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

The applause of the audience was still ringing in my ears as I collapsed exhausted into the chair in the relative calm of my dressing room. It had gone better than I could have imagined and I’d enjoyed every second of it. Much as I’d loved the tv work I’d done over the last year or so, it was fantastic to be back on stage again. This was where my heart was. The only negative was that Stephen hadn’t been there. I’d scanned the audience from backstage looking for his face. It had been a longshot, I suppose. I’d had an invite sent for the opening night to him at my old school, but I didn’t even know if he still worked there. Five years on from last time I’d seen him. He’d probably forgotten all about me, even if I’d never stopped thinking of him.

Five years. It had felt like five months. I’d got a place in Paris, and a scholarship too. Three years at drama school, during which I’d completed my transition. A year of small roles, in provincial productions around France, and some small walk on tv parts. And then a few months ago I’d been invited to join the most prestigious theatre group in France, who were planning to take a tour of Romeo and Juliet across Europe. Life was good. I shared a small but stylish flat in Paris with a couple of girlfriends, and I had enough money left over to indulge my developing taste for French fashion from time to time. And here I was, living my dream, playing Juliet on opening night in the West End.

I stripped off my costume, put on my robe and gently began removing the stage make up from my face. It being opening night there was a party to head off to, and I’d brought along a bag with something to change into – some new lingerie and a gorgeous Chanel little black dress that I couldn’t really afford. I’d not seen her for five years either, and never had anything of a relationship with her at the best of times, but there were still some things I’d inherited from my mother. I arranged my hair into a loose up-do and started on my make up. Jean Paul, who was playing Romeo, pushed his head around my door and told me to get a move on as the party was going to start in a few minutes.

The buzz of activity backstage began to drop as people left. I finished my make up and slipped into my Loboutins, another unaffordable indulgence. Ever since I knew we’d be playing in the West End, I’d had this crazy romantic notion that Stephen would come to watch, and he’d come backstage afterwards, and we’d be together at last. It was ridiculous, I knew, but I’d give him a few more minutes, just in case. I pulled a cigarette from the box on the dresser and took a long draw, blowing the smoke back into my reflection in the mirror. Five minutes more. I thought about that night at his house, the taste of his kiss, and the feel of our bodies pressed up close. It was madness; I needed to move on. I stubbed out the cigarette, grabbed my coat and stepped out of the stage door.

It was quiet outside, the audience having long ago dispersed, and I could hear the click of my heels as I walked along the deserted pavement of the narrow street down the side of the theatre. I heard a car approach and pull alongside, but I kept my head down and ignored it – I was well practised in dealing with that kind of behaviour back in Paris. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the window wind down, a voice called out and suddenly I was transported back five years to a street not far from here. He hadn’t changed – still the same mop of unruly curls, but with perhaps a few flecks of grey beginning to appear around the temples.
“Kai, is that you?...I’m sorry, I only just got the invite… it went in the wrong pigeonhole at school…long story…you look amazing, by the way…Juliet in the West End, eh?...it was the caretakers fault, he’d been cleaning in the school office…”
I smiled inwardly, remembering his habit of talking too much when he didn’t know what to say. I stopped and turned to face him.
“There’s an opening night party. I’m just heading there now…”
“Oh.” He paused. “Well, I can’t compete with champagne and canapes, but I do a mean line in tea and toast.” He grinned and reached across to the passenger door to open it. “What do you say?”

FIN

OTHERS PREFER IT COOL

Will ‘Others Prefer it Cool’, the sixtieth anniversary remake of the classic Billy Wilder crossdressing comedy ‘Some Like It Hot’, be a hit at the cinema?
Will the film’s English producer, Rachel Sixsmith, be able to persuade her toyboy lover to attend the premiere in drag?
And does the film’s male lead, all American action hero Jack Jones, really prefer panties?
Of course the answer is yes to all of those, but do read the story anyway…

“You know what, sweetie; I think it’s about time Sue had a night out.”
I’d come to know that mischievous gleam in Rachel’s eyes so well. It had been there the first evening we’d met. And it had also been there a few weeks later the first time she’d persuaded me to dress up. We’d come a long way since then, as was evidenced by the way I was sat next to her, as I now did most Friday evenings, in my favourite peignoir set, contentedly painting my nails.
“I mean, look at you. You can’t keep hiding your light under a bushel, you know.” She grinned. “And I know just the place to take you. It’s our premiere next month. We can get you all glammed up – a nice long slinky dress, get your hair done, the works. What do you think?”

Three weeks later I stood outside Rachel’s house. She’d rang earlier to say she was running late and to use the spare key. A couple of ‘her girls’ from the salon she used would be along later to help me get ready and in the meantime I had to promise not to ransack the house to find the dress she’d got for me to wear, which I still hadn’t seen and which she’d been teasing me about for the last fortnight. I made my way upstairs to Rachel’s room and poured a bath. Soaking in the hot water with half a bottle of white I’d found in the fridge and a packet of Silk Cut I pondered the last few months.

I still had to pinch myself that I was in a relationship with someone like her. We’d met just after I’d graduated from drama school. I was broke, sleeping on a friend’s sofa in a flat in Acton whilst trying to make ends meet working a zero hours contract for a catering company. I had been waitering at a party in Notting Hill when an elegantly dressed woman in her mid 30’s called me over. Declining the proffered champagne and without further ado she’d asked “Do you find me attractive?”
I was slightly taken aback, but tried not to show it. “I think you are very good looking.”
She was taller than me, although probably only by the height of her heels and her hair, which was meticulously coiffured into an elaborate up-do. Her blue eyes fixed mine. “That’s not what I asked”.
“Erm. No. That is, yes. You are very attractive.”
“Good. Would you like to fuck?”
“Shit, I…I mean …well, of course but, I, I’d lose my job.”
“Tch. I know your boss. He wouldn’t dare sack a friend of mine.”
She took my hand and, before I could change my mind, led me off into a nearby bathroom for a swift but passionate knee trembler.

I wasn’t in the habit of getting picked up like that at parties. I wasn’t exactly a hunk – in fact quite the opposite. I stood around 5’7” and was no more than 120 pounds soaking wet, with fine features and a pale skin which was the product of growing up in northern Lancashire. I’d assumed our brief but intense fling was just that, and congratulated myself on my good luck, but then took a call a couple of days later. Rachel had tracked me down via my employer and invited me to a lunchtime assignation at a West End hotel. This time the sex was slower but no less passionate, and the lunch stretched through to breakfast the following day. We even had time to talk a little and I discovered that Rachel was a director of a film production company. She owned a town house in Kensington, to which I was invited the following week.

Other than acting and cinema we had nothing in common. Rachel’s background was utterly different to mine, and yet somehow we laughed at the same things and enjoyed an incredible physical connection. Rachel took a delight in playing the older woman, and introducing me to new experiences. It must have been around two months after we’d met that she first suggested I dress up. I was lying in bed, watching her as she sat at the dressing table. She was enjoying herself, putting on an exaggeratedly suggestive show of rolling on her stockings and clipping them to her basque, Mrs Robinson style. It was having the desired effect, which was evident beneath the bedsheet. She grinned, and her eyes flashed that mischievous sparkle. “Someone looks like they’re enjoying themselves! You know, it’s only fair, if I’m going to all this effort, that you should too.”
“What do you mean?”
She turned to face me. “Will you dress up for me?”
“What, in your things? Really?”
“Oh, go on. Don’t be a spoilsport.”
I shrugged. “Fine. What did you have in mind?”
She giggled. ‘Oooh! Let me see what I’ve got. This is going to be fun!”
Over the next hour or so she dressed me to match – a basque, with stockings and panties. She insisted on putting make up on me too, and she fussed with my shoulder length hair using curling tongues and hair spray. “There. I knew you’d look pretty good. A bit more work on your hair and some trimming of your eyebrows and you’d be turning heads…”

Our lovemaking that night had been even more intense than usual. So I wasn’t really surprised when the following Friday, as we sat on her sofa watching Netflix, she’d leant over and whispered into my ear that she wanted to try it again. She know that I would never say no to her but I think that also, deep down, she realised just how intrigued I was too. “I’d like to try something different with your hair this weekend. I was thinking about it during the week. And I’d love to teach you how to do your own make up – it would be so sexy watching you get ready all by yourself…” She ran her hand down my belly, leaving it resting lightly over my groin and then whispered again “You like getting all pretty for me don’t you? You like wearing all those lovely silky clothes and putting on lipstick don’t you?” She brought her hand down with more pressure and I groaned softly. “See.” She giggled. “It gives all your secrets away…”

Back in the warm embrace of the bath and the wine, my legs freshly shaved, I smiled to myself as I thought of the double life I’d come to enjoy since then. During the week I was a hungry, single, unemployed actor. At weekends I lived in a beautiful house with a gorgeous woman, and increasingly wore expensive lingerie and make up. My talent as an actor, unused from Monday to Friday, was being diverted into playing out a female role each Saturday and Sunday; a role which Rachel encouraged and nurtured. It was extreme escapism. And today would be the next step, when I would set foot outside for the first time.

I drained the last of the wine and stepped out of the bath, dabbing myself dry and slowly applying moisturiser as Rachel had shown me. As of a couple of weeks ago I was now the proud owner of some extremely realistic silicon breast forms, which I carefully glued into place and blended the edges with make up. I slipped on my favourite g-string, wrapped a towel around my hair and fastened a robe around my waist. Moments later, the intercom buzzed. Rachel’s ‘salon girls’ were here.

Jo and Tara introduced themselves as I beckoned them inside. They were both about my age, and carried small cases the size of airplane carry-on luggage. Making our way into the kitchen I offered a drink.
“I think we’d better get started to be honest” Jo replied “There’s quite a bit to do”
“Rachel had suggested that you might like to try hair extensions?” Tara added. “If we do that it will take up most of the afternoon. Rachel sent us a photo so we could colour match.” She opened her case “Here. What do you think?” She lifted out a small clump of chocolate brown hair maybe a foot or so long. I loosened the towel around my own hair and she held it up alongside. “Great! That’s a pretty good match”
I settled down on one of the kitchen chairs whilst Tara dried my hair, running a brush through it in preparation for the extensions.
“Whilst Tara’s doing your hair, I’m going to make a start on your nails. Extensions there too, I think. Then when she’s finished in a couple of hours I can get on to your make up. How does that sound?”
“Sounds fine.” I was already luxuriating in the sensations of having my hair brushed.
“So. Were you in this film then?”
“I wish! No – I only graduated from drama school a few months ago. I’m spending more time waiting tables than acting just now”
“Yeah, it’s a tough gig. Still, Rachel must be a good contact, no?.. Is Jack Jones going to be there tonight? I might swing around and try to catch the arrivals on the red carpet if he is. I’ve had a bit of a thing about him for ages…”
“I don’t know – I presume so. Last time I saw him in a film he was single-handedly eliminating the Taliban from Afghanistan. It’s going to be interesting to see what he looks like in a dress!”
“Haha, yeah! America’s all action hero in a frock. He’s playing the Tony Curtis role isn’t he?”
“That’s right. And that new English actress is playing the Marilyn Monroe role. Rachel told me she’s really good.”
“Rumour has it they had an affair on set – did you hear that?”
“I did, and I keep thinking I’ll have to ask Rachel about it – I’ll quiz her tonight”
“You’ll be able to ask them both directly tonight!”
“Hmm. Not sure that’s going to be a great way of introducing myself. Hi I’m Sue. Were you guys shagging each other on set?”
Jo and Tara both giggled. I hadn’t really thought about the possibility of meeting stars like Jack Jones at the premiere – I guess I’d been too caught up in thinking about my own situation. Eventually the conversation died down whilst Jo and Tara continued with their tasks. I could feel Tara very gently clipping my own hair up and, if I concentrated, I could also sense the very subtle additional weight of the extensions and the sensation of having hair over my shoulders. At the same time I was enjoying Jo working on my nails – extensions about half an inch beyond my fingertips were added together with a deep crimson polish.

Eventually Tara pronounced herself happy with my hair and started rolling it into some heated curlers. Jo stood in front of me, grinning. “Now pay attention; I may be asking questions!” I laughed, but in truth I’d been looking forward to getting my make up done professionally. When Rachel and I had first started to play, she had taught me how to do my own make up, and encouraged me to practice. I thought that I’d become quite good at it, but I knew that I could still improve. I’d come to love making myself up. I loved the smells and the sensations of seeing myself gradually transformed, but it had also become a kind of meditation – no matter how stressed I was at the time, or however shitty that particular day had been, I always forgot all about it as soon as I sat in front of a mirror with a tube of foundation in my hand. Rachel was often away on business and recently she’d taken to asking if I could be at home for her when she got back. I’d take the afternoon off, make myself pretty, dress in my sexiest lingerie and meet her at the door. I’d lead her into the living room, sit her on the sofa, kneel in front of her and then slowly and lingeringly pleasure her with my tongue. She would moan with pleasure – “My god, sweetie, what a tongue you’ve got. I should pimp you out, I’d make a fortune! With that tongue I’d bet you’d be brilliant at giving blowjobs to rich businessmen” I’d smile nervously and hope that she couldn’t tell from my heart thumping against her thigh, or the shallowness of my breathing, how intrigued I was by the idea.

Jo had an array of pots and tubes in her case on the table behind me. She used small wedge shaped pieces of foam to apply my foundation, followed by powder and then started on my eyes. I surrendered to the process as I had with my hair, enjoying the smells and sensations. Jo was enjoying herself too; as she worked she made occasional encouraging comments – “wow, that really makes your eyes work”, or a tip for me to follow up on – the best kind of brush to use for blending eyeliner, or the best kind of mascara. She got me to pay particular attention to the blusher, applying this not only to define my cheekbones but also to give depth and shape to my face overall by using it at my temples, the sides of my nose and on my chin. She outlined my lips with a pencil liner and infilled them with a creamy dark crimson lipstick. She offered me a tissue to blot and then applied another layer. “OK. I think that’s you about done. Now. Rachel was telling us you’ve been dying to know what she’s got for you to wear. Would you like us to help you get dressed?”

Jo led me back upstairs, past Rachel’s room and up to the top floor of the townhouse. I’d not been up there before – it was a space that as far as I knew Rachel only used when she had guests to stay. In one of the rooms there were 3 boxes on the bed, all beautifully wrapped with ribbon. Hanging on the door of the wardrobe was the dress. I rushed over to it and, with it still on the hanger, held it up in front of myself whilst I looked in the mirror. It was velvet, the colour of red wine. Long sleeved, off the shoulder with a fitted bodice and a skirt that flared out from thigh level.
‘Oh my god. This is absolutely gorgeous!”
Jo beamed.
“Quick. Help me into it.”
“Whoah. Not so fast young lady! One thing at a time. We need to finish your underwear first.”
I sat down on the bed and with trembling fingers unwrapped the ribbons and opened the boxes. The first contained a very elegant pair of slingbacks in black patent with a 3 inch heel, together with a matching black patent clutch bag. A smaller box contained a beautiful set of black jet drop earrings and a matching necklace. The final package contained a stunning fully boned black satin corset and a pair of silk stockings. I was overwhelmed.
“Hey. You’re a very lucky girl. I wish someone loved me enough to do all this.”
I stood up and untied the robe from around my waist, slipping it off my shoulders on to the bed. Jo stood behind me whilst I wrapped the corset around my waist and clipped it in the front. I held it in place with my hands on my waist whilst Jo pulled on the laces at the back. It was an overbust corset, and the cups settled gently over my breasts. I’d worn a basque before, but never something like this and as Jo tightened the laces it felt fantastic. The corset complete, Jo unpacked the stockings from their packaging, slid them up my legs and clipped them into place using the garters. They were a very thin denier, nearly nude.
“You should really be going bare-legged with this dress, but Rachel told us how much you like to wear stockings.” She grinned.

She stood up and moved around to the side so I could see myself in the mirror. I stood there for a while without saying anything and then turned to the side, then the other side, then with my back to the mirror overlooking my shoulder, and then back facing it again.
“OK. OK. Enough with the posing. Yes, you look gorgeous.” Jo laughed. “I thought you were desperate to get into the dress?”
“Oh, alright.” I tore myself away from my reflection. Jo held the dress around my ankles and eased it up around my waist. It was actually quite heavy – the velvet was lined with a delicious cool smooth satin. The neckline sat just above the top of my corset, running flat across my chest and arms revealing just a hint of cleavage. She eased the zipper gently up the side – despite the corset it was a tight fit. Then, kneeling down again she slipped the slingbacks on and fastened the straps. I took the jewellery box and hooked the earrings into place and Jo fastened the necklace.
“Right. Now you look really strange with your curlers still in. Let’s go back downstairs and let Tara finish you hair.”
A few moments later I was back in the kitchen again having my hair teased into place. It was parted off centre and fell down to almost shoulder level smoothly and glossily before continuing its descent in a shower of loose curls. Tara arranged it asymmetrically so the curls fell over one shoulder down to my breast.
“There. Ready.” Tara took a step back to survey her handiwork. “You look fantastic”
“Thank you. And you too Jo. Thank you Thank you Thank you Thank you! I feel fantastic. You’ve been amazing!”
I posed for some photographs with them both and promised to send them pictures of the premiere – “You must get one with Jack!” Jo exclaimed, we kissed and hugged, and then they were gone.

I lit up a cigarette and stepped out into the hallway, where there was a large mirror next to the front door. Inhaling deeply, I stood transfixed at my reflection. I felt like a million dollars. The dress was gorgeous and fitted perfectly. Jo’s make up, a combination of subtly smoky eyes with a bold lipstick which perfectly matched my dress, was amazing. And I loved the feeling of having long hair caressing my bare neck and shoulders. Lost in contemplation, I didn’t notice the man’s shadow appear on the other side of the glass porch door until he rang the bell. Shit! With me standing where I was, it was impossible he hadn’t seen me. Fuck! Jo and Tara were the only people who had ever seen me dressed apart from Rachel. I didn’t know if Rachel had told them my situation - she must have done, surely? – but they’d never treated me as anything other than female. Ah well, if I wasn’t going to pass, now was the time when I was going to be found out. I opened the door.

“Hello. Can I help you?”
The man stood at the door was maybe mid to late 50s. He was slightly shorter than me and balding, with a greying combover hairstyle and moustache combo the like of which I had not seen since the last 1970s fancy dress party I attended. He was wearing a dinner suit, the jacket of which strained visibly across his ample midriff. When he spoke it was with a New York accent.
“How ya doin’. I’m Mikey.”
“Yes?”
“Rachel called. I’m here to collect you.”
“What?”
“I’ve been trying to ring you myself. Your phone ain’t picking up.”
Shit. I’d left it in the bathroom when Jo and Tara arrived.
“Come in, come in.” I showed him into the kitchen. “Do you mind waiting there for a second?”
I nipped upstairs and retrieved my phone. Sure enough, there was a text message from Rachel. “Sorry sweetie. Stuck in awful mtg. Tried to ring. Will send driver. Cul8r. x”
I tried to ring back, but there was no answer. I went back downstairs.
“So you’re Sue?”
“Oh, yes, sorry…”
“Are you ready to go?”
“Oh, well, ok, I guess, just let me get my bag.” I was flustered and in danger of slipping out of character.
“Is this it?” He said, pointing to the clutch which was left on the kitchen table.
“Ah. Yes. Sorry. I’m a bit disorganised.” I tried what I hoped was a disarming smile.
“That’s ok. But we do need to get going or we’ll miss the movie”

There was a limousine waiting outside, the interior of which seemed to belong to the same decade as Mikey. Seldom can white leather have been used more voluminously. I sat in a huge easy chair on the right hand side of the main cabin, which in itself was the size of a small room. Mikey sat on my left. Between us a drinks cabinet was topped by an ice bucket containing a bottle of Cristal champagne. As we drove off Mikey opened it, poured two glasses and offered one to me.
“Here’s lookin’ at you kid, as they say. Here’s to a great night.”
I took a sip.
“My mum would be horrified, you know.”
He coughed “What?”
“Here I am in a car with a strange man. I broke her cardinal rule.”
He laughed and I went on. “So you work with Rachel?”
“Yeah. Mainly in casting. Running around in limousines picking up beautiful women isn’t the dayjob.” He smiled. “But I could get used to it.”
“Casting? Were you involved in choosing the English girl for the Marilyn role?”
“Kinda. It sure provoked a storm didn’t it? Not heard of anythin’ like that since Vivien Leigh was cast as Scarlett O’Hara. You know Raphaella was up for it?”
“The singer? Who doesn’t? All the film press were all over it. She had advertising in all of the magazines. Even got herself photographed in the original Marilyn dress.”
“I’m kinda glad Diana got it though”
“Me too. She only graduated out of Stage School a year before me. It gives me hope.”
“Ah, so you’re an actress too?”
“More of a waiter..ess”, I hurriedly corrected myself ,“at the moment.”
“Yeah, that’s how it goes. That Raphaella, though. She’s a tough bitch that one. She was never right for the role. You know what?” He leaned across conspiratorially “She’s got a flatulence problem.”
“What?...”
“Yep. She was filming a love scene in one of her previous movies and damn near blew the bed covers off.”
I had just taken a sip of champagne and came very close to spraying it all over him. We both giggled loudly.
“It wasn’t just once either. Took five takes before we got it in the can…”

And so we drove, and as we drove Mikey kept me giggling gently with a string of Hollywood anecdotes. I was starting to change my mind about him – initially I’d thought he was a bit of a sleaze bag but as we laughed my view was starting to soften. Then, during a pause in the conversation, it happened. He looked directly into my eyes.
“Would you take a look at this, sugar?”
His hand had unzipped his flies.
I glanced without realising what had happened until too late.
“Oh, shit Mikey. What the fuck?...”
“Would you like to cop a feel?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, put it away…” I was shouting now, and my carefully constructed feminine persona had gone out of the window. Strangely, that didn’t seem to make any difference with him. He was laughing now, and as he laughed his tone changed. The Bronx drawl sweetened and heightened. I sat staring in disbelief.
“Oh, Sweetie, I completely had you going then. I was worried you were going to jump out for a minute…”
“Rachel?.. Fucking hell, you little…” my words tapered away. “Shit. You look amazing. Jesus, I’d never have known. Fuck, you’ve got a dick!”
She laughed. “Best prosthetics in Hollywood. I thought if you were getting all dressed up I would too. This penis is rather amazing, though. It feels great – see touch it.”
“I’m not sure I want to” I reached out reluctantly. “Bloody hell, you’re right. It even feels real.”
“And watch this.” She grabbed it, and bent and stretched it until it was erect.
“Shit. How did you do that?”
“Some kind of steel rod inside. All the rage with girls who want to be boys apparently”
“But your face…even your eyes are a different colour.”
“Contact lenses. This fat suit is bloody hot, though.”
“Well, you got me fair and square there. I’d never have guessed in a million years.”
“I couldn’t have kept it going any longer. I’ve been bursting to giggle ever since I knocked on the door…”
She lit a cigarette.
“You look absolutely beautiful, by the way. I didn’t have the chance to tell you before.”
I blushed. “Thanks. I love the hair”
“It suits you long.”
She reached over, “Do you mind kissing a fat bald bloke?”
“Well, seeing as it’s you.”
She kissed me very tenderly. “I don’t want to muss your lipstick when we’re about to arrive…”
“Your moustache tickles”
She laughed, and then started suddenly “Look out, we’re here.”

The limousine drew up outside the cinema in Leicester Square. I looked out of the window. The red carpet started directly in front of me and ran for maybe thirty yards or so to the cinema entrance. It was about twelve feet wide with pedestrian barriers on either side behind which thronged hundreds of fans. They cheered as the car stopped.
“OK. Back to Sue again remember.”
“Shit. Talk about a baptism of fire. There’s hundreds of people out there. What if they realise I’m not what I look like?”
“They won’t. You look amazing. Just remember to stay in character. Besides, given the film, there’s going to be quite a few draq queens around tonight I expect. Look.”
Sue enough along the barrier to the right was a group of seven or eight Marilyn Monroe lookalikes – beautifully dressed in matching Seven Year Itch dresses and impeccably made up, but clearly male.
‘Oh, and don’t call me Rachel when I’m dressed like this either. I want to stay in character too.”
Mikey got out of the car and walked around my side to open the door. I swung my legs around and on to the carpet and he held out a hand to help me stand. I smoothed my dress down and took another deep breath. Mikey bent down and, talking straight into my ear over the din of the surrounding fans said “Take your time kiddo. Enjoy. Remember to smile.”

I linked arms with him and smiled in the general direction of the crowd. We took a few steps up the carpet. Mikey stopped to have a word with a fan and I waved to a group of teenage girls on the opposite side of the carpet. We walked a little further and stopped again. I found myself in front of the group of Marilyns and I leaned closer to the barrier, caught the eye of the one at the front of the group and whispered “Solidarity, Sister” and winked. The look on her face was priceless as the penny dropped. She whooped as I walked away. “You go, girl!” At the top of the carpet we stopped and, turning back to face the limousine I put on my best smile, struck my best pose and looked back to the crowd. Hundreds of flashbulbs went off. I swapped poses. Left hand on left hip now, right foot in front of left, smiled and the flashbulbs went off again. Mikey took my hand and led me off into the lobby. I was glowing with excitement. “Thank you!” I beamed and kissed him. “That was absolutely fantastic.”

The film was fabulous. OK, so the Billy Wilder original would never be surpassed, but the new version was fun, frothy and glamorous. In many ways it reminded me of Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge – the sets were extravagant and the costumes luscious. Even though I felt incredibly sexy in my long velvet gown, I would happily have given a kidney to be let loose in the wardrobe department. Diana Jackson was a revelation in the Marilyn Monroe role. Sexy and sassy, she also had a vulnerability about her that made her perfect for the part. But Jack Jones was the biggest surprise. He made a fantastic woman, with legs to die for.

When the film finished we were whisked out of our seats and back into the limo for a ten minute ride across town to the Carlton Hotel for the after party. Built at the height of Empire, the hotel was a case study in Victorian gothic extravagance. The entrance hall was a riot of florid stone carvings with a richly coloured encaustic tiled floor, polished marble columns and, to my delight, a Scarlett O’Hara style staircase which swept down from the main foyer to the ballroom. Accompanied by a flurry of flashbulbs, to which I decided I could rapidly become accustomed I carefully hitched up my dress and, taking Mikey’s proffered arm, sashayed elegantly down the flight. Safely at the bottom, I let go of Mikey and excused myself to go to the ladies. Not that I needed to, in fact given what I was wearing I doubted I would be able to even if I’d wanted, but it had been a good three hours since I’d last stood in front of a mirror at Rachel’s. I placed my clutch bag at the end of an elaborate marble vanity unit. There was no one else around. I examined my appearance with a deep sense of satisfaction. I teased a curl or two of my hair back into position and, turning to the left and right, smoothed my dress down, revelling in the feeling of the tight fabric encasing my body. I took a gloss from my clutch and was just starting to touch up my lips when I became aware of a sobbing sound from the opposite end of the stalls. Before I had the chance to decide how to react, the cublcle lock clicked and the door opened. A woman emerged clutching a handkerchief and wearing a gorgeous champagne coloured vintage gown. Her short blonde hair had been curled into a 1930’s period style. Her lips and nails were painted a blood red. It was Diane Jackson. In the film, she had looked fantastic. In the flesh, she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.

She hadn’t seen me, and stood looking into the mirror at the opposite end of the vanity unit, dabbing her eyes.
“Are you ok?”
She spun around to face me.
“Sorry. I made you jump.”
She smiled, fleetingly. “That’s ok. I’m fine, thanks.” But then immediately her expression changed and she looked like she was going to burst into tears. I placed a consoling hand on her arm and gave her a sympathetic look. She took a deep breath and sighed loudly. “You haven’t got a ciggie by any chance have you? I’m supposed to be giving up, but, god, I could use one right now…” I smiled. Her accent was Mancunian – just down the road from where I’d grown up. She’d had a perfect west coast American accent in the film so it took me by surprise.

There was a large courtyard behind the ballroom which the upper level hotel rooms overlooked. At its centre was a rectangular reflecting pool with a small fountain, surrounded by a stone bench. There were already a number of guests indulging their habit there and we joined them, sitting on the bench as I proffered a cigarette. “I’m Sue, by the way. From Blackburn.”
“No way! Really? I’m Diana.”
“I know. You were amazing in the film.”
“Thanks.”
She took a long drag, inhaling deeply and, leaning back, blew a stream of smoke vertically up into the clear starlit sky.
“It’s Jack bloody Jones.” She took a shorter drag on the cigarette and exhaled venomously. “I though I was over him, but then seeing him again tonight…” Her words trailed away.
“So the rumours were true then?”
She nodded. “He seemed such a sweet and gentle guy at first. I hadn’t met him until the day we started filming. We shot all the boys drag sequences first, so the first time I saw him he was all dressed up. I’d seen him in films before, obviously, and couldn’t believe what a great girl he made – well, you know that, you’ve seen the film now. Those first few weeks filming were a lot of fun. Jack was always in early because his make up took the longest so those first few weeks I hardly saw him when he wasn’t wearing a dress. I teased him about it, but he was a good sport and gave as good as he got. It was whirlwind stuff – he asked me out within a few days of filming starting, but then we agonized about how to do it – Jack was pretty well followed everywhere by the paparazzi. They hadn’t got to know me yet, and he didn’t want to subject me to the full glare of publicity that our being seen together would cause. Eventually it dawned on us that the solution was right in front of our faces – he made such a good woman that with a simple change of dress into something more modern, nobody would have any idea who he was. We started with a really quiet, off the beaten track restaurant but when nobody batted an eyelid we got bolder and eventually we were eating in some of Hollywood’s most famous places. It was a lot of fun keeping everyone fooled and I think the risk of discovery turned us both on a bit too. On our days off we’d go girly clothes shopping – after a couple of dates we realized Jack needed more than the one dress. He built up a pretty good wardrobe.” She smiled. “Within a couple of weeks it was hook, line and sinker for me. It was kind of weird as well. I mean, it was almost like I was dating another girl. At least until we got intimate.” She grinned this time, but then her features hardened. “Things changed when we finished the drag sequences. Back in boy clothes again, Jack started acting the macho man on set. I started to feel excluded, but he wouldn’t tell me why. He seemed to be spending a lot of time out with the boys, he was drinking a lot, and he wasn’t a nice person when he was drunk.” She sighed, and took another drag. “By the time we’d finished filming it was all over.” She smiled phlegmatically and stubbed out her cigarette. “Put it all down to experience I guess. Anyhow, what about you? How does a girl from Blackburn come to be at a premiere?”

I was saved having to answer by the appearance of Mikey, but then immediately had to think on my feet anyway when I saw that he was accompanied by none other than Jack Jones himself. I glanced at Diana and saw the apprehension in her eyes. “do you guys know each other? Mikey – Diana. Diana – Mikey.” I stood up. “And you must be Jack. Would you like to dance?” I whisked him away before anyone else had time to speak.

“Sorry about that, it’s just that…”
“It’s ok. I know Diana doesn’t want to see me at the moment.”
“Ah.” I paused. “I’m Sue, by the way.” I held my hand out slightly stiffly.
Jack grinned. “I was talking to Rachel before.”
“Rach…but…”
“You look gorgeous, by the way. No one would know.”
I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or be annoyed with Rachel for having blabbed our secret.
“Rachel and me go way back – we’ve worked together on maybe five or six movies now. She’s mad – I love her to bits.”
Jack was smaller in real life than on screen – smaller than me in heels, but he had an attractive, open face and an orthodontically perfect smile which, I thought to myself, had probably charmed the birds from the trees more than once. As we began dancing he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered “Now I know what Tom Cruise felt like when he was married to Nicole Kidman!” I laughed. Maybe my preconceptions after talking with Diana were wrong – any man with a self deprecating sense of humour can’t be all bad can they? And he was friends with Rachel. We made small talk for a while over a couple of dances, but I couldn’t resist asking him about Diana.
“Look, maybe I shouldn’t mention this, but I was just talking to Diana…”
“Go on…”
“She’s still really upset, you know.”
He sighed. “I blew that big time. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. I still love her, you know.”
“If you don’t mind me saying you’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
He sighed again and went quiet for a few seconds. “It’s difficult to explain…did she talk about us?”
“A bit.”
“Hmm. So she told you how we started dating?”
“Yeah, I thought it was kind of romantic.”
He went quiet again, then “The thing is…”
“Yes?”
“It was kinda weird, the whole dressing thing.”
“I think it’s cool”
“Haha. I bet you do!”
“So you enjoyed the dressing up?”
He leaned back slightly so he could look me in the eye “Uh-huh.”
I kept quiet so that he would go on.
“And the more I enjoyed it, the more guilty I felt. I mean – America’s No. 1 Action Hero likes dressing up in women’s clothes – what would the papers do with my career after that? Once I’d finished the dressing up for the movie I vowed to myself I wouldn’t do it anymore. And then I went too far the other way trying to compensate…”
“And the drinking?”
“Just trying to be macho. Pathetic, isn’t it? I’ve given it up completely now – haven’t had a drop for almost six months.”
“So what are you going to do about Diana?”
“I just don’t know.” He was getting quite anguished now. “I’ve tried talking to her, but she says I’m just saying stuff and don’t mean it. If there was something I could do to convince her, I’d give anything to have her back – money, my career, anything. I can’t stand her not being around anymore.”
We were silent for a while. I couldn’t think of anything to cheer him up. I pulled him a little closer, trying to give him some comfort.
“Wait a minute.” He stopped moving.
“What?”
“What part of London are we in? The Old Guild theatre, it’s just around the corner isn’t it?”
“Err..I think so. Why?”
“After the main shoot we added in some extra scenes of me getting made up and dressed. I was working here at the time and it made sense to shoot locally rather than go back to LA. It was only a few weeks ago.”
“Sorry, I’m not following you.”
“We filmed them in the dressing rooms at the Guild. Maybe the costumes and stuff will still be there – the theatre’s been locked up for years.”
“I’m still not with you.”
“Don’t you see? If I go around there now, get changed and come back here all dressed up, in front of half the world’s press and all, then surely that has to mean something to Diana?”
“Shit, Jack...that’s a big if…”
“She’s worth it. C’mon. Will you help me Sue? I’m shooting in Australia next week. This is my last chance. Please.”
I looked at him. His eyes were blazing as he pleaded with me. This was turning into a stranger evening than I could ever have envisaged.
“OK then. Let’s go.”

It was only five minutes to the theatre. The film studio had been using it intermittently as a set for a couple of years and fortunately they still had a nightwatchman on duty when we arrived. His face was a picture when he saw a bona fide Hollywood superstar turning up on his doorstep and Jack’s charm soon had us inside. He guided me down into the back of house through a couple of corridors and eventually we found ourselves in a dressing room that I recognised from one of the scenes in the film.
“Thank God. Everything’s still here.”
Sure enough there was a rack of clothes against the wall with several pairs of shoes piled untidily underneath. Jack flicked a switch that illuminated a border of old fashioned tungsten lamps around the perimeter of a large mirror on the adjacent wall. In front of that was a vanity table with various boxes and a wigstand, complete with a wig that looked just like the one Jack had worn when dressed as Josephine in the film. He flicked through the rack of clothes and pulled out a hanger with a corset tied to it.
“Can you help me with this?”
He stripped to the waist and I wrapped it around him, pulling in the laces as tightly as I could. A panty girdle came next and then an old fashioned pointy 1950’s style bra into which he inserted breast forms taken from one of the boxes on the vanity. I noticed that his arms and legs were still hairless.
“You’re lucky the hair hasn’t grown back by now.”
He looked embarrassed. “Actually I, err, I decided I kinda liked being smooth…”
He went through the rack of clothes again. “I know just the dress…I hope it’s here…Great! Here it is!”
He lifted it out – a black sequinned number, just short of the knee, with a slash neck and long sleeves, it was gorgeous. He stepped into it and I helped zip him up at the back.
“OK. Make up next. I got pretty good at this over the last few months. Let’s see…”
I watched as he expertly applied powder, blush, eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick. He took the wig off the stand, placed it on his head and teased a few out of place strands into position. It was a short bob and it needed little attention before it looked perfect.
“OK. Let’s get back! Come on, be quick! I don’t want Diana to have left!”
“Shoes!”
“Damn, damn, yes!”
He rummaged under the clothes rack and came out with a pair of sandals.
“Right. Come on!”
“Wait!” I stood in front of him so he couldn’t leave. “Just stop for a moment. Take a breath. Are you sure you want to do this?”
He stood facing me, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His body relaxed, it’s rigidity and angularity disappearing before my eyes as it became softer and more languid. It was Josephine, not Jack, who replied, with a wink and a sparkle in here eyes. “C’mon honey, us girls have got some partying to do.”

By the time we got back to the hotel the party had started to quieten down. We skipped down the stairs to the ballroom unaccompanied by the glare of flashlights, much to Jack’s relief. At the bottom, deep in conversation, we found Mikey and Diana. I cleared my throat and they looked up. Diana’s face lit up. “Josephine, is that you?”
Mikey was about to speak, but I grabbed his hand and led him to the dancefloor. “Come on, I think we need to leave those two alone for a little while, don’t you?”

As the music slowed. Mikey pulled me close to him, his arms around my waist. I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a quick kiss. “Sorry! I feel like I’ve been neglecting you!”
“You’re forgiven.” He looked over to where Josephine and Diana were locked into each other’s arms, swaying slowly. “I don’t know what you’ve done tonight, but they look very happy about it. You’re a proper little matchmaker aren’t you?” He grinned. “you look beautiful, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I exaggeratedly bowed my head and looked up at him through fluttering eyelashes. “You’re such a gentleman”. Then I grinned. “You could lose a bit of weight, though.”
He poked me in the ribs, laughing. “Such a lovely looking girl, but so rude…seriously, though; this suit is so hot – I’m turning to liquid in here…”
I pulled him close again. I could feel his new addition that he’d proudly revealed to me in the limousine earlier pressing against me as we danced. I took one arm from round his neck and gave it a quick squeeze, whilst whispering into his ear. “So. Does this work then, or is it just for decoration?”
He grinned. “Would you like to try?”
I pulled him closer again and gave it another squeeze. “Mmmm. Time to go home?”

As soon as we were through the front door at Rachel’s place I grabbed Mikey and gave him a long, lingering kiss. “Thank you. It’s been an unbelievable night. I don’t think I’ve ever had one quite like it.” I kissed him again, pushing him up against the living room wall and ran my hands slowly down from his neck to his waist to undo his belt. “I wonder just what I can do for you in return…”
He grinned, and pulled me tighter. His kisses worked their way down my neck and I groaned, arching my back and pushing his pelvis into mine. He spun me round so my back was to him, wrapping my hair over to bare my shoulder as he kissed his way along it, his hands now working their way over by breasts and down to my groin as he ground into me. He reached down and slowly slid the skirt of my dress upwards, over my stocking tops and past my hips, burnishing the bare skin of my bottom, easing my cheeks apart and then gently slipped a finger inside me. I gasped as he explored, his other hand caressing my breasts whilst he gently nibbled along my neck from nape to shoulder. He spun us both around and laid me face down over the dining table. He eased my skirt up again, and I felt the pressure of him against my hole. I flinched momentarily, but then relaxed and he slid in, an inch or two at first and then further with each thrust. I was gasping now. With one hand on my hip and another over my shoulder he pulled me hard onto him, thrusting himself up to the hilt again and again as I cried out. And then, just as I was at the point of no return, he pulled out. “Shit, Shit, I’m too hot, I’m too hot, I’m going to faint in this fucking suit…” I stood up and turned around. He had already thrown his jacket to the ground, and ripped off his shirt, buttons flying in all directions. “Help me with the suit. There’s a zip at the back.” I turned him around, undid the zip and tugged the fleshy garment down over his shoulders, past his waist, and down to the floor. He was fumbling at the back of his neck and then, like a scene from some ‘b’ listed science fiction film, his scalp and then his face lifted away, latex stretching and snapping.

Rachel turned around to face me, blinking and gasping for air. I looked at her momentarily and we both started giggling uncontrollably. After an age, we eventually subsided. I pulled her close to me and kissed her gently. “I love you, you know. We have some fun, don’t we?” I peeled a last piece of latex from her nose. “Although I hope you don’t mind me saying you make a fucking ugly bloke.”
She pushed me back down onto the table, this time on my back. Straddling me, she eased me gently up inside her. She grinned. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

THE END

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

Although written as a standalone piece, Private Investigations involves many of the same characters as my previous story on this site, ‘Others Prefer It Cool’ and begins on the morning after the events described in that tale. So it’s not compulsory, but you might want to read that one first!
Thanks for reading,
Sue
x

1

I awoke with that deep, languid, contentedness that comes with a good nights sleep. I lay there quietly, still and warm, for a while thinking back to the events of the previous evening – not only had I been out in public dressed as Sue for the first time, but I’d done so at the most glamorous of film premieres attended by the most famous of Hollywood stars. And all thanks to a chance meeting several months ago with the woman whose bed I now occupied, film and television producer Rachel Sixsmith. I rolled over towards her, but her side of the bed was empty and cold. I eased myself up onto one elbow. There, on top of the bedside table was a hastily scribbled note. “Sorry sweetie! Early flight to LA! See you later! X”

I flopped back down onto my pillow and stretched slowly. The sun was streaming in through the tall Georgian sash windows of the bedroom. I reached across for my phone. There was a text message from my flatmate, fellow stage school graduate and best friend, Meg. “How was the prem? X” A calendar pop up reminded me that I had a shift with the catering business for whom we both worked starting at five. It was already well after two. Shit! I reluctantly rolled down the duvet, eased out of bed and made my way groggily towards the bathroom. I surveyed myself in the mirror through eyes still full of sleep. The beautiful silky hair extensions that Tara had put in yesterday would have to come out before I went out to work this evening, back in Dave mode. Similarly the acrylic nail extensions that Jo had done. I hadn’t made a check of which salon the girls came from yesterday – Rachel had arranged for them to come around to the house. Never mind – I was sure there would be a business card with an address somewhere in the house and I could call around on my way back to Meg’s. All that effort for one night. It seemed a shame. I slowly brushed out the tangles until my hair fell gently again in soft curls over my shoulders and down my back. Sighing, I turned my attention to my breast forms. They would definitely have to go before I went to work. There was solvent to remove the adhesive in the bathroom cabinet. At least I thought there was. But as soon as I opened the door, I remembered that I’d used the last of it the last time I’d worn the forms.

I knew I couldn’t cancel work at such short notice. The company operated a ‘Three strikes and you’re out’ policy when it came to cancelling shifts, and I was already on two. But if I could arrange a late replacement, that would work. I texted back Meg. “Prem fab! Tell you all l8r. Can you cover my shift 2nite?” A few seconds later the reply beeped in “Sorry. Working same shift.” I tried again “Know anyone else?” Two minutes later. “Sorry. What’s the prob?” I paced up and down the landing corridor for several minutes trying to think of something. The clock kept ticking. Eventually I decided there was no choice other than to go back to Meg’s whilst there was still time – maybe she would come up with another idea.

Meg and I had met on our first day together at stage school. She was from Leeds and I was from Blackburn, and we bonded instantly as the only northerners in a year group otherwise full of students from posh private schools. Her dad had come to the UK as a student from Nigeria and stayed to work in the NHS. Meg had learnt to look after herself growing up as a black kid in a poor neighbourhood. Where I wouldn’t complain if, for example, someone jumped a queue in front of me, Meg was quite the opposite. As Leeds people would say “She calls a spade a shovel”. Her forthrightness together with her preference for ripe language could come as quite a shock to people who didn’t know her well. In outward appearance she was stunning – elegant, tall and classically beautiful. The contrast had become a source of much amusement for us and over the time we’d known each other she’d become not only a best friend but something of a big sister to me.

I hurriedly pulled on the jeans and t-shirt I’d been wearing when I’d arrived at Rachel’s yesterday. Fortunately, my jacket was baggy enough to accommodate the breast forms without them being too noticeable. I piled my hair up as best I could and quickly strapped my cycling helmet down over it to hold it in place. Jumping on my bike, I set off for Meg’s.

She was on the sofa watching daytime television when I got in.
“Hey Dave! I was just about to start getting changed for work. So, good night then? Did you manage to fix your shift?”
“Great night, yeah. Listen, I’ve still got a problem.”
She turned the television off and turned around to face me. I went on.
“So, you know how it was the ‘Others Prefer it Cool’ premiere last night?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well, thing is, Rachel persuaded me that it was, you know, in the spirit of things if I went along all dressed up”
“What do you mean?”
“In drag.”
“Oh, cool! Show us the piccies then, come on!”
“I will, but. The thing is, Rachel flew straight out to LA this morning before I got up”
“I don’t follow”
“She, um, arranged for a few things. To make me look better.”
Meg grinned. “Go on…”
“So I, erm…” I took off my cycling helmet and my hair cascaded down. “I er, had extensions put in.”
Meg shrieked.
“And erm…” I took off my gloves and showed her my nails. “Acrylic. I can’t get them off without going back to the salon. But the worse thing…”
I took off my jacket and lifted my t-shirt.
Meg was helpless “Oh. My. God. This is so funny! You’ve got to show me the photos!”
I unlocked my phone and handed it over. She flicked through the pictures from last night.
“Bloody Hell, Dave, is that you? You look fucking gorgeous!”
I squirmed.
“And that’s Jack Jones with you as well, and Diana whatshername…who’s the bloke with the combover?”
“That’s erm, that’s Rachel. She went in drag too.”
“Oh my god, that looks like one amazing party. So come on, tell me all about it.”
“I will, but I’ve got to get out of this mess first. I haven’t got any stuff to get the breast forms off. They’re stuck on. And then I’ve got to sort out my hair and nails…”
She smiled.
“No problem!”
“What do you mean no problem?”
“You made one hot looking chick last night. Do it again tonight for work. I can lend you the uniform. No one will know as long as the numbers stack up”
“Oh, fuck. No.”
“You got any better ideas?”
I was silent.
“And you can’t afford to lose the job.”
I sighed. “Fine. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Meg pulled a black skirt and a plain white cotton blouse from her wardrobe.
“Here. Lucky we’re about the same size. You might need…” she rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a garment I didn’t recognise. “…Spanx. Pull you in a bit if the skirts too tight. Now, what else? Bra…” she rummaged again. “And some black tights. Here you go. Oh, and some shoes. What’s your size?”
“Seven”
“I’m a six. But I’ve some ballet flats that are on the big side. Hmm. Here you go.”
I stood looking slightly lost with her clothes piled in my arms.
“Use the bathroom. When you’re dressed I can give you a hand with your make up.”
“That’s ok, I think I can manage.”
She looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
I went into the bathroom and tried on the skirt. It was tight at the waist, but once I’d wrestled my way into the spanx it fit perfectly. Meg’s make up was spread out on the counter. Over the months I’d been dressing up with Rachel I’d managed to perfect a pretty good glamorous night time look. Perhaps I could just tone things down a bit…
Meg tapped on the door and came in. She was dressed herself now in a similar skirt and blouse.
“How are you getting on? Budge over! I need to do mine as well.”
We stood side by side at the mirror like sisters, occasionally passing across a mascara wand or a lipstick.
“You’ll need to put your hair up. Working with food and all that.”
“Hmm. Can you help?”
Eventually we were finished. Meg looked at me via the shared mirror.
“So. I can’t call you Dave when you’re dressed like this”
“Rachel calls me Sue”
“Calls me?”
“Sorry?”
“You said ‘calls me’, not ‘called me’. As in ‘last night she called me’”. She paused, as though she was about to add something but then thought better of it. “OK. Come on then, Sue. If we don’t catch the next bus we’ll be late.”

The bus was full and we ended up sitting at opposite ends of the top deck. That was a good thing – I could tell Meg was full of questions and I wasn’t ready with any answers. When we got to the venue I made myself busy. There was usually time to chat with the other staff, but tonight I was happy to keep my head down. Occasionally I’d glance up and notice Meg looking over at me from the table she was serving at. I concentrated on staying in the present and simply being Sue. I was a good actor, which helped, but where during the times I’d dressed up with Rachel it had been the sensuality of the clothes and the make up that I’d enjoyed, I’d realised last night at the premiere and again tonight that I felt compellingly comfortable with how other people interacted with me as Sue. After a nervous start, I soon settled in to my role.

The evening passed quickly. Once everything had been finally tidied away and we were ready to leave, I made my way tentatively back to Meg. She was talking to another waiter.
“Oh, hi Sue! This is Rob. He lives a bit further along from us in Acton. He’s offered us a lift home.”
Rob was a local boy, born and bred. He had an easy way with words, and chatted away happily as he drove us home. When I told him I’d graduated from stage school he was fascinated.
“So, I could be telling my friends, in a year or two, when we’re watching telly “I gave her a lift home once’” he laughed. “What kind of stuff do you want to do – you know, stage, or film, or telly?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’d take just about anything at the moment”
“I see you in films, definitely. Glamorous leading lady stuff.” He looked across at me, grinning.
We were soon back at Meg’s place. We parked up outside and Rob leapt out, dashing around the car enthusiastically before opening my door for me.
“Thanks.” I smiled.
“So, erm, when’s your next shift? I’ll maybe see you then?” he said hopefully.
“I’m not sure at the moment, but that would be nice. Thanks for the lift.”
We said our farewells and I followed Meg quietly into the flat. She stopped just inside the door. I looked at her sheepishly.
“Come here.” She beckoned me to her and enveloped me in a huge hug. “You know you’re my best friend and I love you to bits don’t you?”
I nodded.
“There’s more to this than just a fun night out in drag isn’t there?”
I nodded again.

PROLOGUE

Thursday October 19th 2000

“Yeah. You could say that. It’s a long story”. I paused, and surveyed her friendly, open face again “But then we have all morning haven’t we?”

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday 10th April 1985

Maria always said it had been fate that brought me to her. Myself, I didn’t believe in that sort of thing – a happy coincidence was the most I was prepared to admit. Synchronicity. Being in the right place at the right time…

The right place had been Liverpool. 64 Waterloo Street to be precise, just off the famous Penny Lane. It was a Victorian house, identical to the hundreds of others in that part of the city. Like many it had seen better days and provided a slightly shabby home for myself and four other architecture students in our third year at the university.

The right time was 7pm on Wednesday 10th April 1985. The five of us were enjoying a post prandial smoke in the living room, delaying the point at which we would return to our individual bedrooms to resume working, when we were interrupted by a knock on the door.

My friend Steve answered and called me through “Dave, it’s for you!”

The gentleman standing there introduced himself. “Mr. Ross? My name is Alejandro Carrera. Perhaps you are familiar with it? I used to study here in Liverpool many years ago and now run an architectural practice in Rio de Janeiro.”

He was tall – his eyes were level with mine despite the fact that I was standing, inside, a whole step higher than the pavement outside – and immaculately dressed. A white shirt inside a dark suit showed off his deep tan, which was complemented by collar length silver hair brushed back from his temple. Despite the mild weather we had been enjoying that spring he wore a long wool overcoat. He stood straight and confident, and held out his hand in greeting.

Of course I was familiar with his name. Though I had never been introduced to him formally I had attended both the lectures he had given during my time at Liverpool. He had been a student at the university in the immediate post war period prior to setting up a highly successful practice in Brazil. He returned most years to give a lecture and, as all third year students about to commence a ‘year out’ in practice were very aware, to recruit students for work experience in his office. With my friends in the house we had often talked about the possibility of working for him in Brazil. He didn’t recruit every year, but we did know that he liked to employ students who had had previous office experience and I was one of the few students that year who fitted that requirement.

In that context, I was painfully aware of first impressions and the fact that he had caught me completely unawares. I was dressed in a faded ‘Clash’ t-shirt and old jeans. My shoulder length dark brown hair had not been washed for several days and was held in a slightly greasy ponytail with an old rubber band. My beard, which I had cultivated assiduously since starting university on the misplaced assumption that it made me look coolly artistic was in reality patchy - in need of trimming in some areas and additional growth in others. “Too late to do anything about that now” I thought to myself and, taking his hand, welcomed him inside.

Working in Rio was everything I’d hoped it would be. I’d flown out immediately after graduating and found a room in an apartment near the university with a couple of local architecture students. Alejandro’s office was a short bus ride away, a couple of blocks off the seafront at Copacabana. He employed around thirty staff and it was a friendly and creative mix of both sexes. It was nice to see so many women – females in the construction industry in the UK were still few and far between at that time. Most of the people there were South American, but there were 2 or 3 Europeans too.

Because of my graphic skills I was mainly involved in competition work, but I’d asked Alejandro if I could run a small job on site to get the contract experience I needed and he’d been good enough to give me a small residential project to look after. Keen to impress, I worked hard and competition deadlines meant I was often in the office late. After welcoming me on the day I started, I didn’t see Alejandro for several weeks afterwards. My new colleagues told me he was semi-retired and it was evident that the day to day running of the office was managed by his daughter.

Maria was a beautiful lady. Her father’s gravitas and proud bearing had manifested themselves in her elegance and graceful movement which were emphasised by her sense of style. She was always immaculately dressed in designer outfits and she was at that age – mid 30s I guessed – where tastes mature and become more sophisticated. She was darker skinned than her dad. I’d just bought Whitney Houston’s first album and she reminded me a lot of her – in the way she held herself and moved but also her hair – a mass of tight brown curls projecting out over each shoulder. Her warm brown eyes glittered with humour and she was that most wonderful of things -a great listener who made everyone with whom she spoke feel that she cared about them. Combined with an infectious passion for her work this made Maria one of the most charming women I had met. I would watch her in meetings when she would have others in the palm of her hand. She presented design proposals in such a way that the client would be offering the commission before the presentation was even finished, and when things occasionally got difficult on site with an awkward contractor, a quick chat with Maria would always convince him of the error of his ways.

I’d got to know her quite well. She would accompany me at meetings on the project I was running and we would drive out together to site. She often asked about life in the UK and she would giggle like a schoolgirl as I recounted stories of the things myself and my friends had got up to as students. We shared a love of Monty Python and my ability to recite entire sketches word for word, mimicking perfectly the accents, would make her so helpless with laughter that sometimes she had to stop driving and pull in to the side of the road. Her attempts to join in rendered me the same – somehow the Parrot sketch became even funnier when recounted in her sexy Latina accent. There being nothing more attractive than a woman who laughs at your jokes, I was fast becoming smitten with her.

It was about four months after I’d started working in Rio. I’d received a letter that morning from my mum (she still wrote to me every week). Driving out to site I’d told Maria how my mum was a nurse back home in Lancashire and she’d told me how her mum’s family had come to Brazil as slaves from Africa, and she recounted the story of how her mum had been working as a dancer when her dad had seen her performing at a theatre and fallen in love with her. It was a lovely romantic story – he’d waited at the stage door afterwards but in her pride she’d refused to have anything to do with him. It wasn’t until he’d waited outside every night for a week that she had agreed to go on a date with him.

She paused for a while after finishing the story and then asked.

“What are you doing for Carnaval?”

“I don’t know – I haven’t made any plans yet.”

“What? Nearly everyone here starts planning almost as soon as the previous one is finished. It’s the biggest party of the year – much bigger than New Year.”

“Well. I was going to watch some of the floats…and there’s a student party that some of the guys in the office were talking about.”

“I was thinking – seeing as you haven’t been before. The first time is always special. I could show you around if you like…”

“That would be fantastic.” I glanced across at her from my passenger seat. She smiled back. Surely she wasn’t asking me out? No – don’t be ridiculous – she’s my boss; she just wants to be a good host; show me the sights. I cleared my throat. “So, the meeting. A few actions there that we need to look at.”

We talked business all the way back to the office, but my mind was racing.

Two weeks later I stood outside the address Maria had given me. It was in an exclusive residential area of Copacabana, not far from the office. A high wall to the street contained a steel gate. I buzzed the intercom and announced myself and the gate clicked open onto a small front courtyard garden with a neatly trimmed lawn bisected by a fine gravel path leading to the house. I recognised Maria’s Mercedes in the drive alongside. A large vine with fuchsia coloured flowers covered much of the front of the house, punctuated by some small windows covered by ornate wrought ironwork. The front door was broad and welcoming. As I waited I nervously adjusted my collar. I was wearing my best - my only - suit – a cream linen thing I’d had made up by a very reasonably priced local tailor out of the proceeds of my first pay cheque. I liked to think it gave me the cosmopolitan air of an Englishman abroad. I’d bought a crisp white shirt earlier that day and the collar, still fresh from the packaging, was prickly and uncomfortable.

The door opened and a maid beckoned me inside. The entrance hall was broad but shallow and the wall in front of me stopped at balustrade height. Walking towards it, I overlooked a huge double height living space, on the other side of which was a fully glazed screen looking into a verdant rear garden. A full size grand piano took pride of place amongst some classic pieces of modernist furniture which complemented the clean lines of the surrounding architecture. I was still taking it all in when I heard the click of heels on the marble flooring and Maria’s voice, full of humour as always.

“Welcome to my humble abode”

I span around to greet her, but had to do a double take. She was wearing tight black jodhpurs, the outside seams of which were picked out in a gold stripe, tucked into highly polished calf length black boots. A richly brocaded scarlet bolero jacket was cropped short at the waist and her normally voluminous hair was hidden beneath a shallow brimmed hat. She carried a red cape over one arm. She spun around, tightly, one arm raised over her head, clicking a heel as she completed the turn.

“Ta da! What do you think?”

“Wow!” I was speechless for a moment. “Not quite what I had expected…but you’re the best looking toreador I’ve seen recently.”

She laughed. “And just how many others have you seen?”

Even dressed as she was, in such a macho costume, she looked incredible. Her eyes flashed as she attempted another mock fierce pose but she giggled immediately at the pretence.

“But you never told me it was fancy dress.”

“It’s Carnaval, of course it is fancy dress.”

“But I haven’t got anything.”

“I have something for you.”

“Oh, ok. So am I the front or the back end of the bull?”

She looked at me blankly. I made a mental note that jokes about the British pantomime tradition didn’t translate.

We walked down a stair into the main living room and through into a small corridor.

“This is a beautiful house.”

“Thank you. My papa designed it. I grew up here. It’s too big just for me now and I’d love to design something for myself, but it’s not easy finding land these days…”

“So what have you got for me to wear?”

She beamed. “Wait. It’s in here.”

She opened a door and flicked a light switch. Inside, spread out carefully across a large bed in the centre of the room was a Ferrari red flamenco dress, layers and layers of ruffled lace cascading over onto the adjacent floor. I swallowed hard.

“But you can’t, I mean...I can’t wear that.”

“Why not? I am dressed as a boy. It is the tradition of Carnaval…”

“Yes but… I mean, you might be wearing boy’s clothes but, I mean, it’s different. Women wear jodhpurs and boots all the time…”

“Half the men in Rio will be wearing dresses tonight.”

“Well, maybe, but…”

“Oh, come, I’ve always loved your sense of humour. Please, indulge me tonight.”

Her charm was, as always, winning the day. I tried one last time.

“But my beard…”

“Tch. It will grow again. Besides, I think you will look more handsome without it.”

Checkmate.

I sighed. “Oh, ok then, I suppose.”

She beamed again and clapped her hands together excitedly.

“You’ll look fantastic!”

“Humph!”

I retired to the adjacent en suite, under instructions, with a sharp razor and a bruised ego. How could I have been so foolish to think that Maria might find me attractive? Why hadn’t I stood up for myself more?

I thought I might struggle to get rid of my beard, but the truth was it was much thinner and more straggly than I’d been prepared to admit and it came off easily. Maria had also asked me to get rid of any hairs on my arms and legs and again I meekly obliged – not that there was too much to get rid of there either.

After towelling myself dry I stood for a moment in front of the mirror to see how I looked without the beard. It had been a while since I hadn’t had one and I’d forgotten how delicately featured I was without it. With the beard gone and my damp, now more than shoulder length hair hanging down each side of my face my appearance was anything but macho. I sighed deeply. Any chances of impressing Maria tonight seemed gone. I slipped on the towelling robe she’d left for me and returned to the bedroom.

She gestured me towards a seat in front of a dressing table, on top of which was arrayed a bewildering selection of pots and tubes containing, I supposed, make up. Bending down in front of me Maria took one of the tubes, squirted some liquid out of it onto her finger and began applying it to my face.

“So where are you planning on taking me tonight?”

“Well, I have tickets for a private party at a club.”

“Sounds good.”

The conversation felt a bit awkward now, and soon ebbed as she continued her work. Strangely, I found myself enjoying it. I hadn’t had the chance to see Maria as up close as we were now and she looked kind of cute as she progressed with her task, her tongue protruding as she concentrated. She was so close I could feel her warm breath on my face and smell her scent. As much as that, though, I found the application of the make up quite sensual. I’d always loved the sensation of having my hair cut and having the make up applied reminded me a little of that. Maria’s fingers, and the various brushes she used felt fantastic as they ran over my skin.

Putting on the eye make up wasn’t quite the same. Maria chastised me gently for blinking at the wrong time when she was applying eyeliner and she had to remove it a couple of times with a wipe before she was satisfied. Finishing off with a bright red lipstick (to match the dress, she said), she squealed with pleasure but she wouldn’t let me look in the mirror to see for myself just yet. She blow dried my hair and then pulled it back tightly. Where I held it in place with a rubber band at the nape of my neck, she fastened it higher. From a drawer in the vanity unit she took out what looked like a chocolate brown hamster, but turned out to be a hairpiece already fashioned into a bun. “I wasn’t sure this would match” she said as she clipped it into place “but it’s perfect.” Lastly she took a red flower from a vase and clipped it into my hair at the side.

“This is a gardenia.” she said “The singer Billie Holiday always wore one when she performed, but she usually preferred white.”

She moved to one side to allow me to look in the mirror.

“What do you think?”

If what I’d viewed in the bathroom mirror earlier had the potential to be construed as androgynous, now there was no doubt. The delicate features which had lain hidden beneath my beard were now not just exposed but celebrated. My oval face had been rendered smooth with foundation, cheekbones above blushed cheeks. My lips, which with my beard removed already looked fuller had been plumped with lipstick and gloss, and my blue eyes, which I’d often been told were my best feature as a man, appeared huge when surrounded with expertly applied shadow, liner and mascara. Conflicting emotions ran through my head. I was glad in a strange way that I didn’t look like a man wearing make up but the fact that I looked so much like a woman, and a good looking one at that, shocked me. Not getting an answer, Maria replied for me.

“You look amazing. This is going to be so much fun.”

“I don’t know Maria. I’m not sure I want to do this.”

“Hey, you’re thousands and thousands of miles from home. Who is going to recognise you?”

‘It’s not that, it’s…”

“Listen. It’s Carnaval. It’s a special time. Once a year you get the chance to be somebody else. Somebody completely different. You can leave the stresses and worries of your normal life behind. Pretend David isn’t here.”

I looked at her.

“Psychologists have studied festivals like Carnaval. They have proved it’s good to get out of yourself every once in a while.” She clicked her heels again and flashed her fierce look. “Tonight I am Mario, the famous toreador, and you shall be my woman, Esmerelda.”

I laughed. “The bulls don’t stand a chance.”

She led me back to the bed where some underwear lay next to the dress. She gave an exaggerated display of not looking whilst I pulled on some panties and then she helped me into a matching black satin bra, padding the cups with some tights. Picking up the dress, she laid it out on the floor and then gestured for me to step into it. It felt cool and smooth as I pulled it up my legs. I hooked my arms in and Maria struggled with the zip at the back. At last she managed to fasten it. The dress was skin tight down to mid thigh, where the layers of ruffled lace flared out into a train that trailed a yard or so behind me. She pulled out a pair of shoes but the dress was too tight for me to fasten them so she bent down and did the buckles.

“How did you know my size?” I asked.

“Your site boots.” she answered.

“Well, you really are a schemer aren’t you?”

She clipped some long dangly earrings into place and fastened a thin satin choker around my throat.

“There. Now you are ready. Oh no, almost forgot…”

And so I sat down again and she glued a set of red false nails to mine.

Finally, I stood up again and she beckoned me over to another mirror, this time a full length one on a wardrobe door. The dress slid in a disconcertingly enjoyable way over my legs as I walked.

“No, no, no. You’re walking like a man.”

“Well, duh!”

“Go back and try again, this time one leg in front of the other.”

“That’s what I normally do.”

“Smarty pants! No, I mean like you’re walking on a tight rope.”

I tried again.

“Now. Let your hips swing a little – not too much or you’ll look like a hooker.”

I walked across the room again. The dress really did feel delicious on my freshly shaved legs, although I had to be careful not to catch my shoes in the train when I turned around. She beamed.

“That’s it. You make a very sexy senorita, if you don’t mind me saying.”

I turned towards her, hands on my hips, pouting in what I imagined was an exaggeratedly suggestive way whilst batting my eyelashes. I remembered that one of the voices I’d been able to mimic in a passable way at university had been Marilyn Monroe and I tried to recall how I’d done it.

“Why, thank you, Senor.”

It came out not bad. Maybe not Marilyn, but definitely not David either. Maria squealed again.

“How did you do that?”

I tried again, this time more confidently.

“Well, a girl doesn’t tell all her secrets.”

She skipped in a most un-toreador like way over to my side and gave me a big squeeze.

“Thank you. This is going to be a great night.”

I squeezed her back. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be too bad after all.

Maria had a driver take us the short distance into Copacabana. As we neared the seafront, the streets were more packed with partygoers. Maria explained that the Magic Ball at the Palace Hotel was one of the social occasions of the year for the great and good of Rio society. Tickets were like gold dust and she had been lucky to have been given a couple by a client.

After inching slowly along the last few hundred metres the car eventually came to a stop outside the hotel, surrounded by throngs of onlookers, held back by tuxedoed security guards, all straining towards a short length of red carpet where they might catch a glimpse of a favourite celebrity. I looked across at Maria,

“Oh. My. God. This is unbelievable.”

She grinned back.

“Your chance to pretend you’re a Hollywood star…be careful getting out of the car – going headlong because you caught your heel in your dress isn’t a good look!”

The driver took my hand as I swung my legs out of the car, keeping both knees together, and ensuring my feet landed on the carpet and not on the train of my dress. Maria offered me her arm and I linked her as we began walking towards the hotel entrance.

“Take your time” she hissed in my ear “and look like you’re enjoying it and not doing some particularly hard calculus.”

“Sorry. I’m just trying to concentrate on not standing on my dress.” I whispered back and tried a smile.

Maria smiled in the general direction of the crowd and a battery of flashguns went off.

“You look gorgeous. Don’t worry. Give them a smile and a wave – go on.”

I tried to relax a little – not be quite so stiff – allow the swaying movements of my dress and its train to lead my body into mimicking their fluidity. One foot in front of the other…swing the hips…all too soon we were at the top of the carpet and through into the hotel foyer. I let out a huge sigh of relief and laughed at Maria.

“Wow! That was certainly different to anything I’ve ever done before!”

The hotel looked amazing. Art Deco in style, its magnificent architecture had been further complemented by an overwhelming array of sparkling decorations. But even then, the hotel provided a relatively subdued backdrop compared to the costumes of the guests. About half the people there were in evening dress rather than costumes but even they looked fantastic. The men wearing what were clearly very expensive, tailored immaculately fitting suits whilst the women were in a variety of stunning designer evening gowns. Some of the costumes were incredible. Never before had I seen such a huge volume of sequins and feathers fail so spectacularly to cover such a vast area of bare flesh. Maria must have noticed me looking, because she poked me in the ribs.

“Oi! Don’t you know it’s rude to look at other women when you’re in the company of one!”

“I was just looking at the costumes, honestly.”

“Humph!” she gave me a mock frown and then smiled.

We had made our way to the ballroom and were sipping on a couple of glasses of champagne when a middle aged gentleman in a dinner suit approached Maria.

“Maria. Is that you?”

“Antonio! It’s wonderful to see you!”

He hugged her and they kissed on each cheek.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Ah, yes, well…it is Carnaval…No fancy dress for you, then?”

“No, I’m afraid tonight is more about business for me. Any way. Please…”

He turned to look at me. Maria started.

“Oh, forgive me. This is my beautiful flamenco dancer” she laughed “Allow me to present Esmerelda…”

Antonio reached out to take my hand as Maria continued.

“Actually Esmerelda is in fact…”

I interrupted her sharply.

“Sue. Sue Ross. I’m a student from England. Over here getting some work experience with Maria’s company.”

Maria was standing behind Antonio and gave me a hard quizzical stare over his shoulder which I chose to ignore. I offered him my hand which he took and with an exaggerated gesture, raised to his lips.

“Delighted to meet you.”

Antonio was a good three or four inches shorter than me and wore a lifetime of fine dining around his midriff which the cummerbund he was wearing struggled to contain. He was bald on top and sported a greying moustache, but whilst the rest of his body betrayed his advancing years, his brown eyes sparkled with youthful exuberance beneath his bushy eyebrows.

“Allow me to introduce you Sue to my son Tony Jr.”

Behind Antonio, his son had presumably inherited his mother’s looks, for he was an altogether different specimen. Tall, broad shouldered, bronzed skin, he was classically good looking Latin leading man material. He smiled at me, revealing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth and then hugged Maria closely.

“Are you with a group?” Antonio asked Maria.

“No, just the two of us.”

“Then come, you must join us, for a while at least.”

We walked across the ballroom to a large table occupied by around eight or nine other tuxedoed middle aged gentlemen.

“What’s with the Sue thing?” Maria hissed as we walked but I didn’t have time to answer before we were being introduced to the other guests.

“Maria. Please. You will sit with Tony over here” he gestured to the far end of the table “and Sue, you will sit with me here.”

My mind was spinning. I didn’t know why I’d introduced myself as Sue – perhaps it was because I looked so convincing and I didn’t want people to think I was such an effeminate man that I could easily pass as a woman. Whatever it was, I would have to be careful not to give myself away now. I would have to keep the charade going for a little while longer at least.

“So, Sue. Which part of England are you from?”

“Liverpool.”

“Ah, yes. I was there on business only a couple of years ago. It was a wonderful trip. My hosts took us to see the football. That is some team, no? Almost as good as our Brazilian teams, no?”

“Yes, they are fantastic – Rush, Souness, Dalglish – I miss not seeing them now I’m in Rio.”

“So – a woman who likes football.” He grinned disarmingly “If only I was thirty years younger. And the Beatles, too. When I was a young man they were popular, even here…when I went to Liverpool it was fantastic to see all the places they sang about. Strawberry Fields, Penny Lane…”

I told him that I had lived just off Penny Lane and he was visibly impressed.

“Still. Our music is good, no? Have you enjoyed the samba since you arrived?”

I told him that I hadn’t had much time to go out dancing since I’d arrived, and that I was working hard on a design competition just now.

“And who is that for?” he asked.

“The client? An oil company called SERPO”

He chuckled. “Did Maria not tell you who I am?”

I hesitated. “No. Why?”

“SERPO is my company. I am the chairman and founder.”

I was silent and he laughed again.

“Come. I will show you the samba’” He stood and held out his hand.

“Oh, but I…”

“Come. I insist.”

I looked across at Maria for help, but she was deep in conversation with Tony Jr. I took Antonio’s hand and he led me onto the dancefloor.

He raised his hands and for a second I almost grasped his right with my left before I remembered that he would be leading. Fortunately he didn’t seem to notice and he grabbed my right hand and I gingerly placed my left on his shoulder.

“You may want to pick up your dress so you don’t trip on it.”

“Ah. Oh. Yes.”

“Now. Here we go. One and left and…follow me…good…yes…now, right…perfect!”

He walked me through the steps.

“Listen to the music. Feel the rhythm.”

As the moves repeated themselves I gradually began to feel more confident. Antonio had a way of gently and effortlessly guiding me; all the while offering words of encouragement, laughing and occasionally bursting out in song to accompany the music.

He was good company and even though – my god, by how much – the evening wasn’t turning out how I’d thought it was going to several hours earlier, I was having fun.

“You have saved my life tonight you know.” He whispered conspiratorially during a quiet lull in the rhythm.

“How do you mean?’

“Look at them, over there.”

He spun me around to face the table at which we’d been sat a few minutes earlier. His guests that he’d introduced to us previously were still sat at the table, watching the dancing or just absentmindedly staring around. To a man they were middle aged, grey or balding, but without Antonio’s redeeming twinkle.

“Government officials.” He went on. “My God they are so boring these days. When I was a young man, we would take them out and entertain them…when we needed a favour, you understand…and we would get them drunk, and find them a nice girl…forgive me, but you know what I mean…nowadays they are so scared of the media reporting on them…”

I giggled.

“Well, thank you for teaching me the samba. Tonight has been lovely.”

Perhaps it was the heat of the dancefloor, but I swear I saw him blush.

“Uh, oh. Here comes Maria. It looks like I’m going to have to let you go for a while.”

Maria walked over “Do you mind?”

She took me by the hand and led me off the dancefloor.

“Where are we going? I was enjoying that...”

“The restroom. Now.”

Without asking any further questions I followed her into the ladies. As soon as we were inside she turned, confrontationally.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean pretending to be Sue and then spending all night flirting with Antonio.”

“I’m not flirting!” I was taken aback. “I mean, I don’t know why I said I was Sue, but after I did I felt that I just had to keep up appearances…”

“Well, you are certainly doing that.”

“Anyway, you’re not doing so bad with Tony Jr. Every time I look around you are staring into each other’s eyes, deep in conversation…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She snapped. Then, more softly. “Do you know who he is?”

“Antonio? He said he was the SERPO boss. I didn’t know, sorry. If I had…” my voice trailed away.

“Antonio and my papa grew up together. Went to school together. They’ve known each other for maybe sixty years. He’s like an uncle to me. Tony Jr – I’ve known him all my life. He’s almost a brother…”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She was silent for a while and then “Look. I’m sorry too. I should have told you before...well, before you went dancing with him. And…” she was quieter now “Seeing you dancing with him. Well, it made me a bit jealous…”

For a moment I was intensely aware that she’d placed her hand on my waist but then it was gone. She giggled quietly.

“Come on. While we’re here. Your lipstick needs touching up. You might as well learn.”

She opened the clutch bag she’d given me and brought out a lipstick, removing the cap and screwing out the tube before handing it to me. We stood at the vanity, side by side, for all the world like two girlfriends.

“There.” She said, teasing one of my bangs into place as I replaced the lipstick in my clutch. “You’re looking all gorgeous again. And that’s important because…”

She paused for dramatic effect, her eyes glistening with humour as she stretched on tiptoes to whisper in my ear.

“All that time Tony and I were talking…he was asking about you…I do believe you’ve got an admirer there.”

She giggled again and gently pushed me out of the ladies and back into the ballroom.

Of course Tony was waiting for me when we got back to the table. I was pleased that I’d managed to get the gist of the basic steps of the samba with his dad, who had been entirely charming in taking me under his wing. Somehow with Tony I didn’t want to be a vulnerable novice, I wanted to be cool and elegant and slightly superior…

He was quite different to his dad. Where Antonio looked as though he was completely infatuated with the samba, Tony didn’t. He was a good dancer, for sure, but he made me feel that he didn’t dance because he enjoyed it, but because it was socially useful and that being good at it was a way to impress women. The same applied to his conversation. We talked about Rio, and about architecture, but he seemed less interested in what I said than in what he could tell me about himself. No doubt his good looks and his money were enough to get him what he wanted in terms of girlfriends, but when he suggested that I might want to join him for a spin in his brand new Maserati that he’d just bought that weekend, it was all I could do to stop myself from giggling at his chat up technique. For a moment he seemed genuinely bewildered when I said I would be too busy working on the competition to join him.

And so the evening progressed. I danced with Antonio and Tony, and even one or two of the less boring government officials. Maria danced with them too, but with everyone there thinking I was a girl it felt too awkward for us to dance together. Eventually Antonio said that he and Tony had to leave to escort their guests back to their hotel. “They don’t even have the energy to party through until morning these days.” he moaned. They offered us a lift but Maria declined and eventually, just as the night began to wind down, we found ourselves alone.

“Now we can dance” she said.

The music had slowed, and she pulled me close, lifting my arms to wrap around her neck as she gently clasped my waist.

“I confess” she leaned to whisper in my ear “I’m a bit tipsy. I’ve drunk too much champagne.”

She giggled and one of her hands slipped down from my waist to gently caress my bottom through the smooth taffeta of my dress. I swallowed hard, and felt like my heart was going to explode out of my chest. She pulled me tighter and our bodies swayed smoothly in unison. I could smell her musk, feel her warm breath on my face. I had just made up my mind to kiss her and damn the consequences when the music stopped and the lights went up.

It was daylight outside as we left. Maria wielded her cape with a flourish as I charged, giggling, my index fingers forming horns either side of my head, back up what was now thankfully a deserted red carpet. She joined me in an impromptu, and very uncoordinated, flamenco dance as we waited for the car to arrive. We fell into it, laughing helplessly, and were driven back home in fits of giggles. Maria was still teasing me as I stepped out of the car at her house, grabbing my bottom as I bent and exclaiming loudly in a deep man’s voice “Phwoar! What a bottom you’ve got in that dress.”

“Don’t touch what you can’t afford!” I joked and skipped off down the path. Maria chasing me, we crashed together against the front door which swung open, depositing us in an unceremonious heap on the floor, me on my back and Maria landing on top of me.

“Ow!” I rubbed the back of my head.

“Awwww” She teased, poking me in the ribs with a finger and making me squeal again. For a brief moment our eyes locked and then her lips were on mine. I kissed her back, hungrily, and rolled her over on to her back but she immediately flipped me back again.

“No. Tonight I am Mario, and you are Esmerelda…”

Her hands ran over the smooth silk encasing my body. Reaching under my skirts she slid them up my legs to my waist. She was between my legs now, fumbling at her belt with her hand, our mouths still locked together.

“Shit! I can’t get these fucking jodhpurs off! They’re tucked into my boots!”

We both burst out laughing and then she stood up and, taking my hand, pulled me to my feet too. She kissed me again, his time slowly and lingeringly, her lips brushing gently against mine and then her tongue exploring my mouth.

“Come. Let’s go to the bedroom.” My hand in hers, we walked down the stairs towards her room, the train of my dress rustling softly behind me.

A New Year, a new genre; my first foray into forced femme. Happy 2023 to all at BC!

THE AGENCY

In the midst of darkness, light persists.
Mahatma Gandhi

1

It must have been snowing hard whilst we’d been in the restaurant. Our feet crunched satisfyingly in the fresh powder as we crossed Palace Square en route to Yuri’s club. I paused briefly to look at the Hermitage against the black sky, sitting on a base of pure virgin white. I was on my third business trip there since graduating that summer and St. Petersburg never failed to take my breath away. Back at the restaurant, Yuri had read my mind. Our respective bosses - mine a partner in a ‘big 4’ accountancy firm and Yuri’s a local banker - were on to the brandy and ci-gars and talking shop. I was bored and jumped at his suggestion to ‘get away from the old farts’. His grasp of English colloquialisms made me laugh. I’d never been one for male friendships at either school or university but I sensed a potential bond with Yuri. Like me he was small and seemed to be perpetually bullied by his superior and we wasted no time in taking our leave.
“What’s this place like, anyway?”
He laughed. “Wild and decadent and very expensive. But don’t worry, it’s all on my expenses.”
I grinned back. “Sounds great!”
We left the square at the bridge over the Moyka, turned left down a small street, and then I lost my bearings as we criss crossed some smaller alleys before arriving at a heavy panelled door in a rusticated stucco facade typical of that part of the town. Apart from ourselves, the street was deserted. Yuri rang a bell and a small panel in the door opened. There was an exchange in Russian and I heard the sound of large bolts being drawn open.
Yuri beckoned me in, grinning. “I think you’re going to like it so much you’re going to want to stay!”

The main space inside the club was almost as spectacular as some of the Hermitage interiors I’d visited on my previous trip. The room was huge - maybe 10m high and 15m x 30m in plan. There was a large balcony at first floor level running around all four sides supported by paired corinthian columns with gold leaf capitals and bases. The ceiling was barrel vaulted with an ornate plaster design which was also highlighted in gold leaf. A DJ booth sat at one end of the balcony overlooking the main dance floor and there were freestanding bar areas at either end. Be-yond the columns, equally opulently decorated chill out spaces sat off either side of the main room. Three huge crystal chandeliers hung down, with coloured spotlights from around the perimeter of the ceiling reflecting off them, scattering shards of colour over the walls and floor. But the interior, grand as it was, almost paled into insignificance next to its occupants. Ever since my first visit to St. Petersburg I’d been taken aback by the beauty of so many of the women there. Here, that was magnified by a factor of ten. Magnified by all the means at the disposal of the rich elite who clearly made up the clientele. Surgically enhanced to almost impossible levels of sculptural perfection, immaculately made up and dressed in exotic fabrics designed to cling to their man-made contours. Around two thirds of the people I could see were young women, danc-ing together to the loud Ibiza beat emanating from the speakers hanging from each corner, or sitting and listening intently as their older oli-garchal beaus held court in the chill out rooms.
“Fuck, Yuri, this is crazy!”
He leaned into my ear to make himself heard over the music. ‘I’ll get us a table.” A young woman in a tight fitting black silk cocktail dress that barely covered her stocking tops approached us with a smile. Yuri said something to us and she escorted us over to one of the rooms off the main floor. Here the music wasn’t quite so loud.
“My name’s Anna and I’ll be looking after you tonight. Can I get you a drink?”
Yuri looked over at me. I shrugged my shoulders “Vodka?”
“Scotch.” He replied. “Only the peasants drink vodka.” He turned to the waitress. “Anna. Look after my friend here.” Then back to me. “Forgive me. I have some people I need to see. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Ask Anna to give you a tour.” His demeanour had changed, he seemed more confident, arrogant even, since entering the club. Oh, and be careful.” He grinned again. “Things aren’t always what they seem here!” And with that he left me alone to take in the scene.

I sat and waited for Anna to come back with the drinks. I wondered what Yuri had meant when he’d said “Things aren’t always what they seem…”. My first thought was that perhaps some of the women weren’t actually women at all, and my second thought was that perhaps they were prostitutes. And then my third thought was that any regular bloke would at least have had those thoughts in reverse order, and possibly not even had the first thought at all. But I wasn’t a regular bloke. I’d been fascinated by the idea of crossdressing since I was a boy and though I’d had little opportunity to indulge myself during childhood, and whilst living in shared accommodation at university, since I’d rented a flat of my own after graduating four months ago I’d begun to explore the possibilities. From my first pay packet I’d treated myself to some expensive lin-gerie and a wig, and I’d been playing around with make up on my weekday evenings alone in my flat. And just two days ago I’d taken the plunge and shaved off all of my body hair below my neck with the exception of a neat little triangle in my pubic area.

I scanned the women intently for any signs - a too prominent Adam’s apple, a too large hand, or a giveaway masculine gesture. But there was nothing I could see that made me think that any of them were trans. So perhaps my second thought had been correct after all and they were prostitutes. That was far more likely. I knew that prostitution was rife in St. Petersburg, especially in some of the more affluent bars and clubs frequented by westerners and the local mafia.

Anna returned and set the drinks on the table, and sat in the chair next to mine. She leaned across, smiling, and raised a glass.
“Za zdorovie”
“Za zdorovie”
“So what brings you here to St. Petersburg?”
I told her my story, such as it was. We talked for a while and then she suggested she show me around. I shrugged. “Sure.” She took my hand and led me off, away from the dancefloor, up some stairs to the balconies that overlooked it, and then along another corridor lined with several doors, like a hotel. She stopped outside one. “I want to show you something.” She smiled again and opened the door just a few inches. “In you go.” I stepped into the room. It was quite dark in contrast to the corridor, lit only by a small desk lamp in one corner. I turned, expecting Anna to follow me, but she’d stopped. “This is as far as I go.” She smiled again, “Enjoy”, and the door was closed behind me.

I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Just outside the small pool of light cast by the lamp another young woman was sitting. When the door closed she stood and walked towards me. She was dressed similarly to Anna in a short fitted dress with stockings and heels. She wore a short blonde bobbed hairstyle, the soft glow of the lamp reflected in the gloss on her lips. But there was something familiar about her profile - the shape of her nose and jaw, and something too in the way she walked. She approached closely, almost touching me, making me aware enough of my personal space to try to take a step back, but then feel the wall behind me.
“Yuri!”
He smiled. “What do you think?”
I was already aroused by looking at the girls in the club, and being with Anna. And now seeing my companion crossdressed, the way I longed to be… My throat was dry. My heart was thumping in my chest.
He moved closer again, his breasts brushing against my chest. “So tell me, am I attractive?”
He reached a hand down and took a firm hold of my penis, squeezing it tightly until I gasped. “Something tells me that you’re finding me very attractive indeed. Or is it, perhaps, the idea of wearing a sweet little silk dress, with stockings and heels that is getting you all, how do you say, hot under the collar?”
I gasped but said nothing. I was a rabbit in the headlights, unable to move.
“Mmm. I thought so.” He raised a long, glossed nail to my face and ran it along the length of one eyebrow. “Plucked.” He said. “Very subtly done, so most wouldn’t notice. But I did.” From my brow he continued across to my ear. “And pierced ears too. Not that unusual today, grant-ed. But in both ears. And without wearing studs in them. And I expect if we have a look down here…” he removed his hand from my penis briefly whilst he undid the buckle on my belt, unzipped my fly and allowed my trousers to drop to the floor. “…Ah yes, as I thought.” He ran his hand over the smooth contours of my recently shaved legs. “I think you’ll enjoy being a member of our club.” He smiled. The door burst open and as Yuri stepped aside, two men grabbed hold of me and pulled me to the floor. I tried to fight back, but one had me pinned down as the other held a cloth to my face. The last thing I remembered as I passed out was Yuri’s made up face looking down at me, grinning.

2

I woke up aching all over. I felt like I’d been punched hard in the face and then, having fallen to the ground, been kicked repeatedly. I tried to recall the events of last night. I remembered the club, and Anna, and, oh shit, Yuri appearing dressed as a woman. I looked around. I appeared to be in a regular hotel room, albeit one that didn’t, as far as I could see, have any windows. Raising my hand to my face, I could feel dressings to my nose and jaw. Both were incredibly tender to touch. Summoning my strength, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. My chest was constricted and tight. I was wearing a surgical gown but below that there were bandages or something similar wrapped tightly around my upper torso. Below them, my chest felt swollen and sore. I ran my hand across and felt the unmistakeable swell of breasts below the constrain-ing fabric. They were flattened tight to my ribs, but there was no mistaking what they were. My stomach lurched and for a moment I thought I was going to vomit. In a panic I reached down to my groin. Mercifully it was still intact, but there was a strange steel wire wrapped around the base of my penis. I stood up, took a moment to steady myself, and staggered to the door. It was locked. I pounded on it and cried out as loudly as I could but there was no response.

There was a mirror in the bathroom. Surveying myself, I could see that my face was bruised and swollen even in the areas not covered by the dressings. I took off the gown. I was wearing some kind of sports bra that was partially flattening the breasts against my chest. I tried to find a fastener so I could get it off, but couldn’t see one, and the garment was too tight to pull off over my head. Below the waist my backside was al-so bruised and swollen. I examined the wire around my penis more carefully. It was about 1mm diameter, not so tight that it was uncomforta-ble, but tight enough that I couldn’t remove it. At the back of the wire, tucked up beneath my balls, was a steel cylinder, around 5mm in diameter and 25mm long, the wire connected to either end. I went back to the bed and sat down, trying to understand what had happened. But my mind was befuddled from the drugs and before I knew it I fell asleep again.

The next time I awoke I felt much better. The pain had subsided significantly and it felt as though most of the swelling to my face had gone. Reaching up, I noticed the dressings to my nose and jaw had been removed. I was ravenously hungry and felt like I’d lost weight; I wondered how long I’d been unconscious. I walked through to the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror. The plastic surgery that I’d already real-ised had been undertaken on my face had given me a more rounded jawline and a smaller, button, nose. Even without make up and with my hairstyle unchanged my face was now undeniably feminine. And whilst the bruising had faded, the swelling to my backside and hips remained. Implants there too, I suspected. On top of the weight I’d lost elsewhere I also had an undeniably feminine figure. I slumped onto the toilet seat. Who had done this to me? And why?

Hours passed. I slept again. When I awoke, it was to the sound of the room door crashing open. A male figure burst in. Tall, shaven-headed, stockily built. Behind him, a small middle-age woman with a masculine hairstyle dressed in a charcoal skirt suit with a shirt and tie, and highly polished boots. And then, after her, another male similar to the first. I sat bolt upright, clasping the edge of the bedsheet tightly under my chin. The first man snatched it from me leaving me naked on the bed, but for the chest bindings I’d been unable to remove. The woman nodded to the second man and he stepped forward, a huge knife in one hand. I recoiled, waiting for the fatal blow. I felt the cold of the blade on my chest, then exhaled as he cut through the heavy elasticated material, exposing the results of their surgery. He grinned leeringly at me, enjoying my ter-ror. The woman addressed me.
“On your knees on the floor now.”
I was trembling, and could barely get the words out. “Take me to the British Embassy.”
She snorted. Said something in Russian to the first man, and he laughed. She turned at me again “On your knees.”
“Fuck off.”
A huge surge of pain ran through my balls, like I’d been kicked in the groin but a hundred times worse. I screamed, then lay panting for several seconds.
“So. Now you know why we have the wire wrapped around your genitalia.” She spoke with a heavy accent in clipped, military tones. “And you should also know that the cylinder sitting below your testicles contains an explosive that can also be detonated should you decide not to coop-erate. And cutting the wire of course triggers the detonation. Now maybe a sissy like you would like for that to happen. But the explosion would probably remove a leg or two as well - it could do a lot of collateral damage. So be a good girl and get on your knees.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Another surge of pain and I collapsed at her feet.
“You are with The Agency now. You will learn not to ask questions and to only speak when you are spoken to. Do you understand?”
I nodded and, head down, knelt quietly in front of her.

She stepped to one side leaving me facing the man with the knife. I raised my head. I was eye level with his crotch. Inches in front of me, his flies open, his cock hung out. Short, stubby, stinking of piss. He leered down at me and slid the flat blade of the knife slowly over my cheek.
I turned to the woman “Oh, please, please, no…”
She sneered at me and said something in Russian to the man. Then turned back to me.
“For now, fortunately for you, you are worth too much to us to turn you over to these pigs. We don’t want our investment to be damaged. But let this be a lesson to you. Upset us, and my friend here will have a new girlfriend.” She threw some clothes on to the bed. “Now. Put these on. It’s time to go.”

I was blindfolded and bundled out of the room, one of the heavies guiding me with a hand around my arm, gripping me tightly. Into a lift, down two or maybe three floors and then out onto a concrete floor. Fresh air. Into the back of a car and then maybe 15 minutes driving before being taken out again. Into another lift. Longer this time, four or five floors. A carpeted corridor. Finally, I was thrust through another door and my blindfold removed, the door slamming behind me. I blinked as my eyes became accustomed again to the light. I was in what looked like a fairly normal living room. Basically furnished, but clean. A window this time, unlike the previous room, but with the glass obscured. Standing in front of me was a young woman, late twenties, blonde, wearing a grey jogging suit similar to the one I’d been handed earlier. She raised her hand in welcome. “Hi, I’m Josie.” An American accent. “Welcome to Stalag Luft III. I see you’ve already met the Kommandant and two of her goons.”

3

“Forgive the gallows humour. You must have a million questions, but right now I’ll bet you want nothing more than a hot shower to get rid of the smell of that fat bastard that dropped you off here. I’ll show you your room.”
She took me through to a small bedroom. Like the living room, it was functional but comfortable. A single bed, a wardrobe and a dresser. Off that an en suite room with shower. She left me alone and as soon as she’d gone I stripped off the clothes I was wearing and climbed into the shower, turning the water temperature up as high as it would go until I was almost being scalded, whilst scrubbing feverishly at my body. I stood for an age under the flow of the water, imagining it somehow dissolving me and washing me away until there was nothing left. But even-tually the water began to run cold and I was still there, solid. I stepped out and dried myself down. In the wardrobe I found another jogging suit similar to the one I’d discarded. I dressed, and went back into the living room, where Josie was waiting for me.

“So how did you come to be here?”
I told her my story. I left out the part where Yuri had clocked me being a transvestite - somehow, it made me feel like everything was partly my fault - but I told her everything else, from the time we’d walked across Palace Square to the time I’d been delivered to the flat. She shuddered and took my hand in hers.
“The Agency owns you now. You’re a working girl. Like me.”
“You mean you’re?…”
She nodded. “In a fucked up world we’re the lucky ones. If you were a cis girl you’d be out there already, earning them money. But as a new t-girl you get a few days reprieve for me to train you up. And the cis girls are out working every day, sometimes three or four times a day or even more. But we’re niche. Exotic. Unusual. There aren’t as many guys out there into girls like us, so you might get away with only three or four dates each week. And because we’re niche, they can charge more for us. You’re earning them maybe twenty five or thirty thousand US with each date. So you’re worth more. So they’ll look after you better. You’re a prostitute now, but at least you’re a high class expensive one, not a street hooker.”
“Fuck that. I’d rather kill myself.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought at first. But do that and they’ll kill all of us. Me and the two other girls living here. I’ve been here eight years now. The only way to survive this is to do everything they ask, and to do it well. If punters like you, they’ll ask for you again, and The Agency will be able to put your price up. And that means you live a bit longer. And if you’re good at your job and the punters come early, it means you get away with maybe only spending an hour with them instead of being banged all night.”
“And if I refuse to do what they say?”
“They’ll hurt you. In ways you can’t imagine. Until you’re begging to go out and work for them. I’ve seen that happen. Girls who refused from the off, or girls who said they couldn’t go on after a few months, or a few years…”
“And you’ve never tried to escape?”
“I think about it all the time. But we’re all carrying a small bomb behind our balls that can be detonated as soon as they realise we’re missing. And we’re watched all the time. CCTV in here.” She nodded towards the corner of the ceiling. “And a driver who sits waiting outside the hotel all the time you’re with a punter.”
I sat in silence. Josie reached her hand out to mine and gave it a squeeze. “Hey. It’s good to have another English speaker here. We can be friends, yeah? I promise I’ll try to look after you as much as I can.”

The following day my training began. Josie had done her best to describe what would be involved, but I was still unprepared. When, back in the UK, I’d first started playing around with cross dressing I’d fantasised about a salon visit, where I’d be pampered; have my hair and nails and make up done, and walk out on towering heels, a vision of femininity. Here, two tall, muscular women in their forties dragged me out of bed still half asleep and subjected me to several hours of scrubbing and plucking as though they’d recently graduated from a battery chicken farm. Around mid afternoon I was unceremonially dumped back in the living room with hair extensions, tightly wrapped in rollers and held in place un-der a net, almost impossibly long acrylic finger nails, coated in a crimson high gloss varnish, similarly painted toenails, and eyebrows now highly arched and pencil thin. Josie met me there and gave me a hug. “Thats the worst over. For now, anyway”. She sent me to make coffee - “You need to get used to those nails” - then it was lighting a cigarette and then opening a condom and rolling one into place. Then it was back to my hair again. She showed me how to take my rollers out, how to brush my hair into different styles if I was wearing it down, and how to pin it up either as a formal French twist, or something looser. She showed me how to use a curling wand and straighteners. Each time she showed me I’d have to repeat it back to her, often several times, until she was happy with the results. We worked relentlessly until the early hours of the morning by which time I was so tired I fell asleep mid task, and she had to wake me to send me to bed.

The following morning I woke up late. Despite being so tired going to bed, it had taken an age to get to sleep. I was used to sleeping on my bel-ly, and my breasts got in the way of me being comfortable. And Josie had told me that we were expected to wear our curlers to bed - alt-hough the women I’d seen yesterday would revisit periodically to refresh the extensions, or to redo nails, I’d be expected to maintain my ap-pearance as best I could between visits, and if there were any complaints from punters - even something as minor as chipped nail polish - some form of punishment could follow. After showering I looked around for the grey jogging suit I’d left on the chair next to my bed, but it had gone. In its place in the wardrobe was a short burgundy satin gown and robe and a pair of matching marabou mules. I shrugged - it was wear them or be naked - so I slipped the gown over my head. It had been a while now since I’d last cross dressed at home and I’d forgotten just how good the material felt as it slipped sinuously down my body; even more so now I had breasts. My nipples sprang to attention beneath the lace of the cups. I ran my fingers across and around them and shivered in pleasure. Further down, my cock was straining at the tight satin around my hips. I thought about going back into the bathroom to masturbate but held back - I was sure there were cameras in there, and I didn’t want to give the viewer the pleasure. Instead I rinsed some cold water across my face, pulled the robe tight around my waist, stepped into the mules and headed out into the living room.

Josie was waiting for me at the dining table. I walked across the room to her, hips swaying slightly as I re-familiarised myself with the heels. Reaching the table, I smoothed my robe behind me, sat down and crossed my legs.
“OK. Someone’s done that before. ‘Fess up, girl!”
I blushed and looked down at the table, avoiding her gaze. “I’m sorry Josie. I should have told you before.” I filled her in on how Yuri had clocked me, and how I’d experimented with dressing at my flat back home. By the end, I was in tears. “It’s my fault, Josie, it’s my stupid, fuck-ing fault. If I’d never given in to those feelings, I’d never be here…”
She pulled me in to her, resting my head on her shoulders, wrapping her arms around me. “Hey. Don’t say that. Of course it’s not your fault. Don’t you ever, ever, think that!”
We sat for a while until my sobbing subsided.
“You know, it might even help a little. At least you’re comfortable, I mean, dressed like this..”
“You weren’t? I mean before?”
She shook her head. “All American boy. Never wore a frock, never sucked a cock. I came here on an exchange visit in 2014 when I was 17. I was always small for my age. Delicate looking. Sure, I sometimes got called a sissy at college, but I wasn’t. Now look at me.”
“Oh, Josie!” I hugged her back as hard as I could.
We sat quietly for a few moments and then she sat up.
“Ah, well, at least now I know that, it should make today a little easier. I was thinking it was going to take us at least a couple of days to work on your make up skills. But I guess we’re not starting from scratch?”

In fact, I still needed plenty practice. At home, I’d always done my make up before attaching false nails. Here, trying to do it with the long talons I now possessed was much harder, especially when it came to eyeliner. And I’d only been dressing for a few months, so my skills were maybe those of a teenage girl. Josie filled me in on the things I wasn’t so good at, like contouring and blending. Watching her work her magic, inches away from my face with hers, gave me a chance to really study her properly for the first time. Even without make up, and wearing a jogging suit, she had a natural prettiness - the kind you might see cast as a girl next door in an American sitcom. Long blonde silky hair cascaded down her back in waves, and when she’d hugged me she’d smelled so good I felt like I could stay in her arms for ever. We worked on a couple of day-time looks - “though you’ll hardly ever need those”, she said - and a couple of evening looks that went with my colouring. Eventually, she pro-nounced herself satisfied. “Last day’s training tomorrow.” she said. “We’ll work through some scenarios as a bit of a dress rehearsal - things to say and do with the punters; how to deal with them, that kind of thing”. My stomach lurched. The last two days with Josie had almost been like I was at home. She’d made me feel safe, and we’d even managed a laugh on occasions. But now the brutal reality of my situation dawned again. I went to bed, but lay there for hours until sleep eventually came.

I woke up late the following day and lay in bed for a while, running through what had happened over the last few days. Thinking back to what might have happened with the two guards made me feel physically sick. But spending time as a woman, and after the surgeries an undeniably good looking one at that, turned me on enormously. And the thought of being treated as a woman by another man, which I knew I’d have to face up to in the coming days, both horrified and fascinated me. I was still trying to reconcile those thoughts when Josie tapped on my door.
“Hey! It’s 2pm. Are you getting up today? We’ve lots to get through!”
I made my way through to the living room, where she had a coffee and some toast waiting for me. We spent the rest of the day just talking, or rather I listened whilst Josie told me of her experiences with clients to give me some idea of what to expect. I sat quietly, trying to lodge all of her advice carefully in my brain. It all still felt so unreal.
“The most important thing” she kept coming back to what she’d said the first day we’d met, “is that you do your job well. The better you are, the more The Agency can charge, the longer you’ll stick around. Think of yourself as an actor in a play. What happens in those hotel rooms isn’t happening to you, but to your character. Learn to play the role. It’s how I’ve lasted as long as I have.”
I nodded.
“Anyway, I said we’d finish off today with a bit of a dress rehearsal. I’ve got some clothes sent over that you can change into. And your own make up set. Let’s see how you are at getting ready by yourself. Once you’re dressed, I’ll be in my room. I want you to act like I’m your client. OK?”

Back in my room I sat at my dresser and opened the make up box Josie had presented me with. I tipped the contents out and arranged them in the order I’d need them - foundation, powder, blush, eyeshadow - silver and dark metallic grey tones for the smoky eyed evening look Josie had shown me - eyeliner, mascara and lipstick; crimson to match my nails. Back home, doing my make up had been my favourite thing about cross dressing. I loved the smells, and the feel of the brushes against my skin, and the unfolding visual transformation of the person before me in the mirror. Here, with my already surgically feminised face, together with the additional skills I’d learned from Josie, the woman looking back at me from the mirror was stunning. I removed the curlers that had held my hair in place and brushed it softly. It fell past my shoulder blades in thick, soft, chestnut waves. I pinned it up carefully into a loose up-do and turned my attention to the garment bag Josie had given me. A black satin basque, which despite my much reduced waistline was still a tight fit. Gossamer-thin black stockings and a thong, which held me tightly in place at the front and nestled between my cheeks at the rear, reminding me sensuously of its location with each step I took around the room. The dress was black velvet, short and strapless with full length sleeves and a marabou trim around the neck and shoulders. Shoes were impe-riously high patent slingbacks. A satin choker and long ebony earrings completed the outfit. I surveyed myself in the mirror. The whole process of dressing and seeing myself become the extraordinarily elegant and beautiful creature I now was had made me achingly horny, to the point that I was literally trembling all over. I took several deep breaths to steady myself and made my way across the flat to Josie’s room.

I knocked softly and she called me in. She was lying naked on the bed, gently stroking her penis.
“Fuck, Josie, I…”
She grinned playfully and put a finger to her lips. “Ssshh! Stay in character, remember!” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and started walking towards me, hips rotating hypnotically, blonde hair tumbling over her firm breasts. To all the world like a vision of feminine loveliness, yet with a cock protruding rigid and mast-like from her smooth groin. Long, slim, circumcised, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. She smiled again as she saw my reaction to her and giggled. “I hope you are going to look at the punters like that.”
She took another couple of steps and stopped. “So. If I was the punter I’d want to start by maybe taking a good look at you.” She approached more closely and brushed by my side, stopping behind me, her fingernail tracing a route along the feather trim of my dress over my bare shoul-der and upper back. I felt her undo the clasp at the top of my dress and gently pull the zip down, then ease the soft velvet down too, over my breasts, down my arms, over my hips until it fell in a soft pool at my feet. I shivered. She whispered into my ear. “Then I might continue by kissing you here…” She reached forward, easing away one of the loose tendrils of hair that hung across my neck so that she could nibble gently along my nape. Her hands slid over the satin of my basque and along the line of each suspender, unclipping each in turn until they too joined my dress at my feet and then she turned me around so that I was facing her, our breasts against each other, her hands on my hips, pulling me in tightly to her. I raised my arms around her neck and she kissed me, her tongue exploring my mouth whilst her scent filled my lungs and her hardness pressed insistently against mine.
“Ah, Josie, you’re…you’ve got me so…”
“Ssshh!” She pressed a finger to my lips this time, and pulled me with her on to the bed. She kissed her way down my throat, along my collar-bone and then down on to my breasts, caressing each nipple with her tongue and gently blowing on it, then taking it in her mouth and nibbling softly. I was moaning now. The waves of pleasure rippling through me were like nothing I’d ever experienced. At last, she spun around so that she was facing my feet, and pulled my thong away. Straddling me, she lowered her head down and licked hungrily over the surface of my ex-posed member, then drew down my foreskin and repeated the same motion across my glans. I moaned again and as she continued her fella-tion I became aware of her own penis brushing my lips. I caught it with my tongue and, holding it steady with one hand licked over the surface as she had done to me. Now it was her turn to moan. She took me fully into her mouth, her tongue washing over me as she pulled firmly along my length. I copied, again. We alternated bringing each other to the edge of climax, each iteration overlapping with the other until we were finally fully in harmony, in synchronicity. At last, we both cried out together and pulled each other tight as I felt her juices flow into me and mine into her.

We lay there for a moment until our breathing subsided, my head on her breast.
“Fuck, Rosie, that was something else”
I lifted my head. “Rosie?”
She grinned again. “An English Rose. It suits you.”
“Hmm. Rosie and Josie, eh?”
“Two friends, yeah?”
I kissed her gently. “Two friends.”

4

It was the Friday of that first week around lunchtime when the door to the flat burst open and two men - heavily built and dressed all in black like the two who had assaulted me a few days ago - marched in. The first barked out my name and I stepped forward, trembling. He handed me a garment bag and said simply “7pm” and they turned tail and left. I looked at Josie. “That’s the time you need to be ready.” She explained. “And you need to wear what’s in the bag.”

At 7pm prompt the same two heavies collected me from the flat. I was blindfolded again and taken down to what I assumed was a basement garage where I was bundled into a car. Around 15 minutes later we stopped and the blindfold was removed. The driver gestured to a hotel en-trance across the pavement. “Room 428. I’ll be here when you’re finished.” I stepped out of the car. It was still freezing outside. I was grateful for the long sable fur coat I was wearing and pulled it tightly around my body. I negotiated the revolving door and scanned the lobby for a lift, acutely aware of the loud click of my heels on the marble floor, focusing straight ahead, avoiding the gaze of any of the guests mingling there. Into the lift. My pulse was racing and I took several deep breaths. I repeated what Josie had said to me over and over, like a mantra. “The only way to survive this is to do everything they ask, and to do it well.” Reaching the room door I knocked, softly.

My client was middle aged, thinning, slightly overweight and an inch or so shorter than me in my heels. He wore an expensive looking suit and highly polished shoes. He surveyed me for a few seconds, like he was examining a delivery, and then beckoned me over.
“Hi. I’m Rose. What would you like to do this evening?”
He reached out towards me, opening the lapels of my coat, which I’d pulled together tightly against the cold. He continued to lift them away and upwards, along the line of my collarbones and then over my shoulders so that the coat fell to the floor around my feet. Beneath I was wearing a satin corset, tightly laced to emphasise my new breasts and tiny waist, with six suspenders each clipped to sheer silk stockings. He smiled, and pulled me in closer, his lips to mine, his tongue exploring my mouth. One hand on my neck, clamping me to him. One hand wrapped around my penis, his grip slowly massaging along its length. With all the will I could muster, I smiled at him. “Why don’t we make you more comforta-ble?”

I slipped off his jacket and tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and undid his belt.
“Here.” I gestured to the end of the bed. “Sit down.”
I knelt between his legs. Taking hold of his penis, I gave it a few exploratory tugs. He groaned softly and I ran my long nails through his pubes and around his balls, scratching gently.
I repeated Josie’s mantra again “Do it well. Do it well.”
Reaching down I gently tugged back his foreskin and slipped his penis into my mouth, circling the glans with my tongue. Taking him deeper, I began slowly and rhythmically pulling from the base of his cock along to where it entered my mouth. Just as I felt him begin to tense and his moaning increase I eased up, gave him a few firmer strokes with my hand, and then started again. When I felt that he was on the point of no return, I stopped. Raising my head, I put my finger to my lips and whispered “Sshh. I want you inside me now.”
Pushing him down onto his back, I straddled his thighs and then reached at my clutch bag and pulled out a condom. Stretching it over him I moved forward and lowered my self on to him, pausing for a moment to align him with my hole and then pushed on down. Once he was fully inside I tightened my sphincter, gripping his shaft and pumped slowly. One hand of his gripped my own penis hard. Each time I lifted myself up and down his shaft he would mirror the motion over the length of my own. As I felt him finally spasm inside me I quickened, riding down on him hard, until I too climaxed, emptying myself over his chest and belly. I slid off him, taking care not to take the condom with me. Lying next to him on the bed, I reached across and kissed him softly on the lips. “Mmmm. That was fantastic!” I lied, and he smiled. “I’m here in St. Petersburg again on business next week. Perhaps we could meet up again?”
“Of course! That would be wonderful!”

Back at the flat Josie came out of her room as I entered. She must have been waiting up for me.
“How was it?” She asked, anxiously.
I fell into her arms, weeping uncontrollably.

5

Weeks and months passed. I fell into a regular routine. There would be three or four ‘dates’ each week, usually following a similar format to the first one - I’d be driven to a hotel and then collected afterwards. In addition to the dates we were required to attend a regular monthly party which was held at the club where I’d been abducted. The evening I’d been there had been one of them. Josie explained with her characteristic American straightforwardness how they functioned as a ‘showroom window’ for potential Agency clients to ‘view the goods before making a purchase’. The parties demonstrated The Agency’s reach and power - several of the guests I recognised from newspaper and television arti-cles I’d seen in the UK and Josie told me there were Russian cabinet ministers and high ranking members of the armed forces there as well as the oligarchs that were in evidence at my first fatal visit. On these occasions we’d act as hostesses, and often one of the guests would take us upstairs, as Anna had with me, though with different consequences. Each time I went I’d scan the club looking for Yuri, but I never saw him again.

When we weren’t working we’d be confined to the flat. Monday mornings we’d have a visit from the doctor - to check us for STD’s I imagined. We’d receive an injection as well. I was convinced it was hormones as I could swear my skin was becoming softer and I was needing to shave my legs less regularly, but Josie thought they wouldn’t do anything that would impair our remaining male performance. In the afternoon we’d get a food delivery. We were expected to cook for ourselves, and it was something I’d been used to doing for others in my time at university so I fell into the role of chief chef. We had access to television including Netflix and some satellite channels, but no internet of course and no email. Windows were obscured but not totally blacked out - I guessed to stop us trying to communicate with neighbouring apartment blocks. Besides Josie and myself, there were 2 other t-girls in the flat - both Russians, both younger than me, and neither of them English speakers. Josie spoke Russian, so she could act as a translator between us, and in our spare time she’d started to give me lessons. Over the months we’d been locked up together we’d become close. We’d not slept together again since that first time - to be perfectly honest, I was getting so much sex involuntarily that the thought of actually wanting to do it barely crossed my mind - but we shared our closest thoughts and when one of us was feeling particularly low, we’d curl up together in bed and hold each other through the night.

I’d often talk about escaping. I wondered about whether I’d be able to get away if I simply walked out of the back door of one of the hotels we visited. Could I make it to the British Embassy? I was fairly sure we were still in St. Petersburg, but I’d no idea where exactly. With no ID, no mon-ey, and in four inch heels and a cocktail dress the chances of getting anywhere were pretty slim, and the repercussions that would inevitably fol-low for Josie and the other girls made it unthinkable. Six months on from my disappearance, I also doubted that anyone would still be looking for me.
“So what would you do if you got out anyway?” Josie asked me one day. “Would you go back to being what you were?”
I thought for a moment. “Back in England, dressing up in my flat, I never considering going all the way. But now, after what I’ve experienced over the last six months, to go back would feel like a betrayal. Men are such pigs. I can’t imagine ever wanting to be one again. How about you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been here too long. I can’t remember what it was like beforehand anymore…”

Summer arrived. It was the season of the ‘White Nights’ in St. Petersburg when, even at midnight, it barely went dark. For the first time since I’d left the UK I was out in daylight, even if only fleetingly, en route from car to hotel lobby. I stood basking in the warmth of the evening sun before making my way to the hotel lift and my assignation for the night. I knocked on the room door and waited to be called in. The man that stood there was unusually young - only a few years older than me I guessed - compared to my typical clients. He was tall - a head higher than me even in my heels - but otherwise undistinguished. Not bad looking, but not handsome either. Dark brown hair cut short but not cropped, an an-gular, masculine face and a slim build. He was wearing a brown jacket with an open necked check shirt and chinos. He held his hand out in greeting.
“Hello. I’m Mikhail.”
I was slightly taken aback. I couldn’t remember any of my previous clients telling me their names, let alone greeting me with a formal hand-shake. I held out my hand hesitatingly. “Hi. I’m Rose.” His hand was warm and his grip firm but not too tight. We stood facing each other in si-lence for a moment. When he didn’t say anything, I decided to break the ice.
“So. What would you like to do?” I smiled sweetly for him.
“What do you mean?” He looked puzzled for a moment, then a look of realisation. “Oh, you mean…”
I waited.
“Maybe…I wonder, maybe you’d like a drink?”
“Sure.” I smiled again, hoping not to show my disappointment that this looked like it wasn’t going to be a quick in and out job that would let me get back to the apartment before morning.
“Vodka?”
I nodded, and he poured two shots from the mini bar.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
He paused again. “I’m sorry, where are my manners. Please, sit down.” There was a sofa against the wall. I expected him to join me there, but he sat opposite, uncomfortably perched on the end of the bed.
“ I, er…Do you mind if we talk for a while?”
I shrugged.
“My friend….” He spoke hesitantly, staring into his vodka glass. “My room mate at college. He was a nice guy. Gentle. Kind. Not macho. He broke down one day and told me he had been thinking of killing himself. He said his whole life had been a lie and that he was a woman inside, in his head, in his heart.” He paused, and looked up at me. “We talked for hours that night. I pleaded with him not to take his life and promised to help him as much as I could. I found a doctor he could go to and gave him money to buy clothes and things. And over the next few months, this beautiful girl emerged, like a butterfly. Only in our apartment at first, but as she became more confident I’d take her out - to the cinema, maybe for a meal or a walk. After a while I stopped thinking about her as she’d been. She was so happy to spend time with me on our trips out. And then one evening she said she wanted to go out by herself. Her doctor had told her of a group of other girls like her, and she wanted to make friends. She looked amazing that night -she was so excited to find others like her. I wanted to tell her that I’d fallen in love with her but I knew if I did that she wouldn’t go out to meet her new friends, so I kept quiet. And she never came home. We found her two days later in a back alley. She’d been strangled.” He looked up again and downed the rest of his vodka.
I reached a hand across to his knee. “Oh. Mikhail. I’m so sorry.”
“I’ve never told anyone that story. My father - he’s a director with an oil company - would disown me if he knew.”
We sat quietly for a few moments and then Mikhail stood.
“Thank you for listening. You can go now.”
“You don’t want?…”
He shook his head. “Maybe I can see you again though? I’m in St. Petersburg again on business next month?”
“You don’t have to ask, you know.”
“I’m sorry. But it felt appropriate.”
“Thank you. I can see why your friend…I’m sure she loved you too.” I reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek and we said goodnight.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Mikhail’s story all the way home to the apartment, but I was shaken out of my reverie by the driver. He was one of two or three regular drivers who would take us to and from our dates. This one was a pig, and always made a point of feeling me up whenever he tied or untied my blindfold.
“You’re back early tonight. We’ve time for a quick fuck in the back of the car and no-one need know.”
Even though I couldn’t see him I could sense him leering. “Fuck off.”
I felt the car screech to a halt and he climbed into the back alongside me. He must have had a knife and I felt the blade against my throat.
“I’ll cut you for that!”
“Go ahead. I’m worth more to The Agency than you are, so they won’t be very happy with you if you damage the goods. Or perhaps you’d like to take my place? Put on a dress and suck cock?”
He growled and got back into the front seat.

I was exhausted when I got back so I changed into my nightgown and got ready for bed. The other girls were all either out on dates or had gone to bed early, but the light was still on in Josie’s room. I knocked gently on her door and went in. She was in bed reading and lifted the co-vers to beckon me alongside her.
“You ok baby?”
I nodded, and told her the story of the evening.
“Do you think he’ll ask for you again?”
“I don’t know…”
She grinned. “You want him to though, don’t you?”
I poked her in the ribs and she laughed. She turned off the light, and we cuddled up together.
“Rose?”
“Yeah?”
“I got sent home tonight. By my date. Without doing anything. Told me I was too old.” She paused. “I’m scared, Rose.”
My stomach lurched. We both knew what that meant. Josie had told me before of girls who would be ‘retired’ once they were deemed too old for the punters, and how they would simply disappear overnight. I tried to sound positive.
“Im sure it’s just a one-off. You’re beautiful, Josie. Most men will love you for that, never mind your age.”
She started to tremble. I pulled her in to me as tightly as I could and whispered to her softly. “I love you Josie. Always will. You’ve been the best friend to me that I’ve ever had.”

6

It was two weeks before I saw Mikhail again. I had an inkling something was afoot that morning when the guards arrived with my outfit. Most dates I’d be wearing a cocktail dress - usually short and fitted, clinging to my curves and barely covering my stocking tops, but this time they’d delivered a full length gown. It was gorgeous - cowl necked to the front and cut away to the small of my back at the rear. Clinging sensuously from my torso down to my upper thigh and then flowing out into a short train as though I was emerging from a pool of shimmering liquid satin. Usually we’d be given lingerie to wear - always stockings; often with a corset or basque. This time there was the tiniest of lace thongs; nothing to come between my bare skin and the silken material, burnishing me softly across my breasts and thighs with each step that I took. I pinned my hair up carefully into an elegant French twist, took extra care with my make up and draped the chiffon wrap carefully over my bare shoulders.

It was the same hotel where I’d met him previously. He was wearing a dinner suit. “Hello Rose.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “You look beautiful. I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to do something special tonight.” He held out his hand. There were two tickets. My Russian had improved to the point that I could read what was written on them. Mariinsky Theatre. Swan Lake. I gasped. Back in the UK, when I’d first been told I would be travelling to St. Petersburg, I’d been desperate to visit.
“But you can’t…I mean…there’s a car waiting downstairs for me. I’m not allowed to leave the hotel.”
“Relax. It’s ok. I told them where we’re going. It’s a little more expensive, but…” he shrugged, and smiled. “I thought you’d enjoy going out.”
“Of course - I’ve not seen anything apart from the inside of hotel rooms for months. But… I mean… You can have me here, right now. You don’t need to wine and dine me…”
He frowned. “Don’t you want to go?”
“I’m sorry.” I smiled. “It’s a really kind thought. Thank you. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Come then.” He took my arm and led me out.

Perhaps it was a consequence of the months I’d spent in small, room sized spaces, or perhaps it was because during that period I’d not been in the company of more than a handful of people, but arriving into the huge volume of the auditorium felt like I’d entered some kind of hyper reali-ty. The fashions of the audience and the interior architecture of the theatre were brighter, more vivid and more voluminous than I could have im-agined. The music from the orchestra was more intense, reverberating through me like I was a living tuning fork. And the emotions of the danc-ers made my heart feel at times like it would burst. And yet, despite the almost overwhelming immersion of my senses there was at the same time a disconnect between the surrounding scenes and myself - like I was a narrator in a film, the action took place around me, but was apart from me. I floated weightless at its core, amongst people I could never know.

When we got back to the hotel Mikhail slipped the dress from my shoulders, allowing it to fall at my feet, and then lifted me gently on to the bed. I watched as he undressed and then he joined me, sliding his way up my body, kissing his way up my legs, over my belly, across my breasts. He parted my legs and slid in between them, his penis pushing insistently against me.
“Wait!” I rolled him over, pushing my body back into his, my breasts into his chest, my hands roaming over his torso until it was his turn to gasp as I gripped his shaft. I kissed him slowly, our tongues intertwining, as my carmine nails teased through his pubic hair, cupping his balls and gently scratching along his length. Gripping him more firmly, I began to slowly pump up and down as I kissed my way down his hairy chest and across his belly until, working my way down the bed, I peeled back his foreskin and licked my way around his glans. He moaned, and I pumped a little harder, taking him fully into my mouth now whilst still playing my tongue around and over and under, pumping and licking. Just when I though he couldn’t hold out any longer he flipped me back over again so that he was back on top, and then again so that I was belly down on the bed. I felt his hand slide down between my legs and reach under to grip me. He felt the wire, and the steel cylinder below my balls.
“What’s this?”
For a moment I wanted to tell him the truth, but the risk of getting into trouble was too much. I lied. “It’s a sex thing. Helps me keep going for longer.”
His finger found my hole and slid in as I pushed back. I felt his remaining fingers grasp his own shaft, guiding it into place. As he withdrew his digit there was a brief moment of pain as he pushed against me, and then a release as I closed around him, the head of his penis inside me.
He drew my hair away from my neck and nibbled gently. “Is that ok, baby?”
I grunted my assent, and he eased his way further in, all the time licking his way from shoulder to earlobe, his free hand under my body, caress-ing my breasts. With each stroke he went a little deeper. I could feel his body tensing with every push. And then, finally, he pulled me hard into him as though our bodies were trying to merge. I felt him unload inside me and I clung to him desperately, trying to stop the scenes fading, the col-ours return to monotone, and the walls of the room solidify.

“Are you ok?” He traced with his finger a tear which had escaped the corner of my eye, rolling down past my ear and into my hair.
I nodded. “Thank you. The ballet was amazing. And thank you for asking if I’m ok. No one’s ever done that before.”
He kissed the damp trail that the tear had left across my cheek.
I pulled myself closer to him, feeling the warmth from his body, dreading what needed to come now “What time do I have to leave?”
He smiled. “Not until later tomorrow. That is, if you want to stay.”
I squealed, and kissed him my thanks.
He grinned. “I thought we could go to the gardens at Peterhof. It’s going to be a nice day.”
“That would be wonderful! But wait! I’ve only got the evening dress to wear!”
He laughed. “You’re such a girl, you know! But I’ve got you something.”
“Ooh! Can I see?”
“Maybe.” He leaned over and kissed me again. Then, reaching down he took hold of my penis and stroked it gently back to life. “Or maybe I might make you wait until morning.”

I woke with the morning sun streaming through the hotel window. Mikhail was still fast asleep. I lay there for a while, enjoying the sensation of his body spooning mine, observing the courtship rituals of two pigeons on the ridge of the roof of the building opposite. The male would puff his feathers out, trying to appear larger, pursuing the female over the tiles. It felt like she gave only token resistance, for a few seconds later he was on top of her, wings flapping. And then they stood side by side, facing me across the street, heads rubbing together. Pigeons mate for life, I’d heard. It seemed so straightforward, why did us humans always seem to mess things up so much?

Behind me, Mikhail was starting to stir. I reached back and took hold of him, squeezing gently as he moaned softly. Morning wood. I pushed back against him, using my hand to align him. He moaned again, but wrapped his arms around me tighter, pulling me down onto him, and I gasped as he slid inside.

We ate breakfast in bed and then showered together, lathering each other up in bubbles, and then towelling each other dry again afterwards. “What have you got me to wear then?”
He grinned, and opened the wardrobe, pulling out a long chiffon sundress. The skirt was full, a pattern of blues and greys that stretched from ankle to an empire line waist. Above that, two similarly patterned pieces of fabric formed the bust and tied in a halter neck behind my back. It was beautiful - soft, feminine, delicate. I held it up to my warm freshly showered body and shivered as the cool fabric flowed over my skin.
“It’s gorgeous, thank you!”

We took a taxi to the gardens. The sun was warm and I basked in its embrace as we walked, hand in hand. Like at the theatre the previous night, after being cooped up so long the vast open-ness was almost overwhelming. I floated like the chiffon I was wearing, stopping to inhale the scent of each new flower we passed, feeling the power of the water fountains as they climbed into the sky, and the cooling mist of the spray that we walked through. But all too soon it was over. Mikhail had a flight to catch that evening.
“I’ll be back again in a few days. I’ll see you then.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
He kissed me tenderly. “I’ll be as soon as I can. I’ll be thinking of you.”
Back at the flat I burst into Josie’s room to tell her everything that had happened, but she wasn’t there. I expected she was out on a date herself, so I retired to my room with a book, looking forward to telling her all about it the next day.

The following morning I woke suddenly to the sound of mens voices in the flat. I jumped out of bed, pulled on my robe, and went into the living room. The voices were coming from Josie’s room. Walking in, the woman I’d met when I was first kidnapped, the woman that Josie had called ‘Kommandant’, was there with two of her guards. They seemed to be clearing her room, taking clothes from the wardrobe and drawers.
“Where’s Josie?”
She spun round to face me. “Josie isn’t with us anymore. She has been retired.”
“You fucking…” I launched myself at her, but she was at the opposite end of the room. She had obviously expected something, for she had some kind of controller ready in her hand as I flew at her, and I didn’t even get close before I screamed and fell to the floor, electricity coursing through my genitals.
She moved so she was standing directly over me. “You are the head girl here now. We have a new arrival tomorrow morning. I expect you to help her…” she paused for a moment and smirked. “…assimilate.”
I lay on the floor in agony as they stepped across my helpless, sobbing body and left the flat.

The two Russian girls must have heard the commotion because they came rushing in as soon as the others left. I told them what had happened and they sat either side of me, holding me tightly for what seemed like hours until my weeping subsided.

The room was bare. There was no sign left of Josie. No indication that she’d ever been here. No one but me that knew her story, knew of the love she’d given to make these days a little more bearable. And then I saw it, behind the curtain on the window cill. The guards must have missed it. Josie’s scent bottle. I picked it up, and sprayed a little on my wrist. And for a moment, there she was. We were in bed together; I was spooning her, burying my face into the thick blonde waves that cascaded down her back. I’d just told her about meeting Mikhail for the first time, and she was giggling and teasing me about how I sounded like I’d fallen for him. And then she was gone again; the room cold. I took the bottle of perfume back to my bed, climbed under the sheets, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

7

The next few days felt like months. Each time I left for a date I’d hope and pray that it would be Mikhail, and when at last I saw him standing there, silhouetted in the hotel window, I ran headlong into his arms, and between great sobs of tears I told him what had happened to Josie. He sat quietly, holding my hand. When I finished he made me go back to the beginning again and tell him how I’d come to be her flatmate. Eventu-ally there was silence. Mikhail sat on the end of the bed with his head in his hands.
“Fuck, Rose, I’d no idea. I’m so sorry. You always seemed…well, happy. Content. And to have to live like that, like a slave…” . He stood up. “We need to get you out of there…”
“How can you do that?”
“I can arrange a passport. I’ll get some flights booked…”
“It’s not that Mikhi. The wire I wear. Down there.” I took a breath. “I told you it’s a sex thing. It’s not. It’s an explosive device. Attached to gps, so if I’m not where I’m supposed to be, it goes off. And it also detonates if the wire is cut.”
He stared at me. “You mean…you’re carrying a bomb around? All day? 24/7? Around your genitals? Jesus!” He was ashen faced. “And all this time we’ve been going to the ballet, and to Peterhof, laughing and enjoying ourselves like two normal people and they were making you wear that?..” He paused. “How can you ever forgive me for carrying on with you as though everything was ok? I promise I’ll get you out of here. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way.”

It was an anxious two weeks before I saw Mikhail again. When, one evening, as the car dropped me off, I recognised the hotel where we had always met I almost sprinted through the lobby and along the corridor to his room. I rushed into his arms and he held me tightly. There was an-other man with him, and he introduced us. Jan was a friend of a friend; ex Russian army bomb disposal. Mikhail had asked him to take a look at the device that was fitted to me.
“It’s not very dignified, Rose, I’m sorry.”
I lay on the bed on my back, dress hitched up around my waist, legs bent back so far my knees were at my ears.
“Have you seen anything like that before, Jan?”
The ex army man had a couple of small clamps attached to the cable either side of the main stainless steel cylinder behind my testicles. They in turn were attached to further wires which led back to a laptop. “Yes, I’ve seen it before. Never fitted in such a, err, unusual way, though.”
“Can you remove it?”
“I think so.”
He had an attache case with further tools and bits of electronic kit that I didn’t recognise. Mikhail sat on the bed holding my hand. I looked out of the window to try to distract myself from what was happening. It was a beautiful evening; there was a door opening out onto a small Juliet bal-cony and clear blue sky beyond. The vapour trail from a jet crossed it diagonally. I imagined myself in a few hours on a plane like that. Mikhail must have had the same thought. He squeezed my hand. “That will be us, my love. Have faith!”

It took Jan about an hour to remove the device. Lying on the bed, the smooth cylinder looked harmless enough.
“So how much damage would it have done if it had gone off?” I asked.
“We’d all have been killed. And depending on the construction of the walls and floors, some injuries in the adjoining rooms too.” Jan replied.
I shuddered.
Mikhail had brought me a business suit to change into so I looked less conspicuous when we left. A briefcase, with a laptop and some papers inside to go with it. And a passport made out in the name of Andreja Dubravcic, 22, from Murmansk. I changed in the bathroom. Jan had left by the time I emerged. Mikhail kissed me. “Ready?”
I was about to answer when there was a knock at the room door. I glanced at Mikhail, anxiously.
“Don’t worry. No-one knows we’re here. Maybe Jan forgot something.”
“Mikhi, I…”
“Don’t worry, my love. Everything will be fine.”

He went to the door and opened it just a few centimetres to see who was there, and everything afterwards happened so quickly. The door burst open, knocking Mikhail to the floor. Two men crashed in, lifted him up, carried him to the balcony and threw him over. I screamed, and they turned to me. I kicked out at them, catching one of them in the shins and he cursed; but they were far too strong for me. They pushed me down on to the bed and held a cloth to my face. As the chloroform took effect, the last thing I saw was the Kommandant looking down at me, smil-ing.

8

I awoke the following morning back in my room at the flat, surprised to still be alive. I felt numb. Where, after losing Josie, I’d been broken emo-tionally for weeks, now I just felt empty inside. I reached down between my legs. The cable and cylinder were back in place. The doorbell rang and two men entered, as per the usual routine, with the times we were to be ready for our dates that evening, and the dresses we were to wear. There was no mention of what had happened yesterday. I got dressed in a daze, was delivered to my client, spent the evening with him and was driven back. The same happened the following day, and again the day after that. I thought about killing myself. God knows, I wanted to be rid of everything, to find some peace, and it would have been easy enough to run out in front of a car one evening when I was being dropped off at a hotel. But it felt like a surrender, and when I thought of Mikhail and Josie I knew I owed it to them to try to fight back. I just didn’t know how. Months passed. Summer turned to autumn, and autumn to winter. A thick carpet of snow descended on the city as the anniversary passed of my abduction.

It was the last Friday of December, the date of the regular monthly Agency ‘party’. 3 days previously, the Russian girls I shared the flat with had made their best efforts to celebrate Christmas. As ‘head girl’ I’d done my best to keep their spirits high, but my heart wasn’t in it. At least we’d had a few days off whilst our clients stayed home with their families, doing their best impressions of being dutiful husbands and fathers. Around lunchtime we’d had the usual delivery of outfits for us to wear that evening. But the Kommandant had been there as well, which was unusual. She’d kept me back after the other girls had received their clothes and gone back to their rooms to change.
“You will be collected before the others at 4. There is a meeting of the Agency Board before the party and there has been a request that you at-tend on the visitors.”
Her face was expressionless, but there was something in the tone of her voice that told me that she didn’t approve of what she was telling me.
“Why me?” I asked, but she had already turned and made her way out of the door.

I’d had an idea that something was up the previous day when we’d had our regular visit, which took place before each monthly ‘party’, from the salon women to touch up our hair and nails. There had been gossip about a big meeting, with senior Agency staff travelling from all over the world to attend. If that meeting was to be held before my flatmates arrived for the party at 7, then potentially there would be a few hours where there would be just the senior staff and myself in the club. A plan began to form in my mind.

That afternoon I lingered over getting ready, savouring every last stroke of mascara on my lashes: every last brush of gloss over my lips. Reaching for the garment bag I’d been handed earlier, I smiled when I saw what it contained. Perhaps the fates were with me after all. It was the long satin evening gown that I’d worn the night Mikhail had taken me to the ballet. I stepped into it, wrapping my contours in the soft fabric. It was as though Mikhail was there with me, his hands burnishing my skin. On the dresser was the scent bottle I’d taken from Josie’s room. I sprayed it gently at my throat and wrists. She would be accompanying me too. I stopped to examine myself in the mirror one last time. Whether I’d become more practised at applying my make up, or maybe it was simply that after a year of living full time as a woman my feminine movements and mannerisms were now effortless, but I had never looked better.

Arriving at the club, the blindfold was stripped from my face and I swung my legs out of the car and stepped out. The garage where we were parked was as I remembered it. There were spaces for half a dozen cars, accessed via two wide shuttered openings in the outside wall of the building. In front of the parking spaces there was a long workbench, running the full length of the back wall, with a selection of tools hanging neatly on the wall above it. To one end of the garage were two large fuel tanks, both around 2m x 2m x 2m, used to hold the black market pet-rol which fuelled the vehicles that were used to transport myself and the other girls to our various assignations. I was no expert on such matters, but I guessed there was enough fuel there to create a fairly sizeable explosion.

Upstairs in the boardroom the scene was remarkable in its unremarkable-ness. Perhaps I’d seen too many James Bond films and had visions of when SPECTRE met to discuss their plans for taking over the world. But I could have been at any high end corporate board meeting, com-plete with powerpoint slides and coffee machine, bubbling away in the background. There were around 20 attendees. I recognised The Kom-mandant amongst them, but clearly several were not Russian, and the meeting was being held in English. My job was to keep cups and glass-es topped up, and to offer canapes. I was the only working girl there. From time to time, as subtly as possible, I’d glance up at the contents of the slide presentation that was being discussed. There were numbers on the screen the context of which I didn’t understand, but the magnitude - tens of millions of dollars in some instances - was very much self explanatory. As I made my way around the table, wondering when I’d have the opportunity to slip out and enact my plan, one of the attendees looked up toward me.

“Ah, the English girl!”
The figure who addressed me was about my age, wearing a dark business suit; peroxide blonde with a bobbed hairstyle and blood red lip-stick. She smiled, coldly. “You don’t remember me do you?”
I looked harder. Beneath the heavy make up the features were hard, angular and familiar. Yuri! The person I thought had been my friend; who was responsible for me being here! I wanted to launch myself at him; tear out his throat for what he’d done to me. But I couldn’t put my plans at risk.
He saw the flash of hatred cross my face and smiled. “I’ve come a long way since our last meeting. The Agency has noted my efforts in recruit-ing so many of our best prostitutes. I hear you’re one of them. I wanted to thank you personally for helping me get where I am today.” He paused. “Perhaps we can catch up later. Such a shame we didn’t manage to take things any further last time we were here.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me down to the table, keeping eye contact with me all the while, baiting me, eager to prompt a reaction. But I held firm. When he saw that I wasn’t going to react he stopped, and stood back. “In the meantime, go fetch me another scotch.” He held out an empty glass and I took it, thankful for the opportunity to get away.

Outside the board room I leant against the corridor wall and took a breath. Yuri’s sadistic presence here at least explained who had asked for me to attend at the meeting. I grimaced. But at least now I’d be able to deal with him along with the other Agency members. There was no time to waste. I’d been to enough of the monthly parties here to learn my way around. Just off the end of this corridor was a staircase which should, if I was right, drop me down adjacent to the garage I’d arrived into earlier. Most critically, that in turn sat directly below the room where the meeting was being held.

As quietly as I could, I pushed the door ajar and peered carefully around it. The staircase had dropped me at the opposite end to the fuel tanks and I’d have to walk the full length of the garage to get to them. I scanned around to see if any of the drivers of the half dozen cars that were now parked up there were still around. Hitching up my skirt I tiptoed across to the workbench, praying that I’d find the tool that I needed. I was anxiously searching when I heard a voice behind me.
“What are you doing here?”
I span round, startled. It was one of the drivers. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
I muttered something apologetic and tried to look helpless and unthreatening. “I’m sorry, I think I’m lost…”
He approached closer, his look of suspicion replaced now with one of lust. I waited until he got closer and then, as he reached for me, I grabbed a heavy adjustable spanner from the bench and swung it around towards him. It caught the side of his head with a sickening thud and he slumped to the ground.
I stood poised for a second, waiting to see if the commotion had created any further attention but all fell silent again. I found the tool I was look-ing for and made my way over to stand as close as I could to the fuel tanks. I was shaking all over, almost unable to hold the wire cutters I’d selected. It was cold. I took a deep breath, and another, composing myself. Outside the garage it was dark. A clear sky of what seemed unre-lenting blackness was punctuated, almost indiscernibly at first view, by a million tiny stars, defiant in their light. Another breath. I felt through the satin of my dress for the wire at my crotch, wrapped around me for all but a few minutes of the time I’d been held here; the symbol of my servi-tude. I lifted my other hand to my face and inhaled deeply of the scent I’d sprayed onto my wrists earlier that afternoon.
Lifting my head up to the night sky I addressed the stars - “This one is for you, Mikhail and Josie, maybe I’ll see you soon” - and cut the cable.

THE END

THE PROMISE

The Boy stood at the edge of the grave and watched as the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. He shuddered at the thought of his mother – such a free spirit in life - cocooned inside that box. He shifted his thoughts to happier times. Those long summer afternoons after he’d come home from school and they’d go out into the New Forest where they lived. She was an artist and she’d loved to paint portraits – not of people, but of each of the trees in the wood – each day a different tree. He’d inherited her talent, as well as her looks. He’d make his way silently to where the wild forest ponies would most often gather and then take out his sketchbook and pencil and draw them. He remembered when he was younger he’d wanted to be one of them. He’d run, barefoot and barechested through the forest, his long chestnut hair streaming behind him like a mane.

Three months later at dinner one evening his father explained how he would be going back to sea shortly to take command of a frigate. The Boy would start at boarding school the next week.

-

“Hey! What’s that you’re drawing? Can I see?”
I looked up from my sketchbook. Hector Marshall was standing by my side.

It had been about six months since I’d started at the Winchester Boarding School for Boys. Although I hadn’t been happy about the change, now I’d settled in I wasn’t desperately unhappy either. At first it had been weird not going home when lessons finished, and amongst all the boisterousness and testosterone I missed my mother and the peace of the forest. Changing college mid term and in the first year of ‘A’ levels had made it difficult to make new friends, but if people could be classed as either ‘participants’ or ‘observers’ I definitely fell into the latter category and I was more than comfortable spending time by myself.

Like everywhere else where people gathered in groups, there were implicit social structures in place amongst the pupils. Year groups comprised of around eighty boys across four classes. Within each year there were the usual friendship groups that formed – the football team, the gamers, the fashion followers, the nerds. Hector Marshall was unusual in that he was universally well liked across all of the different groups. He was bright academically – not freakishly brilliant, but regularly top two or three in exams. He was a good footballer, and played guitar in what was definitely the best of several bands that had formed in the school. But more than that, he had ‘it’. People would stop and look up when he entered a room – a shock of platinum blonde shoulder length hair and startlingly blue eyes. He was in my year, but in a different form group so we didn’t share any classes although I’d see him from time to time at lunchtimes and after lessons. Two or three times on those occasions I’d drawn him, surreptitiously. Art was still my passion and whilst I wasn’t exceptional with anything else, I knew I had a talent with pencil and paint.

I’d been drawing him from memory when he’d walked past and seen my sketch.
“You’re the new guy aren’t you?” He smiled, and I blushed. “Welcome to Winnie’s. I’m Hector.” He paused, waiting for me to speak, but I was tongue-tied. “So. Can I see it?’
I handed him my sketchbook, wordlessly, and he thumbed through it for a few moments. I was embarrassed that there were drawings of him in there and waited for him to call me out as some kind of weird stalker.
“Wow. These are really good. I’ve never seen a drawing of me before. Except when I’ve tried a self portrait in art class. And I’m hopeless.” He smiled again, and I blushed again. He turned to walk away and took a couple of steps and then stopped.
“Would you be interested in giving me lessons? In drawing, I mean. Maybe one evening? I’d really like to get better, and my music lessons clash with art so I can’t do both…”
I opened my mouth at last. “I, err…yes, I mean…yes, I could do that.”
“Great!” He turned away, and again took a couple of steps before stopping and turning back. “I’d better not run off with this.” He beamed, and handed me back my sketchbook.

I managed to persuade the Art Master to let us have access to the art room after lessons finished on Tuesdays. The fact that I was his star pupil helped, and that it would be Hector to whom I’d be giving lessons. We started with still life drawing. We’d sit opposite each other at a table, with the subject between us, both of us drawing. From time to time I’d walk round to his side and review his progress and Hector would reciprocate to see how I approached the same task. Over the course of a few weeks he was so happy to see his skills improve. We’d talk as we drew, getting to know each other.
“So. Favourite band?” he’d asked in our first session.
“Mmm. Not really a band as such. But I love Celtic folk music.”
“Really? I thought you had to be a bit of a beardy to be into that. Although I have to admit I’m partial to a bit of a fiddle myself.” He grinned, and I giggled.
“What about you?”
“Not a band either. Bowie, all the way.”
“Hmm. That figures.”
“What do you mean.”
“Your style. You can kind of see that’s where you get it from.”
“Really? I’ll take that as a compliment, then!” he beamed. “What about art? Favourite painter?”
“Pre-Raphs for me. I know; not really fashionable I guess. But I love Ophelia, floating down the river. And some of Rossetti’s paintings. There’s something about those women.”
“You know the woman that Rossetti painted the most was William Morris’ wife? They were having an affair.”
“Yeah. I always felt sorry for him. She was so beautiful.” I sighed. Hector was looking at me intently and I blushed, and changed the subject quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “What about your favourite film?”
“Ah, I’m going to have to confess there. It’s not your typical seventeen year old boy’s choice…”
“The Notebook!” I suggested, and he laughed.
“No! Don’t be daft! Actually, you’re not far off. It’s Atonement.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why?”
“It’s mine too.”
“No way.” He looked at me again, as though he was going to say something, and then changed his mind. “That Keira Knightley, though, eh?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah; that Keira Knightley.”
He turned back to his sketchbook, and we continued to draw.

I think it was maybe the fifth or sixth lesson that Hector suggested we should try drawing each other. I sat at the table, freed at last from the need to steal my glances at him. To be able to spend an hour poring over his features was a kind of heaven. He walked across to see my drawing and was leaning over my shoulder to look at it more closely. I was intensely aware of his breathing, just a few centimetres away from my ear, his hand on the back of my chair, as I rested back into it to feel his touch against me. I turned toward him to say something and he leaned in and kissed me, suddenly and briefly, then recoiling a step and looking away, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
I stood up. “No, No, it’s ok.” For a second we stood there, poised. Then he was in my arms, our lips locked together.

It wasn’t easy trying to find somewhere where we could be together, alone, away from prying eyes. The art lessons helped, but we could never be sure that one of the teachers wouldn’t breeze in at some point so we had to be careful. When the weather was fine we’d sneak off to a distant corner of the school playing fields. One time I was absentmindedly making my way along a corridor between lessons, and there had been a yank on my arm and Hector pulled me into a storage room where we stole a kiss before heading late into our respective classes, hair ruffled and ties askew.

The Big Event before we were to break up for the Easter holidays was the College Play. It was a tradition that the identity of the play, and the actors taking part, were kept a closely guarded secret until Opening Night. I had a pretty good idea Hector was in it, though. He’d suddenly become busy in the evenings leading up to the performances and was very coy when I asked him about it. I had a ticket for the first performance. Most of the other pupils arrived with family in tow, but as usual my father was away at sea, so I was by myself. The play was announced as Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. I’d barely had time to wonder how a pupil at an all boys college would take on the role of the Egyptian queen when she appeared, and I was dumbstruck. She was haughty, vulnerable, proud, jealous. Dressed in a long, gold lame gown with jet black hair tied through with beads and dramatic eyeliner she was not just beautiful but, in the way she interacted and flirted with Antony, sexy too. Despite the wig, and the clothes, and the make up, I’d recognized her immediately as Hector. I doubted any of the other boys did. But I’d spent weeks and months studying him. The profile of his nose, the jawline, the shape of his hands I’d have known however they were disguised.

I went straight to the dressing room afterwards. The play had been a triumph, and the audience’s cheers were still ringing out. The room was packed with actors and backstage staff basking in their success with friends and parents. Hector was still in his full stage outfit.
“That was amazing! You were incredible!”
He beamed back at me.
“And I can’t believe what an amazing Cleopatra you make. You look…” I held my hands out, gesturing towards him and his outfit, lost for words.
He smiled again. “It’s been fun! It’s kind of cool being a girl, experiencing how the other half live.” He grinned again, teasingly. “And Antony in that toga! He’s hot!”
I poked him in the ribs and grinned back. “Oi, you! You’re taken!” I looked around to check no-one was eavesdropping on our conversation and leaned in closer to him. “Seeing you dressed like that, it…”
“Hey, Cleo!” a centurion walked by. “Great show tonight!”
Hector raised a hand in acknowledgement and then looked back at me. “You should try it, you know. You’d look good. You’re not too tall. And slim…”
I looked up at him to see if he was teasing me again or not. I suddenly remembered being back home, after my mum had died, wearing her things. “I don’t know. No. I don’t think I could. No. I don’t think it would work for me. Not at all…”

The Easter holidays arrived and, with my father still at sea, I’d stayed at Winnie’s along with several of the other boarders. Hector had gone home, but had invited me to go and stay with him over the break. He lived with his mum in a flat in London, and she was due to be away for a couple of days visiting relatives. I counted the hours down until it was time to go. I caught the train up from Winchester and made my way to the address he’d given me. It was a newly built modernist block of flats in Kensington. The door opened automatically as I approached and I entered tentatively, crossing the marble floor to where the concierge sat imposingly at a huge reception desk. I gave him Hector’s name and he directed me towards the lift.

The flat was on the top floor. A young woman answered the door. She was dressed for a night out, her white blonde hair in a shoulder length asymmetric bob, a short black bodycon dress with long sleeves and a boat neck and bright red glossed lips. Before I could say anything, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me in to the longest and most passionate kiss I could ever have imagined in my short life until that point. It was Hector, of course. When we eventually came up for air I was full of questions but he placed a finger, tipped with a long polished red nail, gently on my lips and shushed me. “Later. I’ll explain.” He took me by the hand and pulled me inside, his body pressing against mine, his breathing short and staccato. I gasped as he pushed into my hardness and in turn ran my hands over his contours, burnishing the satin of the dress against his skin. We crashed against the wall of the hallway, almost overbalancing. I kissed my way down his neck and onto his bare shoulder, inhaling the musky scent he was wearing. I felt his hands fumbling at my belt and fly and my trousers fell to the floor. He took me by the hand again and I staggered through into a living room where he eased me down onto a sofa. He looked down at me, lasciviously, from the tall patent heels he was wearing.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the day I first met you.”

He knelt in front of me and I gasped as he took hold of my penis and gave it an exploratory squeeze, red nails glistening in the sunlight pouring in from the window. I moaned and stared down, transfixed, as he smiled back at me coquettishly, from beneath mascara laden lashes. He squeezed again, sliding back my foreskin and leaning forward, his tongue resting for a second against me, warm and moist, before circling my glans, gently at first, and then with increasing vigour. I moaned again, my body arched back into the soft leather, my hands roaming over the surface of the cushions either side of me, trying to find a hold. I’d no sooner acclimatised to the waves of sensation pulsating through my body when he eased me fully into his mouth, glossy red lips encircling me, his hand still squeezing rhythmically up and down, up and down. At length, just at the point when I couldn’t take it any more, he stopped and stood to his feet, smiling triumphantly as I lay there panting. Once he was satisfied that I could go on, he reached down to the hem of his dress, raising it slightly and one leg at a time, climbed out of his panties. He held them in the air theatrically for a moment and then dropped them, giggling, onto the floor. Then he was straddling me, a knee either side of my hips, his lips again locked against mine, his tongue swirling inside my mouth. And then he buckled upwards for a moment, pressing himself against my belly, gripping my shaft with one hand and lowering himself carefully onto it. He was smooth and lubricated, and I slid inside, his glutes gripping me. Without once breaking our kiss, he slid up until I almost popped out from inside him, before grinding back down, gripping hard as he stretched over the surface of my glans, across my foreskin and down the shaft. My left hand, that previously had been looking for a place to grip on the sofa, took hold of his backside whilst my right held his opposite shoulder, pulling and pushing him up and down, grinding deep into him as now it became his turn to moan. Eventually, he cried out, and I pulled him in tight to me, feeling my belly become hot and wet as he came in several long bursts. The spasms erupting through him were enough to tip me over the edge as well and I drove myself deep into him one last time as I joined him in orgasm.

He lay his head down on my shoulder and we sat quietly for several minutes as our breathing subsided, the beat of his heart against mine slowing gradually, my penis still inside him. At last, he took a deep breath and sat up to face me, smiling; kissing me softly and tenderly. “Welcome to London.”
I smiled. “Fuck, Hector, that was amazing. I mean…you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen whether you’re a boy or a girl and, fuck! Did you do that just now just for me? I mean, dressing up? Was it that obvious I fancied you when you were Cleopatra in the school play? And you look so natural – the way you move; everything. I mean, I don’t want to pry, but…”
He laughed. “Yeah, it was kind of for you. But I have done it before. Before Cleo, I mean. And no, you’re not prying. I need to tell you something, though.” He kissed me again and eased himself back to his feet. “Come on, I’ll make you a coffee.”
I followed him through into the kitchen, marvelling silently to myself on how he walked so naturally like a girl. At college, he’d never been remotely effeminate. Elegant, yes; and even graceful, if that’s a word you can use to describe a seventeen year old boy, and yet here he was looking, walking and even talking like a stunningly beautiful young woman.

We perched on stools at the breakfast bar and he told me his story.
“It’s just me and my mum here. I never knew my dad – they were never in a relationship; I was just an accident that my mum decided to keep.” He paused for a second and sipped at his coffee. “She’s always been a bit...different, I suppose you could say. Mentally ill might be another description. I mean, she’s ok most of the time. When she’s on her medication. But if she forgets she can see things and hear things…”
“Oh, Hector! I’m sorry…”
“No, it’s ok. Really. Most of the time. But when she was pregnant with me she hadn’t been diagnosed. And she told me afterwards that an angel came to see her and told her that if she gave birth to a boy, he’d die before he reached maturity…”
“Fuck, Hector!”
He shrugged apologetically. “I mean, it’s just stuff in her head that’s all mixed up. It doesn’t mean anything. But when I arrived and I was a boy she decided she’d raise me as a girl to avoid that happening. I mean, it sounds crazy, but she managed to doctor the birth certificate and everything, and for the first ten years of my life I was a girl full time. Went to school as a girl; everything. I didn’t know any better – I thought I was a girl, it all seemed perfectly normal.” He paused again. “And then it was my final year at primary school. I had a note to say I shouldn’t do sports, so there wasn’t any risk of anything that shouldn’t popping out in a changing room or anywhere. But one day I was in a car accident – nothing serious, but I was rushed into hospital and everything came out. Social Services got involved and for a while it looked as though I might be taken to a home. But I wanted to stay with my mum and that seemed to hold sway. When she told me why she’d done it I kind of understood and I never felt any ill towards her for doing it. I started at a new school as a boy; which felt really weird for a while, I can tell you, but I got used to it eventually. At home, though, my mum was really unhappy. We weren’t as close as we had been and I missed that. So one day after coming home from school I got changed into some of the girl clothes that my mum had kept. And she was so happy when she came home and saw me. After that I kind of lived this double life. A boy at school and a girl at home. When secondary school came around my grandparents paid for me to go to Winnie’s. I think they suspected that things were a bit unusual at home and thought I was better off away. I got out of the habit a bit, but being away for weeks on end I found that I missed being a girl, so even though I didn’t dress all the time at home, I’d still make the effort from time to time. And every birthday and Christmas Helen would get her own presents in addition to Hector’s and she built up quite a wardrobe…”
“Helen?”
“What my mum would call me.”
He stopped and sipped his coffee. “So here I am. Hector/Helen in all my fucked-up technicolour glory.”
I leaned over to him and kissed him gently. “I don’t think you’re fucked up Hector. Or Helen. I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

After our coffees Helen (as I tried to get used to calling her) went for a shower and re-emerged as Hector and we went out for a meal, and to catch a film. I was quieter than I would usually have been; Hector’s story had reminded me of my own mum, and how I’d reacted after she’d died. When we came home, we went to bed and made love again, and afterwards I lay with my head on Hector’s breast, quietly listening to his heartbeat, thinking back to what he’d said.
“Hector?”
He grunted, already half asleep. “Hmmm?”
“Which do you prefer?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hector or Helen? Which do you prefer being?”
He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d want to be either full time. I kind of like the options. Best of both worlds so to speak.” He paused. “I think I’m a boy in my head. I’m kind of rational I suppose. More than emotional that is; not that girls aren’t rational of course…but dressing as a girl is way more fun!” He paused again. “What about you?”
“Which do I prefer?” I smiled and kissed him gently. “I love you both!”
“Haha! Avoiding the answer. Nice one!”
He flopped back down onto the pillow and we were quiet again.
“Hector?”
Again the grunt. “What?”
“Can I tell you something? About my mum?”
“Mmm Hmm.”
I sat up, leaning against the headboard.
“On Tuesday it’s a year since she died.”
“Yeah I’m sorry. It must be awful. I’d be in bits if my mum wasn’t around, even if things are difficult sometimes”
“I still miss her.”
“I bet. That’s natural. I expect it never goes away.”
“You know, when she first died, I used to lie on the bed with her clothes, inhaling her scent.” I paused, and swallowed. For a second, I wondered whether I should change my mind and not say anything, but I’d come this far. “And then one day. I don’t know why. I decided to wear one of her dresses. I though it might bring her back, somehow. I don’t know why.” I glanced across at him, looking for a reaction, but Hector didn’t say anything so I continued. “It felt like it helped. It felt like I was making a kind of connection. At the time I thought that was with her, with my mum, but now I’m not sure. Anyway, I thought that there was a link between me getting close to my mum and dressing in her clothes. I started dressing completely – underwear, shoes, make-up; the lot. But the more I dressed…I don’t know, it felt like she was always just slightly out of reach. Like I needed to try harder…” I’d started to shake with the emotion of recalling the story and I stopped, knowing that I’d start to cry if I continued.
Hector pulled me in closely and stroked my hair “Ssshh. It’s ok. It’s good to let it out.”
After I’d composed myself I went on. “And then I started at Winnie’s. Every night I’d lie awake in the dorm trying to make sense of it all. The thing is…it’s difficult to put it into words…the thing is; when I was dressed, even though my mum wasn’t, you know, there there – actually physically in the flesh – it did feel like she was with me somehow and I felt comforted. Comfortable.” I turned to Hector so we were facing each other, the tips of our noses almost touching. “It felt like she was ok with me being a girl. Not just ok with it, but encouraging it. Like it was what she wanted.” I burst into tears. Hector pulled me in tightly and kissed me gently on my forehead. My sobbing gradually subsided and I fell asleep.

-

When I awoke the following day the bed next to me was empty. I rolled over groggily and looked at my phone. It was almost 2pm. We must have talked half the night. The door opened and Hector came in carrying a breakfast tray. Delicious aromas of pancakes and fresh coffee followed him into the room. He was wearing a simple towelling dressing gown, the cord of which must have loosened as he’d walked from the kitchen, exposing most of his chest, and a chink of sunlight where the curtains didn’t quite meet flashed across his still tousled bed hair as he approached. I decided that he was unequivocally the handsomest, most beautiful person in the whole of England.

He placed the tray down on the bed and climbed in next to me, grinning. “How’s Sleeping Beauty this morning? Sleep well?”
“Mmm. Listen, I’m sorry about last night. Getting so heavy and everything. I won’t mention it again.”
“Don’t be silly. If I can’t be here for you when you need me, what’s the point?” he leant over and kissed me. “I’ve been thinking myself, whilst I was making breakfast.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Listen. And feel free to tell me to shut up if you think I’m over the line.”
“Go on.”
“So about what you said. It seems to me that either you’re trans…and that’s totally cool, and by the way who am I to speak and by the way again I think you’d make a fantastic girl, even though you’re also equally a really amazing guy…” he took a breath and a mouthful of pancake. “Or…” he went on, munching as he spoke “…you’re not. And you dressing up in your mum’s things is just a totally understandable reaction to a massive emotional upheaval.” He stopped, waiting for me to say something.
“OK.” I paused whilst I absorbed what he’d said. “When you put it like that. Fuck; you were right when you said last night that you had a rational brain.”
“Sorry. I’m over-simplifying.”
“No, no, it’s not that. You’re right. It really is as simple as that.”
He smiled. “And I’m no psychologist, but it seems to me that the feeling you get from dressing up could be either because it’s your mum’s things, and you’re dressing at home, and it’s all contextual, and it really is all about reacting to your loss, or, alternatively, you feel good about seeing yourself as a girl. Full stop. And if it was that, then you’d probably feel good as a girl even if it wasn’t your mum’s things, and even if you weren’t dressing up at home.” He waited again for me to respond but there were too many thoughts running through my head. “And I got to thinking. There’s a whole roomful of Helen’s clothes here that I’ve built up over the years. We’re pretty much the same size and build. What size shoe do you take?”
“Six.”
“There you go. The same there too. Why don’t you try dressing here? See how it feels when you’re in a different place; wearing different clothes?...”

It didn’t take long for me to make a decision. The genie was out of the bottle now – I had to do something to try to resolve things one way or another. And his idea made a kind of sense. I was scared of what I might find out, but excited too. He offered Helen to help me out, but I said I’d rather be by myself as I changed, and he understood. He showed me into the room in the flat they kept just for her, kissed me gently, and clicked the door closed to leave me alone.

The room wasn’t massively different to Hector’s. Sleek, elegant and modern, there was a double bed on the left, and next to that a door into the en-suite. A huge built in wardrobe with doors lacquered in a cool grey gloss occupied the full width of the wall opposite. Across from the main door was another door opening onto a roof terrace and next to that a worktop, also in gloss grey, running the full length of the remaining wall. Drawers occupied most of the space below. In the middle a chrome Eames chair sat facing a mirror on the wall above. In front of it strewn untidily in what was the only clue that this was a girl’s room was a cornucopia of make up – pots, trays and boxes of every size and shape and colour. I walked to the wardrobe and opened each door wide, then sat on the end of the bed, opposite, surveying the contents.

Although Hector and I were alike in so many ways, Helen’s taste in fashion differed significantly from the clothes that my mum had worn. It was only natural I supposed – Helen was still a teenager, living in central London. My mum had been thirty seven when she died and lived a rural life. In as much as I’d inherited most of my tastes from my mum, a lot of Helen’s clothes just didn’t appeal to me. They were sleek, contemporary, urbane; like her flat. The clothes I’d liked the best of my mum’s were softer and more feminine. I began to wonder whether I’d made the right decision in taking Hector up on his offer. I turned my attention to the make up on the dressing table counter. Our colourings were so different as well. A blue eyed blonde versus a brown eyed brunette. I sifted through them. There was so much there; surely there was something that would work?

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of bright emerald green from amongst the blacks and greys and beiges of Helen’s dresses, like a lonely tree in a city square. I pulled the hanger out from the wardrobe. The material had been casually folded across the rail. I lifted it off and, holding it by the spaghetti thin shoulder straps, allowed it to drop to its full length. The skirt was flowing, floor length and vaporous, but the most striking feature was the back neckline, cut daringly down to waist level. A drape tied around the hips would emphasis the wearer’s slim silhouette. I recognised it instantly. It was a replica of the dress that Keira Knightley had worn in Atonement.

I skipped out of the room into the living area where Hector was relaxing, reading a book. He looked up. “Everything ok?”
“Yeah. Ummm, I was wondering…I mean, it doesn’t really seem fair that it’s just me that’s getting dressed up.”
“Oh. OK. You want me to dress as Helen, you’ve changed your mind?”
“No. I was wondering. Do you have a dinner suit?”
“You want me to wear a dinner suit?”
“Have you got one?”
“Well, yes.”
“Great. I’ll see you back here in a couple of hours.” I kissed him, and left him looking puzzled as I made my way back to the room.

Now I knew what I was going to wear I wanted to take my time and enjoy the process of getting changed. I poured a deep bath and lingered in the bubbles, as I imagined what I might get up to later that evening with Hector. I borrowed one of Helen’s razors to remove the few faint hairs that had regrown since I’d last transformed myself. Dabbing myself dry, I moisturised until I was silky smooth all over and then slipped into the satin wrap that was hanging on the door, wrapped a towel around my damp hair, and made my way back into the bedroom. Sifting through the make up on the counter, I identified some colours that would work for me and then picked up my ipad and googled ‘Keira Knightley Atonement’, zooming in on one of the images of her that best showed how she had been made up. Picking up a tube of foundation, I went to work. A few minutes later my skin was smooth and soft and dusted with a fine sheer powder. I paused, examining myself in the mirror against the image on the ipad, and then turned the ipad off and cast it aside onto the bed. I’d spent months trying to copy how my mum looked. I wasn’t going to replace that by simply copying someone else instead. Hector had been right – I had to find out if this was the real me. I had to find my own identity. I paused, less confident now. All my life I’d drawn what I’d seen in front of me. Never before had I started out trying to make a piece of art without knowing what the final appearance would be. I was in unchartered territory.

I picked up some eyeshadow in rusty browns and reds. I applied a small amount onto the lid and brow, and blended it carefully. I was aiming for something between a natural daytime look and a full-on smoky eyed evening image. Satisfied with how that turned out, I moved on to a chocolate coloured eyeliner and then, more confidently now, mascara, blush and finally a dark rose pink lipstick. Easing the towel from my hair I brushed it through whilst blow drying it and then set to work with a pair of curling irons trying to mimic a 1930s fingerwave. Ironically my hair, out of its regular ponytail, was longer than Keira’s in the film and at first I struggled until eventually I had to admit defeat, retrieve the ipad, and copy a similar style that suited my longer length. At last I was finished. It had taken longer than I’d thought, and I worried Hector might be getting impatient. But then I smiled to myself. Surely this was one of the prerogatives of being female? I found a lacy black thong in one of the drawers below the dressing table and slipped it on, tucking myself carefully into place until I presented a flat front. I took the dress off the hanger again and stepped into it carefully, luxuriating in the feel of the satin as I drew it up my body, slipping the delicate straps into place on my shoulders. A pair of strappy gold sandals with a three inch heel weren’t quite of period authenticity, but worked well with the colour of the dress.

I took a few exploratory steps, enjoying the satin of the skirt swirling around my newly sensitized legs. The dress fitted perfectly. Whilst at first I’d regretted my lack of curves, I smiled as I thought that Keira wasn’t exactly well endowed in that department either. The lines of the dress suited my skinny frame. I felt a curious mixture of elation and satisfaction. I looked in the mirror and although there was no trace of my mum visually, I felt a strong sense of her presence, and an equally strong sense that she was happy with what I was doing. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. For the first time since she’d left, I was truly content.

I texted Hector that I was ready and he replied ‘See you on the terrace’. Opening the door I stepped outside. It was an unusually warm April evening. The sun was just about to set, casting a warm orange glow over the side of the apartment. Hector was leaning on the balustrade at the edge of the roof, looking down on the city below, a thousand car headlights twinkling softly in the dusk. I’d never seen him look so handsome. He was a man now, his hair gelled, his suit sharp, his shirt crisp and brilliant white against the darkening sky. He turned as I approached. He didn’t need to say anything; his eyes spoke for him. For a second I thought I was going to burst into tears because the moment was so perfect. He held out his hand for me to take as I reached him and kissed me softly on the cheek.
“My god. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He smiled. “I should have known you’d pick that dress. I’d forgotten I had it. How do you feel now? I mean, erm, after what we talked about before…”
In response I reached my arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his, and kissed him again, slowly and lingeringly.

When the sun finally set we went back inside. I took his hand and led him to the sofa where Helen had seated me only yesterday. I parted his knees and knelt down on the floor between them.
“I want to try what Helen did yesterday.”
He grinned.

It must have been around four in the morning. I turned over in bed and reached my hand out for him but he wasn’t there. I waited for a minute or two to see if he’d just nipped to the bathroom but when he didn’t re-appear I got up. The stone tiles of the floor were cold and I tiptoed, the long satin nightgown I’d borrowed swirling about my legs. He was in the living room, sat in the dark on the sofa. I sat next to him, pulling my legs up underneath me for warmth.
“You ok?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep. Thinking about having to go back to college again tomorrow.”
I groaned. “I was trying not to think about it.” It was cold in the room. One of the windows had been left open, and the sky outside was clear enough to see stars. A patch of moonlight illuminated where we’d stood a few hours previously on the terrace. I pulled myself closer to him to share his body heat.
“We’ll need to go back to just pretending to be friends again. For appearances.”
“Yeah. I suppose.” I kissed him on the cheek and tried to lighten the mood. “I think I can keep my hands off you if I really concentrate!” but he didn’t return my smile.
“I don’t want things to go back to how they were. For all this…” he paused for a moment “just to be a one-off.”
“Neither do I, I…”
He interrupted. “I don’t mean just us. I mean you too. The way you’ve been tonight. You’ve been so natural, so happy. I don’t want you to go back to the shy little wallflower you were when you came to college. You need to keep exploring this side of yourself.”
“I know. And I will. And you can help me. You and Helen…”
“But I might not always be here! Promise me you’ll carry on. Even if I’m not here to help.” He was looking at me intently now; gripping my hand tightly.
“I promise, Hector.” I reached my hand up to his cheek and kissed him gently.

-

We’d been back at college only a fortnight. I was already counting the days until the summer break and we’d started planning some time away together, just the two of us; a quiet cottage somewhere in the country near a forest. I so much wanted to take Hector to the forest. Although the cricket season had started, there was still one last football match left to finish off the league. Hector had been trying to persuade me to go along to watch him play since before the Easter break. I wasn’t a football fan at all but now, with just the one game left, I’d relented. It was a home game, and a small crowd had gathered on the touchline to watch – some other boys from college, a few mums and dads, and some fans our opponents had brought along. Hector was playing on the opposite wing to where I stood. When I saw him with the ball, I regretted not watching him earlier. Even though I knew nothing about the game, I could tell he was a good player.

Midway through the first half both teams were still yet to score. Most of the action had taken place on our wing, and I could hear Hector calling for the ball, out in space on the opposite side of the pitch. He looked across at me and caught my eye, and smiled, and I smiled back. He’d been so happy when I’d agreed to go to watch him. And then he fell. I assumed he was joking with me at first, but he’d gone down like a felled tree, face first into the turf. When he didn’t get up I shouted and gesticulated. “Referee! Referee!”
It took a few seconds for him to notice my cries and by then I was already running onto the pitch. I got to where Hector lay and turned him over onto his back, calling his name. He was limp and unresponsive. I bent down to his face but couldn’t detect a breath and I couldn’t find a pulse either. I fought back a mounting sense of panic, an urge to cry out. Check his airways. All clear. Start the compressions. I was only vaguely aware of the commotion around me. Someone offered to take over the CPR to give me a rest, but I pushed them away.

Everything was a blur; like a watercolour painting that had been left out in the rain. The paramedics arrived. Hector’s football coach lifted me up. I was in his car, following the ambulance to hospital. We were in the waiting room, outside A&E.

The commotion stopped, and the blur lifted. Everything now was frozen, fixed, solid, silent. The only sound my heartbeat reverberating through my body, like a timpani in an empty cathedral. I don’t know how long I sat like that; it might have been minutes or hours. The hospital corridor down which Hector had been taken receded into infinity in front of me. Eventually a doctor appeared, retracing Hector’s route; his footsteps matching the slow thudding of my pulse. He stopped in front of us, and we stood, the coach and I. The doctor looked at me, and then at the coach, and then back to me again, and gently shook his head. “I’m so sorry.” He said. “We did everything we could.”

-

The Young Woman stood at the edge of the grave and read the inscription on the headstone. “Hector Marshall 1996 – 2013. Always in our hearts.” It had been ten years. Lichen now inhabited the carved letters, and the sharp edges of the sandstone had weathered smooth. A gentle breeze caused the chiffon dress she was wearing to swirl gently about her legs and her long chestnut hair fluttered across her shoulder blades. Like the stone, those ten years had brought changes to her too. She laid a single red rose down at the grave and whispered gently “I kept my promise to you Hector.”

She stood in silence for a moment and then turned, walking back to a small car that was waiting for her at the entrance to the cemetery. As she approached a young man stepped out and took her hand gently. ‘Are you ok?” She nodded, squeezed his hand reassuringly and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. As they drove away the evening sun emerged for a moment from the clouded sky and for a few seconds the headstone was illuminated by a golden glow before the clouds returned and the sun sank silently below the horizon.

THE END

WONDERFUL WIFE

I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a long, lingering kiss. “Oh! Almost forgot!”
I skipped into the kitchen and returned with a tupperware container from the fridge. “Some lunch. It’s just the leftovers from the supper I made last night, but you said it was delicious so…”
“Thanks.” He grinned “You’ll make someone a wonderful wife one day.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, or even the fiftieth, but he always seemed to think it was the funniest joke ever. I rolled my eyes and, smiling, kissed him again. His tongue parted my lips and he pulled me into him with his free hand, and he moaned softly as my thigh brushed the hardness in his groin.
I pushed him away reluctantly. “You’re going to be late! We can carry on when you get home tonight!”
He turned to leave, and then turned back, stealing another kiss, grinning again as he opened the door. “See you tonight!”
“Love you!” I called back after him. I watched him down the garden path, smiling as he held the plastic container against his groin in an attempt to hide the now subsiding evidence of our goodbyes.

Charlie was a numbers person. He’d studied maths at university and got a job in a bank afterwards. Even when I drew his face, it was a collection of straight lines and acute angles, like an exercise in trigonometry, all pointed cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. Like lots of numbers people, he also had a gift for music, and through university he’d played lead guitar in a band with some friends. He loved being out on the stage, strutting his stuff. Me, I was the opposite; happy to be an observer rather than a do-er. I’d studied English, but really would have preferred Fine Art. I met him at a gig where his band were playing. I’d been invited by a mutual friend and I took along my sketchbook and drew as he played. He came over after they finished and my friend showed him my drawing and we started talking and it all developed from there. In my spare time at uni I combined my English and Art by writing and illustrating children’s books. In our final year Charlie had sent one off, unbeknownst to me, to a publisher and it had hit the jackpot, sitting on bestseller lists for several weeks. So when we moved to London for work, we miraculously had enough money to put down a deposit on a house. A very small one, but a house nonetheless. Charlie went out to work at the bank every day in his suit and tie, and I waved him off at the door in my dressing gown, before retiring to the spare room where I’d spend the rest of the day writing and painting.

I closed the door as he disappeared around the corner of the road and made my way back upstairs to the bathroom. I paused for a moment before entering the shower to look at my reflection in the mirror.
“Wonderful wife indeed!” I thought to myself. I loosened the cord from my dressing gown and let it fall to my feet and raised my hand thoughtfully to my chin. Despite it being almost a week since I’d last shaved, it was still smooth and round. I sighed. Only a few days ago, in a bar, meeting my thirty something year old female publisher, I’d been asked if I was her son.
Wonderful wife. The thought popped into my head that it probably wouldn’t take very much effort for me to look like Charlie’s wife. I shrugged and stepped into the shower.

-

“Happy Birthday Handsome!”. I held the envelope out for him to take. He grinned and tore it open. The card featured the classic Gil Elvgren 1960s pin-up image of the French maid, sweeping dust under the carpet whilst revealing her stocking tops. He opened it and read the message.
“Oo-ooh! My present is coming tonight?”
“Mm-hmmm.” I kissed him again.
“Do I get any clues?”
“You’ve already had one.”
He lifted an eyebrow, intrigued. But I wouldn’t say anything else and bundled him out of the door. “You’ll be late!” I grinned.
He protested, half-heartedly, before setting off; the card still in his hand. “See you tonight then!”
I watched him until he cleared the end of the road and then ran back upstairs. I had a lot to do if I was going to be ready for him when he returned home.

He’d teased me about being a ‘wonderful wife’ so many times that for his birthday I thought I’d take him up on his suggestion. And what ‘wonderful wife’ wouldn’t want to give their husband a birthday treat by dressing up as a naughty French maid? I’d been planning it all for several weeks. I’d started by copying make up tutorials on YouTube. It helped that I was an artist, and a good one at that, but even allowing for the fact that I didn’t have the most masculine of features to start with I was surprised at how easy it was to make myself look presentable – even quite attractive - as a woman. I’d bought a wig in the same style as the pin-up image, and a uniform, and some lingerie to wear underneath. And I’d bought some heels as close as I could find in match to those in the image. The meticulousness and creativity that I applied to my work I applied to this project too. I’d done a full dress rehearsal a few weeks previously and realised that, even though I was slim, I’d need a corset to pull me into the shape of the girl in the image. And even though in a still image I looked ok, walking in the heels, and adopting the movements and speech of a young woman were something else entirely. I took to wearing heels all day after Charlie had left for work, and talking to myself and making recordings to fine tune my voice to the soft sultry tones I was mimicking in the tutorials I watched online. I’d study women walking out in the street, or sitting in cafes, and emulate their movements. The same drive and intensity that went into making my books made me determined to be the sexiest, cutest and most wonderful wife I could be.

After Charlie had left for work on his birthday I applied the finishing touches. I hadn’t dare shave my legs in case he noticed, and that morning I lingered in a hot, fragranced bath having denuded my body of any trace of hair from the neck down. My eyebrows similarly hadn’t been touched for fear of discovery. I plucked them now into a fine arch. I dressed in my lingerie, pulling my corset into a tiny waist and drawing my stockings up silky smooth legs. Wrapping myself in a long satin robe I sat at my work table, a newly purchased mirror, pulled from the drawer in which it had been hiding, in front of me. I’d practised so much that putting on make-up had become something of a ritual and I luxuriated in the sweep of brushes over my skin, and the fragrances of powder and paint. Hair and make-up completed, I swiped to the clock on my phone. 6.30pm. Charlie would be home soon. The food I’d prepared was in the oven; the wine was chilling in the fridge. Everything was ready now apart from me. I stepped into the uniform, smoothing the satin of the skirt down over my stocking tops; tying the white ribbons of the apron behind my back and stepping into my heels. I heard the click of the gate and Charlie’s footsteps along the garden path. I stood and took a final look in the mirror, a deep breath, and went downstairs.

He told me later that the first thing he’d noticed was my heels coming downstairs. Ankles, calves, thighs and then the tops of my stockings, peeking out from under the hem of my dress; a band of smooth milky white skin separating the two. By the time I stood in front of him, his eyes were like saucers.
“Happy Birthday, husband. I thought, seeing as how you’re always saying what a wonderful wife I’d make that I’d be one for you tonight. And she’s feeling naughty and would like to give her husband a special birthday present.” I peeked up at him from beneath my mascara-clad lashes, which I batted for extra effect, and then, my hands clasped behind my back, reached up and kissed him innocently on the cheek, leaving a perfect imprint of red lipstick behind. As I pressed against him I couldn’t help noticing that he was hard. Very hard. I smiled to myself as I settled back on my heels.
He stared back at me, speechless for a moment. “You…I mean…fucking hell Cammie you look absolutely amazing!”
I tucked a stray hair behind my ear and smiled. “Thank you. But tonight it’s Camille, not Cameron. Come in. I’ve made some food; and there’s wine in the fridge.” I took his hand, and led him through into the living room, conscious of his gaze locked intently on my rear as I rolled my hips, my suspender straps flexing alternately with each step, my heels clicking over the hallway floor. I poured a couple of gin and tonics in silence, my back to him, allowing him to continue his visual interrogation of my transformation.
“Happy Birthday handsome!” we clinked glasses.
“I can’t believe you make such an incredible looking girl!”
I pirouetted coquettishly, making sure the hem of my skirt rode up high enough to again flash my stocking tops. “You like?”
“I do.” He put his drink down and stepped towards me. The visual evidence of just how much he did like was very clear.
I smiled triumphantly, and taking his hand led him to the sofa. “Sit down. The food isn’t quite ready yet, but I know just the thing that will make a delicious hors d’oeuvre.”
I knelt on the floor between his legs and slowly unzipped his trousers.

-

He wrapped his arms around my waist and gave me a long, lingering kiss. “Happy Birthday, Cammie.”
It was almost six months since Charlie’s birthday. I’d got up, as I always did, to see him off to work, although with the mornings now darker and colder as we entered winter, it was becoming more of an effort not to stay in bed. I yawned as he handed me a parcel. “Open it. Before I go.”
I tore open the packaging and held the garment up in front of me. “Really?” I looked up at him.
He grinned and nodded.
“But you’ve never…I mean, since I dressed up for you on your birthday, you’ve never mentioned it again. I wasn’t sure if you’d even…”
“I think it was pretty obvious how much I enjoyed it, wasn’t it? And I also think it was pretty obvious how much you enjoyed being a girl too.” He left a space for me to contradict, but I kept quiet, and he grinned again. “I thought so!”
I held the dress up to my shoulders. It was a cocktail dress, thigh length. Black sequins. Long sleeves, a slash neck and a designer label. “It’s lovely. Thank you!”
“Wear it tonight?” he asked “Be ready for me when I get home. Oh, and don’t worry about food or anything – it’s your birthday not mine – I’ll sort that out.” He kissed me again, and as he opened the door to leave a short blast of cold air shot inside and rippled through the sequins, sending tiny reflections glittering across the hallway walls.

I wasn’t ready when he came home. I figured that was my prerogative anyway, and I wanted to tease him a little too. He came upstairs and I was sat at my table, finishing my make up. I’d arranged the folds of my robe so it fell open across one thigh, revealing the top of a stocking as I slowly and lingeringly applied a final coat of lipstick. He watched, transfixed. I stood up, and let the robe fall from my shoulders into a pool of satin by my feet. I stepped into my dress, pulling it up over my shoulders and slipping my arms into the sleeves.
‘Zip me up, will you?”
I watched our reflections in the mirror as he stepped towards me and placed his hands on my shoulders, gently sliding my hair away from my neck and kissing me along the nape. I arched back into him, pressing his hardness into me, tilting my head so that he was kissing me along the edge of my throat now, where I’d sprayed scent just a few moments earlier.
“Mmmm. You smell good.” he moaned.
I turned around so that we were nose to nose and, reaching down, unzipped him and slid my hand in to give him a squeeze. He moaned again.
I leant forward, whispering into his ear. “I like that I have this effect on you. I think little Charlie likes Camille more than Cammie you know…”
He moaned a third time.
I whispered again. “But I don’t want you getting all carried away when the evening is so young” I tucked him back into his trousers, and zipped him up again. He looked at me like he was a little boy whose football had been stolen, and I grinned. “So. What are we eating?”
He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Humph! You think you’re such a tease don’t you? Well. Here’s the thing. It seemed such a shame that last time Camille came out to play she was all dressed up with nowhere to go so tonight I’ve booked us a table at Givenche. It’s time for Camille to go out and see the world.”
It was my turn to find myself on the back foot. I swallowed. “You want me to go out, dressed like this?”
He nodded.
“Fuck, Charlie…”
He grinned. “You look fantastic. You’re not just passable, you’re fucking gorgeous”
“But I don’t have a handbag! Or a coat!”
He laughed, and I started giggling too. “Gosh, I’m a total girl, aren’t I?”

The restaurant was new and fashionably busy. The maitre’d had shown us to our table and taken our coats. Of course Charlie – the most lovable, handsome and thoughtful man in the whole wide world - had bought Camille a coat – a sexy little faux fur jacket – and a handbag in the same sequins as my dress. Sometimes I thought that I didn’t deserve him, but then when I looked in the mirror as I left the house - ah, only kidding…
By the time pudding arrived we were so loved up I was barely resisting the urge to rip the tablecloth away and have Charlie make mad passionate love to me in the Eton Mess when his face changed suddenly.
“Oh, bollocks!”
“What? What is it?”
“My boss. Dead ahead. He’s seen me…”
He’d barely finished speaking when a deep baritone rang out, causing almost every diner in the place to turn around. “Jenkins! Fancy seeing you here! How the hell are you?”
A big bear of a man strode across to our table and playfully shook Charlie’s shoulder so hard I worried his neck might be dislocated. He turned to look at me, and then across again to Charlie. “Well! You’re quite the dark horse, eh? Who’s the lovely lady then?”
“She’s, er…”
I proffered my hand. “Camille. Pleased to meet you. Charlie’s fiancée.”
He took my hand in his huge paw. “Absolutely delighted! You can call me George.” He beamed, and then looked back to Charlie. Charlie was still looking at me with a ‘what the heck did you say that for’ expression on his face.
“You’ve been keeping that quiet Jenkins! Congratulations! To both of you! I do hope you’ll be bringing Camille along to our Christmas ball next week so I can get to know her better. In fact, I insist upon it! Now, let me get back to my clients – I’ve a couple of Yankee oil tycoons back there who want us to help them open up in Europe…”

As soon as he was out of earshot Charlie hissed “What did you tell him we were engaged for?”
“I don’t know – it felt like a good story. At least a better one than ‘I’m Charlie’s boyfriend and he likes it when I wear a dress.’”
“Humph”
“He’s a bit full on though, isn’t he? I’m glad I don’t have to put up with that every day! You poor thing!” I took his hand in mine.
“Hmm. Well. He can be. He’s a decent sort underneath though, I suppose.” He paused. “It’s ok. I’ll find an excuse so we don’t need to go to the ball.”
“Where is it?”
“Can’t remember exactly. Some swanky hotel in Knightsbridge I think. Dinner and then dancing. Black tie.” He paused again. “Why? You’re not thinking…”
I grinned. “I think it would be good for your career prospects. I could flirt with him a little bit. Put in a good word for you; that kind of thing…”
“Cammie, you’re forgetting one crucial thing.”
“What?”
“You’re a boy.”

-

I knew exactly the dress I was going to wear. It was the sexiest, slinkiest thing I’d ever seen with a skirt that was tight down to my knees so the satin slid deliciously over my skin with each tiny step, and a short train that I had to hitch up in the cutest way each time I had to go up or down a step. I’d booked a visit to a salon on the morning of the ball for an all over waxing – I didn’t want the teensiest hair to come between me and that satin – and then, justifying it to myself on the grounds that the risk of discovery from a slipped wig or a detached finger nail was too high, I’d also arranged to have hair extensions fitted, my hair styled into a gorgeously elegant up-do, and a full manicure with acrylic nails.

I played the part of the loving and devoted fiancée to perfection, extolling Charlie’s virtues to anyone who would listen. George insisted on having me sit next to him for dinner, and his wife shot daggers at me from the opposite side of the table through every course. At last, the meal was finished, and I grabbed Charlie’s hand and dragged him out on to the dancefloor.
“Mmmm. You look handsome tonight. I like you in a dinner suit!” I reached my arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
“And I like you in that dress. You look incredible.”
“Shall I tell you a little secret?” I reached up to whisper in his ear. “I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
“You’re not?”
“Mmm-mmm. The satin feels too nice against my skin. Just swaying against you like this, it’s driving me wild…”
“But, I mean…” Now it was his turn to whisper. “Where’s little Cammie?”
“Everything’s tucked up and held back with medical tape.”
“Ouch! That must be really uncomfortable.” Then he grinned, and dropped his hands to run his fingertips all over my backside. “Mmmm. You’re right too!”
“And if you carry on like that little Cammie is going to be bursting out of the tape…”
He grinned. “You’re funny! You’ve no idea how much it turns me on to see you like this, knowing that underneath it all…”
“Shhh!”
He grinned again, and his fingertips continued to stroke.
“Right! You’ve asked for it!”
“What?”
“Come here right now!”
I grabbed his hand, and led him off the dancefloor, along a corridor and, checking that no-one had seen us, into a small office whose door had been left ajar. He grabbed me as we entered, slamming the door behind us, and pushed me against the adjoining wall, kissing me frantically. I came up for air, our eyes locked and then turned, simultaneously, to the desk in the middle of the room. He swept the papers that had, a moment earlier, been arranged in in neat piles over its surface, onto the floor and I spread myself over it, my belly against it’s cool surface. I felt the satin of my dress caress up my legs and over my backside and I gasped as he slid inside.

-

It was the very next Monday that I found the receipt. Charlie had gone into work as usual and he’d asked me to take one of his suits to the dry cleaners. I found it when I checked that the pockets were empty. Dinner for two. The date was last Wednesday. Charlie had gone to work that morning saying he would be working late, and it was after I’d gone to bed that he came home.

My stomach lurched straight away. I think we have a sixth sense when we know something is awry, and it was screaming at me just then. I remembered him coming in late. I remembered him smelling different. It didn’t seem significant at the time, but now I could recall what the smell was. Over the last few months I’d become more familiar than most guys with the fragrance of beauty products – powders, paint, perfumes. The smell of a woman.

I don’t know why I didn’t do something about it immediately – confront him with the evidence; ask him to explain. Perhaps I didn’t want to believe what my gut was telling me. I left it. Wednesday morning came, and he said he was going to be working late again. Again I was in bed, feigning to be asleep. Again he smelt of a woman.

The following week, after telling me he was going to be working late for the third time, I decided to do something about it and booked a table at the restaurant named on the receipt. I bought a new wig, blonde this time, and wore my make up differently so I was confident he wouldn’t recognise me. I arrived early and took a small table in the corner where I could see most of the other diners. For a moment as I’d entered I’d seen a group of around a dozen office workers at a table and my heart had leapt as I’d imagined it was Charlie with his colleagues, and there was a simple explanation for all this. But it wasn’t. Besides the office party, there were a couple of family groups, several couples, and a few all female tables, ranging from 2 diners up to five or six. But no sign of Charlie. I stayed until just after the last orders for food were taken around nine, and then hurried home. Charlie was back home around midnight again, with the same scent surrounding him as he climbed into bed. The next week, the same pattern and still no sign of him at the restaurant. I decided to try one last time.

The third time I went it was slightly busier than it had been previously, and my corner table was already occupied. I had a table in the centre of the room, next to one occupied by two women who I remembered from my previous visits. As I sat, I looked across and caught eye contact with the younger, taller of the two and smiled a greeting. She reciprocated fleetingly, and then her face stiffened and her mouth fell open in recognition. It was Charlie.
“Charlie! What the fuck!”
He stared at me silently, like a rabbit in headlights.
“What’s going on? Why are you dressed like…” I gestured at his clothes. “Who’s she?” I pointed at his companion.
“Cammie, I…Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!...it’s not what it looks like, I…”
“What the fuck does it look like, Charlie?”
“It’s…it’s..” he took a breath. “Jean…” he gestured at the woman sat opposite “runs a dressing service. For trans people.”
I shook my head, bewildered.
“It’s just that…you looked so amazing. I mean, when you dressed up, and you looked like you were enjoying yourself so much I wanted to try…and I thought…and I thought you wouldn’t want to see me. Like this, I mean. Because you like it so much, I mean you seem to like it when I play the boy, and you the girl, and…” his voice petered out and he sat there staring down at the table, snatching an occasional glance up at me to see my reaction. Perhaps it was the way he was dressed, but I’d never seen him appear so vulnerable before.
“Oh, Charlie, you stupid sod. Why didn’t you say?”
He shrugged softly. I reached my hand over and placed it on his. His companion excused herself and went to the bar.
“Stand up. Let’s take a proper look at you.”
He stood, gingerly. He was wearing a long, camel coloured roll neck pullover dress and knee length brown leather boots. His wig had been styled into an up-do, his cheekbones defined in all their angular glory to give him a distinctly elegant appearance.
“Fuck, You’re nearly as pretty as I am.”
His worried countenance broke into a smile. “No-one’s as pretty as you.”
“Hmmph! Now you’re just crawling to try to get back into my good books.” He grinned again.
“Oh, come here then! He stepped shyly towards me and I placed my arms around him. “I love you, you know, you silly bugger.”
“I know. I love you too.”
“And if you want to be the woman of the house from time to time, that’s fine with me.”

-

She wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a long, lingering kiss.
“Mmm. Cammie! You look hot! I hardly ever get to see you in a suit, you look so handsome!”
I’d just returned from a business meeting with my publisher. Charlotte had been waiting for me when I’d come home, her long legs taking what felt like several minutes to arrive in full view as she descended to the foot of the stairs.
“Mmmm.” I kissed her back. “And those legs of yours look absolutely sensational in that uniform.”
She smiled, and took my hand, her backside wiggling invitingly as she led me through to the living room.
“Dinner’s not quite ready, but I know just the thing to keep you occupied until then.” She pushed me gently back into the sofa and knelt between my legs.
I groaned with pleasure. “Charlotte?”
“Mmmm?”
“You know what?”
“What’s that?”
I grinned. “You’ll make someone a wonderful wife one of these days.”

THE END