Who Made the Lamb

By Fakeminsk

Little lamb, who made you?

Gave you clothing of delight,

Softest clothing pretty and bright,

Gave you such a tender voice?

Little lamb who made you

Do you know who made you?

(adapted from The Lamb, by William Blake)

Dedication

Thank you to my patrons, who made this story possible, and to the ladies of NMS, for being feral.

Chapter One: Standing Straight

There’s this photograph of his father. Alex rescued it from a pile of old papers his mum put aside, intended for the bin during the cleanup after the funeral. It’s a Polaroid, turning sepia with time: Morgan ’98, Winch. Arms, Taunton scribbled slantwise across the back. Morgan is twenty-four, looks work-tired but happy, celebrating a promotion, and relaxed in a way he never did in life. He doesn’t know about the two children he’ll father, though the first is less than a year away; doesn’t know he’ll die young, of a heart attack at forty-nine. Left arm severed by the photo’s edge, the right sits comfortably around the waist of a girl in a floral print dress. There’s a table covered in pints, anonymous hands flourishing fag ends flaring bright white spots in the faded image. His father grins, dressed in jeans, white shirt with the top button undone, loose-fitting jacket. He’s looking to someone out of frame.

                And wouldn’t you be proud of your son? Alex thinks. He goes to slide the photo into his pocket, then remembers he doesn’t have any, not dressed like this, stupid girl trousers. Instead, he places it in the handbag balanced on the sink, then retrieves the lipstick his sister packed for him. If only you could see me now, Dad. He touches up his lips. It’s one of the few things he can manage with any degree of confidence, and without his sister’s help.

                This whole charade’s her idea.

***

“Misandrist dyke bitch!” He slammed the door behind him. “Fuck!”

                The interview, he explained to his sister, did not go well. The woman took one look at him and made up her mind. She frowned, looked down at the open folder on her desk and what he assumed was his CV and job application. Truth was, he didn’t remember sending the application. He’d sent so many over the past three months, he couldn’t keep track. This was the first hit he’d had in weeks, an actual invitation to interview for a real job.

                “Alex?” the woman asked. She never introduced herself. Her frown intensified. “It says here, Alexandra.”

                “Alexander, actually,” he corrected. He’d seen the typo on the invite and assumed it was a computer glitch.

                She levelled a look at him generally reserved for the street scum you scrape off your shoe. “I would’ve had a job for Alexandra,” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. “After due consideration,” she continued, louder, “I’m afraid you’re not suitable for the role.” He tried to protest, and she cut him off. “Don’t waste my fucking time, okay? The listing was clearly for a woman. Think you’re the first guy to come in here, spouting shit about diversity discrimination? Fuck!” She leaned back in her chair, glaring at him. “I’ve got a job to fill, and I don’t have time for this bullshit. If I don’t fill this slot today, I lose my budget.” She swept his CV into a waiting bin. “Tits and a pulse, that’s what I’m looking for at this point. Tell you what, Alex. Know any women looking for work? I’ve got an open interview slot this afternoon at four. Send her in, she’s got a job.”

                “It’s not fucking fair,” he told his sister. “Fucking diversity and inclusion bullshit.”

                “Yeah.” It was nearly eleven am, and Sophie sat at the breakfast table in her morning kimono over coffee and morning bagel. She looked washed out after a late night, bags beneath her eyes, dark hair a tousled mess. “White guys being totally underrepresented in the workplace.”

                He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he said.

                “I know you sound like a MAGA dickhead,” she said. “Again.”

                “Whatever.” He stalked back and forth, tugging his tie loose. “It’s not fair,” he said. “The best person should get the job.”

                Sophie laughed. “And that’s you?”

                “I’ve got a pulse!” he said. “And a 2-1 from Bristol. I’m just missing the tits.”

                The bagel paused halfway to her mouth. “What if you had them?”

                Her idea was simple and stupid. Dress as a girl, she explained, grinning. Show for that four o’clock interview, give that woman the tits and pulse she’s looking for. Alex sat at the table with her, laughed at the joke.

                “Can you imagine?” he said.

                “Yeah, I can,” she said.

                He frowned. “I don’t look like a girl.”

                “You made a damned convincing Juliet.”

                “That was a school play five years ago.”

                “Yeah, and you totally nailed it,” she said. “Beth told me about the afterparty. You had everybody fooled, right?”

                He felt a prickling in his skin, and his mouth went dry.  “Whatever, this is stupid,” he said, stood up and walked away. Five minutes later, Alex stalked back and thrust a finger in her face. “And if I got the job, what then, did you think of that? I don’t want to work as a fucking secretary, or whatever the job is, not as a girl.”

                Sophie shrugged: “expose their unfair hiring policy for the bullshit you think it is, threaten to go to the press if they don’t keep you on. At the very least, you get some interview practice. And I bet you could get an article out of it, publish it online or in the Spectator.”

                “Or The Guardian,” he mused. “I can see it going either way.”

                “See? You’re always complaining you’ve got nothing to write about.”

                He shook his head, scratched at his beard. For ten months he’d been trying on and off to grow it out. “I like my beard,” he said.

                She rolled her eyes. “Give it up, Alex. That’s not a beard. It’s not even beard-adjacent. It’s a soul patch with delusions of grandeur.”

                “Yeah, well, I can’t pass for a real girl,” he said.

                “You did in the play.”

                “I was a kid! And on stage. This is different. This is stupid. Why are we even talking about this?”

                “Because you need a job.”

                “Not like this, I don’t.”

                “Yes, like this,” she said.

                This past week, Sophie started dropping hints that she wanted him out. Escalating comments about the effect of having him around all the time left him feeling guilty and angry. She resented him cramping her lifestyle. And Alex wanted out, too. He came to London expecting to find a job quickly, settle into his own flat, make friends, get out, get laid. Instead, the summer had come and gone, and he’d only gotten laid twice, one of those times with Jenny, his ex from back home, the other with some girl he met at a networking event the first week here.

                “There’s no way you can make me look convincing,” Alex said.

                “I’ll take that bet,” Sophie said.

                An hour later, Alex grudgingly admitted his sister was right. First, she had him shower and shave off his beard and moustache. Truth be told, he wasn’t that sad to see it go. “Legs too,” she said. “Nope,” he said, “no fucking skirts, no fucking dresses.” Sophie didn’t push him. By the time he finished showering and shaving his face, Sophie had several outfits laid out on his bed in the guest room, clothes she’d outgrown this past year. It was the happiest he’d seen her in weeks. “This is fun,” she said. “For you,” he said. “This is fucking embarrassing, I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

                She held up a skirt, a brown check mini from John Lewis. “You sure about the skirt thing? This would look great on you, with this—she held up a ribbed white long-sleeved top—and a belt, some sheer tights.”

                “No skirts,” he insisted. “No dresses.”

                Eventually, they settled on a pair of tapered beige trousers from M&S and a tight black button-down shirt from Next, long-sleeved and paired with a slender gold belt. A blazer, too—let’s keep attention away from those shoulders, Sophie said. A pair of clip-on fake pearl earrings and a slim watch finished the look. Beneath it all, one of Sophie’s old bras, white with lavender decorative lace, tight around the chest and Alex wasn’t too pleased to discover she was a C-cup. She filled a pair of stockings with rice, tied them off and stuffed the bra. The makeshift breasts sat heavily against his chest, knots pushing out like nipples.

                “How’d you know to do that?” he asked.

                She laughed. “Before you moved in, I rented your room out to all sorts,” she explained. “Had a drag queen living there for a few months, Madame Bouffante, big burly lad from up north but wow, what a performer. Fucking awful mess to clean up afterwards, let me tell you, pancake makeup everywhere, and half their stuff left behind. But I learned a few things. It’s why I’ve got this, it was left at the back of the closet,” she added, and passed it to him.

                “What the fuck is this?” he asked, holding it at arm’s length. This turned out to be a high-waisted girdle for padding out hips and bum. “I’m not wearing this,” he said flatly.

                “You are,” she said, “or the trousers won’t sit right, and it’ll keep your belly in, you’ve put on weight.”

                “Speak for yourself,” he muttered, but conceded the point. After three months of sitting around the flat, drinking beer and playing games, he’d birthed a little food baby though the rest of him remained slim. Not as much as she had this past year, but still. Grudgingly, and feeling sick to the stomach for the wrongness of it, he pulled the undergarment on, before slipping into the trousers and buttoning the top over his recently acquired breasts, fumbling with buttons set on the wrong side. The top felt cool against his skin, stretchy and tight and accentuating his fake boobs. Then Sophie did his makeup, taking her time, wiping him clean and restarting a few times until she got it right. Finally, she tackled his hair. He hadn’t had a haircut since reaching London, and over three months it'd grown out into a shaggy, mouse-coloured mess. “You’re lucky,” she said. “You got Mum’s hair, I can work with this.” With a copious use of hair product, a little styling and some hair clips later, she tamed the tangled mess into something both presentable and undeniably feminine.

                Eventually, she stood him in front of the mirror. “Ta da!”

                He looked at himself in the mirror, plucked at his sleeve, and shivered. “I feel like a fucking poof,” he said.

                “Homophobe much?”

                “Really?" He rolled his eyes. "My best friend’s gay. I’m no fucking homophobe.”

                “Fine. Dickhead, then.”

                He ignored her, poked at his hair, brushing it out of his eyes, and lightly tugged at an earring. He swept his hands down his sides, felt the shapewear beneath that created convincing curves. “And I’m not some sissy femboy, either. This is stupid, Sophie. I’m not doing this.”

                “You don’t think you look good?” she asked.

                “I look good,” he said. Truth was, he was taken aback at how good he looked. There was a girl in the mirror, and that girl was him. Makeup had softened the sharper features of his face, and the clothes were undeniably feminine. He felt an echo of five years ago: the school play freaked him out then, too, at how convincing a Juliet he made. Single-sex private school, end-of-year production, Mr. Dixon gave him the part, you earned it, he said, you’re the man to play our girl. And he pulled it off, enjoyed it even. He made a very pretty Juliet, seventeen-year-old smooth-faced boyish good looks making for surprisingly alluring girlish good looks, too. There’d been a lot of good-natured ribbing, and some uglier ‘banter’ that bordered on bullying, and a few genuine questions by sensitive classmates.

                St Oswald’s wasn’t a school to skip on costs, and Alex experienced the full Juliet: corset and stockings, flouncy dresses and flowers woven into hair extensions. After the final show, his best friend Luca, Romeo to his Juliet in the production, convinced him to go out still dressed like a girl. It’ll be a laugh, he said. And it was. He borrowed a skirt and top from Luca’s sister Bethany, low-heeled shoes and wore them over the Juliet corset. He’d always fancied Beth and went along with everything she suggested and sat quietly as she redid his makeup in a vibrant teenage style. After the after-party, the three of them tried the ‘Spoon in town. They got in, the two of them anyway, but not Luca. His friend never forgave him for that. But Alex looked older, as a girl, like a university kid and he liked that, felt mature, felt powerful in a new and exciting way he didn’t understand.

                Bethany and he chatted over pints of Butcombe, the first time they’d really spoken together alone. She held his hand. He remembered vividly the way their nails contrasted, her matte white next to his glossy pink press-ons. Then a creepy older man bought him a drink. That was less fun. Afterwards, he made out with Beth in her car. He remembers sliding his hand under her top, over her bra. She sighed and took his hand and guided it beneath her skirt. It was the first time he touched a girl there.

                When he got home, his father was waiting for him. Morgan was away with work again, or so Alex thought. But his father came back early to watch the finale of his son prancing around on stage in a dress. It was the only time Alex could remember his father attending anything he’d done. That night, Morgan stood, fists clenching and unclenching at his side as though he wanted to punch something. His lip curled in an ugly sneer, and he stared at his son standing there wide-eyed in a colourful skirt and midriff-baring top pushed out by Beth’s padded bra, teenage drunk with lipstick smeared across his face.

                Faggot, his father said.

                “I’m not doing this,” Alex said to his sister, pulling an earring from his ear.

                “You’re doing this,” she said.

                “You’ve had your fun, Soph. Ha ha. But I’m not doing this.”

                “Fine. Then grab your stuff and get the fuck out my flat.”

                The hand at his ear froze. “Excuse me?”

                “Three months, Alex. I’ve had it up to here with you. Three months I’ve put up with your shit. You’re my brother and I love you, but I’ve had enough. You don’t pay rent, you eat my food, you bitch nonstop, and you’re a sexist cunt, too. If I hear you mansplain another Jordan fucking Peterson video again, I’ll scream.”

                He opened his mouth to protest, but she wasn’t having it.

                “And how many job interviews have you had, hm? You turned down that offer when you first got here, you fucking idiot, thought you deserved better, holding out for Slaughter and May or some shit like that. And since then—what, one? Maybe two. Are you even looking anymore? Far as I can tell, you lounge around my flat all day doomscrolling YouTube videos, playing Switch and binging Netflix.”

                “That’s not fair,” he said. “The job market— the economy—"

                “Is shit. Yeah, I know, whatever,” she said. “I don’t care. You think the market was great when I got here? Tail end of a pandemic, you think anyone was hiring? But I got a job, anything I could find. You need a serious reality check, Alex. Stack shelves at Tesco, pull pints down the pub. I don’t give a crap about your fucking degrees, nobody does. Get over yourself and just get yourself some work.”

                Alex pulled at the silky fabric of his top. His stomach roiled with anger, or disgust. “Christ, you sound just like fucking Dad. ‘When I was your age,’” he mimicked in a gruff voice, “’I stacked shelves in the warehouse. Five years later, I ran the joint!’” Alex crossed his arms across his chest, frowned, shifted them below his bra line. “I didn’t stick it out for a Master’s degree to be a fucking waiter at Café Rouge.”

                Sophie laughed. “You’d be lucky to get a job at Café Rouge. They wouldn’t have you.”

                “You’re just jealous,” he said. “You’ve always been jealous. That I went to uni and you didn’t.”

                He immediately regretted his words and knew then that he’d be doing what she asked. Sophie had always been the stronger personality, had a way of getting her way when they were growing up. In many ways, it’d been a relief when she moved out at nineteen. He missed her terribly, though he’d never tell her that, but at the same time he felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders, with her gone

                “You’re going to this interview,” she said. “I need to know you’re still trying. If you don’t, you’re out of here. I’ll give you until the end of the week to get your shit out of my flat. I’ll even buy you a coach ticket, you can go back to Mum.”

                And the thought of going back to that almost empty house, the weight of failure and the hollowness the thought of home brought to his belly, it felt even worse than the fear he felt at the idea of stepping outside in his sister’s clothing.

                He turned back to the mirror. “You really think I can pull this off, Soph?”

                “With a bit of effort, yeah, I do.”

                Sophie completed his look—a coat of clear varnish to his nails—and then a handbag, shoes, and gave some cursory instructions on moving like a girl, had him walk back and forth across the flat a few times, sit down at the kitchen table, shake her hand. “Just don’t overdo it,” she said. “You remember your girl voice?” He thought back to Romeo and Juliet and Mr. Dixon’s instructions. He thought of all those videos off of YouTube and TikTok, those crossdressing Minecraft streamers or Omegle pranksters. “I’m ready for my close up, Mr DeMille,” he said, reaching for the right pitch, finding his voice. Sophie laughed and said, “good, not bad, keep practicing.” Finally, she filled his handbag: three tampons, a condom, a chintzy little makeup bag, slim girl wallet, hairbands, Ibuprofen, small metal water bottle.

                Alex prodded the makeup bag. “What am I supposed to do with all this? I don’t know how to use this stuff.” He flicked a tampon. “And I definitely don’t need this.”

                “No shit, Sherlock,” Sophie said, “but it’ll help keep you in character. Just—don’t touch your face, okay? The makeup’s long-wear, should get you through the interview at least without needing a touch up. Maybe just your lips. Here, let me show you how.”

                Swipe and wipe, ten minutes of practice, and he just about felt like he could manage. It was just a pencil, after all: fill in between the lines, try not to slip. Still, it felt emasculating, standing at the mirror, painting his lips.

                Despite all the effort, he still felt light-headed leaving the flat, nearly collapsed to the ground for hyperventilating. Shaking her head, Sophie took his hand. He froze at the door and couldn’t let go of the doorjamb. “I can’t do this,” he said.

                “Yes, you can. You’ve got this,” Sophie said.

                “I don’t know how to walk like a girl,” he said.

                “Try walking like a human, start with that. Stand up straight with your shoulders back,” Sophie told him. “Isn’t that what Peterson always bangs on about?”

                “Not so you can stick your tits out!”

                “Just be confident. Walk tall.”

                “In heels?” he asked.

                She laughed. “You think you’re ready for heels?”

                Sophie escorted him. Nobody paid attention to two young women on their walk to Angel Station. They took the towpath along the Regent’s Canal; a cyclist nearly ran them down, shouted ‘cunts!’ as he flew past, Sophie shouted ‘twat!’ in return and barely registered the exchange. Otherwise, no one took notice, not even when they passed close to other pedestrians. Make eye contact, Sophie instructed, but not for too long. If you keep staring at the ground, you’ll draw even more attention. Especially if you walk into someone. Finally, standing outside the station, she wished him luck. “I’ll meet you in town after the interview, at the All Bar One on Kingsway,” she said.

                Knees knocking, stomach churning, he tapped his phone and passed through the gates on his own. He felt sick riding the escalator down at Angel, but by the end of the ninety-second descent, he felt better. This was London, after all. Two o’clock in the afternoon and a steady trickle of people heading down, heading up, and nobody spared him more than a passing glance. Nobody gave a shit.

                On the Tube, his skin prickled and it felt as though everyone stared. Soon, he realised everyone was staring, just not at him: at their phones, or into the middle distance. Maybe one or two flashed a look his way, but were they the curious looks of someone catching out a secret cross-dresser? No; rather and perhaps worse, he suspected they were men, checking out the pretty young woman sat stiff-backed, legs together on the train.

                He transfers at King’s Cross, gets off at Holborn, joining the crowds flowing up to the surface, and still no one cared, noticed, cried out or showed him anything greater than passing indifference. Gradually, he started to feel a little better. The sun overhead was bright, the air warm and the clothes he wore gradually felt less alien. Not comfortable; that wasn’t possible, with his dick shoved back between his legs, waist gripped tightly by shapewear. The earrings pinched his ears, and the makeup felt heavy and foreign on his face. He hated the watch and kept spinning it around his wrist. But—it was bearable. Better, Alex thought, than heading home.

***

Now, he stands in the woman’s loo at the Starbuck by the LSE on the Kingsway, waiting for his interview. Handbag perched on the sink, he touches up his lipstick, and thinks, you’ve got this, Alex. Or rather, Blake, his surname, an easy substitute for a female name he wouldn’t forget under stress.

                He paints his lips matte coral. It takes a conscious effort to not immediately lick and ruin the effort. The interview is in ten minutes, and he’s already gone for a piss three times. Last time he pissed this often in ten minutes, it was before stepping out on stage for some performance at uni. A piss takes a lot more work than usual, he can’t just whip it out as usual and reminds himself to sit down when he goes. There’s the effort to tuck everything back and tug the girdle into place and make sure the padding sits right. It all feels very wrong, he looks at himself in the soft light of the mirror and think, Christ, I look like a fucking fairy, this is so fucking gay. But he knows that’s not true, because the girl in the mirror is shockingly convincing and in some ways that’s even worse.

                His stomach twists and he breathes deeply to calm himself. Get yourself under control, he thinks. How did that quote go? ‘Men have to toughen up,’ something like that, get his shit under voluntary control, accept the terrible responsibility of life. That’s what men do: take control, take responsibility. Well, he’s trying. It feels fucking terrible. Looking in the mirror, he certainly doesn’t feel tough. Not dressed like this, with lips painted a light pink, a face heavy with foundation and eyelashes fluttering with mascara.

                “A rose by any other name,” he intones, practicing his voice. “Would smell as sweet.”

                You’ve got this, he repeats and leaves the safety of the loo.

                Black hard-soled pumps announce his approach to the reception desk at Lockwood and Carmichael. The dark, wood-panelled room reminds him of his sixth form, a smell of wealth and old men. His handbag bounces at his hip, and in his hand a manila folder with his CV. A few quick edits made the necessary changes: Alexander to Blake, Blake to Morgan, M to F and now he’s Blake Morgan, twenty-two and female with a 2-1 from Bristol.

                He walks with tunnel vision, struggles to keep calm.  A blonde with long, very straight hair and a bright smile sits behind the heavy marbled desk. She looks up at him. He’d love to ask her out. There’s a bar around the corner. She’s very pretty and professionally dressed in a way that is both feminine and more than a little sexy. Her smile gives no indication of seeing the young man beneath the makeup.

                “I’m here—” and it comes out like a croak, betrays his nervousness. He tries again, pitching it a little higher, a little breathier, as he practiced. “Sorry—for an interview?”

                The blonde looks confused for a second, then her eyes fix on a yellow sticky note stuck to her monitor. She smiles. “Oh yes, Ms. St-Clair said there might be somebody coming by. Please, follow me.”

                He forces himself not to stare as she leads him to the interview room. Her ass rolls enticingly beneath a tight pencil skirt, long platinum blonde hair swaying to her waist.  She brings him down a dimly lit hallway to a line of chairs by a nondescript door. “Just you this afternoon,” the girl says.

                “Thanks.” He hesitates, then adds, “Um—any hints?”

                The girl laughs. “Hey, you’ll do fine. Ms. St-Clair is great, her bark is definitely worse than her bite. Just keep smiling, she likes it when we smile.” She gives Alex a once over. “You look great. Love that lipstick, what is it?”

                Alex scrambles to think of an answer. “Uh—” it suddenly comes to him, a name written across the pencil reflected in the mirror, “Nars. Powermatte? Coral pink.”

                She leaves him there, after giving her name: Amber, and wishes him good luck. He sits for five minutes, fidgeting, fighting the urge to check his phone. People walk by, cast a curious eye his way. There’s a few appraising looks, and his skin crawls as one guy about his age openly leers; but otherwise, he's ignored.

                At first, he sits knees apart and then realising he’s manspreading, tries sitting legs crossed, knee to knee. This pinches painfully, so he sits knee to ankle and then thinks it looks unfeminine. Finally, he sits primly with back straight, breasts forward, thighs together, hands hidden between his knees. Then, flustered, he picks up the handbag and rests it on his lap. He pulls out the photograph and takes another look at it. Morgan ’98. He sweeps his fingertip across his dad’s face. Missing you, Dad, he thinks, hope you don’t mind I’m using your name.

                “Come in!” A woman’s voice calls from inside the room. Alex tucks the photo away, stands and brushes himself down. Suddenly, he misses his man’s suit, even though he’s always hated wearing it, even the necktie, which he hates even more. He keenly feels the unfamiliar texture of women’s trousers, the clingy fabric of his top and the unnatural weight of artificial curves. His sister’s bra feels too tight, the fake tits heavy and obvious. He’s a man, wearing women’s clothing, and a drag queen’s underwear. Under his makeup, he flushes red and hot with embarrassment. What the fuck am I doing? he thinks. This is insane.

                He can still run away. His fingers curl and uncurl into fists, his palms sweaty, and his nails gleam in the soft light.

                I can’t do this, he thinks.

                His phone buzzes. He checks the text. Good luck! Sophie writes, followed by a bunch of emojis: happy face, trumpet and confetti, kissy face. You’ve got this.

                I’ve got this, he tells himself, and heads into the interview.

Chapter Two: All Bar One

An hour later, he meets his sister at the All Bar One on Kingsway, just a little way down from the station.

“Can we just go home, please?” he asks, exhausted. “I want to get out of these clothes.”

But Sophie’s not having it. She wants to celebrate, wants to know how it’s gone. There’s a bottle of house white sitting in an ice bucket, South African and the second cheapest on the menu, and two massive glasses waiting. She pours the wine. It’s still bright outside, and their glasses flash like pale gold in the early evening light. It’s early enough that they get one of the choice seats by the large windows. They watch pedestrians marching past. Despite the early hour, the bar’s getting busy, mostly young women trickling in from nearby offices. He takes a drink and feels the sweet wine hit a mostly empty stomach. He knows he should stop, but it eases his anxiety and so he takes another deep drink and feels the stress melt from his shoulders.

In a way, this is precisely what he wanted and expected from London: after-work drinks in City bars, or down by the river. But not like—this, with a face full of fading makeup and a shiny black top pushed out by a padded bra and tapered trousers flaring over artificially wide hips. When sexy girls glance his way, what do they see, he wonders, what do they think? Not, he suspects, a prospective hookup.

“Why here?” Alex asks. “We could’ve done this closer to home. I mean, this place, it’s a bit shit, right? Nice enough, but still—”

“It’s female-friendly, that’s why.” Sophie cuts him off. “Thought you might appreciate that, dressed as you are.” The chain started as a female-friendly alternative in the 90s, a counter to the darkened windows and cramped spaces of the typical pub. And Alex kind of gets it. He’s always liked pubs, especially the ones back home in Somerset: dark, cozy nooks, real ales on tap, often a dog by the bar.

But this is okay, too: the broad windows, open space, bright airy interiors. It feels safe, or as safe as it can for a man dressed in women’s clothing. Even though sitting by the window leaves him feeling like he’s on display, and people passing by can see him, he also feels anonymous: just another girl in a well-lit pub on a Thursday afternoon. Sophie picks up on his nervousness and pats his hand. “Don’t worry,” she says, smiling wryly. “You fit in perfectly.” He suspects she’s winding him up but at the moment, fitting in, in this female-friendly bar, that feels kind of nice, too. He remembers some of the bars back home, some of the rougher lads there, the drunks, the fights that inevitably broke out at the ‘Spoon. He can’t imagine that happening here, he can do without that bullshit.

Sophie pulls her mobile from her handbag, places it to one side, face up. “So, little brother,” she begins. “You ready to go all Norah Vincent for me? Feeling like a self-made woman yet?”

“Makeup sucks.” He reaches for his glass of wine. “So do girdles.”

She snorts. “That’s it? I expected more.”

And he’s thinking, yeah, there’s more, sis, a hell of a lot more. He’s thinking of his dad, and the photo in his borrowed handbag. He’s thinking of Amber, the pretty receptionist at the interview, and how he’d love to get to know her better. He’s thinking it’s a damn odd thing, that for all the stress and anxiety of dressing and passing as a woman he’s carried with him all day, the constant paranoid feeling of eyes tracking and judging him, nobody seems to give a shit, and somehow that’s galling, it’s as much an insult as it is a relief. But also, he's had fun today, in a strange sort of way, not that he'd ever admit this to his sister.

He shrugs.

“And she didn’t recognize you from before?” Sophie’s watching him keenly and he bridles a little under her eye.

He shakes his head no. “Nope. But then, she barely looked at me this morning.”

The interview went fine, he explains. Certainly, not at all what he expected. The contrast with his earlier meeting couldn’t have been starker. This time, the woman behind the desk seemed relaxed, the hard, angry lines of before softened. He found her quite attractive; a little older than Sophie, maybe early- to mid-thirties and he’d always liked that, a slightly older woman. She took a long, searching look at him and then beamed a wide smile. “I’m Emily St-Clair,” she said, “it’s nice to meet you, Miss…?”

“Morgan,” he said, extending his fingers. “Blake Morgan.”

Emily asked about his degree, why he wanted the job. English Lit, he answered, a first, followed by a Master’s, a two-one. And I want the job to gain experience, because you need experience to get a job, and a job to get experience. Very true, Emily smiled, but why this job?

“Because I’m passionate about—” and then he faltered, and realized he wasn’t passionate about anything, really, at least recently, other than getting out of his sister’s flat and starting his own life. Also, having spent so much time prepping to pass as female, he hadn’t prepped for the interview. He hardly knew anything about this job he’d apparently applied for. So, instead of trying to bullshit her, he grinned in what he hoped was a disarming way. “Because I’m passionate about paying the rent,” he admitted. Emily laughed, and he relaxed a little.

Ms. St-Clair commented on his degree, said they preferred candidates with a humanities background, too many STEM grads about these days and they wanted people with social and critical skills, especially in an entry-level job. She asked about his Master’s thesis: ‘Cracked in a Hundred Shivers’: The Formation of Subjective Identity on the Early Modern Stage, he said. Emily raised an eyebrow. How very esoteric, she commented dryly.

“Then she asked me about—”

Sophie glances up from her phone. “About?”

He blushes. “It was weird. She asked if I was married, if there was a guy in the picture, pretty girl like me, she said, bet they’re queuing up. I mean, that’s not normal, right?”

“No, Alex.” Her lips purse in a thin, angry line. “That’s not normal. That’s red flag bullshit right there. Forget diversity discrimination, your sexuality, marital status, that’s not an employer’s business.” Then she shrugs, sips her wine. “She ought to have known better. But it’s not surprising. L&C are pretty old-school. They see a twenty-two-year-old girl, right? Total pregnancy risk, you know, start of the danger zone where you might sign on, then pop one in the oven, squeeze it out nine months later and fuck off on maternity leave for half the year.”

He feels sick to his stomach. “I’m not a girl,” he says.

“But you look like one,” Sophie says. She looks him over. “Though your makeup’s fading, the boy’s peeking through the cracks.”

He groans, wants to hold his face in his hands, but doesn’t dare touch the mask he wears. Slumping in the chair, he glares balefully at his sister. “Today was awful.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” Gesturing around the bar, she takes in the other patrons. “I mean, look at these people, all these other women. You don’t see them complaining.”

And they’ve had a lifetime to get used to this shit, he wants to say, but he’s too tired to argue the point. Christ, though, the effort—to do this every day—he shivers. He sees the lithe limbs, smooth legs beneath short skirts and imagines shaving his legs every day. He sees the perfectly sculpted eyebrows and manicured hands, the crisp blouses and straight hair—God—the cost in time and money to maintain this appearance. How do they put up with it?

Not all the girls, obviously—his sister’s a great example of a woman who doesn’t give a shit, except for when she does—but still. That receptionist, Amber: she looked amazing, perfect makeup, hair, a sculpted appearance that spoke—not so much of professionalism—but rather of a recognition of being on display and a recipient of the gaze of others.

“And be honest, Alex,” Sophie continues. “Was it really that bad?”

For the first time, a smile cracks through, a very small one. The wine helps. “I mean, yes,” he insists, then grins ruefully. “This girdle’s horrible, Soph. And I hate the feeling of makeup, I can see why you don’t bother most days. And the panic attack leaving the flat—” He winces. “But honestly? No—maybe not that bad, at least once I realized no one made me as a guy, or if they did, they didn’t care.” He draws a finger through beads of condensation on the table surface, sketches idle circles. “I wouldn’t want to do it again. But I guess it sure as hell beat spending another day cooped up indoors.” He did enough of that to last a lifetime, he thinks, a year of undergraduate study trapped in a tiny university dorm room.

Her phone buzzes, she glances at it and begins to tap a response. “How’d the rest of the interview go?” she asks.

Fine, he tells her, up until she asked the last question: “where do you see yourself in five years?” Ms. St-Clair read the question off the sheet of paper where she’d been taking interview notes, and he panicked.

Alex pauses to drink. These glasses are huge, 250ml. Sophie topped it up when he arrived, and he’s surprised to see his already half-empty. A pattern of coral lip-prints glosses the rim. “And I swear, Soph, I didn’t know what to say. I—never really thought that far ahead.”

Absently rotating his glass, he watches how the wine sparkles in the daylight, and his nails, too, with their clear sheen. But he had to say something, so he fell back on some crap about progressing his career. Making a difference. Someday, moving into a leadership position. The woman’s eyes instantly glazed over with boredom. He changed tack: Actually, he said, I see myself where you are. The woman perked up, smiled, brushed her hair back. Really? she asked. Grinning, he licked his lips, tucked back a bang. Well, yeah. I mean, if I was looking for a female role model, I’d pick you. The way you dress, your confidence, if I was on the other side of that desk in five years, looking as good as you do, I’d be doing well, don’t you think?

He remembers thinking at the time, what the hell am I saying, don’t say that! Not that Emily St-Clair wasn’t hot: she was, stern and sexy, dressed for business in glossy black heels, dark tights, slim black skirt suit, and very red lips. The frames of her glasses were thick, square-framed and her every movement seemed sharp and controlled. But mostly, he remembers the sudden and surprising feeling of hollowness in his belly, because the idea of being in that woman’s position in five years terrified him. And whether it was the idea of wearing a skirt suit and high heels and playing the female part five years down the road—or the thought of carrying that much professional responsibility on his shoulders—he couldn’t tell, and the rest of the interview passed in a blur.

Sophie’s fingers hover over her phone. “Alex, were you flirting with her?”

“Maybe? Christ, I don’t know, Soph, I barely knew what I was saying, alright?”

“It’s a basic fucking question, Alex. They always ask that. Everybody knows where they’ll be in five years.”

“Well, I didn’t, okay?” Now he’s sullen. It’s the alcohol, tiredness, frustration, maybe all three. “Or I mean, I don’t. Like, I used to know, or at least I think I used to know. Everything seemed really clear to me a year ago. But not anymore. Finish my degree, come to London. I just kind of expected everything to fall into place.” He mimes layering bricks, one atop the other. “Get a job. Get a flat. Get a girl. But instead….” He folds his hands in over each other and slides them off the table, out of view.

“Yeah, well, that’s probably our dear father’s fault,” Sophie says, pushing her phone to one side.

Alex frowns. “What’s Dad got to do with it?”

She eyes him levelly for a moment. There’s a look in her eyes he’s never seen there before. He feels her gaze pass over him like a physical presence, like ants crawling across his skin. “You really have no idea, do you?” she says.

Just then, his phone rings. He picks it up, checks the screen. “It’s them,” he says softly. He answers the phone, presses the other hand over the other ear to block out rising hubbub of the pub. The conversation lasts for several minutes. Yes, yes, um yes, this is Blake, uh, Blake Morgan, yes; yes; no, no I wasn’t aware of that; oh wow, yes, that is—yes. A longer pause and then, um—yeah. I’ll get back to you. And then finally: thank you.

He hangs up, puts his phone down on the table. A moment later it vibrates a few times, pinging with incoming notifications.

He closes his eyes, sinks back in his chair.

Sophie waits a moment. “Well?”

His smile is thin, more grimace than joy, and he touches his fingertips lightly to his lips. They come away flecked coral. He studies the colour for a moment. He hates this stuff, the tackiness of it, the weight of it on his lips. Around him, he hears the chatter of women. Their lips shimmer in peach, rose, deep crimson, light strawberry. Most are dressed directly from work, pencil skirts and blouses, mostly flats, a few heels. A sparkly top or a colourful long dress, here and there. And It’s late August, so lots of thin straps, shorter skirts, bare legs, light fabrics.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” He speaks to Sophie, but his gaze continues to travel across the bar. He picks out the women sitting opposite guys, men in grey and navy suits with wide lapels and relaxed fits. They loosen their ties, drape their blazers over the back of their seat. He wishes he was one of them. A pang of—jealousy? grips him around the middle. Maybe it’s just the girdle, worn for too long. But he also sees these young women, and he envies them, too: the table talk, friendly drinks, the after-work experience he’s never known.

“Well, yeah,” Sophie answers. She watches him curiously. “Aren’t you?”

“Are you fucking joking? No!” It comes out louder than expected, his own voice, male and outraged. “No,” he repeats, quieter, softer. “I nearly shat myself, Soph. Went for a piss three times before the interview.”

“Normal jitters,” she says.

“It wasn’t normal fucking jitters, Soph. What if somebody saw I was a guy?”

“What if?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth opens and closes with disbelief, he digs deep to find the words. “God, Soph, sometimes, you can be such a—”

“Go on,” she says.

Alex grimaces. “It’s humiliating, okay? This,”—he waves his hand to take in his clothes, the underclothes, makeup—“all of it, it’s—unmanly, okay? I’m a guy, and dressing like this, in girl clothes, it’s embarrassing.” What really gets to him isn’t the clothes, which are odd and uncomfortable but bearable; or even the makeup, which he hates; but that fact that he nobody seems to have noticed. What kind of man passes so convincingly as a girl?

“I see,” Sophie says. She takes a deep drink of her wine, looks at him over the rim and there’s a dangerous glint to her eyes. “So, it’s embarrassing being a girl, is that it? Being female, that’s shameful, somehow?”

He groans. The last thing he wants right now is for her to launch into some feminist tirade. Too tired to think straight, he can’t be bothered to argue. Besides, they’ve been over this shit too many times these past months, and in the years before that. No, it’s not humiliating to be female. Equally, men are different and that’s a fact. Gender might be a construct, but sex is biology and you ignore this reality at your peril. Men are simply stronger, bigger, tougher: evolved to stand up straight with their shoulders back, ready to carry the responsibilities of the world. Men lead and bring order and that means controlling the chaos both within themselves and within their world. Women—girls—being weaker and more accommodating, are less well suited to this. Yes, women can lead, obviously. But not naturally. His sister certainly isn’t accommodating or weak; running her own business, she knows a thing or two about leadership and control. But still. Women are inclined to please. Of course they are, it emerges organically from their mothering role, out of a desire for social cohesion. After all, being physically weaker women are more likely to lose in conflict; with more to lose, they’re biologically inclined to avoid conflict, to negotiate.

All this, Alex knows to be true. Absently spinning the thin women’s watch at his wrist, he scans across the bar and finds ample evidence. The way these girls present themselves: the clothes and makeup, earrings and accessories, all manifestations of an inner need to please. This externalisation of the female instinct for negotiation signals their willing but mostly unconscious participation in a social contract and beauty myth written in vivid colours, soft fabrics and prescribed hemlines. What is feminine fashion but another medium for communicating a willingness to concede—comfort, time, money—in exchange for—what? Security and safety, and any of the other advantages that derive from feminine beauty, purchased with overt sensuality and passive sexuality. He sees it, in that pretty girl’s glossy smile and the way she tucks her hair, the sparkle of earrings as she mirrors the movements of the man sat opposite her. He leads, and she follows: from the man she derives order.

But for a man to wear these things is to subvert his natural inclination and fail in his responsibilities. He should be taming his shadow and cultivating the inherent threat of his masculinity: dangerous, yet in control of that danger. Not smothering his threat, constraining it in a bra, disguising it with makeup. To tie down his masculinity and bind it in silk and satin and straps of lingerie, soften it in a skirt or stockings—to hide behind a veil of femininity—it was a surrender to some residual female biologic impulse, a dormant instinct inherited from the womb. Relinquishing control is fine and appropriate in a woman but in a man shows him weak, submissive, and unmanly.

Alex passes his hand across his eyes and speaks with forced patience. “Christ, just for once, can you let it go? You know it’s not the same, these clothes, lipstick on a guy, it means something. Today’s been—hard. I’m tired.” He looks at his near-empty glass. “And I think I’m drunk.”

“Fine.” She stares into her own glass. “Want to know why I’m enjoying this so much?”

“I’m getting major sadistic evil sister vibes.”

“Hardly.” She chuckles. “Okay, maybe just a little. But it’s more than that, Alex. Try and see if from my perspective, okay? Three months, you’ve been lounging around my flat. This past month, I’ve seen you more in your pants than in trousers. You’ve put on weight—”

He scoffs. “And you haven’t?”

“—you’re always online and frankly, I’m worried, Alex, some of the shit you say and these past two weeks, especially, you’ve just been so—”

“Frustrated.” He grinds the word out between clenched teeth.

“Angry,” she says. “And frankly, more than a little mean. Like, a right proper douche, sometimes.”

He speaks into his wine glass. “I don’t think that’s fair. You’ve been a bitch, too.”

“Sure, whatever. But it’s my fucking flat, Alex. My home. Not yours.” She shakes her head. “And these videos you’re watching, the stuff I overhear. I’m worried, Alex. Like, you’re a week away from becoming a proper little incel cunt, on the cusp of ordering me to make you a fucking sandwich or something. Last week, Peterson; next week, maybe it’s Andrew Tate?”

He winces. “C’mon, sis, he’s an utter pillock. That’s not fair.”

“Yeah? Maybe, maybe not.” She shrugs, drinks some wine. “But considering some of the sexist bullshit I’ve heard, I’ll be honest—watching you all dressed up like this, makeup on your face and that breathy little voice of yours?” She grins. “Yeah, it’s been fun.” Then she reaches across the table, for his hand. “It’s also been… reassuring. Because I don’t think a real misogynistic arsehole could’ve done it.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I think.”

“So, then—” she indicates his phone. “What’d they say?”

Alex pauses for dramatic effect—or exhaustion—and smiles wanly. “They offered me the job,” he says. “Or rather, they offered ‘Blake Morgan’ the job. They liked her, they said. Ms. St-Clair was really impressed.”

“Alright!” Emily raises her hand in a high five. He leaves her hanging and doesn’t reciprocate. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, and between the tiredness and the exhaustion and the shame, he fights back a desire to cry. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, I can’t fucking well take the job, can I?” he says.

“Why not?”

He looks up at his sister, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? Because it’s for a fucking girl,” he hisses. “And I’m not a girl, or have you forgotten that?”

“Keep your voice down,” she snaps. In a softer tone, she continues, “But—isn’t this what you wanted? They offer you the job, you accept it, challenge their discriminatory policy—”

“It’s what you wanted!” he says. “And no—I can’t—there’s no fucking discrimination, okay? I—you—we were wrong, okay? We should’ve looked at the job listing closer.” He grabs his phone, unlocks it, flicks through a few messages and opens a file. He slides the phone over to his sister and watches as she reads.

Lockwood and Carmichael were a prestigious wealth management firm. Big clients, old money; if he’d known before the interview, there’s no way he would’ve dared this farce. After the interview, he did the minimal research that should’ve taken place before meeting St. Clair. That he hadn’t done it before applying struck him as odd, but then again, he’d sent out so many of these applications, that first hectic month in London. Probably, he’d been up against an application deadline.

The job really was entry-level, a receptionist and administrative internship. Not the kind of job he wanted at all, and he was surprised he’d bothered applying for it. Still, it was a foot in the door and could lead to better things. Even just a few months with a firm with L&C’s reputation could make a big difference for his work prospects. So, fine. And there’s no reason a receptionist has to be female, so maybe—just maybe—he could get them on that, although being more than a little old-fashioned, Lockwood and Carmichael clearly preferred someone pretty and polished behind the desk, like Amber.

After all, it’s a bad look in 2025, even with the White House deleting “identity” and “woman” from government websites. But the fact the entire leadership team was entirely male, stale and pale Oxbridge types left the firm looking dated, the wrong kind of traditional, maybe. Clients wanted innovation and bold forward-thinkers when it came to placing their money, and L&C were starting to look staid. Some of their clients preferred the old ways—the Russian oligarchs, Japanese tech entrepreneurs, middle Eastern aristocrats—but they were at risk of losing new clients if they didn’t present at least an illusion of changing with the times.

And therefore, the internship role and its linked DEI “Diversity in Leadership” mentorship program intended to ease young women—and other minority groups—into management.

“Fuck me, we’re a minority now?” Sophie scowls, glances up at Alex. “Christ, these old fuckers. How much more tokenistic can you get? Bet they scribbled this shit down on a napkin over lunchtime martinis at the Garrick, pissing themselves laughing.”

But Alex can’t see the humour. “Maybe it’s a joke, but if so it’s on me, Soph. I can’t go after them for discrimination when it’s a DEI job, can I?”

“Yeah.” She scratches her head. “Yeah, I didn’t know about any mentorship program.”

“It’s not fucking fair,” he says. “First job offer I get, and it’s offered to Blake. Like, I don’t want to be a… a fucking girl receptionist; but working in the City? Hell yeah, and the pay’s good, and it’s a fast track to management to boot?” He picks up his glass, knocks back the rest and eyes what’s left in the bottle. “It’s not fair,” he repeats, grabbing the wine out of the ice bucket, splashing the remainder into his glass. He waves the empty at his sister. “Another?”

“I thought you wanted to go home and change?”

“Yeah.” He plucks at his top. “But what I really want now is to get shitfaced.”

Sophie laughs, orders another bottle and a plate of nachos. Outside, the autumn sun dips behind the old building of Holborn, long shadows cast across narrow streets. Alex thinks of centuries-old medieval roads, the steady flow of trade and commerce through these streets, and a steady march of days leading back to Londinium and the Romans, those brave legions of sturdy men marching out of the light into the unknown, carrying with stoic manliness the heavy responsibility of civilizing the darkness.

Suddenly uncomfortable, he shifts in his seat. He needs to take a piss but doesn’t dare head to the toilet on his own. After so many hours, the girdle’s hurting, and he wants out of this fucking bra. At the same time—he’s enjoying himself, despite the ridiculous outfit. Sophie’s smiling, and that makes him happy. It’s the best night out he’s had with her in years. He licks his lips and realises they’re nearly bare. Now he’s almost giddy with the thought that he should reapply his lipstick. God, how the fuck has he ended up here? Just like that night with Beth, five years ago. He wore lipstick then as well. She did his makeup. He kissed her. Felt a girl’s breasts for the first time. And more. Fuck.

“Earth to Alex, you okay there? You’re looking a bit flushed.”

He grins. It makes him happy to think of Beth. According to Luca, she’s living in Bristol now, has a job, is in a steady relationship with some guy called Dave. There’s been talk of marriage. That makes Alex less happy. Then he looks to his sister. As far as he knows, she’s single, too. At least, she hasn’t had anyone around since he’s moved in. Now, he feels unhappy, for being single, and guilty for dragging his sister down. He wants to apologize, takes a deep breath and tries to find the words. He feels the bra tighten across his chest. This annoys him and he remembers: yeah, but this is all her fault. When he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what to say.

“Sorry,” is what pops out. “For what I said this morning. About you being jealous. I shouldn’t have said that.”

She shrugs. “Whatever. But hey, look at you. One day as a girl and you’re going all soft.”

He laughs. “How’s my makeup looking?”

“Honestly, a bit worse for wear. I’d say to freshen up in the loo, but—you’d fuck it up worse.”

He flicks his phone over to camera mode, checks himself out. Sophie’s efforts of earlier today have faded somewhat, and whatever she did to soften his features and smoothen his skin is giving way to hints of the man beneath. He sees himself, though that’s not necessarily a good thing. Not that anyone’s noticed, or if they have, they don’t care. He pulls out the lipstick pencil, brings it to his lips. He can feel his sister watching him. He glances over the phone’s edge and catches her eye. “What?”

“Nothing.” A moment later, she adds, “It’s just a bit weird for me, seeing you do that.”

“Weird, for you?” Taking great care, he pencils in his lips, feels the slick stuff spread its colour. He watches himself in his phone but sees over its edge that he’s caught the eye of a man a few seats over. For a moment, he feels the power of feminine performance, the ability to draw attention through the simplest of acts. This guy is already sat with a girl; she’s pretty, peach-coloured lips and gauzy white top: but his eyes are fixed on Alex. When Alex catches him out, the guy grins, shrugs and returns his attention to the girl in front of him.

Alex purses his lips together. “You’re joking, right?”

Sophie swirls her drink as she thinks. She takes a sip, and shrugs. “Obviously, it’s weirder for you. I get that. But for a moment there, I don’t know, watching you? You did good work; you had a good teacher. It felt like I had a sister, okay? And that felt good.”

“Is that what this is? You always wanted a sister?”

She laughs. “God, no. Can you imagine? Fuck, Dad would’ve been even more impossible.”

Silence, then. Alex feels his father’s absence like a physical hole inside of him, and it hurts, and when she says stuff like that, it fills that absence with pain. They haven’t really spoken about their father since the funeral, only passing comments, generally negative on her part. It annoys him—no, makes him angry—that she seems, if not actually happy, then at least relieved by his passing.

“Alex—” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“What were you going to say, earlier?” he asks, his voice quiet. “About Dad? ‘You have no idea,’ you said. Then the phone rang.”

“No,” she says. “I don’t want to talk about that now, not anymore.”

He reaches into the handbag and retrieves the photograph. He slides it across the table until it lies halfway between them. “I miss him, Sophie.” Alex looks up to his sister. “Why don’t you?”

Her features harden. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to. It’s pretty obvious how you feel. You’ve never hid it. You resented him. You thought he played favourites, hated him for it. Paid for me to go to that private school for sixth form. Paid my university tuition. Everything I ever wanted, I got, right?” He shakes his head. “I’m not stupid, Sophie. And it’s not like other people never said anything. You can admit it, you know. You were jealous.”

She shakes her head slowly, and he thinks it’s in denial but then realises it’s with disbelief. “Jealous?” Her shoulders shake with silent, angry laughter. “Jesus Christ, Alex, you are such a knob sometimes. Jealous? Fuck no. I never wanted to go to some uptight posh school full of aristo twats. And university was never on the cards for me. Chrissake, Alex, I barely scraped fours at GCSE, I wasn’t ever going to uni. Was I jealous? No, Alex, I wasn’t jealous. But I was angry. You have no fucking idea, Alex, what living under a roof with that man was like, as a girl. I loved him, he was our father, but Christ, he was a proper old chauvinist twat, our dad, and you never saw it. How could you when you benefited from it, hell, enjoyed it, even?

“From the day you were old enough to sit on your own at the table, he shoved Mum to the side and after that, it was always the two ‘men’ at either end of the table, wasn’t it? Every fucking Sunday he was home, it was Mum in the kitchen serving up the roast and Dad and his ‘little man’ ruling the fucking roost. Let me tell you, the patriarchy was alive and well in the Blake household! I couldn’t even get a word in edgewise most days. He’d shush me, literally tell me to shut up because, oh look, Alex has something to say, let him finish! What golden wisdom might drop from the boy’s honeyed lips this time? And didn’t you just love it, and you never fucking shut up after that. I just gave up. Sometimes, I wondered if I just stopped talking completely, never said a word again, how long it’d take before somebody noticed. Believe me, I couldn’t get out of that place fast enough after I finished school.

“And the thing is, Dad wasn’t even around half the time! Always traveling for work, yet somehow he fostered this oppressive atmosphere around the house. God, just talking about it, I can feel it again, like the room’s closing in. It sucked, Alex, being a girl in our household, let me tell you. So, was I jealous? No, Alex, I wasn’t jealous. But I resented him, and you, and the fact that he so clearly loved you more than he loved me, simply for being a boy.”

Alex listens to the whole tirade, his stomach slowly twisting in knots with every word. He doesn’t try to interrupt. When she’s done, he waits to see if she has anything else to add. She doesn’t. Sophie takes a long drink and then brushes herself down, as though flicking away the dust of the past. “You asked,” she says, but for the first time that night, she doesn’t meet his eyes. “And to be honest, I don’t even blame him, that’s the crazy thing. I blame her. Not once, not fucking once did Mum stand up for me, say anything, or voice an opinion contrary to his. Pathetic, weak woman.”

“You’re wrong,” he says quietly, but with conviction. “And don’t fucking talk that way about Mum.”

She leans closer. Her index fingers rests over the Polaroid photograph, covering their father’s face. “Oh, please, do tell.”

“He always preferred you,” Alex says. “You were always his favourite.” Saying this hurts; he resists the urge to snatch the photograph back from her, and so he hugs himself around the stomach. He feels the firm grip of the girdle there, pulling in his waist, and feels bizarrely reassured by it.

“Couldn’t you see that? You were the responsible one. ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister,’ ‘Pull yourself up by the bootstraps,’ he’d say, ‘like your sister did.’ You have any idea how often he said that to me? You followed in his footsteps, after all. Left home at nineteen, got a job. You should’ve heard him talking to his mates, how proud he was of you, using the inheritance from Grandad’s death to find your feet in the big city, then working three jobs in London, barely scraping by but by God, you were doing it. Meanwhile, he paid for me to go to that fancy school and resented me for it. Made me soft, he said. Talked down to me for it. What was the good of all that education, what the hell was I going to do with that? Especially with me doing fucking Drama at A-level, English, History, you can just imagine what he thought of that. Forget the fact that I got three As, could’ve gone to Oxford—no, it wasn’t good enough, sixth form, uni, staying on for a Master’s, it was all just—deferring my manly responsibility. I was—that time he saw me—” and then he cuts off, hears his father’s voice once again, clear as day: faggot.

Alex takes a shaky breath and forces a smile. “You were the son he always wanted,” he says. “Not me. I’m a failure.”

It’s loud in the bar now, and busy. Most of the tables are full. It’s nearly eight and the setting sun paints the station opposite in crimson flares as it grows darker outside. The first rush of post-work drinkers has moved on, and the next wave’s arriving. It’s Thursday night, and now the women’s outfits sparkle, skin shimmers as Alex looks at them. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to be home and to crawl beneath the duvet and sleep for the next week.

“I didn’t know that,” Sophie says. “Dad really said those things about me?”

He nods.

“You’re not a failure, Alex.” Sophie says. “You’re just… finding yourself.”

“Yeah? Look at me!” He plucks at the shiny black blouse he’s wearing, pulls it from where it clings between his fake tits. “Look at what I’ve found. Some man I’ve proven to be.”

They sit in silence for a bit after that, as the bar grows steadily busier. A waitress passes by and clears their empty glasses and the plate of nachos. He barely remembers eating them. The second bottle of wine’s nearly empty, too. He sighs; so does Sophie; they look at each other and a ghost of a smile flickers across both their faces.

“So—what are you going to do, little brother?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It depends on you. I went for the interview, like you said. Are you still going to kick me out?”

Sophie looks pained. “I—have to, Alex. I’m sorry, I am, but—I need that room back, I need the income from the room. Money’s tight. Business has been slow.”

There’s a look of panic in his eyes, and it tremors his voice. “I can—pay, I’ve got some money, the inheritance—”

But she’s shaking her head. “I can’t take that money, Alex, you know that. Besides, it wouldn’t last long. A room in a canal-side flat in Islington, ten minute walk from the station, you have any idea what I charge for that?”

Pale-faced beneath fading makeup, he stares at her. He feels a terrible anxiety bubbling up inside of him. In a moment, she’s going to tell him to go home. He can’t go home. He needs to stay; to stay, he needs an income; and that means a job.

“What if I took the job?” he blurts out.

She nearly laughs. “You can’t take that job. Haven’t we been over this? It’s for a girl.”

“I got through one day. I can survive another.”

“And the day after that? And the week after that?”

“Three months,” he said. “I just need to get through the probationary period, right? I can turn down the mentorship program, and with three months’ experience on the CV, my chances of finding the next job goes up, right?”

“Alex—”

“I can do this, Soph.” He’s leaning forward now, across the table, face hot and flushed with alcohol, with shame but also with excitement and passion. “I don’t want to—I mean, I do, I want to work, right? Yeah, it’s not ideal, it’s not what I wanted but the pay’s good, and it’s experience, and if I’ve got to—dress—a certain way, well—I might hate it, but isn’t that what being an adult is all about, doing stuff you hate in exchange for stuff you need? I… need this, Soph, but I can’t do it without you. I need a place to stay and with an income, I can pay rent and… I’ll need your help.”

Shaking slightly, he pours out the last of the wine, topping up his glass, and hers too, watching his sister’s reaction. He can see she’s mulling it over. Finally, she seems to come to a decision.

“One month,” she says. “We give it one month. And if this works, if you don’t fuck it up, once you’ve got that first month’s pay under your belt, you find your own place to live, a flat share of your own.”

He nods.

But she’s not done. “You’ve got to go into this with eyes open, Alex. This isn’t a one-day thing. You got through today, great, but you’ll have to do a hell of a lot better if it’s going to be daily. These people will get to know you. They’ll see you every day. And they’ll have expectations, a place like L&C, they’ve got a very specific kind of girl in mind when they hire a receptionist. You think you can manage that? One day, and you’re already cracking, Alex. Now think, every day for a month, for three months. Makeup, every single morning and throughout the day, you’ll have to keep yourself looking fresh. And shaving! Your face—chest too, I imagine, and legs, armpits too. And you won’t get away with trousers, either. What was the receptionist wearing today? Let me guess: pencil skirt, fitted top? Now imagine yourself wearing the same thing. You okay with that? Skirts and tights, stockings and high heels, accessories, too—earrings, you’ll have to get your ears pierced. Hair and nails as well. And you’ll have to do something about up top, ‘cause those rice-titties aren’t going to cut it, they won’t pass constant inspection, and I hate to say it, but you’ll be inspected, people are going to check you out, Alex.

“Or rather, Blake. Because for eight hours a day you’ll be her, Alex: Blake Morgan. Eight hours if you’re lucky! If you’re thinking you can just take her off after work, you’re in for a shock. Job like this, there’ll be late nights. Early starts. Don’t forget commute time. And going out, or are you going to spend the next three months running straight home after work? Of course not, you’ll want—maybe have to—join colleagues after work for a drink, isn’t that the whole point? You’ll have to stay in character, and have you even thought about who that character might be? What kind of girl is she, Alex, what’s Blake like? Because the girl I see in front of me right now, she seems pretty miserable. I don’t think she’s got what it takes, she won’t get through her probationary period. Nobody wants a miserable receptionist. Blake needs to smile! And she needs to look good, too. New clothes, new makeup, shoes—and voice; think you can do that, Alex? Because I’ll be honest, little brother: I don’t think you can. I’m not trying to be mean here, just honest. I don’t think you’ve got it in you, I don’t think most men have it in them to do what a woman does, every single day. I give you a week, before you’re on the next coach home.”

He swallows nervously, and nods, once and jerkily. “I can do it,” he says.

“Sleep on it,” she says.

They finish their wine, order another bottle. They talk. Alex can’t remember ever talking to his sister this easily. The wine helps. She asks about Luca, how his family took the news. Fine, Alex answers, they were cool with him coming out. He already knew, of course. Luca was his best friend and told him first, years earlier, when they did Romeo and Juliet together. After all, there were all those kisses, tender first kiss at the Capulet party, then those fleeting teenage balcony farewells, and finally the two lovers’ final passion before Romeo’s exile. Luca said he didn’t feel right kissing him without letting him know first, which confused Alex at the time; what difference did it make, they were acting, right?

What about you, Alex asks: anyone in your life? Sophie smiles, shrugs, moves the conversation on to different topics. They talk about school, their shared experiences at the local comprehensive before he moved on to St Oswald’s. They talk about back home. They talk about London. They talk about their father, but only briefly; the topic remains raw and uncomfortable.

Sophie pays the bill. By this time, it’s late and neither fancies catching a night bus, not back to Islington, not dressed as he is, even though she drags him to the women’s toilets, stands guard as he takes a piss and then, rather drunken and giggling, fixes his makeup before they leave. She calls an Uber. The ride home passes in a blur. Smears of lights stain the glass as he rests his forehead against the cool window. He dozes; next thing he knows, his sister’s pulling him from the car. Arm-in-arm, they stagger back to her flat. The moment he’s through the door, he’s tearing at his blouse, at his trousers, yanks the hairclip from his hair and tosses it to one side. Then, he’s in the loo and puking his guts up.

When he wakes up, he’s face down on his bed, pillow stained with streaks of makeup. He aches, realises he’s still wearing his sister’s bra and the girdle. Alex groans, staggers to his feet and from his room into the bathroom. He struggles out of the undergarments, takes a piss, drinks some water, avoids looking at himself in the mirror. He pulls on a bathrobe and moves into the kitchen to find his sister at the breakfast table, again in her colourful kimono. Sunlight beams in through the windows and he winces. Sophie seems fine, she grins at him over coffee. He ignores her. He finds the women’s jacket he wore yesterday. In the inside pocket, his phone.

He makes the call. He only speaks for a minute, using Blake’s voice. “Yes,” he says, and soon after, “I’d love to accept your offer, I’d be thrilled to work for Lockwood and Carmichael. I’ll send the paperwork through today. Thank you.”

He hangs up and without another word or glance at his sister, returns to his room. He closes the door behind him. His head throbs. He feels like throwing up again. Alex sits at the edge of his bed and holds himself. And then he cries, like a child given a gift they never wanted.

Chapter Three: One in Three

5:30 a.m. and Aqua informs him life’s fantastic, Sophie’s idea of a joke.

Alex fumbles for his phone and kills the alarm. He hides for several long minutes under the duvet. Eventually, he groans, summons the willpower to leave the comfort of his bed. It’s still dark, and the flat is quiet. Clutching his phone in one hand, scratching his balls with the other, he stumbles to the bathroom. Lights flicker to life overhead. He leans heavily on the sink and stares blearily into the mirror. Thursday, he tells himself.

He sighs, reaches for the cheap, wide-toothed plastic comb. His hair curls in beneath his chin, styled in a bob cut that frames his face. Fifty quid it cost him, then more for the dye job that turned mousy brown to deep black. His roots are already starting to show. Sharp strokes clear overnight tangles. Then, he steps into the shower. He twists the dial over to hot. Hanging his head, the hot water courses over his lean frame. He relaxes, takes a piss. Wrinkles his nose at the smell of last night’s food returning on him, the asparagus velouté at Margot in Covent Garden. Mid-week hump, Amber said last night, let’s treat ourselves, we deserve it, girl. Her smile sparkled, beautiful and impossible to refuse. His cock twitches, thinking of her. He’s not really in the mood but jerks off anyway. Most mornings, he has a wank in the shower. Normally, it doesn’t take very long, he wakes with morning wood and his spank-bank’s pretty full, he doesn’t have to reach far for inspiration. This morning, it takes a bit more effort than usual. He’s tired, got home too late, went to bed even later by the time he cleaned his face and brushed out his hair. He’s close to giving up when he glances down, and the sight of his cock between glossy pink nails makes him think of Amber’s hand and her slender fingers, and that sees him through to a shuddering release.

Afterward, he reaches for the shampoo bottle, pink with a promise of thicker hair wrapped in grapefruit scent, followed by conditioner, then a moisturizing body wash, shea butter and vanilla. There’s a mirror in the shower, which he uses to shave his face. He used to shave maybe once a week. Now, it’s another daily task. Then he checks his legs, armpits, and chest, grimaces, lathers, switches razors, and shaves those, too.

Out of the shower, he pats himself dry, then another bottle, this one peach-coloured, a scented body lotion he rubs into damp skin. He pays special attention to dry patches on his chest. His legs gleam afterwards, long and slender. It still takes him aback, his denuded body, the difference it makes. Now at the sink, he wipes the mirror clear of fog and stares into himself. He takes a deep breath. You’ve got this, he tells himself. You got through yesterday. You’ll get through today. And you’ll get through tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

He checks the time. He’s doing okay, despite the longer-than-usual shower. First, he checks his armpits. He did fine, no nicks this time, missed hairs, nothing ingrown. He rolls on antiperspirant. Then he washes his face again, an unscented cleanser this time and follows with a splash of cold water. Tweezers make quick work of a few unruly eyebrow hairs. He flares his nostrils, plucks a few of those too, wincing. He gives his damp hair a quick, vigorous brushing, then pats his face dry, wraps himself in a towel, and quietly pads back to his room.

It’s still dark and quiet, just gone six, the sky outside the window bruised in shades of mauve and indigo. Sophie won’t stir for at least another hour, probably two. He’ll be long gone by then. He shuts the door to his room and crosses to the vanity in the corner. These days, his room’s a study in contrasts. Faded jeans, an oversized hoodie, and a pale blue work shirt wait alongside shiny blouses, pencil skirts, and a single dress, crammed into a closet whose doors won’t quite close anymore. Dresser drawers overflow with plain boxers and cotton socks, next to a tangle of tights, M&S multipack knickers, and a jumble of colourful bras: plain turquoise, lacy black, demi-cup peach with a satin sheen. Last night’s low-heeled pumps sit alongside mud-stained trainers.

Sweeping a pair of laddered tights from a stool, he sits at the table and starts. He props his ‘Alex’ phone by the mirror. His ‘Blake’ phone is there already, and he queues up a TikTok video he bookmarked last week. The young woman’s chatter on repeat cheerfully guides him. There’s also a sheet of A5 he’s affixed to the mirror with Blu Tack, a step-by-step makeup sequence Alex wrote out after a few hours’ online research. He half-wonders if any real girl goes through this much effort in the morning. Then again, he’s not a girl. He’s got each stage mostly memorized by this point, but still.

He dabs a little cream beneath the eyes, then primes. Dark brown pencil to fill in sparse eyebrows, spoolie to brush them out. Now, he glances over at the video. Soft beige base, switch brush, brown in the crease, blend. He’s been doing this daily for weeks now but still hesitates. A darker brown now, applied to the outer corner. Yes. He considers a little gold shimmer over the lid. Last time he tried, he messed it up, had to start over. Fuck it, he’s still running a little ahead this morning, he decides to go for it. He gets it right. Alex grins. He likes how it brightens his eyes. He’s tempted to try the purple and berry tones in his palette. The tutorials say they’ll bring out the green in his eyes, make the hazel pop. But he’s not brave enough, worries it won’t look professional. Save the colour for a night out. Eyeliner next. This part he hates. Every time, he’s convinced he’ll poke his eye out. With nervous short strokes, he draws in the upper lash. Then, he gives it a little flick at the corners. He’s not brave enough to attempt a full wing yet. But still, not bad. Mascara next. That’s easy. He crimps his eyelashes with a curler, then two coats in black: done. Amber keeps pushing him to try false lashes, but he’s resisted so far. Somehow, that feels a step too far. He tilts his head, checks his work in the mirror. The pretty eyes of a girl peer out from the face of a young man.

He doesn’t stop; he can’t stop, or he might give up. He swipes a little peach colour corrector over his beard area—Sophie laughed at him the first time, what beard? she said—blends it in and lets it set before reaching for foundation. He pumps a bit onto the back of his hand, dabs dots across his face, spreads it with a sponge, with care over the previous layer. Discolorations disappear: a small patch of rosacea, the pale scar near his temple. There’s a new pimple blossoming at the corner of his mouth. He’s tired, and it shows. Imperfections like these, he never used to notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care. Whatever; now, flaws demand erasure. And so, concealer next, a little under the eyes, gently tapping, a bit more along his jaw. He’d found these stages the hardest when he first started practicing in that hectic week before starting the new job. At first, far too much, a heavy, greasy-feeling mask. Wrong shade, too: he looked orange, then pale, or his neck and face didn’t match. He didn’t blend properly. Creases and cracks appeared. He forgot to set. Sophie helped. But mostly, he taught himself.

Now, he sees the unblemished canvas of his face and already, the boy’s fading, the girl rising to the surface. A little bronzer brings her into sharper definition as he sweeps the brush across high cheekbones, his jawline, a touch at the temple. It makes him think of an archaeologist sweeping away detritus to uncover hidden treasure. Next, he unscrews a little pot, taps his finger in, smiles, applies a little blush, blending it upwards towards his temples. He used to put on way too much. Now, it looks far more natural. His fingers alight on a little plastic box of highlighter—he pulls them back. Last time he tried, his cheeks ended up way too shiny, like he was sweating. Not a great look. St. Clair hadn’t been impressed, commenting archly on appropriate times and places.

He turns first right, then left in the mirror, checks the results of his labour. Not bad. Good even. He fancies he can still see the boy beneath the makeup, but only because he wants to see him. It’s a lot of work but at the same time, he thinks: is that all it takes? No: there’s clothes, still, and underwear, shoes, hair and accessories, his nails, a whole routine to bring out Blake. But he sees her already in the mirror, soft-skinned and pretty. He spritzes himself with a setting spray and gives it a moment. He’ll do his lips later, after breakfast. But he can’t deny, he’s come a long way from that first week, when Sophie surprised him with a makeup kit from Boots. Get practicing, she said; and he did. Most girls start wearing makeup around thirteen; he read that on Reddit, so it must be true. Maybe he hadn’t quite caught up on a decade’s practice in a single short month, but he’d done alright.

To which he thinks, great. Well, they say London changes a man, and it certainly changed him. Anyways, next step: clothes. He usually tries to have the day’s outfit sorted the night before, to ease the morning’s cognitive load, but he got in too late last night. Now it’s Thursday, and everybody knows Thursday’s the new Friday, and that means grabbing a few drinks after work, and Amber’s already extracted a promise from him, don’t leave me hanging, she said, she can’t bear the thought of being the only woman—the only girl, rather—out tonight, not with those neeks from IT tagging along, a few junior associates, probably a lady or two from HR, even though he knows she’ll probably disappear with Jacob after the first round and Alex will be left to fend for himself, as those asshole associates circle, eyes on the new girl, chum in the water. Probably Amber’s plan, even, she’s been pushing him to go on a date. Christ, that’s the last thing he needs. In any case, he needs something he can wear all day, night too, fine for the office that he can tweak to wear out afterwards.

No fucking skirts, no fucking dresses, he insisted before the interview. That edict didn’t last for long. He spends more time in skirts than trousers these days. He digs the brown check miniskirt from John Lewis out of the closet. It’s the one Sophie wanted him to wear that first day. As with so many things, she gets her way. But she was right, he looks great in it. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a pair of black tights, pauses, digs deeper and pulls another pair, stored in a soft linen bag. This pair’s his favourite—not that he’d admit that to Sophie—a pair of Wolford tights, a gift from his sister. He’ll swap into them tonight, when they go out. But not for the trip into work. He did that once, laddered them and just like that, out thirty quid, a fact that still baffles him, that something so ephemeral can cost so much. From the closet, he grabs a fitted button-back blouse with mesh sleeves and a high-necked top. It’s silky and shiny and black, with a row of frills down the front. There’s a mesh sweetheart panel that’ll hint at the bra beneath. So: the padded bra, then—the red one, full coverage with the floral lace—also his favourite, though he can’t quite say why. For some reason, this one just sits more comfortably, the straps dig less into his shoulders; maybe that’s it.

Met Office says it’s going to be another hot, bright day, another record-breaking summer, just like last year and the year before that. He envies the fact his female colleagues—Amber, the few female associates, the ladies in HR, even Ms. St-Clair—can get away with something a little lighter, a plunging neckline or bared shoulders. Anything to cool down in this weather. But he can’t, he needs the shapewear, and he’s got to draw attention away from his shoulders. He’s getting used to guys staring at his illusion of tits, but they remain just that, fake: no cleavage baring tops for him. Why can’t it be winter, Alex thinks. It’d be so much easier.

He lays the clothes out on his bed. Strip off his boxers and considers the final and most important step. The girdle would do the job, but he’s not strapping himself into that fucking thing all day. The waist-cincher might work, nip in the waist rather than pad out the hips. Still bloody uncomfortable, but at least he can take a piss without rearranging everything. But the skirt’s short, only falls to mid-thigh, and tight-fitting, too. Pop a boner, game over. He’s gotten away with tights over knickers in looser clothing before, but that’s not going to cut it today. It’s tempting to swap to a floating dress, something A-line that might conceal his lack of curves, but he doesn’t really have anything suitable for a night out. Besides, his legs are his best feature, even Amber said that.

So he eyes the spool of surgical tape sitting on his dresser, groans, decides against it. Gaff, then, another ‘gift’ from Sophie. He lies back on the bed and pulls the garment halfway up his legs. Then, he gently pushes his testicles up into the inguinal canal, taking care with his longer nails not to hurt himself. God, he hates this. So uncomfortable it makes his stomach squirm. It took several tries and a lot of online research to get it right. He’s done it often enough now to do it without hesitation, but still. He hates it. And he knows it’ll be a real pain tonight, after a few drinks, when he needs to take a piss every fifteen minutes and he’ll have to go through the same faff in the claustrophobic confines of a fucking stall in the woman’s loo at some glitzy City bar. But the alternative isn’t worth considering, not after he’s gotten this far. He’s had a few near-calls already, when the taping slipped, or the gaff’s compression wasn’t enough on its own, or he risked something more comfortable and paid the price. He feels himself grow hot beneath his makeup just thinking of it. Christ, if someone caught him—if St-Clair or Amber caught him—or worse, one of the guys in the office—he’d just die.

The garment’s black, with a little lace along the edges and a high-waisted lace panel for his tummy. It’s also a thong. He’d never worn a thong before all this started. He remembers Sophie’s smirk, when she first gave him the underwear. It’ll give you a little wiggle when you walk, remind you of what you’re doing. Like he needs a reminder, he grumbles, tugging the gaff into position. He feels the compression as he stands, passes the palm of his hand over his smooth front. Shit, perfectly girl-like, and already he feels the first twinge in his balls which he knows will grow to a dull throb, and eventually pain, before he lets his bits loose later today and resets.

Shaking his head, he pulls on the tights, cool against recently denuded legs, then he steps into the skirt and slides it up over his hips. With a little snick, he tugs the hidden zipper at the side up his slender frame and feels the skirt draw tight across his bum and thighs. He pauses to check his silhouette in the mirror, twisting a little, sweeping one hand over his crotch. Nothing there and his legs look fantastic, sleek and smooth in black. Then he smooths the skirt down over his bum. The way the inner lining slides against bum cheeks left bare—other than the tights—by the thong feels uniquely feminine, whatever that means. It sends a shiver down his spine, nonetheless. But he can’t deny his ass looks great in this skirt.

Feeling a twinge in his balls, he buries the thought. Now the bra, and it’s much easier now, he doesn’t have to do it up front and twist it around anymore. The only difficulty comes from fiddling with the catch with long nails. From the top of the wardrobe, he takes a pair of silicone breasts. Chicken cutlets, Sophia called them when she gifted them to him. A pair of breasts, high-quality gaff, a makeup kit and overpriced tights: his girl-life starter pack, she called it. Now he picks up the cool silicone teats, applies adhesive to the back of both, and slips them into the bra. He shivers at their touch, but they warm quickly. For the few minutes it takes the adhesive to set, he holds them firmly in place. His image in the mirror mocks him, his hands on some girl’s tits. God, he hates these things, too. Most days, he doesn’t bother and the padded bra’s enough on its own, and he’s still got those rice-filled stockings. But he’s going out tonight. An inadvertent touch, attentive male eyes, a visit to the loo in company of girls; safer to make sure he fills those cups properly.

Finally, he shrugs into the button-back blouse, struggling with the row of tiny faux-pearl buttons at his neck. If Sophie was awake, he’d ask for her help. Probably she’d laugh, make some snide remark as she helped. Maybe it’s best she’s still in bed. The shirt is tight and leaves his back bare between bra line and collar. It’s a paradox of feminine fashion, he’s found, that he can be fully dressed and yet still feel exposed.

Fully dressed, he takes a moment to assess himself in the mirror. He sees a young woman there, professional, a bit prim and proper, maybe, but also more than a little sexy. Her shiny black top cuts close to her slim frame, pushed out enticingly by full tits, and loose mesh sleeves veil slender arms beneath. A tight miniskirt hugs her hips, ending at mid-thigh and from there, sleek legs sheathed in black. She’s got great legs. Her eyes are—beautiful, wide and expressive—framed by black bangs, and her face, soft and meticulously made up; this girl clearly takes care in her appearance. Only her lips want for a little colour.

Alex sighs. Nearly done. He brushes out his hair with swift confident strokes. It’s a simple enough style, he thinks, thank fuck, though it’s more than he’s ever dealt with. A few minutes with the hair dryer, then a little product, and a few minutes more in the mirror, poking a few stray hairs into place. He considers a brown hairband, gnaws on his lower lip, decides against it. There’s a little jewellery box on the vanity, washed out grey reclaimed wood, with tiny drawers and a lid. He digs through it and settles on a pair of mid-sized hoops. Even he accepted he wasn’t going to get away with clip-ons, and the same day he accepted the job, Sophie booked him in for a salon visit, and now his ears are pierced, he’s got two holes in each lobe, glittery stud in the upper, whatever he wears for the day in the lower. It’s one of those things he worries about, especially on weekends when he’s back to presenting as a man. Does anyone notice the piercing holes? Then again, who would? It’s not like he’s got any friends in London, ‘Blake’ has more friends than he does.

He tilts his head, threads the hoop through the lower piercing, and again the other ear, feels their weight as a still-unfamiliar tug, and in some ways, this simple action feels the most feminine of everything he does. Finally, he slips a bracelet over his right wrist, a silver ring on his left hand, the slim woman’s watch too, and adds a necklace. A small, blue glass ball trapped in silver filigree nestles between the curve of his breasts. It once belonged to his mum.

By this time the first ruby rays of sunrise slice the far walls of the flat, lancing between slits in the vertical blinds. It’s nearly seven. Alex makes himself a cup of breakfast tea, strong with a splash of oatmilk. In the fridge, there’s a tall protein shake waiting for him, courtesy of his sister, made the night before, as usual. Sophie started him on a diet the day after he accepted the job. Hypocritical bitch, he thinks, she seems to take special pleasure in stuffing her gob with fatty food in front of him. Yet he can’t deny he packed on weight over those first three months in London, too much beer, crisps and junk food scoffed down whilst endlessly scrolling angry YouTube videos justifying his failures. But the proof’s in the pudding—or lack thereof—a glance at his narrowed waist and slimming belly evidence enough the liquid breakfasts are working. Shoulders and arms, too. It’s only been a month, and he feels lighter—which is good—but also weaker, which isn’t.

And yet, he has to stay slim. Officially, his workplace couldn’t comment on his weight; unofficially, St. Clair made it clear he wouldn’t make his probationary period without maintaining a certain appropriate, client-facing appearance. Besides, keeping slim made sense, financially: he fits into Sophie’s old clothes. They certainly don’t fit her anymore. But he hates it, the calorie counting, the constant watching-what-he-eats. And he’s not convinced he’s actually taking in that much fewer calories. Less solid food, certainly. But his new social life involves a hell of a lot more drinking.

He carries his breakfast and tea over to the little table by the balcony doors looking out over the canal. The light outside has softened to turquoise hues, and the first yellows glimmer across the placid surface of the canal. A few runners are already out. Alex drinks his tea. These are his favourite five minutes of the day. The world is quiet, and he can believe that this is the life he yearned for, that of the young professional enjoying a cup of tea in their central London flat before heading into the city for the day. Breakfast goes down thickly: oatmilk and banana, yogurt and flaxseed, some kind of protein powder his sister mixes in. The taste’s not too bad, but he hates the texture.

He looks out over narrowboats and early pedestrians caught in the first light of the new day and clings to the transient calm the tea brings. But all too soon, the tea’s done. Breakfast too, and he sighs and stands, the illusion of a perfect life broken. His skirt draws tightly across his thighs, silicone breasts sit heavily in their cups, hair tickles cheek and neck, and there’s a dance of earrings with every move; an ever-present cling of floral scent; and the flash of pink nails against white porcelain mug. He’s reminded: no, this isn’t the dream; and femininity is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

Alex is still hungry. He’s always hungry these days, used to it now and there’s a Graze bar waiting for him in his desk at work. He checks his handbag. Office ID badge and lanyard. His Blake-phone, pink which he tucks into an inner pocket. Keys to Sophie’s flat. Slim wallet, black with pink trim, though there’s not much in there, a loyalty card for Waterstones, punch card for the sandwich shop around the corner, his driver’s license with his name Alexander Blake tucked beneath it. Fake driver’s license with her name, Blake Morgan’s name; Sophie got it for him somehow, he has no idea how. Small moleskin notebook, pale pink. Two Muji gel pens, one black, one red. Dog-eared copy of Intermezzo in paperback, he’s about halfway done reading it. Bluetooth headphones. Rollon deodorant. Makeup bag, the same one Sophie gave him that first day and in it, an array of vials, tubes, brushes, pencils and pens, powder. Small, square compact mirror. Collapsible hairbrush. Bottle of Nivea hand cream, and another bottle of hand sanitizer. A few Compeed plasters. Rumpled ball of a thin black cardigan. There’s an emergency pair of cheap M&S tights in there already, to which he adds the small linen bag with the Wolford pair for later tonight. In a separate, smaller bag, a little surgical tape and skin-sensitive adhesive, just in case. Nail file, and a little matchbook of safety pins, with some thread. In another inner pocket, a few tampons he’ll never need, alongside a box of Ibuprofen he’ll definitely need, and two condoms, which he can’t imagine needing, not dressed like this. Spare pair of crumpled panties. Beneath it all, his old phone, his Alex-phone, set to silent and buried at the bottom of the bag.

His water bottle’s waiting on the drying rack by the sink. He fills it with water from the Brita, wipes it dry. He checks the fridge. Every morning, he wishes he’d had the time or energy to prepare lunch the night before, save some cash, and today like most other days he’ll have to grab a takeaway lunch from somewhere. But there’s an apple, so he grabs that and closes the fridge. He adds the water bottle and apple to the bag, hefts it with one arm. Christ. It’s a heavy burden, this bag, but he can’t think of anything he’d leave out and lighten the load. He misses the days he’d head out with a knapsack over one shoulder with nothing more in it than a novel, a notebook and pen, and a water bottle.

Leaving the handbag by the front door, he heads to the bathroom. The two minutes it takes to brush his teeth is an invitation to hunt for flaws in the mirror. Alex finds himself torn between morbid curiosity and horrified denial in the examination of his own face. There’s a girl in the mirror—a little overly made-up for his tastes, maybe—but she’s pretty with beautiful eyes, and that girl is him. He spits and, shaking his head, returns to his room. Final touches. He settles at the vanity and does his lips. A swipe of lip balm, then a neutral lipstick, and he follows with a bit of plumping gloss. Alex feels the tingle, purses his lips, pouts, forces a smile for the mirror. He still can’t get over the difference a bit of colour to his lips can make. Without the lipstick and gloss, he imagines he can still glimpse a bit of his old self, embodied by colourless, dry male lips. But like this, plump and shiny and pink, the illusion feels complete. Briefly, he loses himself in a study of his own lips. Even to his own eyes, the appear very kissable, full and soft. Maybe instead of his legs, these are his best feature? He glances down at his legs, sleek in tights, knees pressed together in his miniskirt and skewed to one side as he sits on the stool. It’s a tough call; both lips and legs look undeniable, attractively feminine. Hairs on the back of his neck rise, like goosebumps, as he studies himself in the mirror.

It’s the click of his nails against the tabletop surface that snaps him out of it. He checks his nails. This was a step he resisted, vehemently, but of course Sophie got her way. A passing comment by Ms. St-Clair convinced him, too. The next day, high quality falsies, pale ovals that still sort of freak him out and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to them. Sophie and the internet taught him how to apply them—it took some practice before he got it right—and now it’s part of his Sunday night ritual: wiping his natural nails clean with alcohol, filing them smooth, scoring the surface before applying the glue and then the patient press of the false nail at the tip of each finger. They last the week if he’s careful. He’s learned to paint them, too, make sure they coordinate with whatever he’s wearing. Which they don’t; he sighs, searches amongst the countertop and finds a colour to match his lips. He’ll take care of it at work.

Friday night they come off. Usually, and it’s a fucking relief when they do. That first week wearing them, he snagged and ruined three pairs of tights—fortunately, cheaper ones—swearing loudly each time before learning to take greater care. Of all the overt manifestations of his enforced femininity, he perhaps hates his nails most of all. He hates the way longer nails force him to flutter his fingers, the awkward grip of a pen, the challenge of typing, the care they insist he takes with every motion. He’s constantly aware of the flash of colour at the edge of his vision, or the risk of a chip in the varnish, or worse, catching and tearing one off. Every time he sees his flared fingers and those pearly, pink ovals, he feels himself a right fairy.

Finally done, he stands, looks at himself in the full-length mirror, brushes himself down, gives his makeup a final check, pauses. Alex slides his hand down the front of his skirt and feels only smoothness. His fingers pluck at the hem, gives a hopeless little tug. He then pokes at his hair, brushes a bang to one side. He’s staring at his reflection, looking for something. Whatever it is, it’s not there. Then he leaves his room. A moment later he returns and grabs the chocolate brown hairband, slips it on. Muttering under his breath, he leaves his room again. He returns a second later, cursing. He snatches a photograph from the vanity, the Polaroid of his father.

From the living room, he grabs the slender shoulder bag with his laptop in it. To this, he adds the handbag’s familiar weight. He slides the photo into the inside pocket. Then he slips on a pair of ballet flats and leaves home before he changes his mind, turns around, and climbs back into bed.

Every day, he forgets something. Yesterday, it was his lip balm. The day before that, breast adhesive, and when those bastards slipped halfway through the day, he nearly shat himself with anxiety. Another day, it was his entire makeup bag. Amber nearly pissed herself laughing at his panic, covering for him as he dashed to Superdrug for some emergency slap. Today, it’s his sunnies, and he curses as the sun lifts over the edge of buildings and blinds him.

But it’s otherwise a pleasant enough walk up the canal towpath, past the drooping willow branches, watching the coots as they dip and dive along the water. He passes several long narrow boats. There’s a bright green and blue one, the Happy Days. Every morning, smoke puffs from its stained metal chimney and there’s a smell of freshly brewed coffee. An older man in a bathrobe sits at the prow, sipping from a dinged metal mug, and nods as Alex walks past. Alex inclines his head in return with a smile. Light sparks on the water.

It’s good the sun’s up. He’s walked the path a few times at night, coming home late. As a girl, that is; he did it plenty of times as a guy without thinking anything of it. First time he walked at night in a skirt, he was a little drunk and didn’t think anything of it, either. But not the second. That night, a few lads, pissed after a few at the pub, coming down from the Earl or one of the other pubs or bars up top, they saw him as some pretty young thing walking on her own and called out, rude comments to which Alex had no idea how to respond. They approached, a trio of dark silhouettes against the purple of the evening, and—he ran, flats slapping against the path, then the stone stairs leading up from the canal, the laughter of the men following him, heart pounding, chest straining against shapewear, legs trapped in the confines of a long skirt. He hasn’t walked the canal path in the dark since.

But it’s not dark now, and though there’s the promise of heat in the air, for now it’s cool in the shade of the canal, the air refreshing against his back. Alex enjoys the walk, to a degree. But he can’t help but experience it in a feminine mode, not with the breeze whispering against his legs, and the thong riding up his ass with every step, and the feel and taste of still-fresh makeup on his face. Every sensory impression is a reminder of this role he’s chosen. The skirt especially annoys him. It restricts his stride. He wishes it had a little more give, or a vent that allowed for faster walking. He feels it with each step. Still, he grudgingly accepts it effectively reinforces the illusion of girlishness.

And yet, he enjoys this stretch of the canal, and perhaps being forced to walk it slowly has its benefits. It’s quiet down here, especially at this time of the day, nearby sounds of the city a muted roar beyond the upper lip of old stone wall. Alex imagines the past, sturdy workhorses towing long, low-hulled boats burdened with coal along the water. He imagines the strong men who dug these channels out by hand, the bricklayers who built the walls, the engineers who designed the locks, the builders who put them in place; all men, strong men carving order through the chaos of a growing city. They’re the ones who built London, not—

A jogger passes from behind, surprising him, phone strapped to her wrist, airpods, tight grey athletic wear and bared toned midriff, ponytail jouncing with each step. He admires her firm ass as she retreats in the distance. Soon after, another runner comes his way, this time from the front, male, bearded, bright shorts, hairy legs, loose t-shirt dark with sweat in a V, and this man openly enjoys his view of Alex: his gaze dances hair-eyes-tits-legs, and he grins as he passes, closer than necessary, nearly pushing him to the wall.

Wanker, Alex thinks, but refrains from calling out, as his sister would have. At the tunnel, he climbs the cycle ramp up to street level emerging, blinking, from the relative cool of the water’s edge into Islington. He cuts through the Gardens, checking out the row of terraced homes, each one worth millions. Stepping onto the main road, the quiet of his walk falls away and he’s back in it now, even this early in the morning, another London day.

At Angel Tube station, he retrieves his phone from his handbag as he approaches the turnstile, taps with the unconscious ease of a daily commuter, and passes through and onto the longest escalator on the Underground. During the minute-and-a-half-descent, he digs out his earphones, starts up an audiobook. Given the choice, he’d listen to music: Portishead, Massive Attack, Tricky; Radiohead feels appropriate to his mood. Instead, he listens to Why Has Nobody Told Me This Before? Sophie’s filled his phone with a selection of Audiobooks she thinks will help. This one’s soothing, at least, the woman’s voice an antidote to the grinding noise of the Northern Line. And he can’t deny he needs the help with keeping motivated, breaking free of unhealthy rumination, and keeping positive.

The station isn’t very busy, not this early in the morning, though there’s a steady flow of people into the station. It’s why he heads into work this early; or at least, it’s one of the reasons. He could leave later. He’d love an extra thirty minutes of sleep. But the difference between a 7:30am and 8am commute is stark. This way, he’s all but guaranteed a seat on the train. He won’t be pressed up against anyone.

There have been late night trips home on crowded Tube trains. Those were bad enough as a guy, when lairy men stinking of booze swore and shouted, or someone puked by the exit. It was worse as a girl: an unwanted hand at a thigh, or on your ass; the awful feeling of someone pressed up against you from behind and breathing deeply, nose buried in your hair. There was one morning, early on, when he left late and the train was so busy, he found himself sandwiched in the press of people. Most passengers had the middle-distance stare of true Londoners. But there’d been one older man in a fine suit who simply stared hungrily into his face the whole time and licked his lips in a way that made Alex’s stomach churn. At the next stop, in the swell of passengers disembarking and crowding on, he suddenly found the edge of a briefcase slipped up beneath his skirt. It pressed into his crotch, a sharp corner rubbing him through compression fabric. He tried to dismiss it as an accident. The next morning, the same crowds and crush of people. No briefcase, this time. He stared stony-faced into the middle-distance. Gradually, he noticed the smirks, wide-eyed glances, and frowns—all directed at him. The train jerked and screeched around a corner. He stumbled, held upright by the press of people and then felt the hand surreptitiously grope the padding of an unfeeling tit. He froze, red-faced, and didn’t know what to do. Another rough squeeze—the anonymous pervert disappeared at the next stop. Feeling hot and sick, he stumbled from the train and had to sit down at a platform bench as the uncaring crowds flowed by, clutching his stomach, until the trembling eased. He told Sophie that evening; she looked sympathetic but raised three fingers. One in three, she said. That’s how many women experience sexual harassment on the Tube. Welcome to the other side, little brother.

Now he makes it a point of getting up earlier and avoiding the crowds. The platform’s busy, Northern Line smell, but the wait short. Small, steel-grey mice scurry along the tracks. They’ve adapted to the dark tunnels of the Underground, bristly fur the colour of soot and metal dust. Life, he thinks every time he sees the little critters, infinitely adaptable given enough incentives. Then the train arrives with a grind of wheels and a rush of wind that pulls at his skirt, fluttering the ruffles of his top, and he sees himself reflected in the passing flash of slowing windows, like a stuttering image captured in a Victorian zoetrope, a pretty young woman tucking hair behind her ear.

It’s a short trip, one stop to King’s Cross, change to the Piccadilly Line, two stops to Holborn. Too quick, really, he wishes for a bit more time to sit and zone out to the soothing sounds of his audiobook. It’s during the morning commute that he misses the more relaxed pace of back home most. London feels relentless at times. There’s an energy to that, it’s exciting but still—he's been up for two hours already, yet the day has barely started. Alex wishes he could close his eyes and power nap his way to work. But no, he shuffles onto the train and finds a seat near the middle of the carriage. But he’s barely sat down before he’s up and back out, joining the flow of people in their trudging walk to the Piccadilly Line.

It’s busier now. The platform’s nearly full in the narrow place between wall and track. As always, idiots refuse to move down the platform. He sidles past, for all appearances just another young woman jostling for space among larger men with legs spread wide around their briefcases, claiming their territory. Alex stands, arms cradled around his handbag, between a lean man in his thirties in a suit, and a younger man in paint-spattered denim overalls, large duffle bag distended by tools at his feet. It’s the man in the suit that smiles, eyes lingering over Alex’s breasts. Alex rolls his eyes, shifts away. The train pulls in, the doors opening directly in front of him. The man in the suit pushes forward, shoving him out of the way. Twat, Alex thinks. The other man, the one with the tools, shrugs apologetically, stands to one side and allows Alex to board first. Alex smiles appreciatively, but today he’s not getting a seat. Instead, he hovers by the door, glaring daggers at the asshole who shoved his way onto the train. The man sits, legs spread wide, briefcase between his knees, eyes fixed on his phone.

But it’s only two stops. Alex’s eyes slide across the other passengers, picking out the young women—like him—makeup already shining with heat. The train’s hot. The air conditioning’s not working, again. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d forgone tights and waited until he reached the office. He sees blonde hair, light summer dresses in powdery pink, buttery yellow, mint green. Bare arms and shoulders, short skirts, light fabrics. Apparently, nature-inspired tones like teal and chocolate brown are ‘in’. Amber leaves him fashion magazines to read during downtimes at the reception desk at L&C. His face feels hot, his top beginning to stick beneath his breasts, and he feels the first beads of sweat gather at the high-waisted band of the gaff.

Russell Square, and a few passengers disembark, though not many. Enough for him to nab a seat, even if only for a single stop. He sits with his hands beneath his thighs, self-conscious of their size and he tries to keep them as hidden as possible. The four-colour Piccadilly moquette makes a vivid contrast with his beige skirt, a pattern of blue-green, yellow-orange squares, emergent complexity from abstract simplicity. Across from him sits a young woman. He’s seen her a few times, every other day maybe, she follows a routine that bisects his. Today, she’s wearing vivid red trousers and a white top with a plunging neckline. He looks at her, and she looks back, raising an eyebrow, smiling very slightly with vague recognition. She’s very pretty. Her lips are thin and very red, above a small, pointed chin. A stud glints at her nostril, her left eye half-hidden behind a curl of strawberry blonde hair.

Alex wishes he could get to know her better. He’d ask her to join him for coffee. There’s a little coffee shop on the walk to work, nestled at the end of an alley behind Holborn station. Two attractive girls sat on high stools over cappuccino, nails flashing against porcelain white, white-teeth flashing between crimson glossed lips; and then—what?

But his stop isn’t her stop, and he knows he’s unlikely to ever speak to this woman. For some reason, this morning, this upsets him. The audiobook burbles in his ear, something about identifying feelings, expanding his vocabulary of emotions. And he realises he’s not upset, but rather frustrated, which he feels as a prickle at the nape of his neck; and ashamed, a twist in his belly; but also turned-on, a throb in his groin.

Holborn. He stands. The girl smiles at him, makes a silent little half-handed wave glimpsed between a teenage boy in ripped jeans and hoodie, and a large, older woman with hair greying at the temples. On the platform, he watches the young woman through the window. Oblivious to his gaze, she reaches into her handbag and retrieves a novel and thumbs it open as the train accelerates. He wonders what she’s reading. Then she’s gone.

The sun’s higher in the sky when he emerges blinking at street level. It’s warmer than when he went underground at Angel, but the air still feels cool and refreshing after the stifling heat of the Tube. He stands with the crowd, he’s part of it, feeling open and exposed.

Rumble of traffic, murmuration of the busy London day as the crowd congregates at the junction. And then, like blood cells from a fresh wound, they flow freely at the change of light: into the big Sainsbury’s at the corner, finding readymade breakfast and lunch; quick stops into Superdrug for makeup or sedatives to self-soothe the day, and down the side-roads and winding alleys, A40 capillaries threading through the capital. This is when it hits him, the uncanny sense of living a life not quite his own. Alex watches the ebb and flow of people as they emerge from underground, gather, cross and repeat. He waits for someone to see through the illusion of heavy makeup under the bright glare of day and call him out, to cry, look, look, that girl’s really a boy! But nobody does, nobody ever notices, or cares. The warming air stirs and breathes against his thighs, the back of his knee. He stands with his back to Costa Pronto, holding his handbag by the handle with both hands, and shivers. This is what I wanted. Maybe not like this, not exactly like this, but this is what I wanted: to step into the light of day and feel the living pulse of the city pass through me. He feels proud to stand there, knowing he’s making it. Yet he is also unhappy.

No. The audiobook has moved on to the subject of grief and how to manage it, but with his eyes on the busy streets, the press of people, the muted din of traffic and the dappled dance of morning light through the canopy of trees lining the road, he doesn’t hear it. Instead, he thinks about the audiobook’s earlier lesson on precision of language, the specificity of emotions. So no, he’s not unhappy. There’s an element of the anger and depression he felt in the month before his sister convinced him to begin this insane charade; and those emotions themselves were an echo of a year earlier.

He removes his earbuds; the sounds of the city return. As he walks, he mulls it over. Often, some swell of emotions overwhelms him during the day. This morning, it’s hit him earlier than usual. Shaking it off, he begins the short walk to the offices of Lockwood & Carmichael.

Checking the thin watch at his wrist, he decides he’s running early enough to indulge in a coffee. He stops at a little café he likes. He orders an Americano with milk. There’s a seat at the window and he grabs it. After staring out the window for a minute, he digs out his Alex phone. He starts with Reddit, flicks through for a bit, then spends a few minutes reading r/NoStupidQuestions, some girl wondering whether she should question her sexuality after TikTok told her she was bisexual. He reads an article in the Guardian about the ongoing trade wars. He reads a review of the System Shock 2 remaster. Then he checks in on Luca, finds a picture of him standing on a beach in Cornwall, arms around the waist of some guy. They’re both ripped, skin gilded by the sun and sand. His friend looks happy. Good, Alex thinks.

Dropping his phone back in his bag, he hesitates, then retrieves the photo of his dad. He stares at it for some time, revisiting details he’s examined a hundred times before. Silently sipping his coffee, he hears his father’s voice: Alex, it’s not what you think. Alex, it’s time you bloody well grow up. Be a man, Alex. You’re too soft. Bloody hell, Alex, why can’t you be more like your sister?

Alex slips the photograph back into his bag.

He resumes staring out the window, across the narrow lane and wooden boxes planted with sturdy greenery. A few pedestrians walk swiftly past: teenaged boy in baggy jeans, middle-aged woman in a vest with tattooed arms, a few guys his age in suits, a girl with short hair and a short skirt, legs bare and bright in the sun. The earlier fantasy, the one in which he sits with the woman from the train, returns to him. This is the café he imagines taking her. An irresistible little smile tugs at his lips. His fantasy is one half soft-lesbian porn to heterosexual desire; he wants her as a man but imagines the soft touches and shining lips of two women sitting closely together over coffee on a sunny Thursday morning. Sleek thighs, side-by-side. The swell of full breasts, nearly touching as they lean in close. The feel of her fingers against his arm, and whispered words. He wants to hear her accent, watch her speak and see the dart of a pink tongue across bright teeth. She’ll smell faintly of gorse and share with him an intimate secret she’s kept close to her heart her whole life.

His crotch throbs. Fucking gaff, but the compression does its job, nothing disturbs the smooth front of his skirt as he sips at his coffee and squirms in discomfort. Focusing on those earlier sensations again, he tries to identify the precise emotions that seized him stepping out of the station. Overwhelmed, he decides, but also excited, the first felt as a tension across his shoulders, the other a prickling of sweat at the nape of his neck. Vulnerable, a shiver down his spine, but also eager: a flutter in his belly. He shakes his head, staring into his drink.

He finishes the coffee and knows he’ll regret it in an hour, when he’ll need a piss and goes through the faff of re-tucking, this time in the confines of the too-small ladies’ bathroom at work. Hopping down from the tall stool, he pays and returns to the busy street. It’s just gone eight o’clock, and even if his job doesn’t officially start until nine, unofficially it’s a good idea to arrive early. Amber pokes fun at him for it, but she got a proper work contract and everything, and Alex is only one month into a three-month probation. He’s going to beat this job, but Christ, he didn’t expect it to be such hard work. The job on its own’s enough, without the daily challenge of passing as ‘Blake’.

The main office of Lockwood and Carmichael lies down a narrow side street in Holborn, quiet in that surprising city way considering how close they sit to the main road. The tall narrow buildings here are limestone yellow stone, pre-Victorian and speak of old money, ancient trade and Empire, stained brown with age and centuries of chimney smokes. Walking these alleys, Alex imagines Gothic fog curling sickly wet fingers along ancient brick, the cane-tap of shadowy figures walking wreathed in fog, the cry of orphan thieves.

A small bronze plaque with engraved lettering, mounted to one side of a heavy wooden door, reads Lockwood and Carmichael. There’s a blue plaque mounted on the building opposite, the home to some politician over a century ago. He stands there and breathes in deeply. One more day. I’ve got this, he tells himself. Back straight, shoulders back.

Alex taps his lanyard and steps through. The heavy wooden door closes behind him.

Chapter Four: Just Another Day

It’s only just gone eight, but Alex isn’t the first to arrive.

Moving with the familiarity of routine, he drops his laptop and handbag by the reception desk and heads straight to the tiny kitchenette. Fluorescent lights flicker to life as he fills and puts the kettle on, measures out coffee grounds into the coffee maker. He grabs three mugs and lines them up on the counter, opens the fridge, pulls out the milk, nudges the door shut with his bum, spoons sugar into one of the mugs. Leaving the kettle to boil, the coffee maker to brew, he returns to the reception desk. He sits, stifling a groan as the gaff pinches. The work laptop boots up with a low whirl. He logs in, nails flashing across the keyboard. First week with these nails, his typing speed dropped dramatically. Now, he's almost back to full speed. It’s not like they’re that long. But still. An adjustment.

He removes his flats and tucks them to one side. Reaching beneath the desk, he retrieves a pair of shoes. They’re black, patent leather Kurt Geiger pumps with a pointed toe and detailed eagle head. Little ebony crystals sparkle in the eyes. He was totally against wearing heels, or at least anything over an inch and blocky. But Ms. St- Clair dropped a few disapproving comments and Amber urged him, too: you’ve got such sexy legs, she told him, shame not to show them off. He mentioned it after work, and Sophie took him shopping that same night. The shoes were one-fifty, discounted to forty, and fit—a find like that, his sister insisted with a grin, you were destined to wear these shoes.

But Christ, the three-and-a-half-inch stiletto heel sits very firmly at the limit of what he can handle, even after weeks of practice. He wiggles his toes, feels a twinge of anticipatory discomfort. He slips his feet into one, then the other and stands, feeling the immediate shift in his posture, the pinch in the toes and pressure at the balls of his feet. A few steps, and he finds his stride. He can survive them for the working day, just. After all, he spends most of it sitting down.

There’s a tall, narrow mirror between two leather sofas in the reception area, and just as he does every morning, he examines his appearance in it, twisting to see himself in profile, smoothing down a few wrinkles, tucking a stray hair back into place. A diffuse nausea settles in his belly, a sense of guilt. It’s not an unfamiliar sensation. Shoes are just another part of the costume. Besides, he looks good in them. The shoes are undeniably hot. Alex just wishes he wasn’t the one wearing them.

This early, the office air conditioner hasn’t kicked in yet. He notes the humid sheen across his upper lip and where his foundation’s started to slip. Blot, powder, lipstick refresh and then the short walk down the dark-panelled corridor, out the rear door. It leads to a tiny courtyard. The courtyard is formed by the back-ends of the surrounding buildings, with grimy windows looking out over the small space, a few holding circular vents lazily turning. A pair of plastic chairs for smokers and a potted plant, scraggly weeds poking through uneven paving stones, and a drain capturing runoff. The door opposite leads into the rear entrance of a narrow 1960s office block where most of the real work happens. Lockwood and Carmichael present old-London style out front, aged men holding court in offices heavy with wood wax and age. But most of the young staff, including the junior associates, work out back.

The air here barely stirs. Out of direct sunlight, the shaded space feels cool against his thighs and arms. The sky above cuts a silhouette of brilliant blue. Alex stands there, blinking into the bright sky. He feels as though he could stand there forever.

Instead, he forces himself forward and soon stands outside the junior offices. Oluwatobi’s there, dark face glowing with soft monitor blue, and Mo. And Harry, too. Alex’s stomach twists itself in a knot.

These three are always in early. Oluwatobi’s working on an energy merger in Dubai for a client offloading his third-generation company before retirement. Mo’s poring over fund performance metrics, tweaking a client’s quarterly report to make a tariff-induced flatline look like a gentle incline. And Harry has his nose buried in a cap table. He knows what they’re working on because he’s helped all three these past few weeks. Alex’s proofed Tobi’s deck, and it’s his Orwellian spin on Mo’s quarterly losses report creating opportunity events.

Tobi flashes a smile at Alex, and Mo waves without looking away from his screen. Harry grunts, glances up from his computer, then double takes. He licks his lips, smiles in a way that makes Alex’s skin crawl, the way those eyes track over him, sliding slowly down his body, lingering over his thighs, then calves, heels. Alex suppresses a shudder, forces a bright smile and greets the boys: coffee, tea? They ask for the usual. He feels their eyes follow him out the room.

On paper, they’re not that different: junior associates recently harvested from LSE or Oxbridge, no older than Alex. But he’s the one wearing the check mini. He heads back to the kitchenette, pours out coffee for Harry, tea for the other two, slips the three drinks onto a tray. Strictly speaking, this isn’t his responsibility, it’s not in the job description. He walks slowly and carefully, drinks balanced on the tray. Curls of steam rise from the tea as he crosses the courtyard. He’s spilled a drink before, heel wobble in a distracted moment. Harry shouted at him, patting down the stain on his suit, called him names. Alex nearly cried, nearly hit him.

But no problem this morning, he’s had lots of practice. At the door, he pauses for a moment, watching these three guys at work. Harry’s blue suit, Mo’s tangle of dark hair, Tobi’s heavy watch. A heavy feeling pulls at him, and he wants nothing more than to follow it down, through the floor, to simply thaw and melt away, and disappear. Alex gnaws on his lip, and the tray grows heavy.

Tobi glances up, grins and calls him a godsend. Mo breaks away from the screen long enough to smile gratefully. Alex brings the men their drinks. Mo’s looking more stressed than usual this morning, eyes red as though he’s already been at it for a couple of hours, skin pale, beard unkempt as though he’s slept here. Most likely, he did, there’s a cot in the back room. Harry holds eye contact this time, watches as Alex approaches and places the coffee in front of him, says thanks sweetheart and when Alex turns away, he knows what’s coming, it’s not the first time. He barely suppresses the flinch as the other man pats his bum but stiffens nonetheless and freezes involuntarily. Harry’s touch lengthens into a lingering fondle. Alex finally unlocks, limbs moving again. Ignoring the unwanted touch but still feeling that masculine pressure against his backside, he walks away, hearing the rapid tap of heels against hardwood floor.

He avoids conflict. The risk is too great: his voice might slip, he’d draw attention he can’t deflect and pounding that fucking cunt into his desk wouldn’t look good on his monthly progress review later today.

Besides, it’s just Harry being Harry, as Amber once said, he’s a twat, everybody knows that. Of course, when Harry tried it on with Amber, that night out in Shoreditch, her boyfriend Jacob was there to put him in his place. But still. Every time it happens—and it’s happened more than once—Alex wonders if the other guys see it. C’mon, hashtag be an ally, MeToo this bullshit, he thinks. Do something, call Harry on his bullshit. But nothing ever happens, and Alex’s face flames red as he walks away, trembling.

Once he returns to his desk and sits, the trembling amplifies into shakes that only slowly work themselves out. It isn’t just anger, and it’s more than disgust. Alex focuses on how he feels, tries to articulate with precision: humiliated and disrespected; inferior. With no one else about, he squeezes his eyes shut. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes, and he forces his fists into his stomach, hard, to distract from the hollowness left by Harry’s touch. He doesn’t want to cry. It’ll ruin all that effort he put into his makeup this morning. Besides, crying’s unmanly. Back straight, shoulders back. He bloody well needs to toughen up.

I’m okay, he tells himself, I’ve got this.

He opens the top drawer a little too quickly, grabs his Graze bar, bangs the drawer shut and tears open that packet and stuffs his mouth with it, swallows it down. It helps, a little. Then he turns to his computer. Pulls up the day’s schedule. There’s an important client coming in, a French hedge-fund princeling with a yacht in Antibes, a family home in Kensington: so, meeting room to be set up accordingly, food ordered in, the correct flowers on display, drinks ready, Courvoisier, Scottish Highlands distilled water.

But there’s also a half-dozen requests for room bookings to coordinate. Mr. Wilson’s flying back from Tokyo tomorrow, so a pickup at Heathrow to arrange. Dry cleaning to collect for Ms. St-Clair. She’s also put him down to sit in on a meeting; the mentorship program won’t start until after the probation period, but she wants him involved. Previously, she’s has him sit there, taking notes and looking pretty. At least, that’s how it feels. There’s a stack of handwritten notes that need transcribing, some comms work, too, nudging a few colleagues who avoid talking to each other. Then there’s that research Emily wants him to take on, mostly ctrl-C, ctrl-Ving anything he finds online related to some West African oligarch; she’s prepping a briefing doc and has him doing the grunt work. And of course, the one-to-one with her this afternoon, his one-month progress review. He feels hot, a little sweat gathering in his armpits. He rolls his neck, scratches at his bra line.

Right. Best get into it, then, especially as he’s doing this against a backdrop of normal reception duties, assisting clients and the steady trickle of visitors to L&C, deliveries, greeting staff as they arrive, smiling, always smiling. Factor in all the little, unnoticed tasks, clearing up after people, turning the decorative vase this way, watering the flowers and facing them that way, keeping carafes topped up, fetching, delivering drinks, taking the occasional call, answering or redirecting emails, sorting the post, scheduling, tidying—and just being there, sat behind his heavy desk, looking pretty, professional, the first thing visitors see, the immaculately made-up face of the firm.

He draws a mental pathway through the workload, and in this way leaves behind the memory of Harry’s unwanted touch. This, he’s good at, he’s methodical and practiced. He owes this to his father. When he was younger, his studies drove him to distraction. Sleepless nights, nail-chewing, and worse. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do the work. Academically, he did well, he understood Maths, English, the rest of it. But wanting to do his work perfectly, he often did nothing at all. GCSEs nearly undid him, especially those final two weeks of Easter revision in which he barely ate, didn’t sleep and nearly drove himself mad.

His father saved him. It’s one of the most vivid memories he has of his dad. It’s a painfully mundane memory. Sitting at the kitchen table. Triple science textbook open, fingers digging into his thighs and staring in despair at something he knows he knows, but it’s too much, he’s got twelve GCSEs, nearly twice as many exams coming and doesn’t know where to start. Every time he grabs onto a formula, it wiggles and slips away. But that night, rather unusually, his father was home from one of his work trips and rather than exhausted or in a bad mood, seemed cheerful, relaxed. His father sat with him, flicked through a few pages of the revision guide, and his fingertip rested over a formula, the refractive index.

What’s this then, son? his father asked, what’s this all about?

Alex tried explaining it, and Morgan shook his head, smiling ruefully. It’s too much, son. Way beyond me. Break it down, so a man like me can understand. What’s this ‘c’? The speed of light? Ah, just a number. And ‘v’, that’s just another number? Pop the one on top of the other, it gives you—ah; okay then, that’s ‘n’, is it? How light changes as it passes through different spaces? Well, that’s obvious enough, isn’t it, everything changes according to where it’s at. Even I get that, he said, and tapped his chest with one finger. This here, this is constant, too. But this—and he waved his hand to take in the kitchen, the house—it changes this—and he indicated the rest of himself. Here, I’m me, I’m your father: and his hand rested heavily on Alex’s shoulder. Out there—he jerked a thumb towards the window, where it was growing dark and wet outside—I’m someone else, I move differently.

That week, it was his dad who taught him the trick of breaking everything down to manageable chunks. At first, Alex drew out elaborate plans that had more to do with procrastination than work. His first study plan was meticulous, rigorous and impossible. The next one, with Morgan’s help, comprehensive but actually doable. Every hour, he switched to a different subject, and within each subject, a different topic. Taken granularly, nearly every subject became less daunting.

When May rolled around, he aced his GCSE, 8s and 9s across the board. A-levels felt almost easy after that, especially at that posh private school, two more years and three top grades. He had offers from Oxford, Imperial. But Bristol was closer to home. Undergrad was a lot of work, but the same methodical approach earned him to a first, not any special brilliance. He’d be the first to admit that. But his Master’s was a different story.

Still. Even Sophie was taken aback at how he’s thrown himself into his most recent studies. Having left home at nineteen, she’d never seen the intensity of his focus. Makeup, movement, voice and fashion; broad categories broken down to atomic specifics he could practice, one by one. Lips-nails-hair; gaff-eyes-shoes; voice-walk-earrings. Femininity as fragmentation: that’s how Alex experiences his enforced womanhood. At times, he feels himself as such: an amalgamation barely held together by lip gloss and tights.

Alex loses himself in his work. Occasionally, he’s dragged back to reality. He crosses smooth legs at the thigh and the whisper of tights distracts. A typo, caused by a slip of the nail. Bangs, falling across his eyes, and the sway of earrings when he sweeps the hair back with a delicate pass of the fingers. But otherwise, he stays focused and even enjoys the work. A sort of dull contentment settles over him, and he’s happy. By the time Amber and Ms. St-Clair arrive together on the dot of nine, he’s arranged the pickup from Heathrow, sorted a half-dozen scheduling nightmares, and emailed the caterer.

The two women glow from their swift walk from Charing Cross. They don’t usually arrive together, chatting like this. Both women look good: St-Clair, stern and a little sexy in a slim skirt suit, patent leather heels, short hair styled back; Amber’s look is a step closer to his own, a hint of schoolgirl, all grown up. The pain in his gaff’s a pointed reminder to focus on something else. He stands to greet them, smoothing down his skirt. He exchanges air kisses with Amber; St. Clair looks him over and nods her approval.

After that, it’s back to work and the morning flashes by. First week on the job, he shadowed Amber’s receptionist duties. By the end of the week, he ‘manned’ the desk—the irony not lost on him—on his own. Week two, St-Clair started layering in the administrative duties. A full month into the job, he almost yearns for the simplicity of that first week, where the main task was to sit at Amber’s side and smile for arriving clients, take their coat, lead them to one of the meeting rooms, or the partners’ offices upstairs. But he likes grappling with the administrative tasks, especially when it involves writing, twisting words to suit both the client’s and the firm’s desires.

Ten o’clock, his stomach growls. Amber takes the reception desk, and he takes his break. First, he heads to the loo. The building had originally served as a rich merchant’s home, then some legal offices, and finally the offices of Lockwood and Carmichael, acquired in the early 1800s. He knows this because he’s read the slim ‘History of Lockwood and Carmichael’ book sitting on the reception mantlepiece. Amber laughed at him. Nobody, anywhere, has ever read that book, she told him.

When plumbing moved indoors, there were no women working at L&C. Consequently, the only female toilet was installed quite late, post-War and in a reluctant, dusty corner of the building. Three floors up, the room had originally been the gentleman’s smoking room. Later, it found new purpose as archival storage filled with yellowed ledgers and faded contracts. A thin plywood wall now separated the old from the new, the smell of mouldering documents lingering just beyond the cramped space that now served as the women’s loo.

He could just cross the courtyard over to the office block; it has proper modern toilets. But he rarely does. Instead, he clicks up the steps, walking through the winding, creaky upper hallways of the old building, and locks himself into the cramped toilet. It’s got a good view, at least, smudged round window peering out over the winding lanes of Holborn. Sitting on the shitter, he can see the back of old buildings, and the green space of gardens.

With the door locked, he lifts his skirt, drops his tights and gaff, and breathes a sigh of relief that borders on a groan of pain as he releases his cock and balls. Elbows on knees, he holds his head between his hands and takes a long overdue piss. Afterwards, he just sits there, giving his bollocks breathing time.

Eventually, he reaches into his handbag. It’s kind of gross doing it in the loo, but whatever. He finds his apple, biting into it as he scrolls through his Alex phone. He checks in on friends back home, mainly Luca, and a few guys from St. Oswald’s. He sees summer holiday pics, sweaty nights out, gap year adventures. One guy he knows, Tyrone, a right plonker, stands awkwardly in an ill-fitting suit out front of a pebble-dashed office block in Slough. New job. Tyrone grins, happy against a backdrop of grey skies and traffic. Next, Alex checks in on Beth, sees her standing with her fiancé, Dave, on some beach in France. She looks good. Really good. After that, a few other girls he knows: Jenny, he dated her in sixth form; Darcie, from year 10, he kissed her at a house party at Luca’s house. Then back to Luca. He scrolls through his friend’s timeline for a bit. Then he checks LinkedIn. But there’s not much happening there.

Ever since Blake came along, his phone’s a mess, and social media has no idea who he is anymore. Instagram feeds him exotic locations, lipstick reviews, gaming updates and glow-up tutorials. TikTok seems to think he’s a closeted bisexual with Daddy issues, but with a thing for tutorials on walking in heels. Adverts pop up for Monsoon dresses, the Hay-on-Wye literary festival, and pastel nail kits. But it’s the BookTok feed he finds especially offensive, all mushy romantasy bullshit he’d never touch with a bargepole despite Amber forcing Thorn Season on him.

Still. He’s gradually dragging his socials back in line with—his real self, he supposes, but what does the algorithm know? He quickly recognized the need for a separate online life. Sophie sorted him out with a second phone, his Blake phone, cheaper, pink and running pay-as-you-go. He turns off the Alex phone, buries it back at the bottom of his bag, and digs out Blake’s phone and taps into her digital self.

She’s only been around for a couple of weeks, but she’s been pretty damned active in that time. He posts at least once a day. Still sitting on the bog, he takes the opportunity to post a picture of last night’s meal at Margot, a Negroni from the bar afterwards, and a blurry background closeup of his painted nails curled around his half-eaten apple, adding to the curated gallery of images defining a life that doesn’t really exist. Though in some ways, online at least, Blake’s more real than he is, now.

After that, he can’t postpone reality any further. He tugs the gaff back into place, then the tights and finally the skirt. Washes his hands, checks himself in the mirror, fixes his makeup. Stares into himself, tucks back his hair. Takes a deep breath. Tells himself, you’ve got this. He stands straight, shoulders back. Sees himself in the tiny bathroom mirror and grins. And tits out.

He heads downstairs, joins Amber. The client is due to arrive any minute. Amber pronounces his name with a mock French accent. Je suis Julien Bellême, she jokes, drops the accent and laughs. Sounds like ‘bell end,’ she says. Alex giggles behind his fingers. A moment later he arrives, Julien de Bellême. He exudes wealth—but then, they all do—but he’s younger than Alex expected, only a year or two older than he is, really, short dark hair, fashionably unshaven, slim and handsome in a pale suit that probably costs more than Alex’s university education. His walk is ridiculously confident, and his eyes sparkle with amusement as Alex and Amber rise to meet him. They take his jacket, offer him tea, coffee, water, something stronger?

And in that initial meeting, though his instinct is to hate the rich bastard, Alex grudgingly admits the guy seems alright. Julien has an easy, self-deprecating laugh and affable charm. Amber takes the lead, the perfect balance of coquettish professionalism, sycophantic flattery balanced against British exceptionalism. She normally tones it down, but with these younger male foreign clients she cranks it to 11, the posh cut-glass received pronunciation, as if to remind the client: yes, you’re stupidly wealthy and I’m just a receptionist, but you’re French, and no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be English, you poor boy.

Julien loves it, but Alex is thrown off by how often the young man’s eyes drift his way, the curiously knowing half-smile. Does he suspect? Or is he just checking out the new girl behind the front desk? His stomach twists for fear of being caught out until Amber sweeps the man away, her tinkling laugh leading him to the room set up to the exacting standards the client expects, and Alex breathes a sigh of relief.

It does mean he alone, however, when Harry swings by. Nominally, the junior analyst’s bringing a stack of work, which he drops on the desk with a ‘babe’ and a ‘sweetheart’. But it’s obvious he’s there to chat up Blake. Alex swallows the urge to tell him to fuck off. Harry’s American, both in temperament and smile: too bold, too bright, unnaturally white. Alex forces a smile, tries to get on with his work. With Harry hovering over him, rambling on about some new movie he’s seen, Him, it’s not easy. Alex hesitates over a formula in the spreadsheet. It’d be a lot easier without some pillock discoursing in his ear. He curses softly under his breath, but Harry hears it, he steps in closer, leans over his shoulder and offers to helps. The man’s hand suddenly rests at his waist, entirely too confidently. Alex tenses, tries to shift out from beneath the other man, murmuring diffidently. Harry’s hand follows. His touch slides along Alex’s flank. Alex feels his fingers curl into his skin, just beneath the bra line, holding him.

Ms. St-Clair sweeps into the room. Harry steps back. She raises an eyebrow. He grins. Her expression hardens, lips pursing in a disapproving, dark red line. He tugs at his blazer, turns and saunters off back to the junior offices. They both watch him leave. St-Clair frowns. Alex remains silent.

After a short pause, she asks about the dry cleaning. He doesn’t offer an excuse, because she’s not interested in excuses. Instead, he tells her he’ll collect it immediately, as soon as Amber can take the desk. When she returns, having left Julien with one of the senior partners, Alex hurries out the door. He’d planned on doing this at lunch, but he’s happy to take the opportunity to step outside and clear his head. He needs to walk, and fresh air.

It’s only after he’s left the building that he realises he forgot to swap his shoes back over. He maps out the route to the dry cleaners and back. Ten minutes, in normal shoes. How long in stilettos? He leans against the wall, feels the tingle in his toes and at the back of his ankles that he knows will grow to first a burn, then a sharp itch, then a dull throb punctuated by spikes of pain—a new blister, maybe, another to add to the collection. Alex squeezes his eyes shut against the daylight, blinking back tears. The day’s heat curls around him and sweat clings his shiny blouse to his frame almost instantly. It’s too hot for tights. And the light’s painfully bright, and he forgot his sunglasses. He can see them, sitting on the shelf by the entrance. And his comfortable shoes, left beneath the desk. Fucking Harry. That twat has him flustered. He wills himself to walk. But instead, he remains standing, gripping the wall next to him, just breathing. And just like that, the morning’s docile contentment is shattered, and it suddenly feels as though the ground is giving way beneath him, a great gaping dark hole ready to swallow him.

And he thinks, I can’t do this, it’s just too much. The job’s fine. I like the job. But the rest of it is just too much. And it would be so easy to just—walk away despite the heels, back to Sophie’s apartment, and collapse on the sofa and admit to his sister, yes, you were right, no, I couldn’t hack it. So easy to just pack up, catch the coach to Bristol and—go home.

But he feels the rough brick beneath his palm, sharp edges digging into his skin. He grinds his palms deeper into the sharp edge of the building, nearly drawing blood. The pain focuses him, and he considers yesterday; he got through yesterday. And the day before that. Today’s just another day. He can survive another day. And if not the whole day—after all, a whole day lasts fucking forever—then maybe just the next hour? It’d be a shame to waste all the effort he’s put into the day already. Just one more hour. Then it’s lunch. More or less. And he’s been looking forward to lunch at Kastner’s all week, on Thursday’s menu they do this amazing broccoli and butterbean croustade. Though truth be told, he’d rather have the Cajun pulled pork, and thinking of food, he takes his first step, and the next, dreaming of homemade sausage rolls, and the next, spinach & feta quiche, and another, bang bang chicken.

Then he’s there, at the dry cleaners. He collects St-Clair’s clothes, a gorgeous navy-blue dress sparkling with Swarovski crystals, and on the way back imagines what she looks like in it, dreams of her perched on the side of her desk, dress slit up to her thigh, watching him through those heavy-framed glasses. It looks good on me, she says in his fantasy, but I bet it'd look even better on you. What? and the daydream’s broken, replaced by one in which he’s wearing it, wondering how he’d look like in that slinky blue dress, and he suspects: good. Now his groin throbs with pain, his feet too and he’s walking funny, short, awkward clopping steps in that way of girls who can’t quite handle their footwear, and then he’s back at his offices and breathes a sigh of relief.

On his return, he finds St-Clair and Amber in the reception room, talking with Julien de Bellême. Alex sidles past them silently, mouths a silent ‘thank you’ to Amber. He sits behind his desk, logs back into work. When he glances up, Julien is leaning nonchalantly against the wall, hands in his pockets, as the two women speak to him. He winks at Alex over St-Clair’s shoulder. Alex blushes, and the other man grins. The women walk him out of the office.

Then he finds an envelope on his desk. It’s addressed to ‘Chère Blake’. He opens it. It’s an invitation to a party in a week’s time. The invite promises ‘elegance and decadence’. The address is in Putney, by the river. It’s signed, Julien. Beneath his name, he’s scrawled: “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” Beneath that, a deftly drawn face with a winking eye.

Alex’s face feels hot, he takes the letter and slides it into his handbag, into the inner pocket so it sits alongside the photograph of his father. Amber and Ms. St-Clair return, pleased with how the meeting with the client went. Then, they leave him alone at the desk, though with a reminder by his boss of the meeting in the afternoon, and then the performance afterwards. He barely hears her. He’s staring at the door. His hand is still inside his handbag, fingers resting against the envelope. Eventually, he gives his head a shake and returns to work.

The rest of the morning flies by. Though he’s desperate for the loo—and a little weak from hunger—he ignores both urges and focuses on his work. He flags a few revisions for Tobi’s deck, makes a start on Ms. St-Clair’s research. This he really enjoys, it reminds him of being at school. He makes an initial pass with AI assistance to track down relevant articles before dismissing the obvious junk, then scans for details relevant to the firm interests. Forty-five minutes of skimming English language foreign newspapers, and he’s got something he can start condensing for Ms. St-Clair. He’s so into it, he hardly notices it’s gone twelve until Amber passes by his desk, taps him on the shoulder. He blinks, smiles up at her. Her hand on his shoulder slides down his side and sit easily at his hip as she leans in close, checking his work. Sexy and smart, Amber smiles, and her voice and smell and presence send a little thrill down his spine.

Then it’s lunch, past lunch really and remembering to swap shoes this time, he heads out into the heat and the light. The streets are busy. He cuts across the Kingsway, walks up Drury Lane, heads towards Seven Dials and then he’s there, and hardly the first, there’s always a queue at Kastner’s. Alex waits patiently, breathing in the scent of cumin and hot oil. There’s a girl his age standing in front of him, cute, hair in a ponytail, simple white dress with decorative lace on the sleeves, bare legs, flicking her screen with one finger. Two lads behind, chatting shit about the football, Liverpool’s chances of another win, van Dijk’s the man—nah, it’s Arsenal’s year—Arsenal? You mad?—the girl in front’s phone rings, she sounds worried as she answers, yes, yes, what is it?—and the man behind the counter: what you after, love? boss?—and the city speaks with a susurrations of steps, burst of passing laughter, a shout from the kitchen, delivery bike roar, the murmur of distant crowds. A man walks past, filming, narrating his walk. Music blares from a passing rickshaw. A black cab. Tourists, talking animatedly. Two teenage girls, shopping bags and short skirts. Alex tugs at his check mini. The queue shuffles forward. He tilts his head up into the sun, closing his eyes against the light, and smiles.

He takes his lunch and returns to the office. He finds an empty room, turns on his personal laptop and does a little writing as he eats. In between bursts of typing, he takes a little time to redo his nails, digging out the bottle of varnish he nabbed this morning. Soon, his nails match his lips. Then he resumes his early work for Ms. St-Clair. He works through the rest of his lunch break. He enjoys the research. When he’s got enough done, he takes a short break to head upstairs, another five minutes in which he lets his balls breathe. Then back to the reception desk. He’s barely sat down before Ms St-Clair sweeps through and leads him to one of the conference rooms.

She sits him in the corner with a laptop. Two partners arrive first from upstairs: Mr. Bertrand Sandford, white-haired and heavy set, as well as Quentin Langham, also white-haired, but rail-thin and long-limbed, a Victorian coatrack brought to life. A handful of junior and middle assistants soon fill out the rest of the table. Ms. St-Clair is the only woman in the room – and Alex, of course, and the air feels hot and stifling as he feels the men’s eyes graze on his appearance. St-Clair dims the lights and begins, and Alex takes notes. He’s helped her with this deck: Changing World, Changing Markets: Investing in the New Economy.

At a brisk pace, she guides the gathered men through the ongoing concerns facing the firm. Diversifying investments, tariff-induced losses, instability. Climate impacts and risk assessments. Navigating DEI tensions between European and American expectations, potential contract and opportunity losses. St-Clair succinctly lays out the challenges ahead. This isn’t the first time Alex watches her work. But it’s the first time he’s observed her out front of a room full of her peers and superiors. At first, he feels nervous for her. But she speaks firmly and with utter conviction, even when referencing a sequence of slides he knows were dropped in last minute. In talking to the two senior partners, her tone subtly shifts. They ask several questions, one or two striking Alex as penetratingly perceptive, and St-Clair concedes the point, admits it may be an area worth exploring more.

But when any other men in the room pushes her, she ruthlessly exposes their ignorance or refers them back to a previously made point. One particularly obtuse question, she simply refuses to answer, an awkward silence stretching out between her and the man. The man balks first, mutters an apology. The presentation continues as though he hadn’t spoken. The meeting ends, Alex turns up the lights, and there’s a round of gentle applause. There’s a tedious fifteen minutes of round-table discussion, in which St-Clair subtly directs the conversation in the direction she wants. He watches her control the narrative, namely, the need for the firm to change and adapt.

There’s some pushback. Nobody argues the need to shift assets out of the US, or to divest clients’ fossil fuel holdings – even their petrochemical oligarchs want out, funding lobby groups and disinformation campaigns to maintain shareholder value even as they dump stock. But Christ, enough of the identity politics, enough of the DEI crap. Who gives a shit what some Gen-Z influencers think or say?

St-Clair smiles, and her smile is dangerous. She turns to Alex. His heart seizes in his chest. All eyes in the room are now on him. He feels sweat break out on his brow and is suddenly very painfully aware of the fact that he’s a man in makeup, wearing a skirt and heels. Identity? We have an expert on the subject, she tells the table, Blake here wrote her Master’s thesis on it. Blake?

He gapes at her—for a moment, but only a moment. You bitch, he thinks. Springing something like this on him. For a moment, he thinks she’s making a fool of him: look at the silly receptionist, she’s got nothing to say. But—no; he does have something to say. Over the past month, she’s built him up to this, surreptitious conversations touching on his thesis, on branding, on the importance of inclusion, St-Clair’s personal mission to diversify not only the firm’s image, but the firm’s boards. It’s the reason he’s there, after all; it’s the reason Blake exists. He licks his lips nervously as he stands, brushes down his skirt. All eyes are on him, and in those watching male faces he sees expressed: boredom, annoyance, amusement, curiosity, lasciviousness, disdain and contempt—yes, especially the last two. Heat crawls down his neck and chest but it’s no longer with embarrassment.

Mirrors, he begins, facing the full table, in early modern drama were used to signal vanity or vice. Alex knows he’s got about thirty seconds to make a point before the respect St-Clair’s authority compels in the audience runs thin. He speaks quickly, tries to mimic her tone and conviction. In Richard II, he explains, this changes. At the climax of the play, the king calls for a mirror: Give me that glass, and therein will I read. Alex quotes from memory. He shifts his focus towards the senior partners, performs the line to these two old men. He is trying to summarise the final year of higher education and a month of feminine performance and a limited understanding of Lockwood and Carmichael into an impromptu presentation. Dimly conceived ideas swirl through him, and he feels on the cusp of grasping something he failed to understand in the writing of his dissertation, something important.

For the first time on stage, he continues, identity was conceived as both socially defined externality, and emergent interiority. Richard is both King and Man. Both are performance. Alex mimes throwing a mirror to the floor. The king throws the mirror to the floor to shatter “in a hundred shivers.” The rejected identity reveals a multiplicity of lost possibilities. In the play, the medieval concept of social definition is abandoned in favour of self-conception; the early modern self is the performed self. Hamlet’s antic disposition. Macbeth’s borrowed robes. Iago—and Viola, he adds with a smile, especially Viola.

There’s some restless movement. Nobody came for a lecture on Shakespeare. Alex licks his lips, swallows against a dry throat, and forges on. What ‘self’ is L&C performing? he asks. He’s rushing it and knows it doesn’t quite make sense and elides all kinds of subtleties, but now he sees a sparkle of amusement in the old men’s eyes and that’s something. He feels sweat trickle down his back, and his cheeks glow beneath his makeup, but he flashes a glossy smile and continues. L&C is at a strategic crossroads. Richard’s abdication mirrors L&C’s own existential moment. The world is changing, and old robes of fossil fuel wealth and white-male power no longer command the same respect. This is not a reflection on the firm, Alex is keen to point out, the old ways were systemic, they worked, they worked for centuries. But just as the king believed in divine right, L&C believes in their immutable market dominance through command of old power structures. But times change. The old king couldn’t adapt, identity wrapped up in an inflexible conception of himself as King. Consequently, that identity shattered and he lost his throne. But the firm’s identity remains malleable. Shatter the mirror; rebrand: if the firm’s reflection doesn’t work, break it. Even the performance of breaking the old identity makes for good optics, it’s a marketable narrative.

There’s a heavy silence when he stops. He’s trembling slightly. A chair creaks as Mr. Sandford leans forward. He speaks over interlaced fingers and his voice is ponderous but unexpectedly kind. He asks whether she’d use L&C to manage her money. The question is unexpected. Alex laughs, a little too loudly. On my wages? Mr. Sandford laughs as well. If you had the money? Alex shrugs. No.

He’s shaking after he leaves the room but also giddy. He needs to talk to someone about what just happened. But when he relieves Amber at the front desk, she mouths an apology and rushes off on her break, girl problems, she says, talk later. For a moment, he’s tempted to call his sister. But he doesn’t. Instead, left alone, he recalls his short lecture. He shakes his head in disbelief. What the fuck was he on about? Now dread creeps into his belly, and he feels sick. The giddiness disappears and, in its wake, painful emptiness. He’s got his one-month review coming up in about fifteen minutes. An hour ago, he wasn’t worried. Now, he feels he fucked it up. Why did St-Clair put him in that position? Shit. She wants to get rid of him, that’s why. It’s not fair. He’s worked so hard, literally re-invented himself for a job he never wanted.

Alex stands, steps over to the mirror. Blake in reflection looks back at him. He studies himself in detail. If St-Clair dismisses him, that’s a good thing, right? He can tell his sister he did his best. She’ll give him another chance to find a job. She has to. He tugs at the hem of his skirt, smooths down his top. Meanwhile, no more of this shit: no more makeup, no more tights; that’s a good thing.

But he doesn’t want another job. He likes this job, he’s good at this job. Yeah, sure, some parts of it suck. Getting up at 5.30am, for one. Shaving his legs. And dressing like a woman. Christ, the effort. But even that’s getting easier, he’s getter better at it—no, he’s good at some of it, now, he looks in the mirror and sees the skill with which he presents himself and feels, for the first time, a flutter of not just pride, but actual pleasure at what he’s achieved in such a short time. Yeah, he complains—with good reason, the whole situation is insane—but some of it’s not that bad, really, what’s another two months?

And—he enjoys the work, some parts more than others. He’d rather be writing decks than delivering tea to the guys, but fuck, even that, it’s not so bad, really. Other than Harry. But Harry’s a twat, everybody knows that. And in that meeting room, there was a moment when he felt—excited? and on the cusp of teasing out something real and concrete from the academic abstraction of literary studies, as though all those years of interpreting other peoples’ narratives might coalesce under pressure into an understanding of his own story.

He sighs. Desperate sadness settles over his shoulders. After that performance in the meeting room, it doesn’t matter what he wants. Emily’s going to sack him. He just knows it, and the past month will have been an utter waste. There won’t be a second chance. By next week, he’ll be on a coach heading home. In some imagined future family get-together, he can imagine sitting at the dinner table with his sister—the successful one—mocking his attempts at holding down a job in London. By dressing as woman! What a fucking farce.

He returns to his desk and sits. He retrieves his little makeup bag. His face needs fixing in anticipation of the meeting with Emily. The stress and sweat of his short talk did a right job on his makeup. He blots the shine of sweat from his brow, the bridge of his nose. Dusts his face. Dabs a little concealer beneath the eyes. His lips are dry; only now he realised how he’s gnawed his lower lip, licked colour away with anxiety. He reapplies lipstick, then gloss. He’s procrastinating, escaping into the ritual of self-care to avoid thinking about what’s coming. A half-dozen different points he could’ve made comes to him as he brushes his brows into shape. Christ. What was he thinking, a receptionist with a month’s experience lecturing a room of experts?

When Amber returns, she smiles and compliments him on how good he looks. Alex forces a smile as he surrenders the desk. She smooths down her pleated skirt and sits with effortless grace. He realizes then how ludicrous his efforts have been: no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never move like that, never present that degree of natural femininity. Not that he wants to. But still. There’s only two more months to go. This is a blessing in disguise, crashing out like this. He can bow out with some dignity and leave without the humiliation of being caught. Yet he feels tears sting the corners of his eyes. He grips the side of the desk, unwilling to let go. He stares at the ceiling, blinks and tells himself to man up. He’s not going to cry, for fuck’s sake. Stand straight, shoulders—

Amber’s hand on his arm brings him back. She’s concerned, asks what’s wrong. He forces a watery smile, shrugs. She nods sympathetically, without knowing the cause of his distress. But she’s there for him, draws him into a light hug. It nearly pushes him over the edge. But when she lets go, he feels better. We’ve all been there, Amber explains, and he realised that ‘we’ means ‘women’ and this does something funny to his stomach.

Then Emily St-Clair arrives and asks him to join her in her office for his monthly review.

It’s late by the time he returns home, gone ten-thirty. The door closes loudly behind him. He kicks off his shoes and half-sighs with relief, half-winces in pain. His sister welcomes him home. He finds her lounging on the sofa, white wine and Britain’s Got Talent on the telly. Normally, first thing he does coming through the door is yank off the bra and free himself from shapewear. Most nights, he can’t get out of his women’s clothes fast enough. Tonight, more than a little drunk, he instead joins his sister on the sofa.

His sister eyes him speculatively, a hint of a smile playing across her lips.

“How was your day, little brother?”

And he wants to tell her: great. And he wants to tell her: awful. The fullness of a single day sits at the tip of his tongue, and he yearns to share the complexity of every experience. How he woke up, did his makeup and dressed. The walk along the canal and the ride on the Tube, the woman and the coffee enjoyed afterwards. His enjoyment of the work, the daily challenges, his colleagues. A meeting with a French aristocrat and an invitation sitting in his handbag.

And he wants to explain how he had to work late, and tell her about the celebratory drinks, afterwards. The way he stood next to Amber in the bathroom before they went out, his painful arousal at her proximity as they jostled for space in the small mirror, touching up their makeup, the smell of her perfume, lips in reflection, and the confidence with which she held the pencil to lid and brow, the flick of eyeliner. Against his better judgment, and at her urging, wearing his heels out to the bar. And the fun he had there. How he promised to be sensible with the drinking: only one, he insisted, arriving at the narrow little pub at Borough Market, but then a second, and two became four, though he only bought the first and men from the office the others.

Mostly, he wants to share with his sister how his meeting with Ms. St-Clair went.

But it’s too much, how can anyone possibly share so much with their sister?

“How was your day, little brother?”

“Fine,” he says. “Just another day.”

Chapter Five: Such a Cliché

“You’re coming out tonight,” Amber says.

Five pm Friday, one week after his one-month performance review. He’d been busily tweaking a PowerPoint, sizing and resizing text boxes and on-brand bits of imagery, when Amber pulled up a chair next to him. Then, Amber poked him in the shoulder. Hey, she said, and he ignored her and she poked him again, hey, and again, hey, and again, until finally he couldn’t hold it back, and giggled. Smiling, Alex faced his tormentor.

“My treat,” she continues, “a proper celebration. You crushed it last week. You’re amazing, I knew you were amazing the first time we met.” She takes his hand—Blake’s hand—in hers and smiles. “Remember, when you came for your interview? You were so cute, so nervous.” God, her smile, so disarming, eyes beautiful as she sweeps blonde bangs back from her face. “And I’m not taking no for an answer. It’s Friday,” and the way she says it, it’s like the pronouncement of an inviolable rule, a sacred ritual of weekend worship.

Alex tells himself to defer again, with deep and meaningful plans to shove Blake back into the closet for the weekend, to peel off fake nails and scrub his face clean, quite literally wipe her away and become one with the sofa for the evening. He wants nothing more than to escape who he is and who he pretends to be all week long, to enjoy his two short days of respite. Better yet, to throw on jeans and a t-shirt and leave the fake tits behind and head to the pub and sit anonymously amongst the chatter of men, of other men who see him as one of their own—or who don’t, who never even noticed him, because why would they? and that was good, too—and maybe, just maybe, try his luck with a girl, if he met one, and buy her a drink, as men have bought him all too recently, and enjoy a chat, in the way that men too often now speak to him.

“I’ve honestly got nothing to wear,” he says.

“Don’t you worry about that.” Amber was literally impossible to refuse, a powerhouse of persuasion with the mock-serious look, the arched brow and what was it that Peterson said, make friends with people who want the best for you? Amber always seems to want the best for him, for reasons that entirely escape him. Besides, wasn’t this what he wanted, Friday night after work drinks, that London weekend lifestyle? Not like this, maybe, pints down the pub rather than white wine spritzers, suit and tie instead of skirt and heels. And yet. He was young. He’d be in the company of a beautiful girl, at the centre of one the greatest cities on Earth, and wasn’t that the dream, the fucking point of it all? Even if she already had a serious boyfriend. And was more likely to swap lipstick tips than kisses with him. But still. She was sexy and clever and fun and he enjoyed being in her company, painful as it could be.

He saves his work, shuts the office down for the weekend. Then, he pokes his head into Ms. St-Clair’s office down the hall, where she sits behind a heavy wooden desk, peering through thick-framed glasses at her screen, lips curled into something like a sneer of contempt. She glances up, and the harder lines of her face soften very slightly at the sight of Blake.

“Have a good weekend, Ms. St-Clair,” Alex says. “Amber and I are heading off.”

Ms. St-Clair removes her glasses, pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “This is shit,” she says, waving one hand at her laptop. “I knew it would be shit, and I hoped it wouldn’t be shit, but it’s shit.”

Alex hesitates at the doorway, takes a step into her office. “Harry’s deck?”

“Harry’s deck,” St-Clair says.

“You want me to have a look at it?” He says this with a sinking feeling and the knowledge that it would be hours out of his weekend; but also, a warm sense of pride in the knowledge that she will say yes, that she trusts him with this kind of work.

Ms. St-Clair smiles, thin-lipped but genuinely pleased, and says, “yes, please, Blake, I would appreciate that very much,” and that makes him feel warm, too. And when Alex turns to leave, she calls out to him, “Blake,” and there’s a firmness to her voice that freezes him in his spot.

Standing at the threshold, he turns back. She steps out from behind her desk and crosses over to him, each step precise, the click of heel against hardwood flooring. Ms. St-Clair looks him over as she approaches and some of the sternness returns though the pleasure remains in her eyes, and her gaze sweeps over him with all the heat of a searching spotlight, moving slowly from head to toe. With the spin of a single raised finger, she indicates that Alex should turn a slow circle. It is not the first time she has inspected his outfit, though the first since his performance review.

A tingle races down his spine. The back of his neck suddenly feels hot, sweat beading beneath the soft silk collar of his blouse. Yet, he does as he is told; how could he not? With light-footed steps he turns a careful circle in his Kurt Geiger’s and feels the very slight flare of his skirt, the breath of air against his tights. Just once and then he stands straight and shoulders back, hands clasped behind his back as she’s taught him and he feels acutely aware of how turned on he is, performing this little dance for her, the strain against his tuck and the tightness in his chest as she scrutinises his look, his performance.

Emily St-Clair’s face was naturally very pale and today her lips a contrast in rich, deep reds. She wears a silk-satin burgundy blouse with the top two buttons undone, and matching trousers, wide-legged with sharp creases. Though they both wear heels, she is taller and now stands close and over him. A flash of white teeth, a tight-lipped smile and a slight nod, yes.

“As I said last week,” she says. “You continue to impress, Blake. You’ve come such a long way since your first week here. So much more confident and well put together.”

“Thank you,” Alex murmurs diffidently. Then, he bites back a gasp, or a flinch, as she reaches up, finely manicured fingernails painted to match her lips, and he thinks she’s about to touch him, nearly leans into that touch, realises that he’s hoped she would, in fact, touch him, inappropriate as that would be, and has wished this since the day he first met her.

But no. At least, not directly. She touches the silk scarf wrapped around his neck, and nods, finger resting against the embroidered Hermes logo. She seems pleased, then her attention focuses on his earrings. The back of her hand brushes his cheek as she gently taps his simple gold studs. He feels the back of her hand against his skin as a shiver down his spine.

“These, however,” Mr. St-Clair says, and makes a small tsking sound, “are no good,” and her voice is gentler now, reproachful yet patient. “Disappointing, a poor match for the rest. I think you can do better than this, Blake.”

Not trusting himself to speak, he simply nods.

“Good,” she says, then returning to her desk, leans against it without ever taking her eyes off him. The way she looks at him feels predatory, makes him nervous, and in her gaze he can see himself and he sees himself as poised and feminine, and in imagining himself as such feels the blush spread across his chest and flow upwards, the rising heat hidden beneath the light silk scarf. Now, he isn’t sure whether he should leave or stay, or whether he wants to leave or stay. There is a lengthy pause in which she seems to consider whether there is more to say.

“The scarf,” she says. “A gift?”

Biting his bottom lip, he nods.

“Then there is one more matter to discuss,” she says.

Not long after, he returns to reception where Amber has waited patiently. She raises an inquiring eyebrow. He forces a grin—later, he insists, I’ll tell you later. They swap into flats and carry their shoes with them and walk to Holborn station. They catch the Central Line six stops to Mile End. In the crush of people and the heat of the Tube and noise of the Underground, there is little opportunity to talk. But it is a relief to have her there with him. In her company in public, it feels easier to maintain the illusion that he is, like her, just another girl. Other women ignore them; and men look at Amber, not him.

Amber’s place is a tall, Victorian terrace on a leafy garden square a few streets up from the station. Over the tall buildings, a deeper shade of blue, and between them, the sun slices bright swaths of ruby red. Alex can’t help but peer through the windows of wealthy homes as they pass, glimpses an expansive kitchen in gleaming stainless steel, a downstairs living room dominated by a complex arrangement of cat towers; a woman sits a suspended wicker chair, reading a book. Then, they’re trotting up the stairs to Amber’s home and it’s his first visit to her home and the nervousness he’s carried with him from work has him feeling nauseous. Part of him wishes he’d refused and just got home tonight. Another part of him wishes he was visiting under very different circumstances.

“Oh, I can’t wait,” Amber says. “For you to meet the girls, they’re going to love you!” And his stomach lurches, as it does whenever Blake meets a girl for the first time. This time, surely, he thinks, they’ll see through me, of course they will. One look and they’ll know Blake’s a farce, they’ll scream or laugh and Amber will look at me with those beautiful brown eyes, they’ll be full of betrayal and hurt, and for a moment he can’t breathe, he imagines it so vividly.

“You okay?” Amber says, eyes full of concern.

“Yeah. Yes, I think so. Just a bit winded, I guess.”

She gives him a light swat to the bum. “Girl, we’ve got to get you to the gym.”

With a heady mix of trepidation and hope, he follows her through to a large common area with tiled flooring and chintzy wallpaper, once a dining room and now lined with sofas, rugs, a long table and dominated at one end by a large, mounted screen. Manchild plays on a Bluetooth speaker in one corner, Le Chat Noir, framed hangs over an ornate wooden mantlepiece. Large windows and a pair of patio doors make up the far wall, and through them a small back garden, lush with flowers and greenery, with solar lamps beginning to glimmer in the early evening light.

“Pretty cool, right?” Amber says, “we got so lucky finding this place.” Taking Alex by the hand, she leads him over to two women sitting on the sofa. “This is Natsuko and Olivia,” she says. Both are playing Super Smash Bros on the big screen. Alex feels a moment of intense panic. This was a proper house full of girls and the stuff of fucking dreams, but also nightmares. In the instant, these two girls and Amber all strike him as incredibly confident and attractive and cool, intimidating even, and Alex barely stammered out a greeting. He hides his hands behind his back, his chin feels huge, his shoulders too wide and he thanks God the lights in the room are turned down low.

“Girls, say hi,” Amber says.

“Hi,” Olivia says, and “hello,” Natsuko adds, both without peeling eyes from the screen, and Amber says, “this is Blake!” and Olivia grunts. “One sec, let me pound this bitch into the ground,” and Natsuko shakes her head as if, no, I don’t think so.

She’s Japanese and tall and slender, with long black hair in a high ponytail, woven through with colourful ribbons. She wears a light floral print dress and cork sandal heels and is very prettily made up, glossy lips pursed with concentration as fingers fly across controller buttons. Meanwhile, Olivia is short, maybe five-two at most, and curvy, with spiky brown hair, shaved around the sides and back and dyed vivid pink. A half-dozen piercing across ears, nose and lip, denim overalls and a worn, black shirt for a band Alex doesn’t recognize.

A half-dozen brightly coloured bottles of WKD in blue and red lie scattered across the table, along with open polystyrene containers of vivid red chicken and rice, a pair of chopsticks lying lengthwise across the rice. On the big screen, Link hacks at Peach in a flurry of flashes. A dozen CPU players bounce erratically around the two human players. Alex feels an intense urge to join the game and show them how it’s done. His fingers twitch, but after a moment Amber gives a little huff of annoyance. “Dorks,” she mutters. She takes his hand, leads him across the room where another woman sits on the floor, cross-legged at a low table.

“Hey, this is—” Amber begins, and the way she said it, there’s something new in her voice, he’s never heard that tone from her before. This other girl wears loose jeans spattered with paint, and a plaid button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbow. She’s got tattoos coiling along her forearms, shirt unbuttoned to just above her bra line. Standing over her, he enjoys a peek of large breasts in purple lacy cups, where a small tattoo of yellow bird nestles in her cleavage.

“Freya.” The girl glances up, dark eyes and razor-sharp brows, winks at his open stare down her shirt. Alex blushes furiously. Amber doesn’t notice. He looks away, looks back. She’s still watching him, smiling. There’s a dusting of tobacco across the table, open dime bag and curls of green buds. Deft fingers crumble, mix and roll, and in her unwavering gaze he imagines something akin to recognition that sends a sharp thrill like fear stabbing through his gut. “You must be Blake.” Freya smiles, tip of tongue trailing an edge of Rizzler. “Yeah. Amber’s told me all about you.”

With a sensation of heat prickling his chest, fingers twisting into his skirt, Alex looks to his colleague. “There can’t be much to say?”

“See?” Amber boops Alex on the tip of the nose and grins. “Pretty and modest.”

“I’m not that modest”

“So, you are pretty, then?”

“No, I’m—” flustered, Alex cuts off, looks to Freya. “She’s not like this at work.”

“You have no idea. She’s only said good shit.” Freya tucks the finished spliff in her shirt pocket, starts on the next. “Which is totally fucking boring and disappointing and boring.”

“There’s nothing bad to say,” Amber insists.

“You’re saying I’m boring?” Alex pouts, hands on hips.

“So boring,” Amber says. “And perfect and clever and pretty.”

“Get a room,” Freya says, rolling her eyes.

Amber sticks her tongue out, a little flash of pink between perfect lips. “That’s the plan,” she says and smiles at Alex, and the flash of her lips, the glint in her eyes, he suddenly painfully aware of his tuck again. “This way.” Olivia and Natsuko call out goodbye, eyes still locked to the screen. “I was hoping you’d meet Alisha and Amelia,” Amber says. The other two girls, she explains, were a couple. They liked to do their own thing. “But I think you’ll see them tonight. Maybe. They’re so cute.”

And with the three he’d just met and the two he hadn’t and then with Amber, that made six, and just before leaving the room, he hesitates, looks back and imagines what it must be like for them, all six of them together sitting around this room on a Saturday night, TV and video games, takeaway and drinks from the off-license and—and—and whatever it was that a group of girls sharing a house together do, he has no idea but was suddenly gripped by a pang of jealousy so intense it nearly brings tears to his eyes. This—exactly this—is what he’d wanted and expected and totally failed to achieve, instead trapped at his sister’s under the constant threat of eviction, living in a space that was not and could never be his own. He loves his sister. But he doesn’t want to live with her. Some kind of flat share, that’s what he’d expected. He’s even started looking, needs to find a place. It’s complicated, of course. There’s bound to be some overlap between Alex moving into a new place and Blake still working her job. He’s not sure how he’ll manage. But he will, he’ll find a way to make it work. But Christ, London prices were insane! And yet, here was Amber in this amazing old house dripping with character, with these super cool girls, and it just wasn’t fucking fair that it’d all gone so wrong for him.

Amber leads Alex away, first through the kitchen to grab a pair of cans from the fridge, and some glasses from a cupboard. Then upstairs, to her room at the top of the house, up the mains stairs and then a second narrow staircase. “It’s tiny,” she says, “fucking sweltering in the summer and too cold in the winter and—” she pauses, trying to think of something good to say, one glossy nail held to her lips: “well, it’s private, at least, everyone’s downstairs so it’s great when Jacob spends the night, I’ve even got my own toilet up here. No shower though, you should see the fight in the morning, like fucking gladiators if you believe it.”

Her room is small, with barely room for a wardrobe, dresser, and small writing desk, and her bed tucked under the slanting ceiling. Yet her room is also enviable and cute, and standing there Alex feels as though he’s been invited into some portion of herself and feels momentarily overwhelmed by the trust. This was her own space, decorated with string lights and photos of friends and family pinned to the wall, with an oculus window by the bed in coloured glass that glows with the light of early evening across her bed, and looks over the garden below. To Alex, this seems like the kind of garret in which sickly writers sat in a glow wavering moonlight and crafted great poetry or their life-defining novel, and he can imagine himself, sat at that small writing desk, with his laptop open and a tall drink beading with perspiration as he hunches over the keyboard, typing, and a strange, fluttery feeling fills his tummy.

Meanwhile, Amber digs through her wardrobe, tugs out tops and skirt, holds them up to Blake. “Nope,” she says, and “nope,” and then, “oh, yes. This is totally you,” she decides, “see, no excuse not to come out tonight,” and shoves a bundle of fabric into his unresisting arms. “Try it on,” Amber insists, “loo’s down the hall,” and how can he refuse?

The narrow passage outside her room runs beneath the eaves, slanted ceiling on one side, a long, low bookshelf embedded into the wall on the other, crammed full of old paperback novels. He yearns to stop and see what’s there but there’s not enough light to see, and Amber is waiting.

In the cramped toilet, Alex strips out of his work clothes. First, he locks the door and then takes a piss and adjusts his tuck and checks his shapewear. He hadn’t planned on going out tonight but now realises that he dressed this morning for precisely that eventuality, with tape and a proper tuck and the adhesive breasts instead of half-assing it, he’s even worn the girdle with the padded hip inserts. Fucking uncomfortable all day but wasn’t he happy now that he’d gone through the trouble of it all? And with his stomach churning with the knowledge of the wrongness of wearing these women’s clothes, he lifts the dress over his head and slips his arms through the long, clinging sleeves and wiggles it down over his breast forms and then with a few tugs and tweaks, he’s wearing Amber’s dress, and it hangs off him perfectly. Fuck.

The minidress is a midnight black thing sparkling with sequins. The neckline is high and the sleeves are long and fall halfway down the back of his hands. The stretchy skirt grips his upper thigh. Fuck me, he thinks, good thing I shaved this morning, exfoliated, moisturized: his bare skin gleams and his legs look long and entirely too sexy. Thin straps criss-cross his upper back, leaving it mostly bare. Can he wear it with a bra? Alex doesn’t think so, he’s never dared wear anything backless before, why would he? He turns this way and that in the tiny toilet, looks over his shoulder and sees how the dress accentuates his shoulder blades, the line down his back, the contrast of pale skin with sparkling black fabric. He bites his lower lip. Christ, it really does look good. And he thinks, yeah, I can pull this off. The adhesive’s strong, maybe a bit of tape, and his boobs won’t slip, and yeah, it’s got a high collar, too. Amber couldn’t have picked a more perfect dress for him. He poses with one hand on his hip and tries a smile and it comes out funny and he tries again and this time it looks right. Yes, he grudgingly admits, she has a great eye for clothes and sizing.

“You bitch,” Amber laughs when he gets back, “fuck you, you look better in it than I do,” which was an obvious lie but still brings a warm glow to his neck and cheeks. While he’d been changing, Amber put on some music, an endless streaming mix that rolls into something he recognizes, Goldfrapp, wouldn’t have taken her as a fan but there it is. She’s also poured out two cans of M&S mojitos over ice. “Cheers,” she says, passing him a glass.

Alex nearly drains it in one gulp to calm his nerves. Then he perches on the side of the bed, cradling the glass between both hands. Okay, yeah, he thinks. This is fun. Come to think of it, he’d never really been up to a girl’s room like this before. Maybe Sophie’s, but sisters didn’t count. There’s something very cozy about Amber’s room, though he can’t pinpoint precisely what it is. They clink glasses, take another pensive drink.

“Okay, my turn,” she says and starts digging through her wardrobe again. “What do you think?” Out comes a flashy red halter-top minidress, and a lacy red bra to go with it, and she holds them up, and Alex blushes and shrugs awkwardly. Amber laughs, “yeah, you’re right, it’s a bit much. Let’s save that for clubbing.” Then she proceeds to try it on anyways, and then two more outfits after that.

Alex sits there feeling acutely aware of the short dress that feels tight around his thighs and chest and he squirms a little, fearful that his tuck might slip, knowing the dress would reveal the slightest of bulges. Just pick something, he thinks, Jesus Christ, just… anything, but he also knows it’s not that easy, he’d had mornings like this, when he just couldn’t decide. And he knows it’s wrong to watch and that he should look away but also that he can’t, that’d be weird, right, they all girls here, in theory at least, and fucking hell but isn’t she drop-dead gorgeous?

After the red minidress, a pleated plaid miniskirt and midriff-bearing, off-the-shoulder halter top that ends just below her bust line, with a sweetheart neckline and peplum ruffle. She looks amazing, he tells her she looks amazing, but after a brief contemplation in the mirror Amber shakes her head firmly, no, and settles on a pair of tight ripped jeans that were more rip than jeans, with sheer black tights and a sleeveless mesh body over a white-and-lavender bra, printed with flowers. She pairs it with an abbreviated bolero jacket and poses in the mirror and smiles, nods, yes.

And she has an incredible body, Alex can’t help but feel the slightest twinge of jealousy at how good she looks. There’s something enviable in the comfort and ease with which she wears these clothes. There’s no way he could wear what she’s wearing, he’d never look that good, or confident. Rather, he feels constantly aware of everything Blake wears and experiences it with a persistent sense of—well, discomfort, though after six weeks the sense of wrongness had diminished, leaving only the pinch, poke of underwear, the frustrating restrictiveness of tight clothing. Rather, it’s the dishonesty that gets to him, an ambient awareness of his own performance and the clothes that make it possible, haunting him throughout his days.

Meanwhile, Amber wears her clothes with a lifetime’s ease of belonging. And when she stands between outfits in just her knickers, her ass, Christ, to be in this room with her is torture and he wishes he was her boyfriend rather than—whatever the hell he is right now—and the guilt and desire wars inside of him and leaves him almost dizzy with confusion and nebulous desire.

Now, Amber sits at her tiny vanity peering into the mirror. She’s wiped the day’s makeup clean and then started again. At first, he watches expectantly. Of course, he’s seen her touch up at work throughout the day. But this was the first he’s sat and watched a girl do her makeup from the start without it being edited through a TikTok video. He feels a wholly unexpected intimacy, watching as she first cleanses and then begins. She works quickly and with confidence but in this he doesn’t envy her as to his surprise she wasn’t doing anything he didn’t already know. In fact, at times he has to bite back an urge to offer suggestions. Until she starts on her eyes; he still struggles with doing his eyes. He watches, until she pauses, pencil poised at her brow. Her smile, in reflection: curious, expectant.

“You’ve got such beautiful eyes,” he blurts, blushes with the realization that she’s caught him staring. His blush intensifies when he mentally rolls back to what he’d just said. “I mean—” he stops, takes a breath, shrugs and smiles ruefully. “I mean, you’ve got beautiful eyes.”

She returns to her brow. “Aw, thank you.”

“You always do them so well. I can’t do my eyes like that. I wish I had half your skill.”

Amber puts the pencil down, facing him with a mild frown. “Are you being serious here right now? You’ve got gorgeous eyes, Blake. Like, for real.”

He forces a wan smile. “Not like you.”

“Get your ass over here,” she says, and shifts over a bit by the mirror.

What follows was twenty minutes of jostling for space at Amber’s tiny mirror, escalating giggles and the back and forth of cleanser and wipes, lipstick and mascara. Alex felt momentary panic as Amber first reached for micellar water, cotton swabs. He can’t let her do his face, he knows this, to allow her to wipe away his makeup is to efface his Blake-face and so reveal the boy beneath, his Alex-face. He imagines her reaction to discovering it’s a man sitting next to her, albeit not much of one, and his stomach curdles. He’s just seen her mostly naked and watched her change and has sat opposite her several nights over the past month and listened, attentively, eyes wide, to her stories about her new boyfriend, Jacob and his funny circumcised cock, the story of their first kiss and the first time she went down on him, and who knew girls were so explicit in talking about this stuff?

He starts back, palms raised to ward her off as she approaches with a moist cosmetic pad. “No, it’s fine, really,” and when she seems undeterred, “I don’t want to redo my whole face,” and she soothes his nerves, saying, “good, ‘cus I just want to do your eyes.”

He relents, closes his eyes when she tells him to, and feels the cool, damp cotton disc across his lids. “You can do that?”

“How can you be so good at this?” she says, indicating his full face of makeup with a circular wave of a hand. “And not know that?”

He shrugs, sits patiently as she first wipes his face, dampens a cotton swap, clears the eye makeup along the crease, then uses a damp spoolie for the day’s mascara.

“You really don’t like people seeing you without your face on, do you?”

Alex bits his lip, shakes his head.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Blake?”

“I don’t know,” he says, though he knows, knows very well that adhesive tits and fake hips were only one small part of what made him Blake, that makeup was an essential part of it, the most visible expression of his feminine performance. “I guess I don’t want people to see the real me.”

She nods, deposits cotton discs heavy with bronze and copper into a waiting wastebasket, then quietly asks, “why?”

“I guess—thanks,” he says, taking the eyelash crimper she passes him. He leans in closer to the mirror, clamps his lashes into dramatic curls. Once this thing terrified him, it looks like some kind of medieval torture device. Now, he’s a pro and handles it with ease. “I worry that people won’t like what’s underneath all the makeup.”

Amber doesn’t answer.

“And I worry I’m not pretty enough, maybe.”

“You’re very pretty, Blake,” Amber says.

He glances sideways at her. “Not like you,” he says. “Not naturally,” he says. Then, he smiles ruefully. “And definitely not in the way St-Clair wants.”

“Oh, she likes you,” she says. “You poor bastard.”

Then Amber starts on his eyelids with a gentle application of primer, a delicate touch of damp fingertip against his eyelids. Then, eyeshadow, a tickling sweep of the little brush. A short silence, and then Alex admits, in a soft voice, “You know, I’ve never done this before.”

“Done what?”

“This. You, the makeup.” He holds up his empty glass, ice cubes clinking, rim stained with lip prints. “Um, drinks and—um, girly. You know.” Alex shrugs. “This.”

“Not even with your sister?” She speaks quietly as she feathers and blends, switches to liquid eyeliner. He’d told her about Sophie before, in a sort of abstract, vague references devoid of anything that might gender his past.

“We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“At uni?”

“Not really.” He pauses. “I mostly kept to myself,” which is true, especially post-grad. “I didn’t really know many girls.” Which is also true, painfully so. “Other girls, I mean.”

“Poor you,” Amber murmurs. Now, short, confident strokes of the pencil along his lower eyelid, nimble switch to the next tube, then an enviably easy flick of winged liner. “Try lighter colours,” she says. “You’ve got such pretty eyes, you really should highlight them, open them up a little.”

“I really don’t,” Alex says.

“You really do,” Amber says.

And Christ, he thinks, of all the ways to be a girl, I’ve chosen to be such a cliché. Next thing you know, I’ll be complaining about my nose or the size of my boobs, does my ass look big in this?

(His nose is big for his face, he’s always thought that, even before Blake came along. And he’d rather not think about his boobs. And his ass looks great, just like his legs, not as sexy as Amber’s but a close second, he thinks, which is a weird thing to think and take pride in but it’s true, he knows it to be true.)

What next, are they going to watch Mean Girls together, braid each other’s hair? But then, why not? A cliché’s just an accepted way to do or be something, so part of ordinary life that people feel the need to mock it, like unironically being a fan of Taylor Swift. But at the end of the day, isn’t that what he, what most people want: acceptance? Why can’t he simply ‘be’ Blake and be accepted as her, at least for now, until he no longer had need of her? And yet to accept her, or accept her as part of who he is, it’s just too much, a surrender, a giving in to weakness. Better to enjoy the moment buffered by ironic distance, a hidden sense of his own mockery of the absurdity of the situation.

But when Amber is done—“blink,” she orders, and he blinks into the mascara wand, and sits for a final impatient moment as she touches up his eyebrows with the pencil—he looks into the mirror and his little gasp of shock is entirely real, to see himself with eyes done is such subtle shades of colour, layered and the pale sparkle in the corners, and “wow,” he says, and means it.

Eyes wide open, he stares and sees reflected with luminous expressiveness a look he never would have thought possible, captured in the golden glow of the setting sun filtered through the round window over her bed.

Chapter Six: Dancing in the Dark

Laughing descent to shared living room sprawling, he’s sitting on the floor on a cushion with knees together legs curled to one side in his tight short dress, and Alisha and Amelia join them bringing a first round of Cazcabel shots that warms his belly, followed by Jägermeister which curdles it, and what the fuck is that about? who drinks this shit anymore? but Natsuko’s pouring the drinks, and with both burning the back of his throat, Freya passes the joint, and the Deezer playlist plays loud on Olivia’s Bluetooth speakers, Charli XCX, Pink Pantheress, and then Girl Group’s Yay! Saturday and they’re all singing along, even if Alex hadn’t heard half these songs until a month ago, a fact not lost on him, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, he’s having too much fun, buzzing from the booze and the spliff and then the loo where after tucking and taping he stands at the mirror and sees in it Kabuki white porcelain, blood lips, eyes of an empress and feels with jewelled claws for the seams, to hold that face in his hands: we come of age as masks. A knock at the door. He is Blake once more.

Now clip of heels against pavement, nip in the evening air, goosebumps rising across naked thighs and tall terraced Victorian homes looming against the sky, wisp of moon and a trailing dance of golden-hued lamplight and the distant movements of other people, other pavements and seen through windows, the lives of others and a hum of nearby traffic and boys, shouting, football in the garden square an echo to their own girlish giggles as they prance their way to the pub.

Then they’re there and Amber laughs: It’s got your name. That makes him stop, this is something worth pausing for, staring up at the sign over the pub door: the Morgan Arms.

And Alex thinks, Dad, fuck, if you could see your son now. Wouldn’t you just be so proud? And he thinks of that night he came home from his performance of Romeo and Juliet, the memory of making out in the back of Beth’s car a pressure still fresh on his lips, the smear of lipstick, a boy in a skirt under his father’s glare. The thing he said. The thing he didn’t do, but for his mother. Have you forgot me? No—my almost blunted purpose—Morgan, a dead father’s name usurped for a made-up woman’s surname; and Arms, as in to take up against a sea of troubles. And he thinks, Christ almighty and for fuck’s sake, what the actual fuck am I playing at here?

Amber tugs at his sleeve, “you okay, babe?”

He blinks, he’s back. He feels vague and nauseous, but the world settles into sharper focus. There’s a reason he’s doing all this. Alex brushes back his hair. Yes, he is, he’s okay. But Amber takes him gently by the hand anyways and offers a comforting squeeze. His hand in hers: brightly coloured nails, the slender line of her bare arm, neck and the pale dip of collarbone, those beautiful eyes, a match to his own, and gorgeous lips and suddenly he wants to lean in and kiss her, terribly. He imagines the press of his mouth against hers and the scent of her skin, Good Girl Blush floral and vanilla, they’re both wearing it, a dab on the curve of a neck, inside of a wrist and the taste of mingled lipstick and gloss and her surprised gasp becoming a smile beneath his lips, the touch of teeth and then the insistent push of her tongue against his, sliding into his mouth and the way she would hold him by the waist and push him up against the wall where they could kiss with the rough brick pricking his bare thighs under those yellowed lights and the sign with his father’s name.

Amber smiles, tucks a bang behind her ear. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing will come of nothing,” she intones, leading him by the hand into the pub.

It takes him a moment: “Unhappy that I am,” he recites from memory, “I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.”

“Gold star,” she says, and taps him on the nose. Now, they’re at the counter. She orders a negroni, he orders an Aperol spritz. The bartender, a young lad with a big beard and tattooed forearms, mixes their drinks. “Lear?” Alex says. “Lear,” she says and a moment later, “you sound surprised.”

“Didn’t take you for a Shakespeare fan?”

“My soul is a hidden orchestra,” dryly spoken, as the bartender passes her drink. “I know not what instruments, what strings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself.” Alex takes his drink as well, follows her away from the counter. “I only know myself as a symphony.”

They find a table. They’ve timed it right and the pub’s not too busy, the short lull between the after-work crowd and the Friday-night going out crowd. There’s a pleasant vibe, a few larger groups, mostly young, a few older geezers in a corner, pints of bitter, faces red, an appreciative gaze sweeping over any young woman coming through the door. Amber didn’t even notice. But Alex did.

They raise their glasses in cheer. “Friday!” Amber laughs, “God, it couldn’t come fast enough.” Alex sips at his drink, the long-stemmed glass, sunset swirl around a slice of orange. When he pulls away, the rim of his glass gleams with gloss. Staring at the imprint of his lips, he murmurs: “That was beautiful, the symphony thing. Did you write it?”

She laughs. “God, no, that’s Pessoa.” And then, “do you really think I’m that pretentious?” And a moment later: “why so surprised?”

“I don’t know. I thought—” and he hesitates, flutters his hand by way of unspoken apology and realizes that because she was beautiful and female and fun, he assumed that she couldn’t possibly be like him, with a life steeped in an utterly useless and profound education in literature and drama, one in which he feels both pride that borders on arrogance; and deep embarrassment, because where has it gotten him? “I spent the past four years studying Shakespeare,” he says. “I’m a dork and a loser.” He points one finger. “You’re not.”

“Blake Alexandra Morgan,” she says, “you are not a loser. You are most certainly a dork. But you’re far too pretty to be a loser.”

Alex blushes.

“Funny we never talked about this before, but yes, I went to Oxford,” she continues. “Magdalen College.” Her accent shifts into the accent she reserves for visiting dignitaries, cut-glass received pronunciation, a parody of BBC reporting from the 50s. “I read English, darling, which I loved and scored a first, though one wouldn’t presume to say.” She drops the accent, draws idle circles around the rim of her glass. A distant tone creeps into her voice. “Then I came to London.”

He nods with sympathy, feels a twinge of the old ache of his own failure. “And couldn’t find anything?”

“What? No, of course not. I had a job lined up before I got here. Linklaters hoovered me up before graduation, had me on their books. Did my year of PGDL at BPP, tuition paid, maintenance grant, that’s when I met the girls.” She nods her head in direction of the door and presumably beyond it, to the house and in it, her friends. “And so there I was, you know, just twenty-one years old at the start and a trainee solicitor and working that sixty-hour work week—on a good week—eighty or more, usually—and the fifty-K starting salary and out drinking every night in these boring fucking places around the Barbican, know what I mean, Smithfield or worse, pretentious fucking rooftop drinks in Shoreditch with these absolute twats, God, they were such cunts and I hated everyone and I’d be up at 5am and then back to Silk Street and another goddamn share purchase agreement and that lasted a year and I was good at it, like really fucking good and I was this close—” she holds forefinger and thumb an inch apart—“to making the move to Ropemaker Street and then I didn’t.”

There’s darkness underscoring her voice, anger and sadness and hurt, but he can’t tell where it’s directed, whether at that world, or herself, or even towards him, for having led the conversation to this place and blunting her happiness. Amber takes a deep breath. “Anyway. I was two seats in, and that’s when I met Emily—I mean, St-Clair—at an event. I guess you can say she headhunted me. Next you know, I was working for her.”

And he feels bad for her, that whatever happened left her so angry and resentful. But alongside this there’s simmering resentment, that presumably by virtue of her gender or beauty she walked into everything he’s ever dreamed of and given that opportunity, turned her back on it, had the choice to walk away from a top job to play receptionist instead, and it just didn’t seem fair, that her cast-off was his highest aspiration and her backup, his last chance.

“Anyway.” Amber takes a deep breath before continuing, visibly forces a smile. “Speaking of St-Clair, what did she want?”

“Want?”

“You kept me waiting for ages!”

He reaches into his handbag, retrieves the Hermes scarf and passes it to her. Amber holds it with a certain reverence and nods, yes, nice, very nice. She very lightly strokes the silk and its pattern, tracing the tree at its centre, fingers resting on a bird of paradise, a resplendent parrot. Pale blues and pinks radiate, a kaleidoscope of beauty. “This is from him, isn’t it?”

Alex nods.

“Monsieur le belle-end.”

Alex laughs.

“What’s going on?”

Alex dips the tip of one finger into the water beading his glass, draws a trail to the table. He forces a wry smile. “Remember last week, that day he came in?” and he tells her about the letter addressed to ‘Chère Blake’, an invitation to a party in a week’s time. Elegance and decadence in Putney, and that final quote by Wilde.

Amber holds her fingers over her mouth, barely concealing her grin, earlier anger already gone. “He didn’t!”

“He did, I swear he did: ‘give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth’, that’s what he wrote.”

“Pretentious little bugger, isn’t it?”

“Says the lady quoting Lear on the way in.”

“It’s different,” Amber says. “Because I’m a girl. It’s endearing when a girl does it.” She tilts her head. “Especially cute ones.”

“Yes, yes,” he says, dramatically rolling his eyes. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Babe, I was talking about you.”

Alex blushes.

“Anyway,” she says, tapping her chin with a single finger as if in deep thought. “This party, I’m thinking maybe it’s a masquerade party? That’s what it sounds like, right? Elegance and decadence—with masks—oh, just imagine!—it’s some debauched French thing.” Amber’s eyes sparkle and she speaks with breathy enthusiasm. “Full of, like, sexy French maids with the tight corsets and frothy petticoats and suspender belts. In fox masks and cat masks! For the women, obviously, and the men wear suits with tails and opera masks. And some women too, of course, you know, tall, elegant ladies in silk suits and waistcoats or long velvet dresses and gloves up to their elbows and wearing baroque masks encrusted with gemstones and you can just see that beneath the eyeholes their faces are exquisitely made up, like absolutely gorgeous, but only if you’re the lucky one she takes it off for and graces with the full force of her beauty.”

She holds one hand to her chest in a gesture of high drama, fingers spread and fluttering, the other arm thrown across her face. Alex glances around to see if anyone’s watching or listening. “And there’ll be, like there just has to be, some kind of weird kinky sex dungeon all done up in a Frankish style with like crusader swords on the walls and iron maidens and those big cross things and and—and weird shit hanging from the ceiling, and they’re all tying each other up—and spanking!—oh yes, they’re French, the French love a good spanking.”

Amber pauses, as though considering whether to add more, then she nods, satisfied. “Yes. Just like that.”

“I thought spanking was the English disease,” Alex notes dryly.

She considered this incongruous fact. “If spanking’s the English disease, then what’s the French disease?”

“Syphilis.”

“Ew, no. That’s not sexy at all.” She wrinkles her nose and Alex watches her every gesture. “Are you sure spanking is an English thing?”

“Spanking and melancholy, that’s our affliction.”

“Ours? British men, maybe.” Amber snorts. “And that’s our affliction, mediocre men, right?” She raises her glass to cheer and smiling uneasily, Alex meets her halfway.

“Besides, it’s all bullshit, melancholy’s a universal condition. Strip away the Romanticism and you get ennui, and that’s as French as chips.”

“Yes, well, anyway, the party’s at Julien’s penthouse flat in Putney. No room for a dungeon in a penthouse.”

“Life finds a way,” she says. “But look at you, all first-name with our trust-fund princeling.”

Alex winces. “Please. I already feel ick about it.”

“Why?” Amber tilts her head to one side. “I mean, it sounds like fun. Like, you’ve got to watch yourself with those aristo twats, but they can throw a hell of a party.” She leans a little closer, and Alex is mesmerised by the gleam of pub lighting on her lips, the dramatic sweep of eyelashes and wonders, does she see me in the same way, under the same light? “Maybe when you arrive, they dress you in one of those sexy little maid outfits, and the corset so tight, you can’t help but feel breathless as his hands circle your tiny waist and you’re all, ‘ooh la la, monsieur le belle-end, non, s’il vous plait, non!’”—and her French accent is both ridiculous and impeccable—“as he effortlessly bends you over his knee and smacks your little bottom with the ruffled panties and you kick your legs, all helpless, ‘monsieur, oh, monsieur, non, oh, no, oh, oui, oh oui monsieur, encore, plus dur, plus dur, monsieur!”

“Amber!” he hisses, and she dissolves into giggles, at his flushed face, the burning red cheeks, his scandalised expression. He leans forward: “you don’t really think it’ll be like that? Like, for real?”

She laughs harder. “See, now you want to go.”

Alex hides his blush behind his drink, thinking, it’s not going to be like that, like actually it can’t be like that, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life. Women barely wear heels these days, let alone corsets or stays, nobody’s cutting laces or using smelling salts, this isn’t Pamela or Udolpho or Otranto and I’m not some Gothic heroine, tightly bound, forever fleeing and fainting to preserve my virtue. Julien’s just some good-looking rich guy and he’s invited me to his party, no big deal.

And almost instantly after, the recurring thoughts that have haunted him since receiving the invite, only now finely honed by Amber’s words: yes, but why did he invite you? If he just wants some pretty girl on his arm or sexy decoration for the background, why you instead of Amber or anyone else, a guy like that, he’s not going to struggle to pull arm-candy for a party. Jesus, what if she’s right, what if he’s some colossal pervert? And what’s with the gift, the quote by Wilde, Christ, maybe he does want him swishing around in some ridiculous maid’s outfit, it’s insane, I mean, sure, I could probably pull it off but holy shit, the embarrassment of it—

And he’s getting all hot under his dress and squirming in his seat, face flaming red and Amber’s pissing herself for laughter, and this more than anything cuts through his spiralling thoughts.

“Well,” he says, “I’ll find out next week.”

Amber stops laughing. “Wait. You’re actually going?”

“I kind of have to?”

“Have to?”

“St-Clair. In our talk tonight, she, um, strongly suggested that it was in the firm’s best interest for me to attend the party. That Julien’s an important client, a very important client. The choice is entirely up to me, of course, but she would be, uh, how did she put it? personally grateful, if I accepted his invitation.”

Now, Amber’s gone all serious, she’s gazing intently at him, as though searching for something. Her hand covers his, another comforting squeeze. “Are you okay with this?”

“I think so.” His stomach tightens and his smile feels brittle as he says this. “It’s just a party, right?”

“Sure.” She pats his hand. “Just a party. With a charming French aristocrat in a penthouse in Putney at night overlooking the Thames.”

They’re sitting by a wall and so he turns to face it and lightly bangs his forehead repeatedly against it. “Oh God,” he says. “Oh fuck.”

“It’ll be fine,” she says, rather unconvincingly he thinks. “Think of it as a free night out. Free food, free drink. There’ll probably be Champagne and truffles and caviar and like a whole giant pyramid of Ferrero Rocher served on a golden plate, you know, ‘Monsieur, with these you are really spoiling us!’” She gives him another conciliatory pat to the hand. “I mean, look at it this way, you’ve already got a free scarf out of it.”

He stops banging his head and looks askance at her. “It is a nice scarf, isn’t it?”

“A very nice scarf.”

“You don’t think he’ll have, uh, certain expectations?”

She laughs. “Oh, he’ll have expectations.”

Alex groans.

“It’s not so bad,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like he gave you a handkerchief embroidered with strawberries, right?”

“He probably saves those for the second date.”

“So, it is a date?”

Sinks deeper in his seat, he groans again. “I don’t even know what to wear.”

“I’m sure we can find a suitable maid’s outfit.”

“Not funny!”

“Oh, I think it’s very funny.” He sticks his tongue out at her. “At least it’s as an excuse to go shopping. I’ve been to a few classy dos. You’ll need a posh frock. And there’s far too few excuses to wear posh frocks these days.”

To this, Alex remains silent. St-Clair has already stated that, should he accept the invitation, and that since doing so is a responsibility above and beyond Blake’s normal duties, the firm would cover the costs of the evening. Leave it to me, she said. I’ll sort you out for the night.

Amber announces she’s going to the loo, be right back, she says, and stands with a slightly drunken sway. He watches her walk away, the glimpse of lithe leg through the wide rips in her jeans, her long blonde hair. He needs the loo too but can’t be arsed with the faff of re-tucking and all the rest of it, he’ll hold on for as long as he can. Waiting, he slips his Alex-phone from his handbag. There’s a bunch of messages from his sister ending with, where the fuck are you? which he flicks away, and he’s about to check his socials, see how Luca’s doing, but then changes his mind, returns the mobile to the bottom of the bag, and retrieves his Blake-phone instead.

It has cutesy dangly bits that seem to have inexplicably accumulated over the past month, and a pink shell-case. Checking his makeup in the screen, he tucks hair back behind his ear, marvels again at Amber’s artistry with his eyes. He snaps a quick shot of her efforts, a closeup of a single eye and the shimmer of makeup and posts it to Blake’s Instagram account. Doing so, he notices how his nose is looking a bit shiny, his lips dry. It’s in these minor failings he glimpses his old self. A quick dusting, swipe of gloss, then, to keep the boy at bay, at least for the evening, performative femininity for his friend. In thinking this he smiles, suddenly realizes that yes, she is his friend, a good one at that who genuinely seems to have his best interest at heart, and when and how did that ever happen, that he’s ended up with a girl as cool as Amber as a friend?

Then Alex thinks: and what happens when she finds out I’ve been lying to her, all this time, that I’m really a guy and I’ve seen her half-naked and everything, she’s trusted me and I’ve betrayed that trust? This makes him pause, wand suspended against his bottom lips and in his screen, a flash of panic in his eyes.

No, that can’t happen, ever.

She returns then, and he jabs the wand her way and asks, “hey, you never said, how’s it going with Jacob?” and that summons an uncertain smile.

“It’s going good,” she says. “Like, really good.”

“Like, really really good?” He recaps the gloss, drops it in his bag. “Really really really good?”

She smacks his hand. “Honestly.”

He arches an eyebrow in mimicry of the way she does it. “Doth the lady protest too much?”

“What’s happening to your face?”

“I’m expressing scepticism via the medium of a finely sculpted eyebrow,” he says.

“You look like you’re having a seizure.”

“I learned from the best.” He gently prods his brow. It steadfastly refuses to stay in an arched position. “How do you do that?”

“What, this?” Raw disdain radiates with the raising of her left eyebrow. “Easy.”

He tries again, fails. Then, looking into his drink, he sees pale rose melt swirling at the bottom. “I may be somewhat drunk.” Then he adds, “So, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” She finishes the last of her negroni in a single indelicate gulp. “It’s just. You know? It’s all happening so quickly. We’ve only been together three months. And it’s been, like, really good and I guess we’re at the point where I expect it to go bad? Because that’s what always happens? And it hasn’t. I think, unconsciously, I’ve even kind of pushed him a bit, to make it happen? And he hasn’t taken the bait. So, I’m kind of freaking out about that. Maybe. Like at first, it was just a bit of fun? Know what I mean? You’ve seen him, he’s a good-looking bloke, right?”

Tentatively, Alex nods.

“And he’s great in bed.” She grins, leaning a little closer across the table. “And that was an adjustment. Did I ever tell you? Second date, we met up in Shoreditch. And afterwards, we went back to his place and we made out for a bit, and I was like fuck it, let’s see what he’s got, and he wasn’t exactly saying no when I undid his belt and tugged his trousers down and I could tell straight away he’s a big boy. Like, I’ve got a limited sample size for comparison, but I’ve never been with someone so well-hung.”

She pauses, expectantly. Alex licks his lips, and asks, “like, how big?”

Her gaze shifts upwards and to the right in recollection. “Like—this?” And she holds her hands, palms facing inwards, a good nine or ten inches apart, as though showing off the length of a line-caught fish. Then she curls forefinger and thumb into a circle a little larger than a fifty pence coin. “And about this when he’s hard? Like I said, he’s a big boy, cock like a baby’s arm.”

“Amber!”

“Yeah, I know, right? I’m a lucky girl. And he actually gets that there’s more to foreplay than pinching a boob and shoving it in. So, anyway, this second date, we were making out and I rubbed him a little bit through his boxers and he got big really quick and was making these cute little sounds, and his hands were all over me and I slipped one hand into his boxers and pulled it out and went down on my knees and—”

She hiccups, holds her fingers delicately over her mouth. “Hey, are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

“Um—” It takes him a moment to catch up. “Starving,” he says, which is true, but it’s not hunger he’s feeling right now, at least not for fried chicken. He’s leaning forward over the table, and beneath it, legs crossed at the thighs, squeezing tight, and his hands grip each other lest they betray him and absently drift across his groin to stroke the straining bulge he feels lying just beneath his tight, short dress. He’s painfully aroused, a tingling ache. He wants to hear how Amber’s story ends. He imagines her on her knees, chin tilted up, as she smooths her long hair back over one shoulder. The sheen of red smiling lips. A fan of dark lashes, her slow blink, anticipating.

What was she wearing, what did she wear on this date, did she strip down before kneeling, it must be a real challenge, to do it in heels or a short, tight dress, like the one he’s wearing now. He should ask her. Or would that be weird? But he wants to know. He’ll revisit this story later, he thinks, alone in his room, and God, he hasn’t felt this turned on in weeks.

Which a surprise, come to think of it, that so frequently in the company of pretty girls he hasn’t felt this intensely aroused more often. Over this first month of playing Blake, he’s been out with his friend a half-dozen times. And to think of her as a friend makes him pause. Is it weird, is it wrong, to imagine a friend in this way, on her knees and half-naked, the thought of her parted moist lips? And now a twinge of guilt tempers his arousal, and does that make it even more erotic for him, or worse?

“Cool, they do a great Korean chicken. Another drink?” she says. “My round.”

He nods, absently watches her head to the counter. The sway of her hair, her ass tight in jeans, a glimpse of curved bottom in tights through a strategically located tear. Blake’s been out with her a half-dozen times since starting at Lockwood and Carmichael, but only once just the two of them, that mid-week meal at Margot a few weeks back. Her treat, though she never said why; she’d had a lot to say about work and her boyfriend, and he’d been very happy to just sit there and listen and enjoy the food and company and drink with one of the only people with whom he performs Blake without a constant feeling of mild panic.

But every other time he’s gone out with her, it’s been with colleagues. Once, even, her boyfriend Jacob though that encounter had been thankfully brief before the pair left, requiring only the most fleeting of greetings. The idea of properly meeting her boyfriend makes Alex very uncomfortable. He’s tall and successful and good-looking and apparently has a cock like a baby’s arm. Then again, meeting any man dressed as Blake brings an uneasy prickling to the back of his neck. Even after a month, fear shoots through him and his belly goes to water and his legs feel weak, meeting someone new as Blake, especially another man, the intense shame, the risk of discovery.

But when it’s just the girls at the bar after work, over glasses of Prosecco, ruby-red cocktails, an espresso martini, it’s different. One girl asks, anyone see F1 yet? and another comments, the Brad Pitt one? and a third, he looks so old these days, and then the first girl, yeah but I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for leaving crumbs. And then, did you see him in Troy? a few gags but also a low whistle, a groan of abs and a laugh and then one girl wiggles her little finger like a worm: I hear he’s got a small dick. Then one girl leans in, conspiratorially: You know who’s actually got a small cock? Winks, nods, knowing titters around the table. Then, a detailed evisceration of male colleagues and boyfriends and one husband, insights Alex never asked for nor wanted yet finds impossible to turn away from, like a terrible accident by the side of the road. Girths and lengths, funny shapes, weird hangups, scrotums in all their wrinkled varieties, and the sexual prowess and failures of the men in the office. Now, he can’t look at any of these guys in the same way again.

But this easy over-sharing, the honesty of talk between girls: shocking, yes, at least at first and yet somehow equally exhilarating in some way he doesn’t understand. It’s certainly stressful, he sits simmering with anxiety the whole time yet with each instance Blake spends with “other” girls becomes, if not easy, at least easier, but also more than that: a comforting pleasure and an insight into lives always adjacent yet impossibly distant, glimpsed from afar, an infiltration of a foreign camp. To paraphrase, femininity is a foreign country; they do things differently there and certainly, women’s talk about men is a world apart from his experience of men talking about women.

And it’s not just the girls at work but his sister as well, at least in recent weeks, she’s a lot more open with him since he’s been coming home dressed as Blake. There’s been these nights when he’s been too tired to strip Blake away immediately, and instead collapses on the sofa still wearing his skirt or dress, boobs and whatnot, with Sophie joining him and she just starts talking, in a way he’s never known her to before, and then shakes her head as if in wonder. Then, Christ, or Jesus what the fuck, she’ll say, or something like that, as if only then remembering she’s talking to her little brother; and stops.

Amber drops back into her seat with a pair of Cosmopolitans, brilliant red like flames in the dim light of the pub. “Here you go.”

“What were you wearing?” he blurts out, and then blushes, and hides his blush behind a long, slow sip of his drink. Jesus, she’s going to think he’s some kind of weirdo, asking shit like that. Yet she doesn’t seem to notice. She taps her chin in thought, then smiles. “Remember a couple of weeks ago, I wore this check mini skirt? From Next?” He does remember, vividly. “That one. And this black sleeveless cami top from Reiss. My tits looked great in them.”

“Your tits look great in everything,” Alex thinks, then realizes he said it out loud. His eyes go wide.

Amber flashes a bright smile: “Aw, thanks, babe.”

And it seems unfair, like truly tragic that had he said the same thing as Alex, she’d have slapped him but saying as Blake, it’s a compliment.

“Also, these lacy black hold-ups,” she continues, “those fuckers cost nearly as much as the rest of the outfit put together. He loved them though, couldn’t keep his hands off my knee at the show. A few other bits and bobs. It was a good look.” She smiles, eyes him speculatively. “You could totally pull it off.”

He coughs on his drink. “What? No.” He carefully puts his drink down, sips water, pats his flank. “You think, really?”

“Really, really.” She waves vaguely in his direction. “Rack like yours? Those legs? Fuck yes.”

She’s lying, of course, she’s being nice, the bonding ritual of femininity. He’d look ridiculous, massive shoulders and his nose too big, no waist to speak of in a clingy, sleeveless top. Though she’s right about his legs. He’s got sexy legs. There’s no denying that. Though he’s never tried hold-ups. Plenty of tights, almost daily. Now he wonders, those lacy stay-ups, how would they look on him? Then, he holds his drink up to the light and sees that he’s already made solid headway on it. Christ, how drunk is he?

“So,” Amber asks, “what were we talking about?”

Alex takes another long draw from his cosmopolitan. “Jacob’s cock.”

“That’s right!” Undisguised glee followed by a firm nod, her beautiful smile and then she’s back into her story: “See, the thing is, he’s circumcised, right? You ever been with a circumcised guy?” Fortunately, it’s a rhetorical question and she rolls on before he can stammer an answer. “And honestly, I’d never seen a cut cock before, like not outside of porn, and this is our first time, and there we were, he had this shit-eating grin on his face, like, just super-pleased with himself and I was down on my knees and out came his cock and—there it was—and yeah, super big and all but I’d never seen one like that, and I was really fucking drunk and I don’t know why, I just burst out laughing, it was just so funny, bobbing there with its little purple helmet, little soldier boy at attention.” She sits straight in her seat, holds her hand in a wobbly salute next to her brow. “Atten-shun! Just like that. Anyway, he did not like that.” Amber shakes her head, grinning. “Guys, right, their egos, so fucking sensitive.” She pauses to drink, then frowns. “I haven’t told you this story before, have I?”

He can feel the hot spots of pink rising in his cheeks and feel his own discomfort, uncrossing and recrossing his legs as her story settles into his brain, the bobbing cock in the dim light of a room that he pictures somewhat as his own; and the girl on her knees with the skewed perspective looking up, moist lips, bright eyes. But yes, she has told this story before, that night at Margot. “Yes,” he says. “But I don’t mind.”

“Oh!” Amber falters. She appears crestfallen. She takes a deep breath and there’s something going on inside of her he doesn’t understand. Then she says, “I know we haven’t known each other very long. And maybe it’s the booze.” She holds up her drink to the light and it’s already a third gone. “Okay, it’s definitely the booze. But you’re a good friend. You’ve only been around, what, a month? But it feels like you’ve always been there, like who did I even talk to at work before you came along? And I mean that. You’re a good friend.” Her smile is a little watery. “Thank you, Blake Alexandra Morgan, for being my friend.”

Tears sting his eyes: pleasure, yes, and guilt, of course, a shiver of shame but also warmth, blossoming in his chest but penetrating deeper and momentarily, he can’t breathe. She takes his hand, he flutters the other to ward off actually crying. “Stop it,” he says. “You’ll ruin your hard work, you’ll make me cry.”

Tears dot her eyes as well. “Worth it.”

“God, you’re such a bitch.” He bites his lip. “I mean—”

“What?”

And he wonders, is it okay to call her a bitch? And he reckons that if can tell her she’s got fantastic tits, he can call her a bitch, too. This casual insulting between girls is new to him. He’s called his sister all sorts of names. But this is different. He’s never spoken to a girl in this way: twat, cow, cunt, bitch, gash, used only in anger or in conversation with other guys about a girl who wasn’t there. It brings a tremor of discomfort, calling her a bitch; but then, he’s just copying her, right? And is it any different from calling Luca a dickhead, bastard, or wanker?

Either way, Amber doesn’t seem to mind, she doesn’t notice. Instead, she’s watching him expectantly. He dabs at the corner of his eye with a napkin and then asks, “But it’s going well, then, with Jacob?”

“I enjoy the time I spend with him,” Amber says. “And it’s been like three months now and I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask me to move in with him, I’ve already stayed over a dozen times, right? I’ve got a toothbrush at his place, like what the fuck’s up with that, how did that happen, know what I mean? He’s dropped hints already. And that feels pretty serious to me. That feels very serious to me. I haven’t lived with a guy since—” She stops. “I don’t live with guys.”

Alex isn’t sure what to make of her hesitation. “You like him, then?”

She shrugs.

“Love him?”

She laughs. “He’s good-looking and good in bed, he’s got a good job, like a really good job, he’s a banker. And he listens when I talk, or at least pretends to listen, which is pretty much the same thing.” She ticks each item off a slender finger as she speaks. “As a great poet once put it, what’s love got to do, got to do with it?”

“You don’t think love matters?”

“I think for a woman today, love’s a luxury you worry about later. A guy like that, he’s a prime catch, right? Best thing I could do is to get him to plant his fucking seed in me, grow a bun in the oven, get a ring on the finger: sorted.” She nods, once, job done. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Alex doesn’t know what to say to this. He doesn’t quite understand what she’s saying. This girl, his friend, is crazy smart and super clever and beautiful and fun and cool, with a first from Oxford and a year at a top law firm and all of this, she’d subsume into—what? Trophy wife, motherhood, the security of another man’s job. Why? And for what? He looks at her and feels—disdain, yes, a burning instance of something akin to hatred. She’s so much better than him, prettier and smarter and more successful and she’s been given everything he’s ever wanted and she would throw that all away for—the ease and comfort of a man’s wealth, like some tragic side-character in an Austen novel.

He wants to tell her that she’s crazy, that she deserves more than some banker wanker, that she’s worthy of love and respect and everything her heart desires. He wants to explain that given her intelligence and beauty she can and should do more, it’s the parable of the talents, she can’t bury this shit in the ground and let it rot and fester: it’s a gift, a blessing.

But something in her eyes that he can’t yet understand convinces him to keep quiet.

Instead, there’s a lengthy pause. Then she speaks, in a quiet voice, “I talk too much, don’t I?”

He shakes his head, feels the dance of earrings against his cheek.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“God, you’re such a coy bitch sometimes.”

His stomach flutters and for a moment he worries she’s genuinely having a go at him, but no, she’s smiling, then she sees the look in his face, how he’s gone a little pale, and she winces. “Sorry,” she says.

“No, I—”

“What?”

“No, go on.”

“Like, is there a guy in your life?” When he doesn’t immediately answer—he can’t, he doesn’t know what to say, it’s not the first time the question’s come up but with just the two of them, it’s hard to deflect—and he could just say, ‘no’ and he could just say ‘I’ve just come out of a relationship’ and he could say ‘I’m focused on my job right now’ but she’s so keen to receive something in return, a payback of her honesty, a story for a story; and he freezes up, red in the face, and she laughs and shakes her head and he blurts out: “Luca.”

The arched eyebrow returns. “Who?”

Now his face really is flaming red. “No, nothing,” he says. And then, “A guy I knew in secondary.” And finally, “Forget it.”

She laughs. “God, we need to get you laid, girl.”

He laughs uneasily and takes a deep drink of his cocktail and realises that again, his drink is done, and when did that happen? But bolstered by the booze, a coy smile curves his lips. “Anyway, why do you assume I’m into guys?”

“Okay, okay, maybe guys aren’t your thing, I get that,” she says. “I certainly wouldn’t blame you. But,” and here she pauses, flashes a knowing smile. “I’m just not getting that vibe from you, no offence, you just radiate aggressive heterosexuality.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Girl, you should’ve seen your face when I was talking about my boyfriend’s cock.”

“No!” and then a flustered “I mean—” and after another pause, “you’re a big meanie.”

Amber laughs. Then, a heavy contemplative silence settles between them. He feels the weight of her gaze on him as a physical pressure and can’t bear to match it, looks away across the bar. It’s much busier now than when they first arrived. There’s a pleasant din of conversation, banter and raised drinks. An even mix of men and women, guys in jeans and shirts, the occasional Friday night blazer; and the girls sparkle and shine, so beautiful. But not so beautifully as the girl sat opposite him. This, he thinks, this is what it’s all about. Something powerful and inexorable rises inside of him, like a sunrise in his soul.

Talk, he says, please.

And she does, and so does he, and their food comes and fuck, it’s good, it’s just so good, and with it another drink and then that drink is finished too and the room’s getting blurry and yeah, no putting off going to the loo any longer. But first she checks her phone and laughs, Jesus, she says, when did it get so late? And for a moment he thinks they’re done. He’s disappointed. His stomach sinks with the thought of hauling his ass home, this beautiful dress she picked out for him and what was the point if they were just grabbing a few drinks at the pub around the corner, and his eyes so beautifully done? And did he say this out loud, because she laughs, c’mon drama queen, let’s go, the girls are waiting. And they pay up and stagger to the toilet and he locks the door to the stall while she waits, sits and pisses and fixes his tuck, he’s drunk but not so drunk he can’t get that right, and while in there checks his tits, still fake, still stuck to his chest and the adhesive’s holding fine. Pull and tug and tweak. Everything in its right place. Quick mirror repair job, she borrows his lipstick.

Then out into night air cooler than before, short clicking walk past dark houses to Mile End Road for an Uber and a short lurching ride in which she pinches his bare thigh to keep him awake and then out again, Amber’s pulling him along and there they are too, Natsuko and Olivia, they’ve changed, done their makeup, they look so cute and pretty and shimmering in the dark, just like him, beautiful like him.

There’s a bouncer and he checks their ID and Alex is too drunk to care and too pretty to not be let in and now, they’re inside the bar. It’s loud and hot and smells of sweat and booze and makeup and perfume and bad breath and people speak loudly in his ear and there always seems to be a hand on his shoulder, on his arm, at his waist. Once, more than once, on his ass. Another round of shots: what the hell, Natsuko, Jägermeister again?—and what the fuck is that girl’s fucking problem?—and then another drink, it’s clear and has ice in it and mint and its cool and refreshing, thank God, he needs to cool down and then he’s strutting after Amber through the crowd, where is she taking him? Flashing lights and the music louder than ever. The bass throbs through him, so loud he worries it’ll dislodge his tits, nearly pisses himself laughing at the visual of this flashing through his mind. Then, handbags on the floor, his bag from work. Drinks raised high. They dance, he’s dancing in the dark and he’s never danced as a girl before. He’s barely danced as a boy but never as a girl. In this, as in everything else, he follows Amber’s example. Watching her, he does as she does. Tosses his head, a dance of earrings. A sinuous movement of arms. Sways his hips, it’s easy in heels. A momentary fear that he’s making a fool of himself. But he looks from Amber to Olivia to Natsuko and in the dark of the dancefloor under the flashing lights in the narrowed, blurred vision of drunkenness he sees only joy and sweat and bright teeth and the sheen of lips and a flash of sequins.

A hand at his waist. He turns. It’s Amber. So close he can smell her. And she can smell him, the same shared scent. Platinum hair over a bare shoulder. I love you, she cries. Dance with me. She pulls him closer, her breast pushes into his arm. People watch them dance, men watch them dance. Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. Breath on his cheek. Her fingernail draws a hot line up his bare back, a sharp path, winding. A repository of unlived things. She cups the back of his neck and draws him closer. Red lips, his colour, white teeth, and her hand on his cheek. She kisses him, Amber kisses him. The feel of her tongue against his. Her grin pressed up against his grin and his hand on her ass and she wiggles into it and against him and they dance like that in a circle of men, touching, kissing and then a voice cuts through, hey babe, got anything for me? And it takes a moment but then he recognizes Jacob and when did that guy show up and he’s standing between them now and he’s fucking huge with his hand on Amber’s ass and his other hand on Alex’s ass and his stomach lurches and then Natsuko takes his hand and leads Alex away and then another Uber and then Alex stands outside his sister’s flat.

His feet ache in heels and the stairs have never been so difficult to climb. It’s late. He’s tired. And yet—she kissed him: I love you, she said, and kissed him. Drunken diffuse joy suffuses him so deeply he wants to cry. Voices through the door to Sophie’s flat but he barely notices and feels still the pressure of Amber’s lips against his. Smiling to himself, he opens the door and stumbles through.

Sophie, on the sofa. And sat with her, two others he knows.

                  “Blake?” says Luca, his best friend.

Chapter Seven: Last Night’s Girl

There’s a mirror by the entrance to Sophie’s flat. The mirror sees Alex off in the morning and welcomes him home in the evening. It is his daily reminder that the world prefers him as her. Consequently, in the morning, it reassures him of his commitment to the role. In the evenings, when he is exhausted and limping home after another day in Blake’s shoes, his reflection mocks how far he’s fallen from his goals. Masculine goals, such as ‘stand up straight with your shoulders back’. Although he’s mastered that one, he thinks. St-Clair made sure of that: chin up, Blake, back straight, with pride. You represent the firm. You represent me.

But Peterson also wrote, compare yourself to who you were yesterday, not to who someone else is today. Alex struggles with this one. It’s just too easy to compare himself to friends he sees on social media. Luca, for instance, white shirt unbuttoned and billowing with wind off the wine-dark sea, toned and tanned on a beach in Greece. And all those other guys he knew back at university, and further back, St-Oswald’s and secondary before that, all the way back to primary, they’ve got jobs, some have girlfriends, one is even married.

Though realistically, the person he’s most likely to compare himself to is Amber. He often asks himself, would Amber wear this? Not with this lipstick, surely? And dare I wear a scarf? Though comparing himself to her simply highlights the gap between them. He’ll never possess half her grace, that natural femininity. Not that he wants to, of course.

But better to compare himself to someone else, today, than consider who he was, yesterday. He doesn’t like to think about that. Yesterday tugs downward at his gut. Yesterday raises coils of anxiety that cling and whisper. Yesterday is a country he fled, he’s a refugee from his own past. Better to live in the misery of the present than relive what’s left behind.

Yesterday, a year ago: no. Because if he thinks back far enough, he reaches a point before the death of his father. And that memories in which his father is still alive and can judge his son, then and in the present. Not that he needs reach that far, a single month will do, no, five weeks and there’s plenty to feel shit about in that short spread of time. Just remember the boy who arrived in London; that’s enough. That guy was a hell of a lot different from what he sees in the mirror now. That boy had a simple plan: get a flat, get a job, get a girl. This boy tucks his dick back between his legs and wears fake boobs and a bra and shaves all over and wears makeup and heels and can’t quite understand how any of this happened.

But at least he’s got a job. He still lives with his sister, though and instead of getting the girl, he is the girl; and that was never the plan.

Which bring him back to the mirror, every morning and every evening, standing and studying a pale face framed by black bangs, peering into and from silvered depths, and the mirror says: Blake has a life. She’s got a job and she’s good at that job. She has friends. What do you have, Alex?

Nothing, you’re a pathetic loser, Alex.

And then this loser runs down the Blake checklist. He performs this final check every morning: tugging the too-short hem of a skirt over shaven thighs, tweaking a visible bra strap out of sight. Smoothing down creases in a dress. Checking for a visible bulge in the flat front of a fitted pair of white trousers. Making sure his tits sit properly and haven’t gone wonky on him and that his makeup is perfect and that nothing gives away the lie that he’s really a man, a boy, a failure.

So: he hates this mirror and he hates his life and he hates what he’s become. And yet. There are moments, flashes of joy, in which the self-loathing feels a lie, in fact, he knows it for a lie. His life is a goddamn pain in the ass. None of this is what he wanted. But he likes his job and the friends he’s made and if the nights out aren’t exactly how he imagined them, they’re at least adjacent to what he expected. And if this life leads to nights like tonight, well. Then maybe, it’s really not so bad after all.

She kissed him, and said I love you. Yes, she was drunk. And yet. She likes him, it’s like he’s always been there. That’s what she said. And the memory of this, the pressure of her lips against his, it raises blissful warmth in his chest. And it’s hard not to feel a weird kind of pride that he’s managed to keep at it for so long. Over the past five weeks he’s gotten good at playing Blake, just so good at it and proud enough to grin sloppily in the mirror and lean into it and kiss the mirror and stifle a drunken giggle at the imprint of his lips left behind in a greasy smear of red lipstick and gloss.

He calls out to his sister, hey, sis, you won’t believe the night I’ve had, and then he hears the voices and what joy he carried home from his night out with Amber is gone.

“Blake?”

And this wasn’t ever meant to happen, nobody was ever supposed to know, just a little secret between him and his sister, the secret of the weird summer of ’25 when he dressed as a girl for a couple of months, fodder for drunken banter at Christmas, remember? and wasn’t it hilarious, and can you even believe it?

But it’s not so funny right now, and from the corner of his eye the mirror throws back a shimmer of sequins, the shine on his lips and his smooth, bare thighs. I can explain, he says, or thinks he says, or tries to say but doesn’t because how can he, what possibly explains his current state to his friends: shitfaced and glammed up, minidress sparkling and strappy three-inch heels? One hand on the wall keeps him vertical, and he sways to the dull distant pain of heels worn for too long.

He’s drunk, but not so drunk that he doesn’t notice how Luca’s eyes rake over him, wide with surprise and something else he doesn’t or can’t recognize, not now, not like this. Meanwhile, Beth’s looking too but he can’t bring himself to meet her gaze.

“Blake?”

And this was meant to never happen, Sophie promised. It’s his best friend speaking. And Beth’s there too, and why are they here, why her of all people, nobody was meant to know but of all the people who weren’t meant to know, she was at the very top of a list he’d unconsciously carried with him since the whole shitshow started. Wine glass halfway to her lips and over the rim, her eyes are bright with drink and happy surprise, and—

Did Luca call him Blake?

—the girls sit at each end of the sofa, with Luca facing them on a chair and clearly, they’d all been waiting in anticipation for some time. Now the text messages Sophie sent throughout the night made sense: hey ‘sis’, with a laughing face emoji, when you getting home? And, late one, is it? Frowning face, where the hell are you? And finally, again: where the fuck are you?

And then loud voices coming through the door of Sophie’s flat but he thought it was the TV, and stumbling in backwards with handbag over one shoulder heavy with laptop and work, and the bag borrowed from Amber, bulging with his clothes and walking shoes, hooked in the crook of his elbow. And he’s back to his moment in the mirror, a kiss and then proclaiming over his shoulder to his sister about his night—you won’t believe it, sis, the night I’ve had—slurred, of course, because he was drunk, like, really fucking drunk and too much booze on too little food, like every night out with Amber. And God, those shots! and the dancing! and—and he can feel his mind stuttering, looping, because: there they are, his friends, waiting.

Now all three watch Alex as he drops his bags to the floor and stands frozen and their eyes are wide with disbelief, pleasure, satisfaction: Luca and Beth and Sophie. They’ve clearly had a few drinks as well. There’s an open bottle of wine on the table. A few beers by Luca and fuck if Sophie isn’t clearly loving this, crazy grin and stifled laugh; did his bitch of a sister set this up?

It’s a good thing I’m too fucking drunk to give a shit, Alex thinks. And too drunk to speak, his tongue is thick and his mouth is dry. And what would he say? And Christ it’s too late for this bullshit, he’s too tired, like really just bone-tired, he needs sleep. He holds fingertip lightly to his lips where she kissed him. And it’s been too good a night, yes, a fantastic fucking night, he’s not going to let this bullshit ruin it. Yet, the heavy expectation of something. And just look at his sister and that shit-eating grin of hers. He suddenly wants to punch her or the wall or himself. Is it possible to blanch with fear and burn with embarrassment at the same time?

He sways in the entrance. The silence stretches out between them.       

“Surprise?” Luca stands. He looks good. Tanned. Last he saw him in person was at the funeral, pale in an ill-fitting suit, still sporting the belly he’d carried through secondary school. Not anymore, his t-shirt’s tight across a firm chest. Short-cropped hair bleached by the sun, and he radiates an easy confidence he’s never had before. But this confidence wavers as he stands, and Luca blushes to look at his friend.

“We thought—” and he trails off, and for a moment it looks as though he’s going to cross the room to Alex’s side. To offer support: maybe moral but equally physical, to catch the drunk girl before she falls. How fucking typical, how fucking embarrassing. Alex takes an awkward, uncertain step away. All night he’s worn these things just fine, six weeks and he’s getting pretty good at wearing them. Three inches is about as high as he can go, and wasn’t he telling Amber this earlier tonight, at the pub and with glowing pride, how much better he’d gotten and she’d nodded, raised her glass in cheer, and with solemn drunkenness insisted, we should get you a proper pair of shoes.

And now he wobbles like a schoolgirl in her first pair of heels, just another drunk chick who can’t handle her footwear. And that’s when Alex realises that as drunk as he is, he does, in fact, give a shit; very much so to be perfectly honest, his best friend and his friend’s sister are here, nobody was ever meant to know and this was meant to be a secret, how could Sophie do this to him? Beth is here, for fuck’s sake, and—

The night’s carefully crafted illusion is torn away. He’s not Amber’s friend. Blake doesn’t exist. These skills he’s mastered are deeply shameful, he’s a goddamn cowards and failure, a boy hiding behind a mask of makeup. He wants to rush to his bedroom and slam the door shut, wants to punch the wall, wants to fall to the ground, wants to cry; and instead, all that emerges is a plaintive, “why?”

“It’s my fault,” Beth says, and now he can’t not look at her. She’s wearing denim cutoffs with frayed edges and a tank top that leaves her trim midriff bare and God, she’s just so pretty, pictures off socials don’t do her justice and the way she looks at him, he wants—he doesn’t know what he wants, it’s too much. But with her standing and Luca standing there’s no clear route past them all, his escape is blocked. Alex stands trapped and tugs at the long sleeve of his dress with painted fake nails and is painfully aware of the absurd way his glued-on tits push out the front.

“I’m sorry. I thought it’d be fun,” Beth continues. “Sophie had no idea we were coming. And we didn’t know you were—” A small smile curves her lips. Her lips are beautiful. She tucks a bang back behind her ear, as if to see him better. “You look good, Alex, like really good. That dress totally suits you.”

“Thank you.” The words just sort of tumble out before he can catch them. Alex brushes the hair back from his eyes. “It’s not mine,” he explains.

She nods, as though that makes absolute sense. “And I love what you did with your eyes,” she says, and he thinks, that’s not me, either.

“Why are you dressed—” she begins to ask, but he cuts her off.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “but I think I’m going to throw up,” and now he does push past them, the clicking of his heels, eyes to the floor, fleeing to the bathroom where he does, in fact, throw up, repeatedly.

***

Blake’s face remains on his pillow when he sits up. He tries not to look at it, but his eyes are drawn by his own personal Turin’s shroud, a ghostly imprint made of makeup.

His room is too hot and stifling and flooded with light. Too tired and drunk last night to pull the curtain over. He hurts all over, especially his feet and calves. Alex still wears last night’s clothes. The dress is bunched up around his waist. A few sequins sparkle in his bedsheets. There’s a distant throb of comatose hours in a waist-cincher and hip padding, the ache of long-compressed testicles. His right foot, still arched in its three-inch Kurt Geiger heel, though not the left foot, that one’s fine.

God. The inside of his mouth, sour and dry and a medicinal burn at the back of his throat, liquorice-taste. And that pillow, last night’s mascara and eyeshadow, scrawled lipstick, a blur of foundation. Then scratching at his chest, he finds one breast still attached, the other missing, it’s fallen off, lost somewhere in his bedsheets probably, and the skin beneath feels raw, his nipple itches beneath the dress.

And he needs to piss, so badly. He stands, slowly. The room sways dangerously, settles. Jesus, how much did he drink last night? The mojito in Amber’s room, those shots afterwards. The spliff probably didn’t help. Then how many at the pub, two? No, three. And then the club and more shots and then it really starts to get blurry and there was dancing and a kiss and a hand on his ass and he vaguely remembers crying or nearly crying and being led away and then an Uber ride home and nothing after that.

Alex stumbles out of his room, to the bathroom, single-shoe hobbled steps, like a wounded deer. His vision is blurry, eyes crusty with poor sleep and last night’s makeup. His sister’s voice calls out, gently mocking, “looking good, little brother,” and without looking he flicks two fingers up at her in a V, fuck off, closes and locks the door.

Groaning, he strips the dress off over his head, kicks off the shoe, wonders why he didn’t do that earlier. The room tilts ominously before he’s able to yank down his gaff. Now, he belatedly realises that his tuck came loose in the night, a strip of tape dangling loosely. Sitting, wincing, he delicately peels away remaining tape with glued-on nails that miraculously survived the night unscathed. He takes the tape and balls it up and throws it in the bin and groans with relief as his cock finally hangs free. His crotch stinks of sweat and his underwear is dotted with dried patches of precum. The underwear he also throws in the corner. Now, elbows on knees, head in hands, he pisses. His head throbs and he’s thirsty and he’s hungry but the actual thought of food is enough to raise bile in his throat.

After, he looks at himself in the mirror. Bleary panda-eyes in a pale face, hungover boy under the broken mask of last night’s girl. His hair’s a tousled mess. And then there’s the matter of the singular boob still stuck to his chest. Fuck. He gives it a gentle tug. It doesn’t come off. He knows he should start right now, cleanse his face and take a shower and strip off these nails and return to himself but it’s too much, he’s fucking exhausted. He needs a Berocca or one of his sister’s protein shakes, a cup of tea and a long sit-down in front of the telly and the footie or some Antique Roadshow or the bloody Peep Show and then some more sleep and then maybe a piece of toast and then, only then, can he face the exhausting reality of freeing himself from Blake.

So, with a towel around his waist he steps out of the bathroom. It’s not like it’s anything his sister hasn’t seen before. But it isn’t his sister waiting, sitting in the brilliance of the sun shining off the blue strip of the canal behind.

“Oh yeah,” a familiar voice, gently mocking, singing badly: “Alex, you got it going ah-on, no doubt about it, we’d be getting crazy, if—” and with a laugh, the voice trailed off, expectantly.

“—one of us was lucky enough, to be born a lady,” Alex finishes, because he has to, he hasn’t missed one yet and isn’t about to start, not even now when he looks like shit and feels even worse and this is quite possibly the single most embarrassing moment of his life. But he’s damn well not got to lose the game to Luca.

And it all comes crashing back then, hungover fog parting and the memory of Luca and Beth waiting as he staggered in after his night.

“Dammit.” Bright white teeth, huge grin splitting his face and Luca crosses over to him. “Was sure I’d get you this time,” and then Luca sweeps Alex up in a big hug. Alex hangs limply in his friend’s arms, waiting for it to end. Then, held at arm’s length with a solid grip on his shoulder and a disbelieving look widening those soft brown eyes. “You look like shit, mate.”

“Yeah?” Alex can still taste the lipstick on his lips, feels the mascara on his lashes. “What the fuck’s with that moustache?”

Grinning, Luca lets him go, rubs one finger along his upper lip. “I’m trying something new.”

In fact, almost everything about Luca looks new, from the dark tanned skin to his moustache, the way he’s bulked out, and his casually fashionable clothes: a short-sleeved Paul Smith button-down shirt with a vivid floral print, top three buttons undone; and pleated lined trousers in pale cream with loafers, a hint of lurid socks beneath. His chin’s clean shaven and his skin almost glows, though Alex spots the dab of concealer over a patch of razor burn. But he’s never looked this good, he barely resembles the boyhood friend he’s known his whole life.

“I guess you’re trying something new, too?” And the grin never slips, but in his tone, genuine curiosity paired with worry, Alex thinks.

Alex looks around the flat. It’s just the two of them. “Where’s Beth? Where’s Sophie?”

“Sophie’s popped out to the shops. Beth checked in to our hotel.” He nods in the direction of the sofa. “Soph said I could crash here last night.”

“Sorry,” Alex says. “I was very drunk.”

Luca returns to the sofa and sits, his legs outstretched, arms thrown wide across the back of the sofa. “We noticed.”

“It was girls’ night out.” Luca raises an eyebrow, a masculine approximation of Amber’s expression. “We were celebrating.” Luca rolls his hand: go on. “Uh, my performance review.” His friend doesn’t answer.      “How much has Soph told you?”

Luca grins.

“For fuck’s sake.” Alex groans. “Fine. Fuck. Just—give me, ten.” He hefts the single breast hanging from his chest and sighs. “Better make it thirty.”

Before starting, he finds a protein shake in the fridge. Sophie’s liquid diet sits just right, his stomach isn’t up for anything solid. It helps bolster him for the next step. He returns to the bathroom. His friend waits patiently as Alex scrubs what remains of Blake from his body. First, he peels off his fake nails. As always, after a full week his fingers feel strangely unencumbered without them, lighter yet less precise. Then, gingerly, he removes his remaining breast form. This is a literal weight off his chest, though again at first its absence is strangely off-putting, the phantom sensation that accompanies cutting away a tight entry wristband after a festival. Finally, he cleanses his face, micellar water and cotton discs and there’s fleeting regret, wiping away Amber’s skilful work, gold and bronze shimmer consigned to the bin, plain hazel eyes left in the wake of his effort.

In the shower, his skin is a patchwork of red imprints, borderline welts where shapewear and bra gripped him overnight. Also, the skin over his pectorals is raw and irritated from overuse of adhesive, and his nipples itchy and sensitive. Right, he thinks afterwards, rubbing moisturizer into his legs, his chest, no more tits next week, I need a break. Maybe he ought to call in sick, give himself a day off to recover. But St-Clair wouldn’t like that. Harry’s deck needs all that work. And there’s the party at Julien’s to prep. Shit, he thinks. She’s bringing in the dress on Monday, I’ll need to glue these things on, or it won’t look right. And it occurs to him for the first time how much fucking easier it’d all be with a pair of real tits.

After the shower, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he returns to his bedroom to find Luca poking around it. “It’s like some girl’s moved in,” his friend says. He holds a bra at arm’s length, like it’s somehow infectious. White with colourful floral embroidery, it dangles from between thumb and forefinger by its strap.

“Gimme that.” Alex snatches the bra away. He likes that bra, it’s one of his favourites, comfortable and a good fit and he doesn’t know why it bothers him that his friend touches it, except that he’s hungover and irritated and embarrassed and too tired to deal. He shoves it into its drawer, turns to find Luca plucking a small, round tin of Vaseline from its nest of lipsticks, concealer and mascara.

“You mind?” he asks, and Alex waves him off. Luca sits on the bed and unscrews the lid and dabs a little on his lips.

Meanwhile, Alex shifts a white blouse with mesh sleeves, a pair of leggings, laddered tights to one side and kneeling, starts digging through his dresser for clean boxers, socks, a t-shirt, all stored in the lowest drawer, where most of his Alex stuff is consigned these days. He feels Luca watching him.

“You’ve lost weight,” Luca remarks. “You’re looking really slim.”

“Dropped over half a stone in a month.” He grimaces. “But fuck, I hate it, I’m always hungry.” Alex glances up from where he’s kneeling. “But you know. I’ve got to, for the job.”

“You look good,” Luca says. “It suits you.”

Alex grunts as way of reply and looks away to hide the blush that rises in his cheek. Truth is, he might hate it but he’s also proud of the weight he’s lost. His belly’s toned now and gone from his face is some of the puffiness that came with living on his sister’s sofa for three months, drinking beer, eating crisps. Clothes he couldn’t have imagined wearing two months ago now fit his slender frame.

Yet for whatever pride he feels, it’s balanced against the shame of seeing his friend and how Luca’s gone in the other direction: bigger, stronger, masculine. “You’re looking good too,” Alex says. “Hitting the gym?”

“And careful what I put in my body.” Alex hears rather than sees the grin on his friend’s face. Still working through the heat rising in his face, he can’t bear to look back over his shoulder. “It’s amazing the difference it makes when you accept who you are. Like, when you start loving your body instead of being ashamed of it. I spent so many years embarrassed by who I was. Then, I wasn’t. After that, getting in shape was almost easy, you know? Careful with the carbs, lots of protein, and I really cut back on the drinking. And like you said, the gym. And you’d be amazed the difference a couple of months of hitting the beach makes, swimming every day.”

Clothes in hand, picked half at random, Alex stands and faces his friend. In the past, Luca’s always been the one on the cusp of obesity, a little pasty, doughy belly, and though taller he stood and walked with a perpetual hunch, as though unconsciously trying to shrink himself down to Alex’s height. Now, he stands tall, firm and muscular, and in his eyes a confidence that’s never been there before. It’s almost intimidating, and Alex hardly recognizes his friend.

“Well, good for you.”

Luca’s smile wavers.

“I’m going to get dressed now.” He holds up his bundle of clothes. “You mind?”

Luca shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says. Reaching down, he snatches an item draped over the back of a chair. “It’s quite the wardrobe you’ve collected,” he says. He holds up the check pink-and-black pleated miniskirt. “Why not this today?”

“Very funny.” Alex goes to snatch it back. Luca pulls it back, out of reach. Alex tries again, misses, gets it on the third try, but only because Luca lets him. “Wanker.”

Five minutes later, he joins his friend, wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, enjoying the simplicity of getting dressed quickly, but feeling uneasy, as though he’s forgotten something.

“Hey,” his friend says, “that shirt, I know that’s shirt.”

Alex plucks at the black t-shirt with its large, rainbow-hued X across its front, faded with age. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s my shirt.” His brow wrinkles with the effort of remembering. “Thekla? I think? Must’ve been about 2010?” He nods, satisfied. “One of the first gigs I saw. That thing’s vintage, how’d you end up with it?”

It comes back to him, and with it a flush of mixed emotions, memories of frustration, indignation, exhilaration, outrage and anger. Protectiveness: a nascent understanding of teenage ugliness. “During A-levels, remember? Tom’s house party.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Luca rubs the back of his head, a flush darkening his already tanned face. “God, that was a bad night. First time anybody called me those things. Not the last time. But yeah, fuck, that hurt.” Now he’s staring out towards the canal, and his fingers dance nervously in the folds of his shorts. “Jesus, yeah. What a fucking mess that night was.”

“People are dickheads,” Alex says. “Tom was a dickhead. Last I heard, he’s still a dickhead.”

“You stood up for me.”

Alex shrugs, embarrassed. “I was drunk.”

“Still.”

After that, they grab a seat outside the Duke, a short walk from his sister’s flat. It’s about as far as he can stomach walking today. The sun’s bright in a baby blue sky, empty except for a few scudding clouds. A hair-of-the-dog pint of Madri’s doing wonders to settle Alex’s hangover, and he begins to feel himself again, maybe.

But sitting opposite his friend, Alex feels positively shabby in comparison. Men and woman look their way, ignore Alex to focus on Luca. Alex notices this kind of thing now and feels a disconcerting pang, deep in his belly, that nobody’s checking him out. Obviously, he hates it, it makes him uncomfortable, the way Blake draws the gaze of others. The catcalls and insults, he’s been called cunt and gash, bitch and slut, rude gestures tossed his way at night, things Amber brushes off but that affect him profoundly, the mimed handjob or blowjob, each one a shameful reminder of his adopted role and yet—affirmation, in a sick way, of his successful impersonation, the skill of his disguise. More than that actually: that as Blake, he’s desirable in a way that Alex simply isn’t and has never been.

And it’s not just a clothes thing. It’s painfully obvious now that they’re outside that his friend looks fantastic, sun-gilded and beautiful, and when did he get this good-looking? It’s gay-good, Alex thinks, there’s something showy or overly meticulous to his friend’s new look. Nothing effeminate, not at all. Certainly crafted, a curated confidence maybe, fashionable in a way Luca never cared about before. Blake might rival him for looks at night at a swanky bar under the glimmer of soft lights, but out here in direct sunlight, Luca glows in his new, natural habitat.

And sat there in jeans Alex wishes he could have worn shorts and flip flops in the warm weather but with his smooth, shaven legs, knows that he can’t. There’s relief in being dressed so casually and comfortable, cotton boxers and loose clothing, the ease of movement without shapewear or constraint. But after a week of Blake and especially after the shimmer and shine of last night, Alex also feels vaguely disappointed, as though he’s lost a competition he hadn’t known he’d entered. It’s hard being invisible after sparkling, so brightly.

“So, it was your sister’s idea?” Luca asks.

“A typo or something, they only invited me in because my name was wrong on the application, you know, Alexandra instead of Alexander, they wanted a woman for the job. When I showed up St-Clair, that’s my boss, she basically told me to fuck off. But Soph was like, well, what if you were a girl?” He rubs his face, tiredness still nipping at the backside of his eyes. “I know, it sounds ridiculous. But my sister was about to kick me out, and I was desperate, and it’s not like the job offers were flooding in. It was that or head home.” He pulls his hands from his eyes, glances at Luca. Luca nods sympathetically, he gets it.

“So, I thought….” Alex trails off. “Well. You saw.”

“And they haven’t clocked that Alex and Blake are the same person?”

“No.” Alex shrugs. “I know, it’s hard to believe.”

“If I hadn’t seen it last night….”

Alex laughs. “I was hardly at my best.”

Luca nods, “yeah,” nods again, “I bet,” and then shakes his head. “Well, fuck. So, what now you’re this girl, Blake, like all the time?”

“Five days a week, morning to evening. I get a few hours of Alex-time after work. Although I don’t really go out. I’d have to take the nails off, it’s a real pain. But like, I can’t hit the pub with bright pink tips, right? The weekends are mine, though. Usually. I had to take a Teams meeting on a Sunday once, that sucked. Putting on a full face on my day off, so annoying.”

“I can only imagine.”

“And getting back into character, it’s like Ms. Bramble’s class all over again.”

Luca grins. “Wow. That takes me back. You loved that class.”

“Never thought I’d be living it.”

“So who is she?” Luca asks. “Who’s Blake?”

Alex hesitates, searches for her within himself. Truth is, after last night she’s lying very close to the surface, disconcertingly so. Normally in his own time he’s able to disassociate from her easily. But today, the barrier between Alex and Blake feels very thin, it might not even be there at all. And so, it’s easy for him to answer in her voice: a little softer, breathier, not so much nasally as rounded and sitting that little bit higher in his throat. “She’s just this girl, you know? I started with a bit of Beth and a little bit of Libby—remember her?—and I’ve been layering in Amber, she’s my colleague, she’s really cool. And—”

“Juliet!” Luca interrupts.

“What?”

“That’s your Juliet voice,” he says. “You’re not Beth or Libby, you’re Juliet! God, I remember that voice. I remember—” he pauses, sweeps up Alex’s hand in his, continues speaking with his voice shifting into something ponderous and profound: “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this—”

“Stop it.”

“My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” Grinning, he raises Alex’s hand to his face, leans forward without breaking eye contact and gently presses his lips to the back of Alex’s hand.

Alex sighs. ”Good pilgrim!” he exclaims, snatching his hand back, throwing it dramatically across his face, “you do wrong your hand too much!” and then, frowning, adds: “You dickhead.”

Luca laughs. “It’s true, Romeo’s a dick.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, “Romeo.”

“And you stay in character all day, you’re Juliet for the whole day?”

“All day, every day.”

Shaking his head, Luca raises his drink in commiseration. “Man.”

“I know, right?” Alex lifts his pint to meet him in a mock cheer. “It’s exhausting. Truth is, I’m so shattered by the weekend, I don’t get up to much then, either.”

“How about looking for other jobs?”

Alex winces. “I haven’t had time. Instead, I’m hunting for somewhere to live, Sophie’s really riding my ass to get me to move out. And then, seriously, this job, you’d think being a glorified receptionist would be easy.” He shakes his head. “I’ve even got a couple hours’ work to do this weekend, and—” he cuts off. There’s research to do, too. He wants to know everything there is to know about Julien de Bellême. He’s not heading into some rich guy’s penthouse party without being fully armed with the knowledge of what makes this man tick.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says and then, “Anyway, what about you?” He circles the rim of his pint glass with one fingertip. The sun gleams in amber waves in his glass. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Oh, you know,” then he falters and grins weakly, apologetically. “Or I guess, maybe you don’t?”

“I’ve been catching updates online,” Alex says. “But—” he flutters one hand to indicate his friend should continue. Then, he catches himself, lays his hand flat on the table. He suddenly feels acutely aware that the gesture wasn’t very masculine. It’s been months since he’s gone out with another guy, as a guy. The residual memory of suitably masculine gestures feels distant, whereas the movements suitable to Blake remain ready and instinctive. He learned from mimicking Amber, reinforced by the realities of longer nails, dangling earrings, the subtle constraints and imperatives of feminine clothing and accessories. But to deploy these, now is embarrassing, possibly even insulting, Alex thinks, to his friend. Not that Blake is in any way a parody of a gay man. Fuck, no. He’s a better actor than that, and Amber’s a better teacher. But still. How else could his friend interpret a limp wrist, or a hand held to his chest, and the tuck of bangs behind his ear. God, this is harder than expected. So much time spent worrying whether he’s passing as girl, now he’s freaking out whether he can pass as a guy?

Fortunately, Luca doesn’t seem to notice his panicky, twirling thoughts. “So, the last year’s been a busy one, it’s been good. After uni, I wanted to take some time, right? To travel, I’ve always wanted to but, you know, my parents couldn’t afford it, I couldn’t afford it. Don’t think we ever made it further than Blackpool. Did Butlin’s one year, that’s as good as it got. But three years at school, I’d saved some money working at the pub.”

And Alex remembers, thankful to break free of spiralling anxiety. His friend worked his three year at Leeds, real spit-and-sawdust kind of pub off campus. He’d kept meaning to visit, loved the idea of his friend serving him a pint. But he’d never found the time.

“And I knew work was waiting for me when I got back, thanks to sis. So off I went. But honestly, it was mostly about getting to know myself.” He stares into the icy clarity of his drink. “For instance: do I like this?” He swirls his gin and tonic and takes a sip. “I honestly don’t know. It feels like a drink a gay man should order and so I’ve ordered one. Hendricks gin, Fever Tree tonic. And it’s fine? But I’d rather have a cider.” He carefully places the drink down on the table and crosses his arms across his chest, and sighs. It’s all a bit dramatic, Alex thinks. “Does that make sense?”

“Luca,” Alex says. “I coordinate lipstick with my fucking nails every morning. I’ve got to decide if this skirt goes with these tights or bare legs, and does the skirt match with that top, and if so, are the tights still okay? Are they the right colour? And with this belt?”

Luca’s smile is a little awkward. “Okay, maybe it’s not quite as drastic, but I get that,” he continues, plucking at the hem of his shirt. “Dressing like this, it’s all new to me. Like, what’s the one thing everyone knows about gay men? They dress well, they’re fashionable. So, I’m trying to dress better. It doesn’t come naturally. And it’s bloody expensive. This shirt, it’s like one-fifty, can you believe it?”

Alex doesn’t answer, thinking, try shopping for women’s clothes, mate. Try shopping for cosmetics and lingerie and shoes. But he doesn’t say it; he wants to but can’t.

“So yeah, after graduating, I went off to Greece because, well, last year at Leeds, I met this Greek guy, Konstantinos.”

“Did he have a thirst for knowledge?” Alex cuts in. “Did he study sculpture at St Martin’s College?”

“No,” Luca says, “but I sure as hell caught his eye. And he had a real thirst for young men. Let’s just say he was very charming and very clever and very handsome. I’d say he seduced me, but truth is, I really wanted to be seduced, I was desperate. And when summer rolled around, I followed him back to Greece. Fun on the beaches and all that. But it turns out, he was a total melt.” Luca grimaces. “It was kind of obvious. I won’t get into it.” Clearly, Alex thinks, his friend wants to get into it, and maybe if he wasn’t so goddamn hungover and tired, he’d ask. But he’s barely dealing with his own shit right now, he doesn’t have the bandwidth for his friend’s great big gay Greek drama.

“It didn’t end well?”

“It did not.” Luca takes another sip, eyes his drink speculatively. He drinks very slowly and methodically. Alex is nearly done his pint and considering another and his friend has only just started. “And I wanted to hate him. Like, he hurt me. He really hurt me. I acted like a total wally around him and he took advantage. But I couldn’t hate him because—well, I owed him, so much. He was a right proper cunt but he broke down a lot of my barriers, things I’d struggled with for years. With him was the first time I really saw myself as—gay. I mean, I still don’t really get what that means? Like, yeah, I like guys. I’ve known that since forever, even if I only admitted it to myself—well, you were there, you’re the first person I told.”

“I remember,” Alex says, quietly.

“But I never acted on it, I was terrified. To accept that about myself felt like I also had to accept—oh, just so much more, everything it means to be gay, it felt overwhelming. Pride parades and different bars and—fashion—honestly, I didn’t really know—and all this at a time when, frankly, there was so much hate out there. And I thought something might happen at uni but it didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t let it happen. Didn’t let me happen. And that’s like nearly three years wasted, nothing more than a few drunken snogs. And even that. I never told you. But after one of those snogs? I was walking home after, sort of floating along, happy and then two guys from the pub caught up with me and just beat the living shit out of me.” He says this with forced casualness, but Alex hears the restraint in his voice, and the cords of his neck stand pale and tight against the dark flush of his neck.

“Luca, I—”

His friend grimaces, waves it off. “It happened, I got over it, it’s in the past. But maybe you can imagine, that put me off, right? Until those final months of third year. Then I met Kostas.”

Luca pauses, and now he smiles a little wistfully. “He hated that nickname, thought it was undignified.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. He cajoled me and dragged me and pushed me and teased me through all my barriers and now I’m at the other side of that, and it’s cool, I’m gay, great, and I’m back home and now I’m trying to figure out, well, what the hell does that mean, here in England, and for me, as a gay man?”

He looks expectantly at Alex.

“How the hell would I know?”

Luca looks disappointed. “I thought you’d have some insight or questions or something.”

Alex thinks of Amber and of last night. “Was he well hung?”

“Mate!” he hisses. Then, he grins. “Yes, actually.”

“So, you’ve?”

Luca nods. “He was my first.”

“How did it, uh, compare? With—”

“Mate, I’m not going to talk about that, you know?” He looks at Alex as though there’s something wrong with him, like who asks that kind of thing, anyway? “Let’s leave it at: it was sometimes good. And other times, not so good.” Now, a light blush rises on Luca’s tanned face, and he frowns as if annoyed by his embarrassment. “Like I said, he was my first. I was a virgin when I met Kostas. I wasn’t like you at school. I’ve never done it with a girl.”

“Really?” Alex isn’t sure why he’s surprised. But he is. He seems to remember Luca dating in high school. But maybe he never did, come to think of it. Luca hung around with a lot of girls back then. But then, so had Alex. “Like, not even a date?”

“No,” Luca says, and at this, he looks a little crestfallen. “Honestly, it’s a real regret.”

“Dating a girl?”

He nods. “Like, not dating dating. More like, a date, the date, if you get what I mean, the experience, you know? The act of taking a beautiful girl on an expensive date to a fancy restaurant. Getting ready before, heading to a good barber’s and getting a trim, and a proper shave, you know, with the hot towel and straight razor, they do that in Greece, it’s so good. And she does her version of that, I guess, goes to a salon, gets her hair and nails and makeup done, maybe? And we’re both just feeling really good about ourselves afterwards, sort of buzzing, thinking ahead to the date, heart racing a little with anticipation, the reservation, the plan for the night. And I’d stop in at Selfridges, or maybe Liberty’s to buy a gift, thinking about her and will she like it, was it the right thing to buy and what does it say? And while there, why not a new, crisp white shirt, some cuff links, I’m thinking silver ones with inlaid ebony, that would look good. Wondering what she’ll wear, looking at what I’m putting on, standing in the mirror. A fine suit with clean lines. An excellent tie, something bright and silk. And shoes, from Jermyn Street. Then, we meet at the restaurant and she’s in heels but not taller than me, and a long, elegant dress that sparkles like something out of the 50s. She looks fabulous and so do I. I escort her in and the maître d' leads us to our table. It’s romantically dark inside, candle on the table, dark wooden furniture, that kind of thing. A sommelier, a light red wine to start, maybe a chilled Beaujolai. We talk over an amuse bouche, then starters, and the mains come and she’s beautiful and she’s hanging off my every word, just really listening and it feels good, just really good, to have someone look at you that way, the way I imagine a girl looks at a guy she fancies when their together at a posh restaurant. And after, we have dessert, maybe feeding each other a little spoonful of ice cream or fancy cheeses on those biscuits with jelly and grapes. And the restaurant’s busy and people see us and either they’re jealous, or they don’t even notice, because we’re just another beautiful couple but we’re also just another heteronormative pair doing ordinary things and if we kiss or hold hands, nobody cares, in fact they approve, it reaffirms their world view. Everything in its right place. And it must be nice to just fit in like that, so picture-perfect you could film it and sell it to Netflix. And after dinner, we’d walk down the high street at night with the noises of the city and her heels clicking on the pavement and my arm at her waist and she leans into me and laughs at my jokes and plays with the lapels of my jacket and then maybe we head into a wine bar, or grab cocktails in some wanky hotel bar, or maybe we head to the theatre next, but wherever we go she’s holding on to my arm as she walks, possibly because of her shoes but really, she just wants to be close, her small hand on my arm and her little laugh and my chest swelling so big I could almost burst. And after all that...”

Alex sits forward and leans over the table, and his face is a little flushed and despite the tiredness, he’s aroused, and without a tuck or a gaff, his erection’s pushing out the front of his jeans. “And after all that…?”

“Fade to black,” Luca says. He grins sheepishly. “Like what happens after that, I’m not really interested. It’s not like I want to actually kiss her, we’re not going back to my place or anything. If I invite her up, it’ll honestly be for a cup of coffee. I don’t want to have sex with her. I just want the experience of having a beautiful girl on my arm and all the normative stuff attached to that.”

Alex nods, and Luca takes a long drink of his gin and tonic, and when he puts it down he looks at Alex, and his eyes widen a little, and the way he speaks after that, it’s as if he’s working through a sudden idea. “And I could do all this with another guy, obviously. I mean, I have. Dated. But it’s not the same, it’s not like the picture in my head. And I know that picture is bullshit, it’s fantasy, a mix of American pop culture and bright teeth and celluloid people. But, so what? Why shouldn’t I want the fantasy? Because the truth is, people stare at two guys dating, holding hands, kissing. And the dynamic’s different, or at least, it’s been different for me. Always sort of torn between being the one who listens adoringly and the one listened to, clung to or clinging. Fighting to tell the funny jokes and whose arm around which waist? And no elegant dress or high heels, obviously.” He laughs. “Can you imagine? Me in a dress?”

Alex chuckles nervously.

“But you—” Luca cuts off. He tilts his head, eyes his friend curiously. “You looked really good in that dress, last night.”

“Stop it,” Alex says. “Right there.”

“What?”

“It’s not going to happen,” he says. “Never in a thousand years,” he says. “You hear me?”

“What’s not going to happen?” Luca asks.

“I’m not going to be your date. You’re not taking me out on a date.”

“You said it.” Luca smiles, pleased with himself. “Not me.”

Chapter Eight: Secret Juliet

“This one’s sexy,” she says, holding up a long red dress with ruching along one side. “I like this one.”

“You like all of them. Let me see,” Alex says and then, “no.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t wear that. It’s red. It’s indecent.”

“It’s going on the pile,” she says, adding it to the three other outfits she’s selected over the course of wandering up and down between all the colourful dresses, brilliant and beautiful like rows of a flower garden in full bloom.

“How much is it?” he asks and she tells him and he shakes his head, no. “Fuck no, that’s insane. It’s way too expensive. You’ve already spent too much.” He plucks at the hem of his dress. He’s wearing a white minidress with puffy short sleeves that she bought him earlier today, along with a new pair of slingback heeled pumps. The unfamiliar clack of every step follows him around Selfridges.

“And? I’m paying. Well, technically Dave’s paying.” Indifference colours her tone. “Same thing.”

“And this slit, it just—it shows everything.”

“That’s the point, you’ve got great legs.”

“You think?” Returning the long-sleeved silk blouse he’d considered to its hook, he stretches out one leg. His leg is dark and smooth in a fresh pair of patterned Falke tights, his calf slender and toned. He watches her and the way her gaze tracks along his leg, and the small smile that she thinks is secret before catching herself. He feels pleasure at provoking this response in her.

Beth shakes her head and with a voice that sounds a little husky, says, “You know you do.”

Alex sighs. “Explain, again, how you talked me into this?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” Beth taps him on the nose, and just her simple closeness, the intimacy of this gesture makes his heart beat a little faster. “And because you fancy me.”

It’s true, and they both know it, and have known it for years now though nothing serious has ever come of it. They’ve shagged precisely three times, most recently after his father’s funeral. Each time has been mixed with such confused emotion that it hurt as much to think back on the act itself as it did the events leading up to it. Often, he’s felt it would be much better to just forget about her altogether. Yet he keeps looking her up on his socials. That’s how he knew about her engagement to David Pugsley, of Pugsley Civils Ltd, two months ago; that, and the great big diamond sparkling at her finger.

Truth is, and to his shame, it took Beth under five minutes to change his mind. God, but he was weak. It happened after he and Luca returned home from the pub. They were more than a little bit drunk, feeling good and laughing. Honestly, it’d been far too long since they’d caught up. He’d been worried it might be awkward between them. They hadn’t really talked since the funeral. But after that first drink—and Luca’s insane proposal—it was just like old times, and the quiet year and all the distances between them fading away and it was suddenly so easy, talking shit with him. There was none of the anxiety he felt talking to Amber, nor fear of being caught out or guilt for lying.

Or so he told himself, because in the moments when he was left alone as Luca stepped away for the loo, or to vape—that was new, he wondered when that started—Alex acknowledged an uneasiness with his friend that was new and disconcerting. Time with Amber carried with it all kinds of stresses but simply being with her made him happy, she made him laugh and she made him feel good about himself and he took pleasure in making her feel good about herself, too. But with Luca, something was different, now. He felt acutely the differences between them, his friend’s success and sculpted body and looks, his experience abroad, and how he had a job, how he was happy, how he’d seemingly sorted out his life.

By the time they stumbled back into the apartment, it was getting late and he saw how Sophie and Beth exchanged a look. Sophie stepped out onto the balcony with Luca, and Beth took his hand. She pulled him into Sophie’s office, nudged the door shut with her hip.

Before he could say anything, she shoved him hard against the wall, pinned him up against it and she raked her hands through his hair and buried her nose in his neck and breathed in deeply and her knee was between his legs, her thigh pressing up against his groin and when he tried to speak she sealed his lips with a forceful kiss, her tongue pushing past his, fingers curling into the side of his head. Just as he went to kiss her back, she pulled away. Beth grinned wildly and she panted for breath.

Jesus, Beth, he said, passing the back of his hand across his mouth, lip stinging where she’d nipped him. She laughed and held her hand to her throat and said, God, I’ve wanted to do that since last night. Oh, Alex, you looked so fucking hot last night, and she bit her bottom lip and her face was flushed. And when he went to answer she cut him off, you’ve got to do it, she said. What, he asked, and she laughed again, my brother, she said, go on a date with him, he texted, I know he asked you. No, he said, I’m not doing that, it’s crazy, I’m not a girl. Maybe not, she said, but we’ve had that conversation. You’re so very good at it.

No, he insisted.

You know what this means to Luca, the year he’s had.

Even so, Alex said, no.

Then she stepped closer, as they both knew she would, and pressed one finger to his cheek and lightly trailed a nail down to his chin, and he groaned softly as she lifted his face so that they looked directly into each other’s eyes, and then she said, very softly, with a hint of open, desperate pleading: please, Alex, for me, one last time?

And he whispered, okay, Jesus, fine.

And afterwards, when they were all together again in the living room, the look on his friend’s face when he said, yes; and Beth’s small, secret smile. Their pleasure was his pleasure, too, and after all, it was just a single night out with his best friend, right? The only one who wasn’t obviously happy was Sophie, who seemed about to protest, but instead frowned, shook her head and said nothing.

Sunday morning, however, he regretted his decision. After all, it’s not like anything was ever going to happen between him and Beth, nothing real anyway, she made that very clear to him last time, painfully so, in fact. I’ve met this guy, she said, Dave. He’s a good guy. And he’s rich. And Alex, you—you’re a mess, right now. I wish I could do more for you. But I’ve got to look out for my mum and Luca and myself.

And that hurt then, and still hurt, and the pain was there in the morning as he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, dreading the coming day and what he’d agreed to, and only amplified when Beth arrived. Early Sunday morning, and she was here to take him out shopping. God, what a pain in the ass, putting on Blake again—on a Sunday, for fuck’s sake—and he made a point of letting everyone know, especially Beth, as he sat and did his face for the day.

After all, he’d only wiped Blake away yesterday. Was it too much to expect at least one full fucking day as a boy? Because for fuck’s sake, here he was again, with adhesive and prosthetic tits, and hadn’t he promised himself that he’d lay off the fake tits? And instead, there he sat at his mirror, lacy black bra and matching gaff, putting on his makeup, knowing full well he’d be doing it again tomorrow, Blake rising like a phoenix from the ashes of Alex like she did every goddamn Monday morning, only this time, she never even went away, and that just wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fucking fair.

I need a break, he insisted, jabbing the mascara wand in the air, do you understand? You better appreciate this, he better appreciate what I’m doing. All this, directed to Beth sat at the edge of his bed, patiently listening and attentively watching as he summoned Blake for their day out.

She nodded and kept silent and watched as he layered foundation and concealer, dabbed at his cheeks, painted his lips and then finally did his eyes, emulating what Amber taught him Friday night. He expected some kind of cutting banter, but she watched with intense seriousness, balanced against a hesitant smile that appeared, to his eyes, uneasy; and when he was done she shook her head and tapped her lips with her finger and said, fuck, I’ve really got to up my game. Honestly, Blake? You look seriously hot.

And the way she looked at him then, the silence of the room settled and coiled itself around them and sat there until he could no longer meet her gaze, and with a rushing in his ears and feeling a little dizzy, cleared his throat and said, yeah. I’ve had a lot of practice.

***

Now, she ushers him towards the changing rooms at Selfridges. “You’re doing this,” she says, “because you’re a good person.”

“And because you’re a total bitch?”

She nods, as if this is a given. “Yes, that too. But mostly because you’re a good friend. This means a lot to Luca, you know. It’s all he could talk about last night, after we got back to the hotel. He’s so excited. He’s already got himself a barber booked for next weekend, and a spa visit.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Alex gives a noncommittal shrug. “Whatever.”

“No, not whatever. What you’re doing, it’s good, it’s very kind. So, take the compliment, bitch.” She stops mid-stride, takes a step back and pulls another dress from where it hangs, long and slinky. “Oh yes, and this.”

Alex groans. “You’re killing me.”

“Get going, babe.” She slaps his bum. “If my little brother’s dropping a small fortune on this date, least you can do is look good for him.”

“Like he cares? He’s gay.”

“He’s gay, not blind. You know what he’s expecting, he’s told you his fantasy. And you’ve agreed to play the part of the beautiful, elegant girl in it, clinging to his arm, staring at him with those great big doe eyes.” She leans closer, flutters her eyes dramatically. “Oh, Luca, you’re so dreamy.”

He slaps her, not so lightly. “Cow.”

She laughs and gives him a light push in the direction of the changing rooms.

***

And the changing room reminds him of another, years ago.

Backstage and shivering under the too-bright glare of fluorescent lighting in the changing room, thinking, I can’t do this, I can’t believe I’m doing this, this is fucking crazy but fuck it, why not, it’ll be a laugh. Bastard nearly ruined the show tonight, catching me out like that. This is how I’ll get back at him. He pauses, to remember. There hasn’t been time to talk to Luca about what he’s said tonight, about either of the things he said.

Well, whatever. This is Beth’s idea. Beth, who he’s fancied for years now, so pretty and smart and confident. Beth, who Luca apparently knows he fancies and so she probably does, too. And so, when she asked him, hey, need help in there? he answered, yeah, and she came into the changing room, with the bundle of her clothes, and smiled, to see him standing there in nothing more than his Juliet stays and gaff and linen stockings, pale and nervous.

This is crazy, he said to her.

I like crazy, she said, and I like you, and with her hands on his rigidly constrained torso, she pushed him up against the changing room wall and kissed him, hard.

It wasn’t fair, really, like shooting fish in a fucking barrel. He was still buzzing from the finale of St Oswald’s production of Romeo and Juliet. He’d been floating high, brain sparkling with the unique rush that only comes after performing. Though it’d felt different this time. Tinted with melancholy, on account of it being the last show. But also, concern for his friend.       

The show always ended the same way, of course, it was in the script after all, and they both had to die in the end. Practically, this meant a final ten minutes of Juliet lying uncomfortably dead on stage, draped over her Romeo. Usually, Alex contrived to die in a way that was particularly inconvenient for Luca. He’d pin a limb to make it go numb. Or lay with his long hair, a wig woven through with flowers, fanned over his friend’s face so he couldn’t breathe. Of course, Luca did his best to get back at Alex, whispering in his ear, surreptitiously prodding him with his foot to get him to break, giggle or laugh as they lay there dead, whispering bad jokes or narky comments about other actors in the troupe.

Barnaby was a favourite target of Luca’s ire. Luca didn’t like Barnie but then again, Luca didn’t like most of the rich kids at school which was, unfortunately, most of them. Rumour had it, Barnie only got the part of Prince Escalus because his dad paid for the play’s elaborate set. Alex doubted this was true. There were so many wealthy twats at St Oswald’s that covering the cost of a theatre group’s set was hardly exceptional. For every student like Alex from a thoroughly middle-middle class background, or Luca riding a scholarship, there were a dozen rich wankers jetting off to their villa in the Maldives at half term or cruising their yacht around Krabi at Christmas.

But Drama was a subject that invited, well, manufactured drama, and sniping, and cutting and cruel comments, all those rumours and nastiness that Alex tried to avoid. Nabbing the part of Juliet provided some strange protection: it was one of the juiciest roles, but playing a girl? In full costume? None of the boys at St. Oswald’s could admit they’d wanted the part without painting a target on their back for every bully in the upper sixth. Yet at the same time, nobody criticized the decision to give Alex the role: he’d earned it, he was top of his class, and looked the part when all done up, which was something he only grudgingly admitted after the first time they got him into full costume. He put up an appropriate level of protest, of course—what, me play a girl?—but was secretly pleased—better Juliet than the fucking Nurse!—once he accepted that, fine, Luca made a better Romeo, and it was the only other starring role left. It’d look great on his academic record.

Meanwhile, Barnaby’s performance of the Prince made him an easy target of criticism. The guy was just so fucking Blackadder, always 'See WHAT a SCOURGE is LAID upON your HATE’ iambic pentameter stumbling its way into ponderous ridiculousness. A shame to end the play on Barnaby, but that was just the way it was with Shakespeare, the highest-ranked living character always got in the last word.

That last performance, they laid there as two gorgeous corpses. This time, he’d fallen face down over his friend, chest to chest, fake boobs squished and the front of his dress soaked through with thick red dye, seeping onto Romeo’s chest whose shirt lay torn open from battling Paris. With his face buried in Luca’s neck, every shallow breath fluttered the curls of his friend’s hair. His hand rested against his friend’s thigh. His fingers remained lightly curled around the dagger that ended Juliet’s life. The stays’ rigid boning dug into him painfully and his squashed boobs made it difficult to breathe. His feet ached in their low-heeled boots, and he sweated under the bodice of his full dress under stage lights. A desperate itch tortured him beneath the cross-gartering tying his stockings just above the knee. And he needed a piss, badly.

Meanwhile, the Friar and the Prince and the Lords of both families still had their parts to speak, four old men squabbling over blame and the still-warm bodies of the children who’d died to redeem the broken world they’d all created.

“So,” Luca whispered.

Alex braced himself, for a bad joke, some juicy piece of gossip, anything that might break him in these final minutes of their last performance. He forced himself to remain motionless and quiet, a beautiful dead girl breathing quietly against the curve of his friend’s neck, beaded with sweat, heavy orange line of stage makeup visible.

“You fancy Beth, yeah?” he said.

Alex couldn’t help it, an involuntary twitch that caused the loosely held dagger to slip from his grasp. It slipped from his limp hand and clattered to the stage.

Fortunately, amidst the Friar’s interminable summary, nobody noticed. “Yes,” he whispered.

With his face turned away from the audience, Luca was free to whisper clearly enough. “I knew it.”

“Are you okay with that?”

A pause, during which the Friar continued his rambling, self-justifying explanation of the plot.

“No.”

Alex didn’t answer. They stayed that way for several minutes, as the Friar wrapped up and the Prince began laying out decrees. “There’s something I wanted to tell you,” Luca said.

Hesitant, quiet, Alex readied himself: “Yeah?”

This time, a very long pause. Lying against his friend, he felt the shuddering intake of breath, the heavy buildup and then, finally: “I think I’m gay.”

Alex waited for the punchline, and it didn’t come. His instinct was to answer flippantly but he didn’t. Had this conversation happened over pints at the pub, or at home playing Mario Kart, he might have laughed it off. But unable to laugh or joke he kept quiet until finally: “this isn’t a joke, is it?”

Another long silence. A short distance away, Montague promised to raise a statue in pure gold in memory of Juliet. “No,” Luca said, a soft, agonised exhalation of relief and pain. And then, in the place where Alex’s hand rested against his friend’s thigh, though in reality it was his crotch this whole time, and his hand resting limply there, Alex felt a stirring, or thought he felt a stirring, of his friend’s erection prodding his palm through Romeo’s breeches. “I’m gay,” Luca whispered, “You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“For never was a story of more woe,” intoned Barnaby, “Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

***

Curtain fall, the scramble from the stage, curtain rise and then the return of the actors, first the minor players, servants and the like, then fathers and mothers, the Prince and Paris, the Nurse and the Friar, Benvolio and Tybalt, then Mercutio to rapturous applause—everybody loved Mercutio and Tyrone played the part perfectly, the guy did drama but also played ten with the First XV, fucking legend, everybody loved him, too—and then a pause and then out came Romeo, from one side, and Juliet, from the other.

They met in the middle of the stage. In past performances, there’d be a cheeky smile from Luca, a curtsy on Alex’s part, they’d take each other’s hands and then face the audience and bow, deeply and the crowd would cheer. But this time, Luca surprised him, the bastard. When Luca took his hand, he instead yanked him close, coiled his arm around his waist and then—dipped him deep and kissed him, right on the lips, a kiss far more passionate than the one in Act 2, scene 2 on the balcony, or even Act 1, Scene 5 at the party. Luca’s kiss was one to rival even the parting kiss the director insisted happen in 2-5 to heighten the tragedy of their final separation, and that was their most passionate moment on stage; but this final kiss, it put that one to shame.

From the audience’s perspective, it must’ve appeared a typical stage kiss, both hands cradling his face and holding him firm as he ‘pretended’ to kiss him. But there was no pretence. He vividly remembered Luca’s lips against his. In his shock he opened his mouth. Luca’s tongue slipped in, danced against his, Alex jerked back, or tried, but Luca held him firm—then let him go—and the audience went wild, at his maidenly blushing cheeks, and they cheered this final celebration of performed passion, a final manifestation of the play’s promise of enduring true love.

Then the whole cast held hands and raised them high and bowed and Alex hissed, you fucking tosser, and Luca grinned. Then the energy and cheering rolling off the audience filled Alex so profoundly that he forgot his friend and what he’d said and did and the fact that his father hadn’t come to a single one of his performances and the feeling of joy and affirmation he felt then remained one of the happiest moments of his life, the satisfaction of a final performance in which everything went well and he played his role perfectly.

Afterwards, everyone cleared the stage and there were hugs and photographs with family, though not for Alex. He watched Luca’s mum and sister and an aunt and uncle he vaguely recognized crowd around his friend and then he went backstage to begin the process of wiping away makeup and changing out of costume. There was talk of the after-party at the Library. Well-deserved drinks raised in celebration and so what if a few of them were underage, the bar owner didn’t care, nor the local authorities, not tonight with a bunch of St-Oswalds’ boys out on the lash.

He’d just started pulling at the front laces on his stays when Beth appeared behind him. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed and she had an odd little smile. She’d been volunteering backstage since their first dress rehearsal so her being there wasn’t unusual. But the way she reached around him and rested her chin on his shoulder and laid her hand over his and stilled his efforts at undoing the knot, that was different.

I have an idea, she murmured. His hand dropped to his side. Now, she held him by the waist and turned him to face her. What, he said. You look good, she said, you’re a very pretty Juliet. He blushed and felt very aroused by her closeness. The show’s over, he said. But the performance doesn’t have to end, she said. Why not be—Juliet, just a little longer? Can you imagine. Everyone’s surprise? It’ll be fun, hilarious. Alex shook his head, no, that’s crazy, it’s embarrassing.

Why? she asked. Why is it embarrassing? To be a girl?

To be a boy pretending to be a girl.

Then don’t pretend, she said.

Do you like girls, he asked.

Yes, she said. I think I do.

And she had clothes for him, girls’ clothes for a night out, she’d planned this ahead of time, a midriff-baring top and a colourful skirt, tights and low-heeled shoes and a padded bra. She kissed him in the changing room and rested her hand flat over his groin. The school had provided him with a gaff for the production. It kept his front smooth under his Juliet dress and now he stood in just the stays and his underwear as she stood close and rested her hand over his smooth front. He groaned and she grinned.

The guys will make fun of me, he said.

They won’t, she said. They’ll think you’re a good sport.

But I’m a bloke, he said.

What’s a bloke? she said. A bloke’s not hand nor foot nor arm nor face; and the way she rubbed her hand in small, hard circles with each word, it tested the compression of his underwear. Nor any other part belonging to a man, she said, grinning and this is when she pushed him up against the wall, her leg forcing itself between his and her thigh pressing up against his crotch and he was so close, whimpering into her open, grinning mouth. Be my secret Juliet, she insisted and he whispered, okay, Jesus, fine.

***

In the changing room at Selfridges, Alex tries on the dresses and models each one for her. It’s not the first time he’s done this today, but these are the date-dresses, the preparation for next weekend. Beth just loves his little modelling shows. Truth is, he sort of enjoys doing it for her, to see her reaction to each twirl or flip of a skirt, how a tight bodice or bared midriff raises red in her cheeks or a flush down her neck. That dark, hungry look he yearns for and he’s learning how to extract from her. But he’ll never admit it, no never, especially to her. It’s too embarrassing, and she’s already got him dancing to her tune. She really is just such a bitch. And yet.

Each outfit, she smiles and claps her hands, shakes her head and frowns, nods, directs him to spin around with one finger. She finds fault with each one: shapewear’s too visible, she says; or, that’s not your colour; or, what is this, the 90s? By this time, he’s tired. Shopping is a lot of work. He hasn’t really done this before, other than an anxiety-ridden first time with his sister, presenting as Alex but buying stuff intended for a girl, though fortunately Sophie took everything to the checkout and paid.

And there’s stress to all this that Beth doesn’t seem to appreciate, the fear of being found out trying on girl’s clothing in a changing room for girls, in a section of a major department store for girls, on Oxford Street. Yes, a day out shopping is fun. But he’s pretty sure what he’s doing is illegal, maybe, and imagines the woman behind the counter reaching for her phone, shaking her head, police, police, there’s a pervert with a willy in the shop, please help.

So, when he emerges, tired and stressed, wearing the black dress, he’s about to tell Beth that enough is enough, but her face lights up with a great big smile.

“That’s it, that’s the one,” she says.

It’s the one she grabbed last, a high-neck sleeveless maxi that isn’t actually black but rather a deep navy blue, like a late-night summer’s sky in the west Country. There’s a slit up to his thigh and a keyhole cutout at the bust. The cutout is black mesh, cleavage baring but veils the fact his tits aren’t real.

“Really?” he says. He turns uncertainly in the mirror a few times, checking out his ass, the way the dress clings to his fake curves and the too-high slit causes the dress to swish with every movement. It flashes his leg and he feels a little light-headed. “I don’t know.” He gnaws his bottom lip and there’s a flutter in his belly, not uncomfortable but disconcerting. This isn’t the kind of dress a guy wears, ever. What he’s doing is wrong. Yet he also knows, in his gut, that she’s right, this is the one. It hews so close to Luca’s fantasy. But also, he realizes, to his own. He would love nothing more than to see Beth in this dress. Or Amber. Both, in fact, hanging off his arms and gazing adoringly at him, sweet smiles and wide eyes, one small hand at each shoulder and the other resting lightly at his waist or the small of his back, and wouldn’t that be amazing?

Except, the only way he can imagine this happening is with him also dolled up in their middle, sexy dresses and full makeup and heels for all three, a trio of sexy girls on a night out, bright smiles under city lights. Though, he grudgingly admits, that’d probably be a hell of a lot of fun, too.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much?” He flips the skirt back and forth at the slit. “It shows a lot of leg.”

“Yes, yes,” she says, “God, this again? You’ve got great legs, God, you’re such a diva, Blake.” But she stands from where she’s watched his parade of outfits and joins him in front of the mirror. Side by side in reflection, she grins and slowly, he grins too. “You’re gorgeous,” she says, her arm sliding around his waist, she flicks back her hair and leans her head gently against his. “Smile,” she says, snapping a picture.

***

Smile, she said, snapping a picture.

And the over-exposed girl in the picture was eighteen years old cute, but looked older with her makeup, hazel eyes and pouty mouth and a row of clips in her hair, and that girl was him, teeth bright, lips glossy. The afterparty was fun, more fun than he expected, and his arrival dressed like a teenage girl at a house party went down just as Beth planned. Nobody recognized him at first, then the double-takes, eyes widening with surprise. Alex? they said, friends who knew him, uncertain, a nervous laugh: holy shit, mate, they said.

Alright then, fine, he grudgingly admitted to Beth, you were right, this is a hell of a lot of fun. Mind, there was also an equal number of rolled eyes: oh look, Alex’s still hogging the limelight; that annoyed him; and some of the comments were considerably less kind than that.

And of course, the expected banter: show us your knickers, love! and Carry On catcalls, Ohh, I say. Somebody snapped his bra strap, and one guy kept trying to flip his skirt every time he walked past, so that Alex was forced to spend most of the party with hands held low over his lap.

In fact, it seemed normal rules of propriety in how a boy behaves towards a girl didn’t apply when that girl was once a boy; quite the opposite, in fact, his perceived transgression seemed to invite the transgression of others. This grew more tiresome as the party progressed and people drank, culminating in Barnie trapping him in a corner. He had his arm to the wall and blocked his escape and stared at his tits with drunken intensity, complimenting him on his performance, just so convincing, Barnie said, very feminine, very believable, you’re a surprisingly pretty girl, Alex, did you know that?

Easy there, mate, Beth said, effortless sliding in between them. C’mon, princess, you’re needed over here. Christ, thank you, Alex said and Beth laughed, no worries, babe, and the way she said it, that word, babe, so casually, he felt a tingle pass through him.

Soon after, the afterparty ended. People moved on to Barnie’s house for more celebrating, but Luca and Alex and Beth broke away and went to the Perkin Warbeck instead.

Inexplicably, they wouldn’t let Luca in for being underage. Luca took him aside and said, let’s head somewhere else; and he said, I need to talk to you about what I said earlier; and then he pleaded, c’mon mate, she’s my sister.

We’re just grabbing a quick one, Alex said. We’ll text, catch up with you at Barnie’s or something.

Everything okay? Bethany asked him when he rejoined her.

Yeah, it’s all good, he said.

One sec, she said, this way. Digging in her purse, clearly more than a little drunk herself now, she braced herself with one shoulder against the brick wall and pulled out her makeup bag and right there, around the side of the pub and under flickering lights, redid his lips. Lip pencil, lipstick, gloss, and utterly silent other than the late-night murmur of punters inside and the distant roar of a passing motorcycle and the quiet sound of her breath, as she leaned close, and the tickle of the brush at his lips. And he stood there, leaning slightly forward, in his borrowed skirt and top and felt so intensely aroused and frightened, his knees trembled and the air whispered coolly against his legs in tights. The smell of her, so close. The fear, that someone would walk by and see—what?—anything other than two girls down an alley.

And when she was done, he went to lick his lips and she slapped him, brow comically furrowed, stop that, she said, and then giggled, and he laughed, and next thing she had his head between her hands and crushed her lips to his. Oh, she said afterwards, now I’ve ruined it. Then she slid her arm around his waist. I like this, she said, this is fun. And he slid his arm around her too and laughing they entered the pub, just two pretty girls on a Friday night.

They found a table and talked and after another drink his fear abated. No one paid them any attention. She asked him what his plans were, and he told her about reading English at university, his indecision between Oxford or Bristol. Like, it’s Oxford! he said. But Bristol’s closer. And there’s Dad to think about. So, I don’t know. You?

Her smile was thin and tight. Oh, you know, she said. And he didn’t and she added, well, somebody’s got to keep the family shop going. And it’s not going to be Luca, is it? But it’d be nice to leave Taunton. Beth eyed him speculatively. And what comes after uni? she asked. That’s easy, he said: London. Get a job, get a flat, he said. Then, resting his hand over hers, he added, and get a girl.

She looked at his hand over hers, then looked up at him. You need a name, she said.

He blinked. A name?

When you’re like this. Alex is your boy name. You need a girl name.

He laughed. I’m not doing this again, he said.

Sure, she said. But you’re really good at it. So, humour me. For tonight, what do I call you?

He shrugged, a little uncomfortably. Juliet?

Bethany laughed. I like that, yes, you can be my secret Juliet, she said.

And after that, she asked, so, how’d you find it? and he asked, what? and she said, playing Juliet, obviously. And he started by telling her about how he came to grips with the character, with this precocious, entitled thirteen-year-old girl and the pressures piled on top of her, talk of marriage and motherhood and responsibility juxtaposed with Romeo’s freedom, how he’s free to wander sycamore groves alone at night but she’s always indoors, and—

No, Beth said, with a small laugh. I mean, the girl stuff, especially tonight. Oh, he said. Weird, he said. But that’s what I was getting at. At first, I couldn’t find a way into the character. There are all these iconic performances, Hussey and Danes, Judi Dench and Zegler—he ticks each one off—and I watched or read about them, but I didn’t get it, it was just words on a page until—

He trailed off and she waited and then asked, until?

Well, you see, it’s kind of embarrassing, he explained. But it was the clothes, the whole Juliet outfit that did it. The first time the costume department strapped me into all that stuff and it was tight and heavy and weird and uncomfortable and suddenly, Juliet made sense. Those stays, they’re really tight and rigid and restrictive. And they force this posture: shoulders back, back straight. With the dress it all looks very elegant, right? But you can’t really bend and then you layer on the dress and add the stockings and the wig and everything changes, it affects every movement. Like this.

He stood and performed a little curtsy, back straight, fingers plucking at the hem of his skirt, as Beth watched and bit her lip.

And that’s Juliet, Alex said. She’s trapped in this rigid cage of expectations she can’t escape, she has to wear those clothes and she has to attend her parents’ party and she has to look at boys because even her dad’s only going to give her a few more years before she gets married and her mum’s already telling her it’s time to have babies, just as she did. But then suddenly there’s this guy worshipping her hands and for the first time, she sees a way out, just maybe, because this idiot boy’s not just willing to climb into her garden but backs down when she pushes back, and when she lets slip that once, just once she’d like some control, that if Romeo were a bird she’d have him on a string and let him fly free only to tug him back when she wants him close, he’s like, yes, please.

And that’s what you think it’s like to be a girl? Beth asked.

That’s what’s it felt like being a girl on stage, he said.

All the world’s a stage, she said.

They talked some more about the performance and she bought another round and then they talked about the past. How Alex used to come around when things were bad at his home, or how Luca went around to his when things were bad at theirs. You two were always together, she said, inseparable. You watched TV or those videos off Youtube, those goddamn Minecraft streamers, and played X-Box or Switch, and Lego before that, or biking in the hills around Taunton on long summer holidays, except when you were away, she said, your family always had those holidays abroad.

Alex came very close to telling her the secret that her brother shared earlier that evening; but he didn’t. Instead, he spoke about his sister and his father and his mum and admitted he’d fancied her for years and shared things he’d never told anyone else before, not even Luca.

And this is when he realized that he must be very drunk. And with more drink he found himself mesmerised by the glimmer of her lips, the way she played with her long hair and found himself doing the same, coiling long strands of the wig around his fingers and playing with the flowers still woven into the hair. She smiled her curious little smile and levelled a half-lidded look his way periodically. And those odd lulls in which she drew back from him and looked doubtful, as though struggling with some decision. Until finally she said, I need the loo.

Okay, he said.

Silly, she said, slapping his hand lightly. Girls go together.

Oh, he said, and stumbling slightly as he found his feet, he allowed her to lead him to the toilets. Hesitating briefly at the door, the printed silhouette of person in a skirt reminded him that this was forbidden; and then Beth pulled him through, and nothing happened, the loos were empty and no one cried out but still, his stomach tightened with being somewhere men weren’t allowed. Beth, he hissed, I can’t—

Shh, she said, finger to his lip, of course you can Juliet, you’re a girl, aren’t you? For tonight?

Uncertain, he nodded, yes.

Then, shut up, she said and still holding on to his hand, led him into a stall. The space was tight and she turned and straddled the toilet and his back was to the closed door. The way she looked at him. And guided his hand to her breast. The quiet sound she made then, Mm. Her breathing was louder as she pulled him forward, kissed him. Now he groaned, scrabbled under his skirt for the gaff to tug it down. Not that, Beth gasped, and catching his hand brought it under her skirt. Alex has never felt under a girl’s skirt before. It felt hot and damp and then the prickle of hair, she wasn’t wearing knickers and she pressed his finger hard against her mound. Then she hissed and grinned and she was wet and guided by her, his finger slid inside of her, easily. Ahh, she exhaled. God, yes, and with her finger over his she led his touch up and down her slit and then pressed down and moved him in little circles and then she shuddered and sagged and she slid his finger back inside of her and for the first time in his life, Alex felt a woman’s cunt clench down and felt excited and bewildered by what was happening.

She smiled at him, face glowing with a sheen of sweat, eyes heavy with pleasure. Your turn, she said, and sitting on the toilet she reached up under his skirt and tugged the gaff down and his cock sprang up, harder than he’d ever known it. Oh, I say, she murmured. She leaned forward and took him in her mouth and he gasped when she did this, this too was new and this only happened on the videos he watched on the internet. It felt good, too good. Her hot, wet mouth and the way his skirt bunched up around his waist and the weight of fake tits in a borrowed bra, the feel of one hand on his thigh, the fingers of the other hand lightly stroking his bare belly—the taste of makeup on his lip, hair caught in gloss—as he groaned and his knees felt weak and he braced himself against the wall of the stall. Fuck, he said. Christ, Beth—and he wanted the moment to last forever, to seize every last sensory impression and burn it into memory, this time when the girl he fancied more than anything went down on him in the bathroom stall of a Wetherspoon’s while he was dressed in her clothing—but it was too much, too much.

***

Dress done, shoes done. Exhausted from shopping, she concedes a short break at EL&N. He feels conflicted about Selfridges. Earlier in the day, they’d started with a few shops along Oxford Street, and that was fine, and they’d picked up a few things along the way. But clearly, Beth had always intended to bring him here. I love this place, she said, as they passed through the doors. It was his first time. Then again, he hadn’t even been to Oxford Street since moving to London.

He found the department store an intimidating and upsetting experience. The lavishness on display left him feeling as though he didn’t belong. Alex felt lost. Everything was so bloody expensive. Passing along the ground floor his attention was drawn to a writing desk. The wooden desk was massive and dark, gleaming with polish and age. There were several items displayed on its surface: notebooks, pens and mechanical pencils, beautiful paperweights of unusual design, business calendars.

And in the middle of it all, a pen—a fucking pen, so lovingly displayed—a Montblanc Meisterstück selling for over a thousand pounds. How could a pen cost so much, he wondered, who was that even for?

But looking at it, he felt a sudden itch in his finger. Alex imagined himself sitting at that desk. And in this fantasy the pen was in his hand.

It was a beautiful pen, green and veined in gold, inlaid with a rose and leaf pattern. The cap and clip were platinum-coated, gleaming in the light of the store. The tip smooth and rounded, the shaft in resin. This pen would sit beautifully in his hand, cool and hard. From the tip of that pen might flow the words to a poem that captured in its linguistic paradoxes the inexpressible nuances of being and not being. He might write a passionate letter with that pen, in which all his deepest held secrets were expressed, beautifully and truthfully, to a mysterious and beautiful woman. The detailed plot to a great novel, sketched in a leatherbound notebook, in which the absurdities of modern life and the dehumanising isolations of the city were captured and tamed and then placed in the second drawer of a desk in a small room atop a tall house with a view across the streets and garden below, waiting for the author’s life and words to ripen and spill forth, with accuracy and honesty. This was a pen with which manifestos were signed and declarations made. You might sign away your life or your soul with a pen like this. It was a pen for important men, a presidential pen, the pen of an author whose stories might change the world.

Nice pen, Beth said.

It took him a moment to find his voice. It costs over a thousand pounds, he said.

Oh yeah. A Montblanc, right? I think Dave’s got one. It just sits there on his desk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him use it.

And this brought him back and a wave of nausea burned through him like a fever and left him cold. In that instant, the milling crowds flowing through the department store sickened him and he felt such an intense hatred for them all that he trembled. Here he was, pretending to be a goddamn girl—living with the shame of it—just to hold down a job—as a glorified receptionist—and there were bastards dropping a thousand pounds on a pen? A fucking pen? In what world did this make sense, he wondered, how could a single pen hold within it greater value than a week of his labour?

C’mon, Beth said, tugging at his sleeve. Dresses are this way.

Beth clearly loved the store, moving with confidence that barely took note of the material wealth on display. Quite the opposite, she treated a thousand-pound Prada dress with the same disdain—or love—as a discounted fifteen-pound dress she saw at H&M.

She led him by the hand through room after lavish room, each resplendent with loving displays of feminine fashion, temples raised in honour of fashion and beauty and colour and style. She cooed over jewellery and grabbed a few items for herself along the way, a skirt, a flouncy blouse, a pair of jeans. She also found him the gorgeous navy-blue dress and afterwards, he had to grudgingly admit that, for all the insanity of the cost, it really was a beautiful dress. It draped wonderfully over his boyish frame. The fabric felt smooth and cool against his skin. He didn’t want to wear dresses, ever. But if he had to, let them all be sensuously comfortable, like this one.

And now, weighed down by their many purchases, a rest.

“Having fun?” Beth sips her glow smoothie, lips pursed around the paper straw. They’re eating brunch. She’s enjoying a decadent pan-fried brioche buried in berries and soaked in maple syrup. He’s having the granola bowl, and a flat white that feels overpriced but also the most sanely costed thing in this place.

There’s no denying the—allure? the fun? in playing rich girl on a day out with a friend. His whole life’s a performance anyway, and if he’s going to pretend at gender then why not class as well? “I guess,” he says and then quickly adds, “I’m paying for this.”

She laughs. “Why?”

“You’ve spent so much. This dress,” he plucks at the white dress he’s wearing, “this stuff,” he indicates the big yellow shopping bags. “It’s a lot. For stuff I’ll maybe get one or two months of use out of?”

“Is that all?” she says, contemplatively. “Really?”

“Really,” he says, firmly. Then, “why?”

“It’s just—” She pauses, swirls her straw. “Nothing.”

He frowns but lets it go. Double checking the price of their drinks and food, he wishes he hadn’t offered. “And David doesn’t mind—uh,” he waves a hand, indicating the many shopping bags, his dress and tights and shoes, the smaller yet expensive items like makeup and a pair of earrings. “Paying for all this?”

“Dave likes it when I spend his money,” Beth explains. “And I like to spend it. He wants me to have pretty things to wear around the house and I enjoy having pretty things to wear.” She glares at him and her voice is accusing, as though he’s somehow failed her. “He likes being the provider. It makes him feel successful and manly. And frankly, I like being provided for. He wants me to quit my job after we get married, and why shouldn’t I? It’s not like we need the money.”

Alex hesitates, drums his fingers against the table. There wasn’t time to do his nails before heading out this morning. She’s already joked about getting them done. No thank you, he said. Can you imagine? he said, I’d be stuck with them on the weekend.

“Does he make you happy?” he asks.

She seems to ignore the question. “I gave up everything to keep the family going,” she says. “I don’t know how much Luca ever told you. Off he went to Leeds, and I stayed in Taunton. Somebody had to take care of mum, and someone had to keep the family shop going. And then the pandemic. You can’t even imagine how hard that was, alone. I know it was hard on Luca and I heard it sucked for you, too, trapped in a small dorm room. But keeping a business going?” She looks off into the distance. She holds her hand to her throat. “It was hard, Alex, really hard. And I guess I wasn’t up to it because we lost it, three generations of a business and it was just gone, and it was my fault.”

“I’m sorry—”

She cuts him off. “And I was lucky, damned lucky I met Dave and that he took a shining to me and now he’s asked me to marry him and I’d have been a damned fool to say no. He sorted Luca out with a job and pulled strings to get mum into a decent home. He’s a very successful man and he’s loaded. So, you ask me if I’m happy? Yes Alex, I’m fucking happy.”

He nods, her words sting and he takes a delicate sip of coffee to hide the hurt. “It’s just that, you know, you don’t sound very happy.”

She picks up a strawberry from her plate and eyes the distance between them. “It’d be a real shame to ruin that nice new white dress with a stain.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he says, fanning his hand out across his chest. “It’s too pretty.”

She’s still angry but a smile tugs at her lips. “Don’t tempt me.”

“So,” he begins, and he’s about to ask how she met her fiancé, because it seems like the kind of thing a girl would ask another; and he wants to ask why she’s in London anyways, what brought her and her brother here for the week; and then a giddy little bubble rises in him, and pops, and before he knows it he’s asking her something he’d never dare ask were he not playing the part of Blake right now: “what’s he like in the sack?”

Beth starts, throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, Blake, honey,” she says. “I’m so glad you asked me that, I’ve been wanting to get this off my chest for ages. Let me tell you, it’s a good thing he’s rich because Dave’s idea of foreplay is a kiss and a smack to the ass before shoving it in. The way he latches on to my tits, you’d think he used to be a baker: he keeps kneading and plumping them. Makes it so hard to get or stay in the mood. And his kisses—” she wrinkles her nose in only partially-feigned disgust—“ew, so wet. Like a fish.

“But honestly, it could be worse. He gets a blowjob on special occasions, like his birthday or when the Rovers win a big match. And I let him stick it up my bum for New Years.” She shakes her head, smiling wryly. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’ve got a vivid imagination and that I’ve developed some very precise and reliable go-to fantasies. Also, I’ve collected a very fine selection of upper-end toys.”

“Jesus, Beth.”

“And what about you, Blake?” She flicks back her hair. “You—”

“No.”

“Nothing?” She sounds disappointed.

“I’m not into boys,” he says. “I like girls.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, almost too low for him to hear. “I like girls, too.”

He reaches out to her, covers her hand in his. She stares at his hand for a moment, then looks up. “You know,” she says, “some of those fantasies have you in them.” She smiles wickedly. “And we’re getting a mani-pedi today. I bet you’ve never had one, your sister’s not really the type. But girl, you desperately need one.”

“Beth—”

“And on the way, we’re popping into Liberty’s. Let me guess, you’ve never been? Well, you need perfume for next weekend, and not just knock off shit from Boots. But before all that,” and a wide, beautiful smile lights up her face, “we’re hitting up lingerie. A waist-cincher, maybe, or suspender belt, something tight and sexy under that dress.”

“Jesus, Beth, your brother’s not going to see it,” he says.

“You’re not wearing it for him,” she says, and Beth leans forward and her lips are beautiful and the way she looks at him, he knows he’s going to do it, he’ll wear whatever she buys and get his nails done and follow her to another expensive shop to buy perfume. “Get the bill,” she says. “I need the loo.”

Then, she smiles her little smile. “And so do you, my Juliet.”

Chapter Nine: A Really Good Day

Ten-sixteen Monday morning, Sophie messages him.

She’s probably just rolled out of bed, Alex thinks. He’s at the reception desk at Lockwood and Carmichael when his phone dings. The message comes via WhatsApp. Buried deep in work, he ignores it. He’s untangling the calendar of one of the senior partners: conflicting appointments, unrealistic travel times, booking requests, an unlikely reservation at a restaurant, and one non-negotiable meeting with a client that requires re-negotiating.

Alex sits with his shoulders back, posture straight and turned a little to one side in his seat, legs crossed at the knee and one stiletto dangles from the toes of one foot. He twirls a pencil through his hair as he scrolls through his work. An emerald-green midi skirt, high-waisted with plissé pleating, drapes off his legs and his legs look long and slender in the semi-sheer Falke tights Beth bought him yesterday.

Delicate drop earrings and a slender gold belt and he observes himself in the mirror. It’s become much easier to maintain the performance, now. Less doubt, fewer slip-ups. But moments like these, in which he sees himself bound within the mirror’s frame, still have the power to startle him. This occasional awakening into who he is and what he’s doing still threatens to knock him out of the role, six weeks yet still a bashful self-awareness of his own audacity. He’ll gnaw on his lip, or bite the tip of a pen, adjust his tights or tweak a bra strap and think, really? It can’t be. But it is, that’s me.

The phone’s earlier ding eats away at him until, with a sigh, he reaches into his handbag. He digs out his Blake phone. Cradling it in his palm, he unlocks and swipes and taps the notification with a single manicured finger. His nail clicks against the screen. When he sees it’s from Sophie, his stomach tightens.

Sophie asks if they can meet after work.

All Bar One, she writes, that one on Kingsway. What’s up, he types back and there’s a long pause, three dots wiggling, before she comes back with: six okay?

He hesitates, then taps: k ttyl.

After, he stares at his phone and unease gnaws at his belly. Why would Sophie want to meet him here, rather than wait and talk to him when he gets home? With Luca gone back to Bristol for the week, it’s not like Alex has any plans for tonight, and thank God for that, he’s still exhausted from the weekend. He really needs an alcohol-free day and a good night’s sleep. Also, a break from Blake. He can imagine slipping out of Blake, like a snake sheds its shimmering skin, and then coiling up on the sofa. No bra, no heels. No makeup, no tights. Just jeans and a hoodie, a cup of peppermint tea and a good book, he’s got Flesh queued up on his reader. Or maybe Stranger Things: he’s a season behind and the next one’s coming out in a few months. Or he could play Silksong, it released two weeks into his new job and he hasn’t found time to play it yet.

But sure, why not, he can meet with his sister. Maybe Sophie just needs to get out. As far as he can tell, her social life’s been flatlining whilst his feels out of control. Truth is, busy with Luca and Beth, he’s barely spoken to her over the weekend and even in the week leading up to that, she’s been a little distant. Ever since his first performance review, it feels like they’re leading parallel lives.

Maybe even before that, actually. How many weeknights has he felt the need to bury himself in yet another makeup tutorial? Or had to finish off some work for St-Clair? And maybe she’s been out herself or sat in front of the TV and he’s disappeared into his room and it feels like they haven’t had a proper conversation in ages.

Love your nails!

Alex starts guiltily, slips his phone back into his handbag. Blinking, he turns to Amber. “You really think so?” Smiling, he holds up his hand. “I just had them done.” He flutters his fingers. His nails are rounded and smooth with a clear sheen with just a hint of blush. Beth wanted more, of course, gel extensions and vivid colour but he pushed back, no, how would I hide them? Why hide them, she asked, laughing, they’re meant to be seen. He sighed. I’m a boy, remember? At night. And on weekends. People might think—

What? Beth asked. What might people think?

“So pretty,” Amber says, but by the tone of voice, she’s upset though he can’t imagine what’s happened.

“I had a mani-pedi yesterday,” he explains. “My first.” Despite his misgivings, he grins, genuinely pleased. On the one hand, the experience was a lot of fun. He’d expected a manicure to be long and boring, a drawn-out experience in feminine frivolity.

Instead, it turned out to be ninety minutes of delightful pampering. There was a massage, and special lotions, and he soaked his feet in a basin of warm water that smelled of lavender. At first, it felt strange, felt forbidden. Inappropriate even, and for the first ten minutes he was uncomfortable with being the focus of so much attention, with salon ladies kneeling or sitting next to him or flitting about, with their pumice stones and essential oils and nail files. Also, it felt intimidating, the uncertainty of something new that felt as though it belonged to a type of person that he wasn’t. What if they saw through his disguise, felt his feet were too large, or his hands?

Yet the ladies were professional and kind and despite his doubts, he quickly eased into a thoroughly enjoyable ninety minutes of relaxed decadence, chatting with Beth, sipping even more prosecco. Ninety minutes, it turns out, was way too short; he’d have done another ninety, easy. Hell, he’s even tempted to try it as Alex; I should book Sophie and myself in for one of these, he thought afterwards. It’d be a nice way to thank his sister.

However, he’s painfully aware of how beautifully shaped and smooth and glossy his nails are now. Suitable for work, maybe. But afterwards? It’s no big deal, Sophie said when he got home. I’m sure nobody down the pub would even notice, I mean, they’re only a little pink, right? Totally normal thing for a guy to have.

“What do you think?” he asks Amber, and extends his hand, palm down, fingers fanned wide.

“Bitch,” Amber says, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I wanted to be your first, remember?”

“Oh.” Truth is, he’d forgotten. She’s been keen for weeks and he kept saying no. It can’t be that big of a deal, can it? And yet, he can see it is, it is to her and now, it feels like a betrayal of her friendship. Worry pierces his belly, he thinks she’s angry and sees that she is, Amber’s genuinely annoyed with him. There’s an awkward silence.

Eventually, she forces a smile.

He nearly sighs with relief. Oh good, everything’s okay, he thinks.

“Next time,” he says. “I promise. It’s just, I’ve got these friends visiting from home, um, they’re brother and sister. I’ve known them for like, forever? and—”

In brief, he explains about Luca and Beth being in town for the week, how she’s getting married and wanted company as she set up the gift list and indulged in a little pre-wedding shopping. “Her fiancé is, like, loaded,” he says, “it was like an all-expenses paid day out, I got so much stuff, like this,” and he plucks at his top, a silk blouse from H&M, black and glossy with a high collar.

“You spent the whole day shopping?”

He nods.

“Lucky bitch,” Amber says. “So jealous.”

“Selfridges,” he says. “And after, Liberty.”

“Liberty?” Amber leans closer. He’s painfully aware of the fall of her hair against his arms and the tickle of her breath on his neck. She sniffs lightly and her gaze goes distant. “Mm,” she says. “Nice. Delina?”

“Uh, yeah?” He pictures the distinctive pink bottle sitting in his room, the little tassel, so feminine and he has no idea what he’ll do with it in a few months’ time. “Yes. How’d you know?”

“It’s distinctive.” She taps her nose. “And I like perfume, silly,” she says. “Good choice.”

He doesn’t tell her that he didn’t choose it but rather Beth did, that it was her favourite scent, she said. Not for me, Beth explained, nostrils flared. I wear Aventus. But on another woman? Mmm. And her smile, the heat rising in her cheeks and in his, as she breathed him in, of course he followed her wherever she went for the rest of the day and did whatever she asked.

Instead, he tells Amber how they finished in Covent Garden. “I picked up all these nice dresses and some new shoes and then we took a break, and Beth, that’s my friend from back home, she wanted a glass of sparkly to celebrate the day and then after a glass, she was like, let’s do it, let’s get our nails done! and I just couldn’t say no?” And he also leaves out the part where she nuzzled his neck, and slid her hand up under his skirt, and caressed his thigh through the tights she bought him, and whispered, please, Alex, just this once, for me?

“And the boy?” Amber asks. “You mentioned a brother?”

“Oh, that’s just Luca, it’s been ages since we last—” and he catches himself, and then blushes.

“Luca, is it? Now where have I heard that name before?” Finger at lip with the pretence of remembering, she says: “Yes, yes, that’s right, you mentioned him on Friday. Booty call?”

It’s not like that, he almost says, he’s gay; and he opens his mouth, and the full complexity of his relationship with Luca washes over him: a friendship reaching back years and the changing dynamics between them, there for each other and the banter and rivalries and the arguments and his friend’s coming out, all culminating in the insanity of a date, just to fulfil some crazy heteronormative fantasy, an actual goddamn date in which he’ll wear a gorgeous frock, and all that other stuff Beth bought him. “No,” he says. “I mean, yes, we’ve got a date. On Saturday. But it’s not like that.”

“So, he’s like a high school sweetheart?”

Why not, he thinks. “I guess? Kinda.”

“I thought there was something in the way you said his name.”

“What? No way.”

“Oh, absolutely. You were all, oh, Luca.” She clutches her hands in front of her chest, staring into the distance all dreamy. “Oh, Luca!”

“Stop it,” and lightly slaps her arm.

“Well, good for you,” Amber says. “Maybe a good fuck’s just what you need to get out of this dating slump. Didn’t I say you needed to get laid?”

“It’s not like that,” he insists, thinking again, Luca’s gay. “We’ve known each other so long, you know? We’re just friends.”

“Sure, so you said. Of course you are,” she says, patting his arm. “So: what’re you wearing?” And her sudden intensity is a little overwhelming. She presses him on every detail. What’s the dress like, show me, you’ve got pictures, right? Pass me your phone. Oh my God, that looks amazing, you look amazing in it. Shoes? Please tell me you’re not wearing those Kurt Geigers again? Oh, those are nice. Can you actually walk in them? You should practice. Or maybe you’re not planning on being on your feet much, am I right?

Light laughter, then: Ooh, earrings? Show me. Which ones—yes, good choice, lovely, your friend’s got good tastes. But I think you need a necklace, too. Also, just who is this boy, anyway? What’s he like? You’ve known him how long? Wow. What’s this—no, I’m not giving it back.

A low whistle, and Alex’s cheeks blush a red deep enough to match his lips.

“Now that,” Amber says, “is some seriously sexy lingerie.”

“It’s just for fun!”

“Uh huh, babe, sure,” she says, passing the phone back. “After all, he’s not even going to see it, is he? It’s not like that, right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re wearing a seriously slinky frock and lingerie and those earrings and got your nails done and new heels because you just like to feel sexy and pretty for yourself, right?”

“Um—"

“Because it’s not like that?”

Fortunately, Ms. St-Clair sweeps through just then and Amber whispers, we’re not done here, and with a wink and toss of her hair, she disappears after their boss.

She catches up with him thirty minutes later in the kitchenette. He’s just picked up the tray with Harry’s coffee, and Tobi and Mo’s teas when Amber walks up from behind and gives him a pat on the bum. He sticks out his tongue and he’s just making his way towards the door when she leans close and asks, so, Luca’s cock, how big is it? He gasps, Amber! and wobbles the tray and she giggles, be careful, you wouldn’t want to spill any.

Alex doesn’t, though it’s a near thing, and, holding the tray with one hand he sticks two fingers up and she scampers away with a glance over her shoulder and a laugh, but once she’s gone, he can’t help but blush as he carries the drinks to the boys.

He crosses over from the old building to the new and enters the back offices, fights to suppress the lingering heat colouring his cheeks. Much to his embarrassment, he’s thinking of Luca’s cock. This isn’t something he’s ever done before and certainly doesn’t want to be doing now. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before, he’s seen it plenty: at the swimming pool, changing rooms, backstage, the occasional sleepover. Not that he’s gone looking but they’re just there when it’s a bunch of guys and you can’t help but compare a bit, it’s perfectly normal. But still, no guy wants to be thinking about their mate’s dick. It’s fucking embarrassing, and he feels a hot flush crawling up his neck and thinks, God Amber, you’re such a cow.

Harry snaps him out of his revery, calling out: hey babe, you bringing those over today or what? and blushing, he delivers the drinks.

After lunch, he files away old documents that have lingered for decades around the office. Years of old paperwork have built up in office spaces adjoining reception, and especially in the room where he usually takes his break or cracks on with work when Amber’s on the front desk. It’s a small room, too hot in the summer and, he suspects, cold in the winter despite the big, old cast iron radiator beneath the window. Very early into his job, St-Clair tasked him with sorting out the mess and when there’s a bit of downtime, he’s been sorting things into piles for recycling, shredding, filing, or deep storage. Most of the cabinets were filled with old junk, paper documents reaching back into the before times, as far back as the 80s and even the 70s. There were stacks of yellowing pages taking up shelf space and folders thick with dust.

Weeks ago, he started boxing up all the old stuff. Now, there’s a stack of boxes waiting to be moved. He kneels and his skirt pools around his feet and he slips his fingers beneath the first box and suddenly worries he might break a nail. Does that actually happen? It feels like a trope, but he’s just had these done and it wasn’t cheap, he saw the bill when Beth paid.

Whatever. He picks up the first box and it’s heavy, a lot heavier than he was expecting. He’s never carried anything heavier than dangling shopping bags as Blake. Very quickly, he feels the strain and with each step he feels a worrying wobble in his heels. By the time he reaches the stairs he’s red in the face and that’s when St-Clair spots him.

“No,” she says. “Absolutely not. Put that down.”

We’ll get the boys to do it, she says, you’re not carrying those upstairs dressed like that, in those shoes. He nearly protests then grudgingly admits, she’s right, stilettos and skirts are ill-suited to navigating stairs at the best of times, let alone carrying heavy boxes up them. He’d probably snap an ankle or something. Still. It rankles watching Harry carry his box. Oh, don’t worry, love, I’ve got it, the man says, taking the box. Bit heavy, was it? and his voice drips—not so much with condescension, no, as with the absolute conviction that because Blake is a girl, she couldn’t possibly carry a medium-sized box up three flights of stairs.

Worse, he isn’t wrong. The asshole’s stronger than him now. Alex can’t quite suppress a little sigh as the men haul the boxes upstairs. It’s embarrassing, for another man to do the heavy lifting. But also, a relief. Six weeks of calorie deficit dieting and no exercise and he’s never felt so weak, not since he was a child.

Afterwards, he steps into the woman’s loo on the top floor. Anxiously, he checks himself in the mirror. He rolls up his sleeve so that it bunches at the shoulder and flexes a bicep. He holds the pose. Looking at his arms, he gnaws on his lower lip. They’ve never looked so thin. He expected them to be slender, he’s lost at least half a stone since this whole thing has started. But now, to his eye, he’s looking positively scrawny.

Christ, have I really lost so much weight? he thinks, and then, how haven’t I noticed, and finally, it was just a fucking box? And he feels a tremor pass through, like fear, and breathes deeply until it passes. Then, he smooths his palms down over his trim front, looks at himself in profile and there’s no bulge there, above or below. He smiles, and it looks weird, and he tries again, and finds Blake once more.

Okay, sure, he thinks, maybe he’s tipping over from slim into scrawny. But it’s only temporary. Just look at whatshisname—Bale—so skinny you could count his ribs for that one movie, fucking Batman six months later, totally ripped. He vows then and there that he’ll do the same. After all, if Luca can go swanning off to Greece for the summer and come back a tanned Adonis, why shouldn’t he do the same?

And in the meantime, there’s just no denying how much better he looks in a sleeveless top now, Amber’s even commented on it, it’s like something’s flipped in the past week and clothes that terrified him at the start now fit beautifully. In fact, this blouse and this skirt, they just wouldn’t work if he was any heavier.

Alex takes a moment to touch up his makeup and returns to work.

The storage room’s just down the hall from the woman’s loo. The boxes wait for him, a stack sitting in shafts of blurred sunlight filtering through an old, stained window in the opposing wall. He blinks against the light and feels the warmth on his skin as he opens the first box and begins to retrieve files. Two other walls with peeling wallpaper hold massive bookshelves sagging under ancient books that are at least a century old, maybe more. A warm musk of faded knowledge and mouldering paper fills the room. Dust dances in the light as he kneels. He’s mindful to keep knees together and turned to one side.

Then, with a giggle, Amber’s there, like she appears out of nowhere and leans over him and asks: “well?”

“Well, what?” he says.

“Luca,” she says.

He grins. “Like a banger.”

“What is?” she asks.

“Luca’s cock.”

She nods, once, twice and then asks, very seriously: “Lincolnshire or Cumberland?”

He laughs, and so does she, and she slips in a joke about banger and bang-her, and he groans and everything’s okay, and then the laugh fades and she adds, you should be careful, you know, you wouldn’t want to ruin those lovely nails. Then, with a flick of her hair, she’s gone, leaving Alex to contemplate, I guess she’s still upset.

When the job’s done, he takes a short break in the loo. The lingering scent of Amber’s passage leads him there. He thinks about how she keeps harassing him throughout the day and thinks, God, it’s fun, isn’t it?

He loves being the target of her attention. He enjoys talking to her, full stop.

At the same time, she raises in him an almost unbearable anxiety. He doesn’t want to lie to her. The more he does, the worse it hurts. It churns his stomach when he does, yet it’s almost impossible to avoid lies when talking about his life outside of work. What’d you do last night? she’ll ask, and what can he say? I dressed as a boy, I lived as a boy, for a blissful few hours I was a boy once more and I wish Amber, that you could meet him, this other me, the real me; I think you’d like him, maybe.

That first week at Lockwood and Carmichael, they spent almost all their time together as she taught him the ropes. Then, Alex felt profound relief that he and Amber took their breaks and lunches separately. Someone always had to work reception and so he ate alone. And back then, he lived in constant fear of being caught out. He skirted close to breakdown, he thinks, and those thirty minutes alone had been essential, absolutely necessary, to holding himself together.

But now, he regrets this arrangement. Now, the longer he works at L&C, the fewer opportunities they seem to have to talk and he misses it, their idle chatter and her gossip, her help throughout the day, the hint of lavender or strawberry at her passage, the platinum-blonde sway of her hair, the way she knits her brow when she thinks and the gleam of office lights on her lips.

Alex contemplates this as he locks the stall door and lifts his skirt and bunches it around his waist and tugs his tights and gaff down to his knees and sits on the loo. He kicks off his shoes and flexes his foot and enjoys the cool air through his tights on his toes. His toenails are also shiny and pink, and he wiggles them and thinks, at least nobody can see them. Which is also a pity, he admits, they’re very cute, there’s something very cute about a girl in open-toed sandals with painted nails.

Five, maybe ten minutes like this, in which he’s able to let his balls hang loose and his dick breathe. Sunlight beams in through the small window outside the stall and he hears a distant roll of traffic, the twitter of a singular bird nesting in the eaves of the old building. The smell of Amber’s perfume lingers, subtle and sweet; she’s the only other girl who uses this loo.

It’s a lovely scent, he considers asking her the name of it and then shakes his head. Why would he do that? No sense in buying another bottle of expensive perfume he’ll only get a month, maybe two’s use out of. And Amber’s scent is very feminine, he couldn’t get away with wearing it as a man. Also, Christ, perfume is expensive, he had no idea how much quality perfume costs until Beth took him around Liberty.

Now, he’s wearing the scent Beth chose for him, and it blends with Amber’s, concentrated in the narrow space of the stall. He breathes in and with it her smile, her brown eyes flinty with annoyance, and the insolent flicks of her hair. She’s annoyed with him and that flash of her eyes excites him. He sighs and imagines her saying, Alex. He imagines his name in her mouth. Her mouth, and Alex, the flick of the tip of her tongue between syllables. She’d rest her hand on his shoulder and lean in close. Her scent is in his nose and she reaches lower with her other hand, Mm, she purrs, what’s this? And: oh, Blake, keeping secrets? or What’s this in your knickers? and when he looks down, he sees dainty fingers tipped in manicured nails, shimmering pink in the pale sunlight, and those cute little fingers are Amber’s fingers, and the nails are Amber’s nails, curled around his hard and erect cock.

Jesus, he thinks. At work?

Like a baby’s arm, Amber whispers in his mind.

After, he flushes the sticky tissues away, tugs up his tights and skirt and slips back into his shoes, checks the stall carefully and with paranoid fear that he missed some, that he’s left a stain somewhere a cleaner might find or even worse, Amber or St-Clair. Washing his hands, he is left with a profound sense of guilt. Like, what the actual fuck is wrong with me, he thinks. She’s a friend and I’m at work and she’s engaged and I can’t keep lying to her.

Then he’s back at his desk and Amber’s there and she’s just so goddamn pretty that he’s overwhelmed with a sudden desire to just—tell her; a terrible pressure swells his chest and he wants to tell her everything and break down the walls of dishonesty between them, apologize and beg forgiveness and hold her hands and kiss her and sit and just fucking talk and he opens his mouth as the click of his heels announces his arrival but when she looks up, maybe she sees something in his face, frowns and a little knot knits her brow and she shakes her head, no, very slightly and before he can ask her what she means or say anything, really, St-Clair is there and summons him to her room and maybe it’s for the best.

He follows St-Clair and stands at her entrance as she moves to her desk and her every movement reminds him of nothing so much as the feline grace of a puma or panther. She leans against the desk and he feels her gaze sweep over him and with it, an ephemeral warmth contingent on her approving nod, which she gives, with the slightest inclination of the head. He relaxes. As always, she looks amazing, today in a tailored suit nipped in at the waist, dark blue and with it she wears a silk blouse, black and not dissimilar to the one he wears but of obvious superior quality.

“Thank you, Blake,” she begins. “For salvaging Harry’s deck.”

He feels a warm glow at her compliment but says nothing. He expects her to speak but she seems intent on waiting. The longer the silence stretches, the more nervous he becomes until finally, he blurts: “why do you put up with him?” Then, he blushes. “Sorry. That was impertinent.”

“Impertinent?” She shakes her head. “This place could use a whole lot more ‘impertinence’.” She seems to consider her words carefully. “Harry, unfortunately, is nephew to a senior partner who shall at this time remain unnamed. Harry’s obvious flaws are taken as evidence of boyish charm or manly confidence or whatever inanities justify his failings.” Her lips twist as though tasting something bitter. “In any case, this isn’t why I asked you here.”

His gaze slips away from her. Her chamber is the same, sumptuous dark wood as the rest of the Lockwood and Carmichael main office, though on the ground floor rather than the upper floors of the senior partners. There are heavy bookshelves and her large desk and a console table but otherwise the room is sparsely decorated. There are no photographs on her desk or shelves. Nothing other than the minimalism of the room itself speaks of its occupant. Even the few pieces of art on the wall reflect their owner: wide bands of textured grey and black, framed; a simple beige canvas, slashed down the middle.

After a lengthy pause, she continues: “The party at Julien de Bellême’s on Wednesday,” she says. “Have you thought of it at all?”

He stifles a nearly hysterical laugh, twines his fingers together and holds his hands behind his back. “Yes?”

“It would be… untoward of me,” she says, “if I did not ask you again: are you sure, Blake, that you are okay with attending Julien’s party?” She uncrosses her arms and leans back against the desk. Her nails click a contemplative ruby-red rhythm as she drums them against the surface. “Bellême is an important client for the firm,” she says. “And to me. But I don’t want you to feel as though you were coerced into attending. He invited you because he wants you to attend. You have caught his eye. He is an intelligent and attractive young man. And you are a very pretty young woman.” Behind her glasses, St-Clair’s eyes sparkle with humour though she remains serious and unsmiling.

“But if his interest and his invitation make you uncomfortable, you should not go. I will extend apologies on behalf of the firm. But most importantly, whether you attend or not, it will not reflect on your performance here at Lockwood and Carmichael.” Her features soften slightly and she allows a small smile. “Which, as you know, has been exemplary.”

He feels a warm glow of pride and affirmation. “I understand,” he says. “I’m fine. Really.” He speaks with a confidence he does not feel. “After all, it’s only—” and he’s about to say, a party, but does not finish.

Instead, his thoughts echo a conversation at the pub from Friday night, in which he unconvincingly tried to laugh off his misgivings to Amber. It’s only a party, right? he said. Just some rich twat’s idea of fun. But Amber shook her head, and she held his hand and squeezed tight, to hold his attention, so that he took her seriously despite both their drunkenness.

No, she said. Listen to me, Blake. This isn’t just some party and Julien isn’t just some guy. Julien belongs to the super-rich, okay? And people like that, they’re not like us. They’re not normal. They’re so divorced from the everyday conventions of life and the common needs of normal people that it makes them different. She frowned then, as though searching for the appropriate term, and then shrugged. They’re cunts, okay?

Even the good-looking ones? he asked, smiling, thinking she was joking.

She didn’t smile. All of them, she said. Every last cunting one of them. I fucking hate them.

“It’s only?” Ms. St-Clair prompts.

“Nothing,” he says. “Honestly, I’m excited to go.”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, Blake,” she says, and her little smile grows slightly, “I’m very happy to hear that. Your dress arrived today and I need you to try it on, in case we need to make any last-minute changes.”

She leaves and returns with a long dress in a garment bag on which is written the name of a shop Alex didn’t recognize, from which St-Clair carefully retrieves the garment. The dress is the colour of sunset and draped over her arms it sparkles beautifully with crystals and he can’t help himself, he lets out a little gasp. St-Clair’s smile is indulgent as she unfurls the dress and holds it up against him. She nods once, satisfied. “Looks the right length, but we won’t know until you try it on.”

She leaves him alone in her office, and he kicks off his Kurt Geigers. The old wood beneath his feet, polished smooth by hundreds of years of traffic, is cool to his stockinged feet. With some trepidation, Alex unbuttons his blouse, slips it off and lays it over the back of the chair. Then the skirt. He tugs the zipper at the side, gives a little wiggle and it pools at his feet. Stepping free, he’s now naked but for bra, tights and the gaff keeping his front smooth, and the girdle with its padding at his hips.

He shivers, though the room isn’t cold, goose pimples rising across shaven thighs. It’s late afternoon and anyone could enter the room, St-Clair could return, and see him, a boy in women’s underwear. Alex takes up the dress. Smooth and silky, it slithers and slides under his grasp, like something living. He holds the dress open in front of him. It feels heavier than expected. He checks the label and it reads Ralph Lauren and he knows the name and suspects the dress is more expensive than anything he’s ever worn. He lifts one foot and steps into the dress. His stomach feels tight, his throat dry. The sensation of doing something wrong and forbidden is the same one he’s felt many times before but amplified by the elegance of the dress. The feeling of it against his skin as he pulls it up is unlike anything he’s known.

The dress whispers over artificial curves like a summer’s breeze, and he reaches up and ties the halter top and feels the fabric tighten around his neck and it feels like a lover’s hand at his throat, gentle strangulation, slow and sensuous. There is a zip low at the back, and he struggles to reach it but is reluctant to call for help and after some effort, manages to close the dress. The dress is sleeveless and leaves his shoulders and arms bare and his back from just above the bra line. It pulls tight around his hips and belly, almost uncomfortably so, but the fabric is thick enough to smooth the lines of the shapewear beneath. He also feels that the slightest bit of belly—or bulge further down—would show, it’d be devastating and ruin those sleek lines, the folds that caress his legs and the quiet swish as he takes a slow, careful spin.

There is no mirror in the room. He wishes he had his phone. It remains in his handbag at the reception desk. With trembling hands and a feeling that he might be sick, he smooths down the front of the dress and can’t help but admire its coolness beneath his palm and the way the fabric falls and dances at his ankle. He sees how the dress flows over his breasts and feels the long, trailing end of the halter cool against his spine and reaching as far down as his bum. Then, he gathers up the dress with one hand and flits to the door. He cracks the door open and calls out in a low voice: “Ms. St-Clair?”

He steps back from the door as she enters. She looks at him and he sees something in her eyes he’s never seen before. Her smile is thin and hard but also pleased and she nods, yes.

“How do I look?”

“As I’d hoped,” she says.

And the way she says it, somewhere between a purr and a threat, makes him blush, leaves him uneasy yet also excited. He feels a stirring in his gaff and thinks, again? And he thinks, I guess it’s a good thing I wanked earlier. And then he thinks, what is it with this dress, that I’m turned on like this and he has to clench his fingers together to avoid fidgeting, he suddenly wants to press his hand down, hard against his smooth front or better yet, have Ms. St-Clair or Amber or Beth do it, cup his ass in this lovely dress, feel an arm wrapped around his waist, or a hand against his bare back, and feel fingers sliding beneath a waistband, seeking.

“A little thick in the waist,” St-Clair continues. Now, her gaze is critical. “Put on your shoes,” she directs, and he does and she shakes her head, no. “Those won’t do, not at all.” She purses her lips. “I’ll sort this out for tomorrow. Proper shoes, and something to take in your waist. May I suggest you avoid any food or drink likely to cause bloating?” He nods, of course and then she adds, “And those nails won’t do. Not long enough. And they should match the dress, obviously. I know a place. I’ll book you in for Wednesday evening.”

He wants to protest but knows he can’t, he’s agreed to this and she knows best, clearly. Instead, he nods. Then, a sudden idea hits him.

With a cheeky smile, he asks, “can Amber come?”

***

Alex sits at a small table in All Bar One with his handbag and laptop bag on the seat opposite, holding it for his sister. The bar is busy for a Monday but not so much that anyone’s asked for the chair, yet. There’s a table of four nearby, they seem to be celebrating someone’s birthday or maybe a promotion. There’s a guy there, with blond hair and a thin moustache, a young lad who looks like he’s barely out of his teens wearing a wrinkled suit that’s too big for him. He keeps glancing towards Alex, then talking to his friend, who also shoots a look his way.

At first, Alex fears there’s something wrong with his appearance: do they think he’s a guy? Then, he’s worried the kid might actually come over and talk to him. Jesus, not that: bad enough he’s got a date with Luca, and that party on Wednesday. The last thing he needs is some random dickhead on the pull chatting him up.

Alex ignores the table and keeps an eye on the entrance. It’s nearly six-thirty and his sister is running late, she sent apologies and now he sits and nurses his drink and tries not to think about why she wants to meet him, here rather than wait for him at home. He considered pulling out his book but that feels pretentious. Now that he’s a third of the way in, Flesh feels a poor fit to Blake. Instead, he fidgets with his phone. Amber’s sent a half-dozen ecstatic emojis and thank yous. He smiles, taps a response: sorry, and some happy faces, and then just for fun, an aubergine. She fires back with: Luca, and he responds with a drooly face.

Then, he finds a good angle and snaps a shot of his Aperol spritz, checks it and deletes, then tries again, this time holding it so that his nails are visible. This one is better and after flicking through a few filters, he drops it on Instagram. Over the past six weeks, Blake’s picked up a bit of traction online; he wonders if his nails will get any likes.

Then he puts his phone down and looks outside. Early September and the days are already growing shorter, and the sun gilds the building opposite. Reflected in the window, he tucks a bang behind his ear and raises his drink in mock cheer, a phantom impression of red lips and red drink captured in glass. Alex smiles. He likes what he sees and feels a sudden swell of pride at his appearance and for surviving another day as Blake.

It’s been a good day, he thinks. I didn’t think it would be. And I’m just so tired. But actually, it’s been a really good day. And didn’t I just look great in that dress?

The door to All Bar One opens, and Sophie enters accompanied by a swell of warm air and the rumble of Holborn traffic. He waves at her, smiles and she nods but doesn’t return the smile. Instead, she avoids eye contact. She heads to the bar and orders a drink and Alex waits.

Waiting, he takes up his phone again, checks his face in the screen, pokes back a few stray hairs. He can see the bloke at the other table watching him and Alex can’t help a little smile, as he dabs on a little gloss. Wanker, he thinks. If only you knew.

Sophie finally joins him, carrying a pint of Madri, foaming at the top.

“Hey, sis,” he says.

She puts down her beer, moves his bags to the floor and sits. She then takes a long pull on her beer and wipes the foam from her lip. She still hasn’t made eye contact. Her gaze drifts outside and to their dim reflection in the glass. Two women, side by side, one young and fashionably dressed; the other older and casual in jeans and trainers, a faded Snow Patrol t-shirt and now he tracks back to the original, looks at his sister and sees how tired she appears, and older than her years.

“Hey, little brother,” she says.

“Hey, not so loud,” he says. He smooths down his skirt, fingers dancing along deep pleats. “I mean, look at me.”

For a moment, it seems she might actually smile. “Fine,” she says. “Little sister,” and saying this does something funny to her face, she goes quiet again and takes another deep drink of beer.

“So,” he says and hesitates and takes a nervous sip of his own. “What’s up?”

There’s a lengthy pause. She looks around the pub and seems to dig deep to force a smile. “Remember the first time we came here? We sat over there.” She indicates a booth further down the bar. “It was after your interview.”

“Yeah, I remember.” There’s a quiet in which they seem to disappear within the shared memory together. It was the last time they were out together, just the two them. “All I wanted was to go home. God, that interview. It nearly killed me.”

“I’m still sort of surprised you went through with it.”

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

“True.”

Another silence. It’s gone seven and the bar’s reaching its Monday night peak. He’s come here on a Monday a few times, always with Amber and each time with a few people from the admin or HR team, usually women like Helen or Princess or Aliya, nearing thirty and sneaking in a cheeky drink before heading home to their partners or kids. He taps his index finger against the table, the flash of sunlight against his nails, the subtle click against the hard surface.

“I wore your old trousers, those beige ones.” And isn’t it funny, he thinks, how rarely Blake’s worn trousers since that day. “And this belt, it’s my go-to belt. And I remember, I didn’t have a clue, at the start. You had to do my makeup. I honestly don’t know how nobody spotted me. I must’ve looked a sight.”

Sophie nods, reaches into her pocket. A minute of scrolling and then she slides the phone across the table.

“Jesus,” he says, and on the screen a picture from that night. Honestly, he doesn’t look that bad, he thinks. She can’t be bothered to wear it herself, but his sister’s got a deft hand for doing somebody else’s makeup; he looks alright. But looking at the snapshot from six weeks ago, what strikes him most of all is the fear in his eyes.

He slides the phone back to her. She looks at the picture again before sliding the phone back in her pocket. Then, she looks at him directly, makes proper eye contact for the first time since arriving.

“Are you happy, Alex?” she asks.

The way she asks the question, it frightens him a little, the tone of her voice raises an anxious flutter in his chest. He gives his head a little shake, like, what does happiness even mean? “I guess?” He delicately passes his fingers across his face, sweeps back a few stray strands of hair caught in his gloss. “I don’t know.”

“It’s an easy question, Alex. Are you happy?”

“Are you?”

She frowns. “I asked first.”

And the answer that then springs to mind is startling in its simplicity: yes. Yes actually, I am happy. I enjoy my job and people think I’m good at what I do, except for maybe Harry, but Harry’s a twat, everybody knows that. And I’ve made friends and I’ve got a social life now and maybe I’m always tired but it’s a good tired and isn’t that what it means to be twenty-four and in the big city? And maybe it’s not everything I wanted but it’s only been six weeks, and I’ve already been invited to some rich wanker’s party and I’m hanging out with this amazing girl every day and—I look good—and the full rush of this realisation catches Alex by surprise and almost instantly, is followed by a rush of shame.

Because, how can he possibly be happy, sitting there in a skirt and a silk blouse, with his nipped in waist and with fake tits stuck to his chest? And he feels the shame as a heat that crawls up his neck and it emerges from his throat as anger: “what do you think?” he snaps and immediately after, “no,” and then, “I’m wearing lipstick, for fuck’s sake.”

“The colour suits you.”

“I never wanted this. I’m not a girl, Sophie, I’m your fucking brother, remember?” She nods and he waits and when she doesn’t answer, he adds, “And this was all your idea? You forced me into this.”

“Yes, I suppose I did,” Sophie says. “Now look at you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her eyes trail like a spotlight across his face, from eyes to lips, earrings to brows, and he feels even hotter, under her gaze, and sweat dots the back of his neck. “Nothing,” she says.

A lengthy pause, in which Sophie takes another drink and her pint is a third gone and she’s been there for like only ten minutes. “No, you’re being mean, you’re making fun of me.”

She shakes her head, no, and grimaces and now, he sees in her face that she’s tired, that she’s not wearing makeup and there’s dark circles under her eyes and her lips are dry and chapped. She’s packed on even more weight this past month, as if she’s syphoned up the fat he’s shed.

Alex then tries to remember if she looked like this before, was she this worn out six weeks ago, or even when he first arrived, at the end of spring? And his stomach twists to think that maybe, this is his fault, he’s the reason she’s so tired and pale.

“No.” Sophie leans forward, one elbow on the table and with the other she holds her beer. “I’m not, I’m really not being mean. Just look at you, you’re beautiful, Alex. I mean that. I guess maybe you don’t want to hear it and maybe you don’t want to hear it from your sister, but honestly, you make for a very pretty young lady. I’m actually jealous of how good you look. And I’m—” she seems to root around for the right word: “proud. Honestly, I’m very proud of you.”

In a small voice, Alex answers, “thank you.” And then, because he can’t help it, he asks in the same quiet voice, “do you think Dad would be, too?”

She closes her eyes, turns away. A lengthy silence. Condensation beads on their drinks. The murmur of other conversations washes over them. At that other table, the young guy pauses in his chat with a petite redhead in a gingham dress and pretty hoop earrings he wouldn’t mind owning. The guy checks his phone, then leans back and takes a picture of him and the girl and Alex wonders, did that guy just take a picture with me in the background?

Then Sophie speaks and her voice is quiet, too. “I don’t know,” she says. “But I know he’d want you to be happy. And I’m—sorry, I really am that you’re not happy. I thought….” and she trails off, and then tries again, “it’s just that,” and then finally, “I guess I hoped, I don’t know. After that first week, you really seemed into it, all this girl stuff. Like, obsessively so, way more than I ever was. And like instead of all those shitty manosphere videos, you were brushing up on makeup and fashion tips and voice training, it just seemed so much healthier, in a way.

“And you didn’t seem angry anymore. That’s the thing. The rants stopped. I thought you were happy because you weren’t angry.”

He winces. “I wasn’t that bad, Sophie.”

“You really were, Alex. You were always angry and day by day, I watched that anger grow and then narrow and focus, first you targeted me and then you were projecting it onto other women and I… I couldn’t bear to see that happen, what you were becoming. And that’s why—”

“What?”

Her face twists in a grimace, she opens her mouth as though about to speak and then closes it and instead, she shakes her head, no. “Nothing.”

Another silence and then, in a voice as small as before, Alex says, “I’m sorry.”

Sophie’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m sorry, okay?” He crosses his arms across his chest, petulantly. “I can say I’m sorry, you don’t have to be all dramatic about it.”

She lets out a bark of laughter, bites it back and then looks at him, curiously. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”

“Just—for everything, I guess.”

“Oh, Alex,” she says, reaches across the table to place her hand over his. “Little brother. Thank you. And so am I.”

“So am I, what?”

“Sorry,” Sophie says.

Alex feels suddenly cold, though beneath his blouse his chest is warm, and his throat feels tight and he brings his other hand to his neck and lightly holds it there. “For what, sis?” He tries to smile but can’t find it, and his voice feels distant. “Sorry for what?”

Sophie sighs.

“Listen, Alex,” she begins, and her hand over his tightens. “I need you out of my flat.”

Now that she’s said it, his stomach drops and he feels his face contort in something between a forced smile and a scowl. “I know, I know,” he says, “and I’m looking, I really am, it’s just been super busy and just doing this, you know, all this,” and he waves a hand to indicate a face full of makeup, a carefully arranged outfit, “like you said, it’s already a lot of work and maybe I’ve been a bit obsessive about it but I can’t get caught out, can you even imagine?”

“Sure. But I still need you out.”

“I’ve looked at a few places but it’s really hard, after work I’ve got to swap out of Blake first and then they’re so far away or just too expensive and this one place, you wouldn’t believe, the smell of damp—”

“I don’t care,” Sophie interrupts. “I need you out.”

Alex takes a deep breath. “I’ll look harder. I’ll find something.”

“You’re not listening,” she says. “I’ve asked again and again and I’m not asking any more. I need you out. Now. This week. I need you gone, Alex.”

He withdraws his hand from beneath hers and she watches it retreat and he feels the room tilt and sweat breaks out on the back of his neck and his neck flushes hot yet he feels cold, his stomach clenches tight. “No,” he says and then again, “no,” and he hears his voice and it’s Alex’s voice and panic tightens his throat. “No.”

“Yes.” Her voice is strained. He doesn’t care.

“You can’t do this to me.” His voice continues its slide into a whine, he hates it and where he was cold and sick a moment before, now he feels himself grow hot and resentful. “You can’t—everything, it’s going so well and—there’s tomorrow, you have no idea, no fucking clue what I’m going through; there’s so much going on, I can’t—”

“You have to,” she says. “I need you out and I need you out, now.”

But I’m booked for a manicure on Wednesday with Amber, he thinks, and the party in Putney later that night and Beth wants to see me before the date with Luca and that’s happening on Saturday and Amber said something about coming around to hers this week and there’s my job like the actual reason I’m doing all this, I’ve got another performance review coming up in two weeks and this is what you wanted, Soph, you made this happen and now you’re kicking me out, you fucking bitch, how could you do this and now, why now, it’s not fair, you know it’s not fair and what the hell do you expect me to do? I need somewhere I can be Alex and I need somewhere I can be Blake and you’re that place, you make this all possible. You can’t take this from me.

And he has no idea how much of this is in his head or spills from his mouth as his vision narrows and blood pounds in his ears, only that when he stops, he feels sick. It seems briefly as though he’s gotten through to her and the impassivity of her expression cracks, slightly. For a moment, he wants to believe she’s about to cry, that she’ll give him a reprieve.

But, no. “Honestly, Alex, I don’t know what you’ll do. I—don’t care. So long as you’re out. You’re an adult. Find yourself a new home. Check into a Travelodge, whatever, you’ve got money. And if that runs out, go home. Mum’s still got your room the way you left it. But I need my home back, Alex, I need it for myself and I need to rent—”

“I can pay,” he says, “I’ll pay your rent.”

“It’s a thousand a month, Alex.”

“I—” He pales a little. “That’s half my pay.”

“And I don’t want your money. I love you, Alex, I do, but—”

“No you don’t, don’t fucking say that,” he says. “You loved me when I was a fuck up, you loved watching me fail. And now—that it’s going well—better than you expected, you even said so—you never thought I could pull this off—you want to knock me back on my ass and send me crawling home. You fucking cunt. You don’t give a fucking shit about me. You resent me, always have. Because I went to uni. Because I’m a boy. Because—Dad loved me more than he loved you.” He jabs one finger at her, his nail gleams pink under bright bar lights. “And what a fucking laugh, because you’re so much more like Dad than I’ll ever be. You’re just like him, and when I need you, when I really need you, you’re not here.”

Sophie closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. And when she speaks, her voice remains calm. “You think you can hurt me, but you can’t. You have no clue what you’re talking about, little brother. There’s nothing you can say about our father that’s going to change what’s happening here. So, you can pack your stuff up and move out or I can toss it all in the bin next week. But on Monday, I’ve got a guy booked in to come around and change the locks.”

“If you do this,” he says, and his voice is now cold and flat, and he speaks from a place inside of him he hasn’t felt since the funeral. “I’ll hate you.”

“I know,” Sophie says.

“I’ll hate you and I’ll never forgive you, you understand? You can’t do this to me. This, all of this, you did this, you started this and now that I’m actually doing it, I’m actually succeeding and doing well, I’m happy, yes, I’ll admit it, I’m happy, okay and maybe that’s because of you. I needed a push and you gave it to me and like you said, now look at me and it’s just for a bit longer, Soph, I just need another month, two maximum, can’t you let me stay for a little longer?”

“No,” she says. “Monday,” she says and then Sophie knocks back the rest of her drink and then she leaves.

Chapter Ten: The Mask in his Hands

After his sister leaves, Alex sits alone.

His mind stutters through a repeating cycle of—she can’t, I can’t believe, but what am I, that bitch, it’s not fair—he feels cold and he stares out the window as daylight slides into the sombre purple of the end of day. The murmur of the bar and glint of melting ice. He trails the tip of one finger through condensation, down the side of his glass to the table and in a little circle. He wants to pick up the glass and hurl it across the room and scream.

The drink is half empty. He takes a sip which becomes a gulp and then the drink is gone and he wants another one. The glass feels cold against his forehead and he thinks: she can’t, I can’t believe, but what am I. And he carefully returns his glass to the table. Like, she’s just such a fucking cow, always has been.

Eventually, he retrieves his phone. He stares blankly at the screen. What should he do now? There is a temptation to just catch the Tube to Victoria station and from there a coach to Bristol and by degrees, escape. His room waits for him in Taunton: sleep. God, he’s so tired. A consummation devoutly to be wished. But he can’t go—well, not home; it’s not really ‘home’ anymore, hasn’t been for a long time. Nor Sophie’s, and he can’t go there either, not now, not tonight. After all, what was she expecting after this, that he’d follow her back and they’d sit side-by-side on the sofa and watch fucking Strictly on the telly?

The realisation that he is now homeless seeps into him.

He unlocks his phone, types: Can I call you?

Staring at the phone until the double checkmark appears and then: ofc u ok?

Pressure behind his eyes and screwing them shut, he voice-calls Amber.

She answers on the first ring: “What’s up?”

He hates himself for it, the melodrama, the shuddering breath in which he tries to speak but says nothing and he feels tears sting his eyes.

“Blake? Babe, what’s wrong?”

“I need—” To talk, but his throat is tight. He swallows, cradles the phone against his ear with one shoulder and presses the heel of both hands against his eyes. “Where are you?”

“At the office,” she says.

He feels a warm pulse in his chest, that she’s close, that he can maybe talk to her and somehow, that might make a difference. “I’m at All Bar One, the one near the station, can you come? Please? I really need to talk to someone.”

There’s a short pause and then she asks, “what happened, are you okay?”

He almost laughs, and his cheeks are wet and he realises that, yes, he’s crying. “No,” he says and Amber replies, be there in five, and he hangs up, digs in his handbag until he finds a tissue and wipes his eyes and sees the mess that comes away, damp white and dotted black, smeared peach. A wry, self-deprecating smile and then Alex falls into himself, forward into waiting hands. Christ, how fucking embarrassing, he thinks. I dress like one, I cry like one.

Profound weariness rises inside of him and he feels blurred, like a photograph left in sunlight for too long.

“Um, hi,” intrudes a male voice. “Are you okay?”

Alex sits up, violently and he’s pulled out of himself, too quickly. In sitting up, his face is left behind. He is left faceless, the mask in his hands. A thin porcelain shell. A face with nothing eyes and rosy lips, seen from within. Alex fears to look up, lest he see his reflection in the window, flayed and raw.

“I’m Gary,” the voice says.

The speaker is the boy from the other table, of course it is. The boy’s cheeks are pink with drink and in his eyes, mild panic, sweat patches under his arms and behind him at the other table, friends watching, grinning, except for the redhead, she’s staring resolutely in the other direction. Up close, he doesn’t look quite so young, in fact he’s about my age, Alex thinks. This guy, he’s come with friends and colleagues for a drink after work and spotted a pretty girl left on her own at the next table over and after some good-natured pressuring has come over to try his luck, and why not, I’d have done the same, probably, once.

But now he sits here with his mask off, he just can’t fucking deal, it’s too much. Rising in him, all the exhaustion and frustration and shame and stress of the past six weeks, the five-thirty mornings and late nights and practice, practice, practice and the pride in his performance and yes, at being the pretty girl at the table and yes, at being a good receptionist and yes, a good friend, a girlfriend but also a liar, a desperate and lonely boy who feels the carefully constructed boundaries of his fantasy fraying, the illusion crumbling and it’s all coming apart, it’s too much, too much, he’s sinking.

And he wants to burst into tears and he wants to bottle this fucker and he wants the ground to swallow him whole and he wants to just give up and he wants Amber or Beth or somebody, just fucking anybody to hold him, just hold him close and say, you’re doing great, it’s fine, you’ll be okay. And it bubbles up inside of him, he feels hot and he feels weak and when he speaks, it’s his Alex voice, and how could it not be, with a hollowed face in his hands?

“Leave me the fuck alone, mate,” and in hearing his male voice, the full ridiculousness of his disguise washes over him in a wave of shame so intense the room sways and he grips the table, tight. The weight of tits and bra strap digging and the way a pleated skirt hangs between thighs and the bite of tights across his belly, makeup on his face and all of it makes for self-loathing so visceral he nearly howls.

The boy’s eyes widen first with surprise? or disgust? and certainly, anger. “You’re a—” but Alex doesn’t hear anything else, blood screaming in his ears as he lurches to his feet and grabs his bags and flees the bar.

Behind him, he hears or thinks he hears, laughter. Then, the door closes and he’s outside. The air is cooler than before. A stiff September wind swirls his skirts around his legs. He wraps his arms around his torso. He should wait for Amber outside the bar, but he can’t stop, he keeps walking, he’s halfway down the Kingsway. Nearly at Aldwych, stalking through the milling evening crowds. Cooling enough to stop, think, where the fuck am I going? and he turns around and returns the way he just came. Back to where he started, but Amber’s not there yet. He ducks down Remnant Street and in passing he can’t help but glance through the large windows back into the bar.

There, he sees the boy and the boy starts and stares as Alex sweeps past. He mouths something and points and a laughing friend pats him on the back and Gary looks angry and for a moment, Alex fears the boy will chase after him.

So, he speeds up, crosses over into Lincoln’s Inn Fields and shelters under the arms of the large tree at the gate. Sheltering behind it, he stops and catches his breath. He feels the anger and fear drain away and he’s left feeling hollowed and brittle. He crouches behind the tree and breathes deeply. Slowly, he gets his breathing under control. Only then does Alex find the strength to slip the mask back on. He doesn’t think it’ll fit. But the face slides on easily enough.

He sends Amber a message telling her where he is.

Then, he thinks: Gary? Like really, what the fuck, Gary?

Amber finds him a few minutes later. “Blake,” she calls out, walking quickly and her voice and her face are full of concern, she cares and is worried for him and that tips him over the edge again. He feels the tears rising, as she takes him and holds him underneath the big tree and then great wrenching sobs tear through him.

These subside quickly, though the tears don’t. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, over and over again. “I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?” Amber asks.

He shakes his head. This isn’t something he feels ready to talk about, not yet. Eventually, he pulls away from her. Amber’s face glows with worry. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine.” He forces a weak smile. “I’m okay,” and her hand rests lightly on his forearm, and he looks at it and then at her and says, “really.”

“No,” Amber says, “you’re not,” and she holds him again.

And he thinks, I’ll always remember this moment, when I stood beneath a purple sky under the late-summer leaves of the tree at the entrance to the gardens in the arms of this girl who found me when I was lost and needed her most.

“C’mon,” she says. “I’m taking you home. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

He follows her back to Holborn station, and waiting on the platform for the Central Line, he checks himself in his phone and winces at the wreck of his face, streaked mascara and eyeliner, gouges in his foundation and his eyes, they’re Alex’s eyes. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, “the state of me,” and feels a hysterical bubble of laughter rising. Amber nods solemnly and rubs his back and the bubble pops and he laughs, and then she does, too. You’re a right mess, she says and he shrugs helplessly, and she pulls him down the platform. The train comes and the platform clears and she sits him down on the empty bench and takes the seat next to him and pulls out her makeup bag. We’ve got this, she assures him, I’ve got everything we need, we’ve all been there. I’m so sorry, he repeats, God, what do I look like, you must think—and she places a finger to his lips: shh.

First eyedrops, then blotting paper and makeup wipes: she cleans up around his eyes, then has a quick go with some eyeliner. Amber switches to a small brush and lightly feathers away tear lines and then a little pot of concealer and five minutes of emergency repairs ends with a setting spray. She sits back and nods, yes, it’ll do. Now your lips, she says and he nods and does that himself. After, Alex checks himself in a little compact mirror and smiles weakly and still sees hints of the boy in the cracks but there’s no denying, Amber’s done a good job at restoring Blake. Still, he feels exposed and his stomach clenches tight with worry. He fidgets, running fingers up and down the pleats of his skirt, and avoids eye contact.

They catch the next train. Riding the six stops to Mile End, Alex begins to feel much better. The car is full of end-of-day commuters and he and Amber find a space crammed at one end, at the door between carriages, where the window sits a little open. He feels the dry, dusty underground air breathe against his face and in the car opposite, the blank faces and distant stares of other commuters. He stares out at the rushing darkness as they rattle through each station. People get on, and people get off. St. Paul’s. Bank, and a new crush of commuters. He is pressed up against Amber and she glances his way and smiles and he forces a smile in return. Liverpool Street, Bethnal Green. With each stop, the earlier terrible vulnerability eases. But only because Amber is there and her presence next to him on the busy train is a comfort in a way he doesn’t understand.

By the time they reach Mile End and the surface, it’s turned dark and streetlights cast dancing pools of light that waver with the wind pulling at branches. She takes his hand and they cross the road and she guides him to her home.

“Amber?” he says, speaking barely above a whisper. His throat feels raw, his voice rough.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She smiles and gives his hand a little squeeze.

“I’m—scared,” he says.

He stops walking. She takes another step before his light grip on her hand pulls her back. She stops, faces him. They’re about halfway to her house, passing along terraced houses and the rumble of traffic recedes to distant hum. Rectangles of warm light in windows glowing in rows and overhead, a heavy crescent of moon behind wisps of clouds. Her face in the moonlight and under streetlights has never seemed more beautiful to him. “Why?”

Because I’m falling for you, he thinks, and these words are on his lips as she steps closer and her large brown eyes are luminous with the night. I’m scared of what I might say or do around you. He opens his mouth to speak and tries to force them into the correct shape: my sister’s kicking me out. But instead, the words he feels rising in his throat are those he has yearned to speak since Friday: You’re beautiful and I’m a boy.

His heart pounds in his chest and despite the coolness of the night he feels hot. Amber reaches up and brushes his cheek, the fingers of her other hand intertwine with his and her mouth is slightly parted and gleams in the dark and she begins to say—something; but Alex leans in and presses his lips to Amber’s, gently.

Her lips are soft and a shared tackiness of gloss, the smell of her makeup and perfume. And his own. A tickle of long hair against his arm. Amber doesn’t pull away. Nor does she pull him into her. Her lips remain soft. But she makes no effort to return the kiss.

Alex jerks back. The pit of his stomach gives way, he’s made a terrible mistake and panic claws his innards, his eyes wide with the realisation of what he’s done. “Oh God, Amber, I—”

Amber shakes her head, just a little, and the hand holding his hand gives a little squeeze, again. Her smile is a little sad, maybe.

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Worse, he feels how hard he is under his gaff, and this too is a betrayal of her trust. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”      

“I have a boyfriend,” she says softly.

“I know,” he says, “I know. Please don’t hate me.”

“Blake Morgan,” she says, and sounds cross, “I don’t mind you kissing me and I don’t mind you girl-crushing but if you speak nonsense like that one more time, I swear, I’ll put you over my knee and give you a right proper spanking.” But her eyes glint mischievously. “Though maybe you’d like that, you naughty girl.”

Alex bites his lip and nods, yes.

“Of course I don’t hate you. Honestly, I’m a little flattered. And I guess it’s not a surprise. You tried to tell me on Friday, maybe? But I’m not into girls, I mean, not really, there was this time at Oxford—” and she smiles wistfully. “But anyway, if I was into girls, I’d totally be into a sexy girl like you.”

He blushes and looks away and feels something inside of him fade and wink away, a hope he’d carried since he first met her, six weeks ago. It hurts, terribly but only briefly. And when he turns to face her again, he can smile without having to force it. “Thank you,” he says, very softly. “Still friends?”

“You silly girl,” she says, and pulls him into another hug that threatens to bring new tears to his eyes, and he hears her sniff and then realises that she’s crying, and then that does it for him, he cries again, too. “You wally, of course we’re friends.” She holds him at arms’ length, eyes sparkling with tears. “And look, after all my hard work. I bet we both look a right sight now.”

Alex looks at her and smiles and his smile is sad. “You’re beautiful, Amber,” he says. “Jacob’s a lucky man.”

“Isn’t he, though?” Amber grins. “Now. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Chapter Eleven: Ark Nova

They pause outside the front door.

He’s told her about his sister. No tears, though, not this time. Already, the embarrassment of his early meltdown fills him with sickly warmth even as patches of sweat cool across his neck, under his armpits. Alex regrets the impulse that led him to kiss Amber but even more, he regrets crying in front of her. Clearly, the emotionality of the night got to him, something about playing the part of a girl for too long. Crying like that, it’s unmanly. I need to be more careful, he tells himself. I came so close to telling her everything, that I’m a boy, that I’ve been lying to her. A miracle already, really. That she doesn’t know.

And what would she think of him, if she knew? It’s obvious that Amber likes her men to be proper men, like Jacob, successful and strong and though they’ll never be more than friends, Alex still wants to be deserving of her respect, someday.

Walking silently alongside her, it occurred to him that he couldn’t remember the last time he cried. It hadn’t been at the funeral. He’d wanted to cry, then, desperately. After all, you were allowed to cry at your father’s funeral. Even Sophie cried, albeit quietly. And his mother cried, openly. But not Alex.

Vivid, the memory of standing outside as the coffin was lowered into the ground and the wind snatched away the febrile words of the vicar. Alex watched the slow descent and now, he thought, it has to be now, please. Cry. The pressure grew and he felt it push outwards as though his skin itself might expand to hold in his sadness. Now, surely? But, no. As each shovelful of dirt hit the coffin, he felt only the gradual diminishing of emotion until he was left empty. Then, his mother took his hand and led him away, back into the church. He wished for a veil, as she wore, to hide his face from the murmuring men gathered around the grave. What kind of son? Not a single tear. Mate, fucking selfish, I say. Always has been.

Now, an echo of that unexpressed ache and he wonders that he cried tonight over something so comparatively minor. He should’ve been raging with righteous fury and instead, tears. And he wonders at that, at this dissipation of the anger felt—for months now actually, half a year he’s been angry. Ever since the funeral. Like background radiation to everything since that day. But then Blake, and now he’s been too busy to be angry. Scared, yes, tired and overwhelmed and anxious and often resentful, but very rarely, angry.

Even now: yes, Sophie kicked him out. But he knew it was coming. He still hated her for it. But she’d been warning him for over a month. Her threat to everything he’d accomplished these past six weeks left him sad and worried, but the anger at the injustice of it has already faded.

It’s not like somebody died.

I really shouldn’t have cried, he thinks.

“You okay?” Amber asks, then bumps the heel of one hand against her forehead, duh. “Sorry, that was a stupid question. Of course you’re not okay.”

“No, I’m fine,” Alex says. He lightly touches her shoulder, her arm. “I am, really. Thank you.” In speaking, he pulls what feels like the weight of his voice out of his chest and tucks it back into that spot, so familiar these past six weeks, that sits higher in his throat. He visualises it as lifting a book from a bottom shelf and placing it near the top. This is the place from which his girl voice emerges and with it, he tries to ease himself back into the patterns of speech he associates with Blake. Those first words always feel forced and farcical, like a mockery of femininity, but then he eases into a natural cadence.

And God, hadn’t it been just too hard to keep his voice in that Juliet range, with emotions running rampant? That moment at the bar, outrage and anguish and some dickhead called Gus, he’d lost it completely and then those great big wracking sobs, and where had his voice been, then? And what had Amber heard?

Amber nods. Then, she nods again. “So,” Amber says in the tone of someone who’s come to a decision. Caught up in his own worries, only now does he notice hers. Her distress cuts through his own. “I—” she begins, then bites her lip. “Mondays are—let’s just say, I work late most Mondays for a reason. And you being here tonight, you might find it a bit….” She rolls one hand, searching for the right word. “Full on?” She shakes her head. “Weird. The word I’m looking for is weird.”

“Okay…?” Truth is, following his cry and Amber’s help, he’s feeling much better than before. But still, Alex isn’t ready to be on his own. Only now, she’s got him worried. His imagination runs wild. A house full of women on a Monday night. Amber might not be into girls. But he got the impression that some of her housemates are. He’s worried but also intrigued. “What’s going on?”

With a pained look on her face, she turns to the door, hesitates, turns back to him. Then, she sighs. “Oh God, it’s just so—” She gives her head a despairing shake. “It’s just, you know, I really want you to, like, get on with my housemates. And I’m not trying to hide anything. But maybe not everything all at once? But.” She sighs. “Here we are and now there’s this.”

The moment they’re through the entrance he hears the voices coming from the shared living room and in the tempo of their conversation there’s something familiar, it gnaws at his brain. There’s music, too and what sounds like people arguing. It sounds like a party, albeit a low-key one. He’s intrigued but glimpses himself in a small mirror by the door and pauses, holds one hand to his face.

Amber joins him and shakes her head. “Wow, we both look like shit, don’t we?”

God, he can’t let anyone see him like this, especially a room full of women. He looks terrible; he imagines he can see Alex. He looks to her with pleading eyes and she squeezes his shoulder. “Oh babe, I’m so sorry, I should’ve thought. Let’s get ourselves fixed up, yeah?” and brings him to a small loo under the stairs. The space is cramped, lit by a single light over the sink mirror and a small porthole window, dark at this time of night.

There, side-by-side, they clean themselves up and in that communal activity, he feels himself somewhat restored. He pauses, lipstick poised at lips and gives Amber a side-eye glance: “Thank you,” he says.

She pauses, raises an eyebrow quizzically. “For what?”

“Everything.”

She gives him a little punch in the shoulder. “Enough of that.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says.

“Probably not,” she concedes, and takes a final cursory swipe under her eye. She closes concealer with a click, turns to Alex and then frowns. “But then again, why not?” With both hands, she gives her tits a little heft. “Am I not hot enough?” She flicks back her hair. “Don’t you like me?”

“You’re like, super-hot,” he says. “And you know I do.”

She allows a little grin to sneak through. “And you’re also super-hot, and I like you, too, and maybe, just maybe I was sending out mixed vibes, I don’t know. Emotions were running high. So, you took a chance and honestly, it’s better out than in, right?” She nods once, right, done. “And it was a very sweet kiss. Very soft. That just-a-friend of yours, Luca? He’ll love it.” Alex tries to interrupt but she speaks over him: “Anyway, it’s just unfortunate for you that I’m into rich boys right now. Are you rich?”

He bites back a laugh. “No,” he says.

She taps him on the nose with an eyeliner pencil. “And are you a boy?”

Alex swallows uneasily. “No.”

She slips an arm around his waist and pulls him close, leans into him and they look at their reflection in the mirror, and even under the harsh light, Alex marvels again at how far a little powder and gloss can go towards crafting a desired reality.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to be besties,” she says. “Friends?”

“Friends,” Alex says.

***

After, Amber leads him through the kitchen towards the living room where he hears music and laughter. Women are clustered around one big table and two smaller ones that weren’t there last Friday. Bowls of snacks scattered everywhere, and bottles and cans of beer, cups of tea and cocktail glasses dotted around end tables, the mantelpiece.

“What’s going on?” Alex asks.

“Why,” Amber moans, “do they have to be such fucking dorks?“

Now, a few people glance up, and a woman he doesn’t recognize waves at Amber. Forcing a smile, Amber waves back. “It’s board game night,” she explains and out of the corner of her mouth adds, “I fucking hate board games.”

Another woman walks over, and it’s Freya, Alex remembers her from Friday night. She’s wearing denim overalls, paint-spattered as before, and a button-up shirt left mostly unbuttoned. The small yellow birds frolicking across her cleavage are fully on display and now he sees that they rest on coiling green vines with thorns. Her eyes are a little glassy and she looks at Alex and brightens then looks again and her eyes darken. “Hey,” she says to Amber, “you’re late,” then back to Alex and she whistles, “rough night?”

Alex digs deep to find a wan smile and Amber steps in: “yeah, something like that.”

Her eyes dance between them and then Freya shrugs. “Like, whatever. Good timing, though, we’ve just finished up the first round, got a few spots opening up.”

Amber groans. Freya laughs, pats Alex’s arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll set you up with something gentle. We’ve got a table playing Splendor.”

Freya leads them into the room. Alex counts at least a dozen women and doesn’t see a single man among them. Amber’s housemates are there too, and outside in the dark beyond the patio doors, the bright red flare of fag ends and billowing clouds of vape. Over by the big table, they’re packing away one game and setting up the next. Two women are arguing loudly: you can’t draw if the deck’s empty, the first says, that’s obvious. You wanting it to be so doesn’t make it so. It’s not obvious, the other counters, the deck is still there—and she air quotes around the word ‘deck’—but its current value is set to zero, like, an empty bowl of cereal is still a fucking bowl, right?

You can’t trigger an after-effect by not-drawing from a deck that doesn’t exist!

Why not? I can draw up to three cards, and up to doesn’t preclude drawing zero cards.

God, do I have to check BGG?

I’ve already got a ruling, here.

That’s Reddit, that doesn’t fucking count.

Amber whispers, I fucking hate geeks.

She tugs at his arm, but he holds back.

“One sec,” he says.

She follows his gaze to the table where another woman is unfolding a long, narrow board and another is sliding an absurdly thick deck of sleeved cards into a pair of holders. “They’re setting up Ark Nova,” he says.

Amber looks betrayed. Freya grins widely and pats her housemate on the back. “Look, she knows Ark Nova.”

“I played back at uni,” he says. “Board game club back in Bristol.”

“I like this one,” Freya says.

“Blake Morgan,” Amber says, “if I’d known you were a geek like all these other bitches—”

“You love us,” her housemate interrupts.

Amber rolls her eyes and grabs a seat at a smaller table. Meanwhile, Freya introduces Alex to the larger table: “this is Blake, she’s new,” she says, “room for one more?” The three at the table exchange glances, and one of them, a serious-looking blonde with thick-rimmed glasses, raises her hand. “This isn’t Monopoly,” she says. “Have you ever—”

“I’ve played,” Alex says.

Freya grabs him a beer. Not knowing Blake, the table agrees to play the basic side of their zoo boards. Alex lines up his action selection cards and takes his two scoring tokens and places them on the central board and then pauses, to see his pink, polished nails against the backdrop of the game. Last time he played this, he was early into his Masters and flush off the success of his undergraduate studies and optimistic about the future. September—no, October; yes, that’s right. The last game he played, in fact, before his mum called to share the news.

The girl next to him gives a little nudge. “Remember how to play?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I do.”

***

There’s something very special about board games.

For the three-hour duration of the game, every other problem in Alex’s life fades away and he’s left with nothing more than a safe space bound within clearly defined rules. He has a player mat to fill and action cards to flip and conservation projects to score. Normally, being sat at a table with three women he hasn’t met before would bring nearly unbearable anxiety. He’d sit, hunched and staring into his lap until alcohol or someone he knew gently lured him into the conversation. But the presence of the game board mediates between them. There is the constant flow of animal cards. His main impression is of hands: reaching across to take a card or pick up an enclosure tile, a kiosk or pavilion or other token, sliding a conservation or appeal marker forward. All the hands are women’s hands: long and elegant fingers with French tips, or short and gnawed with flaked varnish, and the third not dissimilar to his; manicured nails and a subtle veneer of gloss. And weaving between the escalating chains of player actions, conversation, limited though perhaps a little more convivial than he’s used to at tables of primarily men. There are of course still the long silences of deep thought and analysis paralysis, the indecisive hovering of a hand over a card; an anxious roiling in his belly if it’s the card he needs to pull his strategy together. But also, friend chat, the continuation of conversations spread across weeks, months, even years; callbacks to previous games, the meta-talk of players who know each other well. The you always, and remember whens, or if you do that again, in jokes and old grievances. Get in there, one girl crows, and across the table: that’s what she said.

God, I miss this, Alex thinks.

Early game, he leans into some cheap income generation and gets lucky with a petting zoo and a horse and donkey. He recognises other players’ focus on longer game strategies and pivots to predators. He plays the Expert in Predators, grabs a Sumatran tiger, plays the Fennec Fox and shifts his Association card back to the first slot. He triggers a Break—groans around the table as everyone discards down—and offers a sheepish grin by way of apology and feels a flush of pleasure at screwing them over. He builds out his zoo and plays his tiger, then releases it into the wild. The hours disappear and he claims the top spot on the Predators project and triggers the end of the game. Another groan, then a satisfied sigh: Laura, a woman he’s barely interacted with at the far side of the table, wins it by a mere three points, the other two languishing far behind.

“Good game,” he says. They shake hands over the table, and he thinks that she’s uncommonly pretty. “Good game,” she agrees and another woman at the table, Amira looks at Alex speculatively. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever played COIN?” she asks. “We’ve been looking for a fourth. Red Dust Rebellion. It’s bloody hard to find a full table of players.”

“I’ve played a little,” he says. “I’d love to.”

Together, they pack the game away and now, Alex stifles a yawn. A few women are setting up a game of Avalon and invite him to join. He’s tempted, but it’s gone eleven. He declines, regretfully. Amber returns, and she has the glazed look of someone either bored out of their mind, drunk, or both. “C’mon,” she says, “Let’s get you settled in for the night.”

Quietly, he follows her upstairs to her room. He’s thinking about the game. He had fun tonight. Nothing like a couple of drinks with friendly people and a good game. He didn’t win but it’s like the good doctor said: when you play a game, the goal is to win, but it is the goal that is important, not the winning. And tonight, that feels true in ways he can’t quite put together.

But he’s happy, and the problems of earlier and the challenges of the coming week are distant. Amber pauses at the second floor and turns and sees his smile and she smiles, too. She takes his hand and leads him up the narrow staircase to the top floor and to her bedroom. There, he sits at the edge of her bed, and she takes the desk chair and faces him and says, “it’s so good to see you smile. You have a beautiful smile.”

Alex blushes, leans to one side to see his reflection in the mirror and sees red lips and thinks, she’s not wrong. I do have a beautiful smile.

“So,” she says. “It’s a bit tight but I’ll set you up on the floor here, I hope you don’t mind. I’ve got an air mattress under the eaves.”

Alex raises his hand. “No, it’s okay.”

“You’re welcome to stay the night. It’s fine, really.” Amber smiles. “It’ll be fun, like summer camp.”

He smiles, too; imagines, for some reason, bright green face masks, cucumber over eyes and braiding her hair.

“I should go home,” he says. “I’ll grab an Uber. I’ll be home by midnight.” And up at 6am, he thinks, if I give myself a lie in. But even this doesn’t take away from the gentle confidence he feels. “I appreciate the offer, I really do. And before, I don’t think I was ready to go back, not tonight. Now I am. I can’t hide from this. She’ll be up, or she won’t be. We’ll talk, or we won’t. But I need my stuff and I need to get my ass into gear and find somewhere to live.” He shrugs. “It's not like I can crash here for ever, you know?”

Amber nods, a little secret smile lighting up her face.

“What?” he asks.

“What if you could?” she says. “Stay, I mean.” Amber leans forward, takes his hands in hers. “So, here’s the thing. Things with Jacob and me, they’re getting serious, right? I told you on Friday, he’s already asked me to move in with him. And—” she draws this out, rising intonation and hesitation and then she says, “over the weekend, I kind of said, yes?”

Alex feels a weird flutter in his heart, its uncomfortable but also, he’s happy for her, happy for his friend. “That’s amazing, that’s great, Amber!”

“Thank you.” She nods and looks serious. “And like, I could do it tomorrow. But there’s this room, right, I can’t just bail on the girls? And I’ve got to give notice. But—” and again, she drags it out, “if, say, there was this super-cool, sexy and yet surprisingly and disappointingly geeky girl who just happened to also be looking for somewhere to live?” She gave his hands a squeeze. “Well, wouldn’t that be great? And like, totally… serendipitous? Or fate, something like that. You could move in over the weekend and finish out my month and then, you know, just sign on to the rental agreement and, well. Stay. For as long as you want. Just be one of the girls in this amazing old house.”

Alex feels his breath catch in his throat. He lets go of her hands and sits back. His back is to the wall beneath the sloping ceiling of the roof. He begins to feel indistinct, as though he’s blurring at the edges. For a moment, his vision wavers and the room is distant. The oculus window captures his attention, it glows faintly with moonlight.

“I’ve already talked to the girls about it,” Amber continues. “It’s why I was so keen for you to meet them on Friday? I guess. I mean, I hadn’t decided yet but I guess I had, really? Like, moving in with Jacob feels kind of scary but also the right thing to do. And, I don’t know, maybe you feel the same, like moving in here is a bit scary?”

And Alex thinks, yeah, fucking hell does it ever, you have no idea.

Where would I keep my guy stuff, he thinks.

Is there a lock on the door?

Jesus. But—I can’t, when would I—?

And what if—?

“Still,” Amber says, and the tone of her voice shifts, melancholic as though already nostalgic for something still happening. “I really like this room.” She looks around it slowly and smiles sadly. “It’s small and too warm in the summer and cold in the winter but it’s been my room for a year now and this place got me through a really rough time in my life. Maybe it can do the same for you? I’ll really miss it though, and the girls, too.” Amber forces enthusiasm into her voice. “They really like you, you know.” She shakes her head. “Especially after tonight.”

“Thank you,” he says automatically.

There’s silence then, in which Amber’s gaze wanders the room, as though casting it to memory, and Alex looks around the room as well, and tries to imagine himself living within that memory. Behind her, the small writing desk and he pictures how the outside sun slants in through the round window opposite in the autumn and wombs the space in warmth. His lips are dry and his mouth too and his heart pounds in his throat. The wardrobe in the corner overflowing with women’s clothes. A small bookshelf. Poster on the wall. Fairy lights. His own tiny toilet on the top floor. Storage under the eaves. A little black dress hung from a hook on the back of the door.

Alex and Amber’s gazes meet. He sees in her eyes that she is already pulling back from this room and whatever phase of her life it represents. She will live with her boyfriend. Perhaps, they will get married. Then, she might get pregnant, have children, become a mum. Either way, she will never again share a house with strangers. She will move away from the centre towards the periphery of the city and that direction will never reverse.

Meanwhile, reflected in her eyes he sees his own and he knows then that he will take her place, in this house full of women.

Alex does not cry, though he wishes that he could.

Chapter Twelve: A Rose by Any Other Name

On Tuesday, Alex returns from his early break to find his first gift of the day waiting for him.

Amber sits behind the desk with a wide grin on her face, and though he sees the tiredness in her eyes, she’s all but vibrating with excitement. He feels a pang of jealousy that despite their mutual late night, she somehow looks so well put together: long platinum hair falling in perfect, sleek lines against a short, sky-blue dress; and her makeup is, as always, perfect. Meanwhile, he feels like a bag of fucking hammers.

In front of her, a very large bouquet of tulips, pristine white petals on the periphery scaling through soft pastel hues in a gentle swirl set around a single rich and vibrant purple blossom at the centre. Next to the carefully wrapped flowers, there is a small, sealed box with an attached envelope.

“From your French paramour,” Amber says.

“He’s not—” Alex wags a finger at her. “Stop it, you.”

Amber claps her hands, pushes the little box towards him. “Open it, open it!”

Alex picks up the card and makes a show of studying the small rectangular box and then smiles and then he turns to Amber and says, “I think I’ll take this into the back room.” He sticks his tongue out at her and she scowls and says, “Blake Morgan, if you walk away without showing me what’s in that box, I’ll—”

He laughs and sitting next to her at the desk, takes up the envelope.

They’ve had precious little time to talk since last night. Tiredness wraps itself like a blanket around his head and whenever he closes his eyes, they feel gritty and the effort of reopening them, heroic.

It was very late by the time an Uber got him home last night. A line of light beneath Sophie’s closed door. He considered trying to talk to her, telling her he’s already found somewhere to live. But he was too tired and so did not talk to her but instead grabbed a glass of water and walked quietly past her room without knocking.

By the time he wiped away the makeup and stripped away Blake, clothes and shapewear and prosthetic boobs, it was well past midnight. The emotions and stress of the days twisted through his mind as he lay in bed. He stared at the ceiling and the bed felt like a lifeboat, with him under dark stars, pinned to the wide expanse of a glassy sea through which unseen terrors slipped past in sinuous motion.

God, he thought, I really have become a drama queen, and he closed his eyes, felt the evening and his decision hover over him, grow heavy, settle and sink and he sank with them.

He slept fitfully and woke more tired than when he’d gone to bed. The back of his throat felt raw. In the mirror, he checked inside his mouth and wondered whether he could see small, white spots. He looked pale with dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin looked blotchy and spotted red.

I really, really need a night off, he thought, just one evening without drinking or staying up late, a single goddamn good night’s sleep, that’ll do it, I’m just so tired. Selecting an outfit from his closet felt an impossible burden. He stood staring blankly for several minutes and wished only to crawl back under the sheets and sleep until noon. Slowly, he made his choices. Black high-waisted trousers required shapewear to pad out the hips, and a pale silk blouse with mid-length sleeves and a deep-V neckline. The breast forms were, of course, a necessity, especially for the follow-up dress fitting scheduled later that day with Ms. St-Clair. He looked forward to putting those away for a few days. After Wednesday’s party, he wouldn’t need them again until his date with Luca.

After that, it took longer than usual and all his skill to paint himself a face he could bear to wear and present to the world. More than ever, he felt the weight of the mask he wore. He worried he might encounter his sister when he left the sanctuary of his—no, not his; the room he’d called home these past months, though it had never truly been his, and he understood that, now. But there was no need to worry, Sophie was never up this early, though he noticed that the line of light remained bright beneath her door.

When he went to grab breakfast, he found Sophie hadn’t made him his usual morning protein shake. He stood blankly at the open fridge door with cold air wafting across bare forearms, staring at the space where his breakfast should be. He felt inexplicably betrayed. Eventually, he grabbed an extra apple and left home hungry, and on his way to work lost a further five minutes buying a breakfast bap from Tesco. Eating it on the Tube, he read the nutritional information and felt guilty at the number of calories it contained. He’d have to skip something later to make up for it.

Arriving to work on time meant he was already running twenty minutes behind. Alex dragged himself through the usual routine. Slid his bags beneath the desk, sat down, switched his flats over to heels. Checked his appearance in the mirror, touched up his makeup after the morning’s commute. Logged in and confirmed the shape of his day. Saw the booking that evening for a manicure with Amber. His breath caught in his throat when he saw that. Without knowing what St-Clair had requested, he imagined something to match the red dress, nails a rich wine red maybe, vivid like a setting sun shimmering over an evening sea. And elegantly shaped ovals, possibly longer than he’s ever worn. I won’t be able to hide them, he thinks.

Then he thought: in a house full of girls, who’d I hide them from?

Half an hour later, Amber arrived and found him in the kitchenette, where he was making coffee and tea for the boys. She told him how, after he left last night, she had a chat with her housemates, about moving out and Blake taking her place. Despite her perfect presentation he saw, or imagined that he saw, in her face the same exhaustion that he felt.

How do you do it, she asked, you always look so good, and Alex laughed at the joke, he saw himself in the little mirror over the sink and knew he looked like shit, bloated, tired and pale. She didn’t laugh. Looking at her then, he finally noticed her worry she struggled to hide.

Only then did he appreciate that for all the insanity of his own circumstances, this was a big decision for her too: a major change to her life, a step in which she gave up some of her own independence in favour of living with someone else, a man she’s known for less than a year. He saw it etched in her face, the uncertainty of a chosen future; and feeling the same way himself, he impulsively took her in his arms and hugged her and felt an unbearable closeness to his friend.

After a long moment, Amber pulled back. They’re cool with it, she told him, excited even. They’re even hoping you’ll join the next board game night. She shook her head. Fucking geeks.

His stomach took a little dive and roll and yet at the same time he felt a little thrill of anticipation and—triumph, he realized, a kind of eager little joy at the prospect of ticking another box in his three-part plan. Job, done. Place to live, done.

Amber touched his shoulder and she smiled, and her smile seemed to him sad.

Then, he felt profoundly guilty. Unable to meet her gaze, he nodded and focused intently on the cup of tea: swirl the spoon, press the teabag against the side of the cup until the flavour bleeds out, scoop it out and discard the husk.

They can’t wait, Amber added. They really like you, girl.

After that, she returned to work. Left on his own, his legs went weak and he clutched the counter. For a full minute either he or the room felt indistinct, and Alex thought he might collapse if he let go. His vision swam; with exhaustion, he told himself. But even worse, he felt an inexplicable and intense arousal after Amber left. Something in her lingering scent, her momentary closeness. The tickle of long hair against his skin, the press of breasts into his arm. Or was it the thought of taking her place?

He pictured Amber’s room and imagined lying on that bed in the same place that she lay every night, and the strain against his gaff left him blushing and hot, and he hid his excitement by pressing up against the counter. Alex breathed deeply and stared at the box of Twinings English breakfast tea, which he uses for the guys; and the small green box from Fortnum and Mason, used for guests. Eventually, the moment passed and he brushed himself down, passed his palm over the smooth front of his trousers and thought, what the fuck is wrong with me?

A house full of women.

What the fuck was I thinking, saying yes? How is this even going to work, this is actually insane. I’ve got to tell her—tell her what?—and he felt rising panic, an urge to chase after her—and it occurred to him that maybe she didn’t actually want to move in with Jacob, at least not yet, and was doing this only for his benefit—but equally, maybe this was an excuse to accelerate a choice she couldn’t make for herself—how could he possibly know?—and he took several deep breaths, and felt himself grow calm, and then he picked up the tray of drinks and carried it through to the back offices.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about what was happening, and the image of that little room at the top of the house pursued him throughout his morning until break. Fifteen minutes spent in the top-floor loo, where he took care of business and then updated his—or rather Blake’s—socials, marvelling at the traction she seemed to have gradually gained online. People like her updates. On Instagram, the picture of her manicured fingers, soft pink nails curled around the stem of a glass, has already received more likes than Alex’s entire history of posting. Meanwhile, the algorithm fed him new content: haircare tips, some cute nail designs; and on TikTok, an ASMR makeup routine, followed by the daily calorie-deficit diet of a very pretty and slender woman Blake’s age, which he liked and saved to watch later.

Then back downstairs, and the waiting gift, and now he slides one nail beneath the lip of the envelope and pops the seal and withdraws a small card, eggshell white with gilt detailing and embossed writing in black.

Blake Morgan, the card states and before he can read any further, Amber’s leaning in close. “What’s it say?”

“I don’t know!” He wags a finger at her, fighting to sound stern, “Let me read.”

Amber gives a cute humph and sits back, and he reads:

Blake Alexandra Morgan,

“Nous sommes si accoutumés à nous déguiser aux autres, qu’enfin nous nous déguisons à nous-mêmes.”

And though God has given us all one face, I invite you to make yourself another.

I anticipate with great pleasure your participation in tomorrow evening’s frivolities.

Alex’s lips move silently as he works through the French before shaking his head, nope. He passed GCSE French but only just. He passes the card to Amber, and she first reads it out loud fluently, then translates for his benefit: “We are so accustomed to disguising ourselves to others that in the end we become disguised to ourselves.”

She smiles over the card at Alex. “Told you he’s a pretentious little prick, didn’t I?”

Nodding uncertainly, he then opens the little rectangular box and finds within it, lying on a backing of rich velvet, an eye mask. The mask is exquisite, deep berry and rich purples with gold filigree accents, those rich colours composed of encrusted tiny gemstones that sparkle with every movement. He gasps at the sight of it, feels an odd tightness in his belly and his chest and next to him, Amber lets out a low whistle.

“It’s beautiful.” Alex lifts the mask from its velvet bed. It shimmers like moonlight trapped in shallow water. Tenderly, worried it might break if handled too roughly, he raises it to his face. Amber helps tie the ribbons behind his head. He steps up to the full-length mirror in reception and looks at himself.

Amber comes up behind him. “Guess it’s a masquerade party after all.”

A perfect fit, the mask is possibly the most beautiful thing Alex has ever worn. Now that he wears it, he sees how the purples and berry colours draw the green from his eyes. The mask invites him to see his face in fragments: two eyes, glittering like emeralds. With the right makeup, they’ll shine all the brighter. Then, two lips, slightly parted, soft and pink; tomorrow night and with great care, he’ll paint them a deep, sensual red. One nose. Two cheeks, pale and blushing pink. Ears, from which he imagines long, dangling earrings, glittering gold. All, framed by bangs. He wonders how he’ll look after the appointment this afternoon. He wonders how he’ll look wearing this mask with the red dress and the shoes.

But most of all, Alex wonders what Julien de Bellême will make of the disguise and of the masks worn tomorrow night.

***

Later that day, his second gift arrives.

He’s just come in from lunch and Amber smiles at him from behind the desk and gestures like a magician unveiling a trick: voila! and his stomach drops. More flowers await him on the desk, this time a modest bouquet of roses. The roses are a deep rich crimson in colour.

Groaning, Alex checks the attached tag. It reads: a rose by any other name; and the name beneath, Luca.

“You little slut,” Amber says, grinning. “But it’s cute. I hope I get to meet him.”

He blushes at the thought of these two sides of his life ever meeting, his scalp tingles and he smiles uncertainly. I’ve gone my whole life without anyone ever giving me flowers, Alex thinks, and now two bouquets in the same day. Of course, they’re not for him, but for Blake. Even the ones from Luca are for Blake, for this idealised Juliet he’s agreed to perform for his friend on Saturday night.

When he next gets a free moment, he retrieves his Alex-phone to fire off a quick text to Luca but then changes his mind and retrieves his personal laptop. He begins an e-mail:

A rose by any other name? Seriously mate, could you be any more cringe? And I know you studied chem at uni and subtleties of language are lost on you but like do you even know what Juliet’s saying there, the subtext? Also, stop stealing my lines! I’m the Juliet in this sickos ha ha yes scenario you’ve engineered, and you’re Romeo, remember? Which tracks, idiot boy hiding in the garden watching some young girl through her bedroom window at night. Pervert.

Anyway.

Thanks for the gift. The flowers arrived at work and it wasn’t the least bit annoying or embarrassing at all and it’s not like my colleague is losing her fucking mind at the thought of me going on a date with my high school sweetheart. So like, you know, thanks for that.

Anyway anyway.

You’ll no doubt be thrilled to know that ‘Blake’ is thrilled by the flowers and very much looking forward to Saturday.

Alex pauses, fingers resting lightly over the keyboard.

If you like, if it fuels your weird little heteronormative fantasy, you can imagine her bringing these flowers home.

I think it would go something like this:

Blake wears a short dress with black tights. The dress is sky blue and falls to mid-thigh and her back is bare. Her skin is pale and freckles dot her shoulder. She trims the flowers and tucks them into a vase and fills the vase with water and nudges the roses into a fine arrangement and displays them at the centre of the table where the sunlight in the afternoon falls on them. Sitting, she stares at them and her mind considers all the symbolism encapsulated by the flowers, the inter-relationship between signified and signifier, giver and receiver. Red for passion but also stop, danger; a summer colour, Frye’s second season, ripeness and bloom. Love and the heart’s blood and hurt and harm. Thorns, and pricks. The inevitability of the fallen petal, that slice of curved darkness resting in sunlight, the transience of all things. How love announces its own demise.

Blake thinks of the boy who sent her the flowers. His name is Luca.

She sits and considers whether the symbolism of a bunch of roses is lost if the giver gives no thought to their meaning. Perhaps rather than capturing an emotion that exists only in the non-space between individuals, these roses are a manifestation of the expectations that lie between a person and their wider society, namely that a boy should give a girl flowers. In this view, the flowers are a token, an asset transferred in exchange for her time and the implied effort of a future date. Like any currency, the token is volatile—prone to bloom, inflation and decay. It holds no intrinsic value beyond that granted by the wider society.

Gently, she takes a petal between forefinger and thumb and feels the velvety softness. Then, she plucks the petal and holds it up in the sunlight. Is this how he sees me? she wonders. Soft, pliable, beautiful, a bloom to be plucked in its prime? And in this exchange of currencies, what does he expect in return?

She releases the petal and watches its fluttering dance down to the table.

And is this the nature of female beauty, femininity itself?

Her thoughts turn to the coming date. Like turning the pages of a book, she flits through ideas of what she’ll wear and hair and makeup, nails too and what shoes, how much walking is expected?

And how different things are from before, she realizes, when hair and makeup, nails and shoes didn’t matter and weren’t a consideration in spending time with a friend, her best friend who in youth offered an escape from a household ruled over by a father who wished his daughter had been born a son.

She remembers sitting with her friend, so close their shoulders touched at times, jostling each other as fingers flew across the controller and

His phone beeps: his break is over.

Alex blinks and slowly pulls himself from the scene and he’s in the dusty backroom of the offices of Lockwood & Carmichael once more, sun gleaming off dark polished wood. And Blake, or rather the version of her performing for Luca, remains in a room perceived only dimly as an amalgamation of Sophie’s flat and—fragments, he supposed, of the past, the table the one from his shared flat at university, but the curtains hanging across the window are those from his childhood. And in his mind, this version of Blake resembles Amber or at least sits somewhere between what he sees in the mirror and the girl now behind the desk. The blue dress was Amber. But the freckles across the shoulder were his. He wishes he could’ve found a better way of describing them. Like a constellation, maybe. Or a dotted path on a pirate’s map.

Alex hesitates, makes a quick addition—or something like that, he types—then hits send.

Later, sitting at the reception desk, he thinks back over his short Blake narrative. It happened spontaneously. He hadn’t planned on writing a story for his friend. When he first came to London, alongside his basic expectations of finding a job, a flat, a girl, he also expected to find himself as a writer. But instead, he’s written almost nothing. A few anonymous diatribes online, some long comments on Reddit threads he suspects are more than a little misogynistic. An ongoing and half-hearted and mostly drunken attempt that he’s afraid to reread, fragments involving a Raskolnikov-type protagonist, young angry British white man, overly educated, isolated and depressed, stomping through the streets of contemporary London, Thai-made Doc Martens leather cracked with soles worn thin, a seething inner monologue on Broken Britain.

This is the novel I want to write, he thinks. It’s 2025 and these are exciting times; these are terrible times. And part of coming to London was to live at the centre of it all and find a voice, one with which to pass judgment on and interpret the world around him even as it formed and collapsed, flickering images on concrete walls like cave paintings viewed by torchlight.

He brings up the email on his phone, flicks through what he wrote. Second time through, he likes it both more and less than before. The imagery feels heavy-handed, and he fears that maybe it’s a bit boring, the prose ponderous. But he likes the description of Blake: The dress is sky blue and falls to mid-thigh and her back is bare, he likes the alliteration on back and bare, he imagines those two plosive Bs rising like the slender shoulder blades of the young woman. And in rereading the line he pictures Amber, and Luca will visualise something entirely different, yet his Blake remains true and so does Luca’s and isn’t that the point, the joy of words?

The joy of words; it’s the first time he’s felt joy in anything he’s written.

And of course, it’s not his voice, not really, not yet. Flicking through it yet again, he sees how he’s stolen his style directly from Rooney, seen in the comma splice and the academic interpretation of Luca’s gift. He only finished reading Intermezzo a week ago and after a week’s gestation, this is what’s emerged. He frowns at this realization. He always thought he’d write more like Hemingway or maybe McCarthy: a manly stripped-down literary prose. Not pseudo-intellectualised romance.

Still, he thinks, it’s the first bit of writing I’ve done in ages and I don’t quite know where it came from and maybe it’s kind of rough but maybe it’s not so bad for such a short burst of writing and maybe there’s something good in there. I’d like to know more about Blake in a blue dress and this boy sending her flowers, though maybe I ought to change their names or something.

Luca’s response comes a little after lunch, on WhatsApp, as Alex is heading into a meeting with St-Clair. He’s very keen to see what Luca’s got to say. He wonders what Luca thinks of this little snippet of story. But St-Clair’s called him into her office and doesn’t like to be kept waiting, so he buries his Alex-phone and rushes over as soon as he receives the summons.

He instantly finds her demeanour perplexing. For one thing, she seems disinclined to meet his eye. He enters, expecting to submit to her gaze. The curve of a thin lip, a raised eyebrow: he’s learned to read her silent judgment. Instead, she says nothing, indicates nothing and he stands there, feeling foolish, anticipating something absent. With his back straight and tits out he feels, first, a sinking feeling in his stomach—disappointment, worry—and then immediately after, a flush of shame—why should her validation of his feminine appearance matter in the least? He’s a man, after all—and Blake merely a role he’s playing—and isn’t his male gaze the expected norm?

Absent her criticism, he notices her appearance and for the first time he can recall, finds her—well, not wanting; that feels a step too far. But she appears as close to dishevelled as he can imagine St-Clair ever appearing. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun; wisps and coils of stray hair halo her head in the backlit room. Always immaculate, today her makeup appears rushed and he sees a hint of dark circles beneath her eyes to match his own.

Emily St-Clair is perfunctory. “Over there,” she indicates. “For tomorrow,” and to Alex’s ears her voice sounds tired and strained.

A small stack of boxes, with her name on them, delivered this morning. Alex remembers receiving them at reception and St-Clair sweeping through to collect. Now, he takes up the boxes. The first, a pair of strappy black stiletto sandals, open-toed and elegant, with an inch of platform and several more on the heel. He looks up at St-Clair but her attention is on her laptop so he returns his gaze to the box and wonders whether he’ll actually be able to walk in these things. They’re beautiful, but still. Then again, maybe he’s not expected to walk far and just needs to stand, and look beautiful himself, another richly appointed backdrop to a rich man’s party, like an expensive vase or framed work of art.

Then, the next two boxes and in them, the shapewear she promised yesterday.

The final box is one he didn’t receive at reception but rather seems to have been prepared by St-Clair. He opens it and his breath catches in his throat. Lovingly placed within the small box, a thin choker glittering with diamonds and a pair of earrings, long dangling filaments of gold and silver that gleam in the light. And when he looks up, St-Clair is watching.

“They’re beautiful,” he says.

“Show me,” she says.

Nervous, he fumbles at his ear, removes the earring from his right ear, threads the new one in and holds back his hair so she can better see how it lies against his cheek. At last, the slightest of smiles, thin-lipped but pleased. “Perfect,” she says, and stands and walks over and takes up the choker and holds it at his neck. She takes a step back and he holds the choker in place. It fits well though its weight is cold and heavy against his throat.

She gives a curt nod, good.

“Are these yours?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I can’t—”

She silences his protest by holding one finger to his lip. “It’s not too late to back out, Blake,” she says. “I know that you’ve said that you’re okay with this, with representing the firm, with representing me.” She takes a deep breath. “But you can still say no,” she says. “You can always say no.”

Alex nods.

Her finger leaves his lips, and she strokes his cheek, and with her fingertips, lightly touches the dangling strands of the earring in his right ear. And she says, “I’m very proud of you, Blake. You’ve grown so much these past six weeks.”

Alex keeps his mouth closed, nods again.

“Good luck tomorrow evening,” she says.

She sends him away with the shoes and shapewear and holds on to the jewellery for tomorrow. After he relieves Amber at the front desk, he finally checks Luca’s response, of which there are four messages, the first two coming immediately after each other:

It’s good to see you’re writing again, I think that was pretty good but then again I’m just a barely literate chemist so – finishing with a shrugging man emoji,

and,

You sure you’re not actually turning into a girl? – and this time three emojis: pair of cherries on their green stem, followed by scissors, and finally a taco.

But the third message arrived about fifteen minutes after the first two:

I think you’re overthinking things mate there don’t go getting your knickers in a twist, it’s just a date, right.

And then soon after:

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

***      

That evening after work, a cab waits to carry Alex and Amber to a well-known salon in Mayfair. Somehow, the salon is even more decadent than Alex’s weekend experience with Beth. The air inside the salon is cool against his skin and carries a vaguely mineral scent, not unpleasant but unfamiliar. A woman brings him first a cup of white tea, then a glass of champagne, beading with condensation. The outside world remains a distant hum. A woman speaks to Amber and very seriously she considers her options and then makes her choices. She seems utterly comfortable in this environment, amongst the elegance and extravagance of the salon. The same cannot be said for Alex, despite his previous experience. Dread claws at his belly as the woman approaches: he has no idea what he wants or even how to ask for it. But the attractive middle-aged woman smiles kindly at him, examines his hands, and nods. It’s okay, she reassures him. St-Clair sent instructions.

By the time it’s over, both he and Amber are giggling with champagne; but the pleasure is tempered by St-Clair’s choices. Alex is very thankful for Amber’s company. She distracts him as the nail technician sets and forms the gel extensions. Then, he watches over the rim of his flute of bubbly as each nail is painted a glossy midnight black. The click of the UV light between each layer. He hopes the glass hides his grimace, the fear that clutches his belly tight. At least they’re not red, he tells himself. Black’s better. Red is sexy but black’s easier to hide.

Afterwards, he fans his fingers alongside Amber’s and sees how long his nails are now, elegant almond shape and so intensely black they seem to capture and hold the light. Meanwhile, Amber’s nails are a little shorter, dazzling shimmering pink with a square, French tip. He watched as his nails were painted but it’s only now, as he sees their length in comparison to Amber’s, that he allows himself to internalise the truth. There’s no way I’m hiding these, he realizes.

Amber holds him close: “babe, this was so much fun,” she says. “God, your nails are just so—” and she trails off and laughs, “they’re just so, you look amazing,” and she’s drunk and she’s happy and he allows some of that happiness to infect him and wiggles his fingers. “You too, babe,” he says.

“You don’t think they’re too Barbie?”

“Oh, they’re so Barbie,” he says. “But life’s fantastic, right?”

She snaps a photo on her phone, and he does the same, just the nails and then the two of them together but then just their hands, and then finally just his own nails again. And he thinks, okay, so I can’t hide them but that’s fine, right now I’m moving into her room anyway and I won’t have to hide them, and in a week after I’ve settled in, after this party is done with, I can just strip them off, right?

“You really like them?” Amber asks, suddenly uncertain, examining her hand from different angles. “They’re. Well. They’re very girly. Not my usual thing.”

“Jacob will love them.”

Amber blows out her cheeks. “Whatever, I didn’t do it for him,” she says. Then she adds, “And he better, these aren’t going anywhere for, like, three weeks.” She holds them high, flutters her nails so they catch the light. “Maybe longer.”

He’s studying the dark beauty of his own nails, so it takes a moment for her words to sink past the giddy fizz of champagne.

“How long?” Alex asks.

***

Afterwards, Alex types out a message to Luca. He tries on the Tube journey to Angel but finds that he can’t. The click of his nails against the screen of his phone, the constant errors frustrate him. He gives up. He got used to the press-on nails. But these are something else entirely. They feel heavy and unwieldy. Every motion of his fingers feels exaggerated, like a parody of femininity. They’re going to take some practice. But I’ve done it before, he tells himself, I’ll learn. Then I’ll get rid of them.

When he arrives at Sophie’s, he feels ready in the warmth of his residual drunkenness to confront her. He’s still angry with her but that anger has already faded to a dull ache lurking somewhere behind his belly. To your own brother, he thinks. One week! Yet at the same time: I’ve done it, I’ve found somewhere. And secretly, he wonders whether he needed the push. But still. Her own brother! And in public, too, why in public?

He wants to ask her this, as he enters the flat, pausing to check the mirror, and when he goes to brush back his hair he nearly pokes out his eye. He grimaces and then the champagne giggles rise. He flutters his fingers and winks at himself in the mirror. No, what I really want to do is show her these nails. She’ll fucking lose it. Or be insanely jealous. Hopefully both. A salon in Mayfair! I bet she’d have loved it. The women in the salon were so good. And doing it alongside Amber, so much fun.

And yet, at first there’d been the horror at the realization that he was stuck with them for a month. But he hid that from Amber and on the way home, did some painfully slow research online, and now he knows he can pay a professional to strip them away. He might do that. But not yet. For now, they look undeniably glamorous. They’ll pair with the dress and the shoes tomorrow beautifully. And Luca will get a kick out of them, too.

“Sophie?” he calls out. “Hey, sis. We should talk.”

Silence. A cursory check and he finds the door to her bedroom open, and the room itself empty. Around the flat he can see evidence of her being there during the day. There are dishes in the sink and a half-drunk cup of tea on the table by the patio doors. The emptiness of the flat unnerves him. It’s late enough that beyond the windows it is dark and the flat canvas of outside seems to shrink the space within and suddenly, Sophie’s flat feels dark and claustrophobic, and Alex feels lonely. Despite his original intention to head straight to the bathroom and begin the process of stripping Blake away, instead he pads around his sister’s flat and turns on all the lights. Then, he remembers the shoes St-Clair passed him. He slips them on and steadies himself against the wall. They’re a good fit but taller than anything he’s worn before. Not uncomfortable but like his new nails, a novel challenge. In the mirror he sees they’re not a great match for his trousers but nevertheless are sexy and fashionable and they’ll pair beautifully with the dress and his little black clutch purse tomorrow night.

With precise steps and aware of the click of his heels loud against the hardwood floor in the silent flat, he crosses to the fridge and crouching carefully, using one hand to keep his balance, finds a can of lager. He begins to pry the tab open with his nail, feels the unfamiliar strain and stops. What if the nail breaks, chips or scratches? Instead, using the edge of his thumb, he cracks the can open and then walks slowly over to the patio doors and sits at the table with the empty cup of tea and stares into the night beyond the doors and the canal outside that he cannot see.

He drinks the beer and he looks at the cup of tea and the film of scum that’s formed over it, the stained white surface of the mug, the coaster beneath it. On the mug, the walking green man of Berlin, hat and briefcase, he remembers her telling him she bought it on a visit to the city. She told him a story of jazz cafes and tiny schnapps bars and a dozen flavours of schnapps and of bottomless Sunday brunch in the old east of the city and at night the worst currywurst she’s ever tasted. At the time, all he could feel was jealousy and resentment. She stopped telling him about her rare holiday travels after that. Now, he wishes he’d listened better.

Heavy with guilt, he sits back at the table. He takes another sip of beer, and the can is nearly empty. The vase at the centre of the table and the wilting flowers inside of it and he can’t remember when those flowers arrived or were placed there, did she buy them or were they a gift? Then he sees a pattern of smudged fingerprints across the window glass and now standing, he presses his face to the window and can finally see the dark ribbon of the canal and walking along it, dark and unknowable shapes that to his eye do not move like normal men as they drift through the night.

He turns away from the window. Then, he removes the old flowers, and in the vase places the bouquet of roses from Luca. The tulips from Julien remain at work, now on display in a beautifully ornate vase Amber dug out from a backroom cabinet. After a moment of nudging the roses, he steps back and with hands on hips, nods with satisfaction. Luca’s gift looks good on this table by the patio doors.

Standing there, he looks slowly across the flat that has been his home for several months.

I’m really leaving, he thinks.

Then, he feels the strain in his ankles from standing in those new shoes, and smiles. He raises his hands in front of his eyes. I’ve got this, he tells himself. Back straight, shoulders back. Alex smiles. And tits out.

He focuses on his nails, glossy black slashes against the backdrop of Sophie’s flat, as though shreds of the outside night had coalesced around his fingertips. So sophisticated and sexy. And black isn’t so bad, actually, maybe. Better than something really feminine, like red. But still. Part of him wishes that they’d been done in a style to match Amber’s. Perhaps next time they get a manicure together, they can try that.

And now, he anticipates sitting at his laptop and masturbating and he knows the sight of those elegant fingers wrapped around his cock will fuel his arousal tonight; he can already feel it. But the fingers will belong to the anonymous woman on his screen. Were his nails pink and French-tipped, he might imagine Amber, imagine her reaching around his waist, the press of her warm breasts into his naked back, imagine her tracing the line of freckles across his back, counting each out with a gentle kiss and her breathy voice in his ear, one, two, three and with each count a stroke, up, and then down, and up again, and the tickle of her long hair and the brush of the fingers of her other hand against his cheek, tracing one long white-tipped nail along his cheekbone, her gentle caress and the play of fingertip through dangling earrings, the tug at his earlobe and warm lips at the back of his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, and below—ah, her arms around his waist and her voice in his ear, Blake Morgan, she would say, you’re going to come for me, aren’t you, you little slut, and the sensation of her smile against his skin.

Alex blinks, smiles ruefully, thinks how he’s looking forward to stripping away Blake in a short while, and considers how, in a week’s time, this will be an entirely more difficult proposition, something he doesn’t want to think about too deeply right now.

He grabs another beer from the fridge, opens it with his thumb again and taking a long pull, finally returns to the room he’s called his for the past several months. Then, step by step, he removes Blake. He removes the blouse and slips off the trousers, and each step is made more difficult by his new nails. Then, he removes his bra and hip padding and gaff and then stands there, naked but for his stilettos and nails and face full of makeup and his breasts. The artificiality of his breasts is plain to see. He slips a nail beneath the edge of one breast and tugs gently. The breast won’t come off quite that easily.

Instead, he holds one hand over his crotch, palm down and fingers fanned wide, black nails bright against the pale skin of his thigh; and the other arm half over his breasts, reaching up with fingers spread open over his face. He’s seen this pose somewhere though he can’t remember where. Glimpsed between his fingers, he sees a woman in the mirror. Her hips are boyishly slim and green eyes glint between spread fingers. A hint of a smile, mischievous curve to pink lips. Her legs are long and smooth. Earrings frame her face. A delicate floral scent, warm and fresh. The swell of full breasts. Fingers, long and delicate. Those shoes. And those long, beautiful and dark nails.

Alex closes his eyes and breathes in deeply and opens his eyes again.

His rising cock nudges his palm.

Afterwards, once he’s done, he sits at the desk with his laptop still open. He’s wearing boxers and short thin socks and the shoes, still. There still hasn’t been any sound of Sophie’s return. He opens his door and leaves it open in anticipation of her arrival. Meanwhile, he finally writes his message to Luca:

Hey, can I ask you a big favour? After our ‘date’ on Saturday, do you think you could hang back on Sunday instead of racing back to Bristol? Blake’s going to need the help of a big strong strapping lad. In the absence of knowing one, I’m hoping you can help.

Alex hesitates a moment then adds,

I’m moving out of Sophie’s and could really use some help.

He sends it without expecting an answer this late at night. After all, it’s nearly midnight. But almost instantly, his mobile dings. He drops the phone on the first attempt at picking it up but finally gets his claws on it and with an awkward swipe unlocks the phone and checks the reply:

Yeah sure of course

Expecting more, he puts the phone aside.

Alex then brings up his earlier e-mail, the one with the fragment of a story about a girl called Blake and the bouquet of roses. It’s late and he should be getting to bed. He still hasn’t removed the breasts from his chest or the makeup from his face. Also, he should really test out the shapewear from St-Clair. But first, he wants to give his short fragment another read.

A father who wishes his daughter had been born a son.

It’s not a great line, he thinks.

And yet, there’s something there, conflict internalised within the character which she can project onto others and attack, external conflict to drive a plot. He can work with this, allow her sublimated anger to guide him. This isn’t a story I’d ever planned to write, he thinks. Hemingway, maybe. Or Szalay. Maybe McCarthy. Not a story about some girl full of resentment towards her father—dead, of course—and her relationship with some boy, a boy from her past.

I was supposed to write a manly story, he thinks. But this’ll be good practice.

Alex drinks his beer and finishes the can and half crumples it and puts it to one side. He stretches his fingers wide across his laptop. He closes his eyes, breathes in, opens his eyes.

Alex writes.

Chapter Thirteen: Prettiest Girl in the Room

The young woman sits in a restaurant, watching the entrance. Her appearance is tasteful and precise: navy-blue maxi dress, dark hair in a bob cut that skims her shoulders. She absently tucks a strand of hair behind her right ear as she checks her phones, fingertips then lightly brushing chunky gold hoops. Two phones rest on the table, one an unremarkable black, the other in a vivid pink case. Next to them, a well-used tablet in a purple folding case. Picking up the black phone, she taps out: your brother is late. Three dots slowly caterpillar and she returns the phone to the table. Then the pink phone, where she reads, how’s the date going? and she responds, pillock’s late, can you believe it. Returning to the first phone, it now reads: told you my brother’s a dickhead, I got the looks and the charm.

The young woman sits under a net of interlaced branches bright with white blossoms. Fairy lights twine between leaves and branches. Through the skylight overhead, the sky deepens into shades of lavender and purple. A half-empty wine glass sits in front of her, bright with white wine, the rim waxy with gloss. She picks up the glass by the stem and takes a tiny sip, and then another. Her nails are elegant and black with a polished shine. The unfamiliar length of the nails makes her gestures awkward, though only slightly so, and she is mindful of everything she does with her hands: the way she taps at her phone, the way she cradles the glass by its stem. After the wine, she takes a small sip of water. The rim of this second glass is also fogged with gloss.

Sitting with her legs crossed at the thigh, the high slit of her dress reveals a slender leg in black stockings and a single suspender tab and above that a sliver of bare pale skin. Her skin all but glows from a spa visit earlier that day. She smooths down her dress, bites her lower lip and tugs at the suspender, runs one nail along its length, pulls, feels it snap back and how the tab holds the stocking in place. There is something profoundly arousing about the gesture; the arousal itself is mortifying; biting her lower lip, she uncrosses and recrosses her legs at the thigh. Then, she flips the skirt first one way and then the other across her thigh to better cover her stocking top. When she lets go, the dress drapes open, revealing the long line of her leg, a curve of calf shapely in heels. Giving up, she rests her hands on the table, palms flat and side by side. The index finger of one hand twitches, nail clicking twice against the table, then an involuntary third time until she stills it by placing her other hand over it.

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath and reaches into her handbag and withdraws a Polaroid photograph. She lays the photograph on the table in front of her. Gently, she traces with her nail the contour of the man in the image. She stares at it for a long while before returning it to the bag. Then, she picks up the pink phone again and using the camera checks her appearance in the screen. The girl pokes at her hair with her fingernails, sweeps her fingers in a horizontal line across her brow. She curls back her lips and checks her teeth, picks at her teeth, then tries smiling. She attempts pleased, wry, uneasy, self-mocking. Finally, she returns the phone to the table.

A glittering clutch bag hangs from the edge of the table by a portable hook. The hook is a birthday gift from her friend Amber. The hook is gold-plated and decorated with chunky pink gemstones. The clutch bag is also a birthday gift, but from her friend Beth, and is a match for her favourite shoes: black satin, with black crystal embellishments and an eagle’s head with black crystal eyes.

Her birthday was yesterday. From her mother, she received a birthday card and in it a cheque for a hundred pounds; and from her sister, a month’s supply of breakfast protein shake powder. Considering recent events, the woman felt surprised to receive anything from her sister. This feels a little passive-aggressive, sis, the young woman said after unwrapping the gift. There’s nothing passive about it, her sister answered. You can make your own bloody breakfasts going forward.

The young woman didn’t tell anyone about her birthday. In fact, she didn’t want anyone to know. As a child, she loved her birthdays. But that changed last year, and her special day went largely forgotten, and this year with everything else going on, she was happy to let it slide. Yet somehow, word got out. Her friend, genuinely cross, berated her. Blake Alexandra Morgan, Amber said, hands on hips. Just because you’re super busy, doesn’t mean you don’t get a birthday. The next day, her gift of the handbag hook was waiting on the desk they share at work, along with a promise of a night out.

The other gift came after the salon visit and just before she left on her date. You’ll need this tonight, Beth said, and passed her the clutch bag. Then, she stepped back and looked at the young woman and bit her lower lip and murmured, Jesus, Juliet. You’re so fucking hot. If I wasn’t engaged and if you weren’t meeting up with my brother, I’d—and she smiled and left the rest unsaid.

The purse is now crammed full of feminine items. These include: a backup pair of stockings; emergency repair makeup, including blotting papers, pressed powder compact, liquid eyeliner, lip liner, concealer, lip and cheek tint; keys, a collapsible brush, and a roll of 3M micropore tape; and finally, she notes with heat rising in her cheeks, two tampons and three condoms.

Retrieving a small tube decorated in cursive purple writing, she twists it open and with increasing confidence holds the little wand between the pads of forefinger and thumb and applies a fresh layer of lip gloss then presses her lips together and returns the wand and closes it tightly and puts the tube back in her clutch and checks her face in the phone again and smiles and rubs one finger across her teeth and then places the phone screen down on the table before collecting the black phone and sliding it to the bottom of the clutch. She clicks the handbag shut and hangs it from the hook again by its thin metal chain.

The woman sighs and turns her attention back to the entrance and waits and drinks her wine.

Soon after, a young man walks in, face glowing from exertion. He wears a teal blue suit and a crisp white shirt with a slender tie in a deep plum colour. The colour of the tie is a near match for the woman’s lips. His skin is light brown with a fading tan, and he is tall and trim, his arms and chest more muscular than she remembered, with short hair styled into little peaks and he has a slender moustache. Everything about his appearance looks carefully cultivated and fresh and precise.

She hides a smile behind her fingers at the sight of the moustache. The man carries a reusable fabric bag in one hand. The bag is from the British Museum and has a print of the Rosetta stone on it. His gaze sweeps the room and passes over her without recognition. She rolls her eyes and lowers her hand from her mouth, her smile both pleased and a little brittle as he searches once more and this time performs a double take when his gaze reaches her.

An open look of genuine surprise and pleasure lights up the young man’s face. With one hand thrust in his pocket, he ambles over to her. Now, he stands over her and she bridles under his gaze and feels how he takes in the sight of her: styled hair and salon-perfect makeup, the clingy navy-blue dress with its long slit, stockings and heels and earrings and elegant black nails, the pale curve of her neck and bloom of breasts veiled by the mesh bodice. She is in every way as cultivated and precisely presented as he is, more so, really, for none of this comes naturally. The young man fixates on her face and smiles widely. He says her name, and the woman—who is, in fact, a young man—holds a single fingernail to her lips, shh.

***

Alex closes the tablet on which he’d been editing some earlier writing and slides it to one side.

His day started hours earlier, crossing London not as Blake but as a boy, a short trip to the siblings’ hotel, a five-star hotel near Shoreditch. In a wheeled case he carried everything needed for the day: dress, shoes, underwear, makeup, more. He rode the Tube in silence. It felt good to be a man in public, even for such a short trip. Nobody noticed him and nobody talked to him. His leg vibrated the entirety of the journey.

Silence wasn’t his daily experience, not anymore. People spoke to Blake. Not often; this was London after all. But often enough. Usually men, both his age and those twice his age, with a cheeky grin and standing too close, asking if he needed help, where was he going, you should smile more love, you’re pretty. Innocuous enough questions he didn’t know how to answer: to engage was to invite a longer conversation and expectations of something more—hey, want to grab a drink?—but flat-out blanking the guy could turn dark with shocking swiftness. Only six weeks, but he’d already been called cunt, twat, bitch and flirt, cock-tease and cow, slut and whore. The sudden intensity of men’s vitriol used to catch him by surprise and leave him shaking and hurt. Like a slap to the face; too often, actual physical violence seemed possible. Now, the initial shock fades quickly, the sharp pain of a stubbed toe giving way to dull ache and self-recrimination. His own fault, after all, for being friendly, attractive, young—or just alive, it didn’t really seem to matter, but he should’ve somehow known better.

Balanced against the experience of men, women. It still caught him by surprise how easily anonymous women spoke to him, inducing an anxiety of their own, the certainty that they’d see through his disguise, or speak to him in some uniquely feminine code of which he had only the most basic understanding. But mostly, it was just compliments. Women said nice things to him. Out of the blue, a comment on his earrings: I love those earrings, where’d you get them? Or a comment on a skirt, that colour’s amazing, the fit or texture, something precise that elevated the comment from bland pleasantry to something meaningful. He felt seen, his efforts appreciated, especially when they noticed his makeup. Just yesterday, some girl in her early twenties with blue hair and lip piercings loved his manicure, and seeing those nails anew through the eyes of this stranger’s enthusiasm, he thought, fuck yeah, these are cool, St-Clair knew what she was on about; and that little burst of euphoria carried him into the office and through most of that day.

He wished he could offer the same in return but every time he went to compliment a girl he didn’t know, his throat seized up, his heart pounded in his chest, and he would pull back and feel himself a fraud.

This morning, with hands tucked away in his sleeves, hoodie pulled over his head, he was invisible. For the duration of his journey from Sophie’s flat to Beth’s hotel room, he barely even existed. A negative space beneath the city, cocooned in the rattle of the Tube. A relief, in a way, this non-being, severed from societal expectations of presentation and behaviour. He made eye contact with nobody and felt an echo of the loneliness and anonymity that fed the anger that once defined his earliest days in London.

For some reason, he then imagined his suitcase suddenly and inexplicably bursting open. Dress and heels and lingerie everywhere, makeup rolling across the floor, clattering up against the shoes of other passengers. God, the mortification; with a hissing intake of breath, he sank deeper into his seat and kept his eyes glued to his lap, hidden fingers tightly gripping his knees, a prick of nails through jogging bottoms.

At the hotel, Beth explained that Luca had already come and gone, he’d been up since six. Her brother had his own room, and a full day of his own planned. Starting with a workout at the hotel gym and a swim this morning, he was now enjoying a posh breakfast at a nearby café. After that, Beth explained, he had his own spa visit lined up, as well as a proper barber, and a little shopping to do, followed by an exhibition at the British Museum, Ancient India: living tradition.

The two friends, Beth insisted, with a coy smile, weren’t to see each other until the date. Like bride and groom, she added, and booped Alex on the nose. But the two of us? We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other today. Also, I’ve got gifts, and she showed him, first a pair of silicone hip pads, and then prosthetic breasts. He’d looked at hip pads online but never gotten around to buying any, the cost for quality felt prohibitive. But these looked good, better than his own padding and they’d give an extra inch or two. Meanwhile, the breasts were a notable step up in quality from those he usually wore. Gingerly, he picked one up, felt its heft in the palm of his hand, turned it over, saw the detail on the nipple, the darker areola. He looked at her: they feel bigger, he said. Only a little, she answered, and winked. What can I say, I guess I’m more of an Olivia Hussey than Claire Danes girl, I like my Juliet with big boobs.

Shaking his head he stored them away in his case for later.

First, they had breakfast in the hotel restaurant, a full English for Beth and a bowl of yogurt, fruit and granola for Alex. He left the honey to one side, passed her the banana. You sure? She flashed a mischievous smile, eyeing him over the curve of the banana. Slowly peeled it, held it to her lips. Her tongue darted out, a quick flick to the tip. A little practice, for tonight?

Face flaming red, he hissed—Beth!—and a moment later—he’s your bloody brother!—and she nodded, mock serious, and took a big bite.

After, she led him to the spa, which sprawled across most of the top floor of the hotel and included a swimming pool and shaded garden, a restaurant with views over the city and a small, intimate bar. Beth had already signed them up for the full package. He was shocked when he read the itinerary and saw that a full spa package lasted for up to five hours. Five hours for a massage? But as with the mani-pedi last week, he quickly realised how wrong he was. The whole experience was delightful and for the most part, intensely relaxing, but also embarrassing and at times painfully arousing and often frustrating, spending the day with her, but mostly it was a hell of a lot of fun, being in her company again, watching her and listening to her words and feeling himself watched and listened to in return.

Eventually, Beth got around to talking about her brother.

He’s just so new to dating, she explained, as she and Alex lay side by side, face down on massage beds. I know he’s changed a lot, and he comes off as a lot more confident than he is. But he’s properly scared. And hurting, too. Have you seen the guy he met in Greece? Here; and she passed Alex her phone.

You mean Kostas? Alex answered. He’d seen social media pictures of Luca standing with a guy on Greek beaches, gilded under the Mediterranean sun. He looked like an AI-generated image set to the prompt of “sexy man”: astonishingly but generically good-looking, from his square jaw to his broad chest, mop of dishevelled hair, slim hips, ripped abs. Without comment, Alex passed the phone back to Beth.

Anyway, she continued, it came crashing down when Luca caught Kostas in bed with someone else. A girl, actually—it totally crushed him, like just totally destroyed him. It was his first real relationship. They were only a couple for a few months, but Luca was totally smitten. He won’t say it, but he’d fallen hard for this guy, loved him or at least wanted to love this guy, like it somehow validated his gayness. Anyway, it wasn’t mutual. I tried to warn Luca. But he wasn’t having it, and of course he couldn’t, living his Greek holiday fantasy. But I saw the hints this guy was cheating on him before my brother did.

But then, I’ve been hurt plenty. Beth said this with a wry smile. I know what guys are like. And guys are cunts, right? She patted Alex’s arm. Present company excluded, of course. Then, she glanced up at the masseuses, both of whom were men. And you guys, too, I’m sure you guys are awesome.

It’s cool, the masseuse said, you’re not wrong; and she groaned with pleasure as he began to work her legs, and Alex jerked with surprise, at the other man’s firm touch, the dance of strong fingers along his limbs. Relax, the man murmured, and Alex did, he closed his eyes and breathed out slowly and listened as Beth continued.

He was Luca’s first, she said. His first time being intimate with a man, as far as I know, but maybe more importantly, his first relationship. His first boyfriend, if not necessarily his first heartbreak.

She paused, then, let out a breath as the man started on her back, kneaded deep tissues. And it hasn’t been long enough, she said after a long pause. Only a month, you know? And I don’t think he’s over it. Like, he’s still hurting and you know what pain is like, when you’re in pain, you’re in the pain and it can be impossible to see anything outside of it. It feels like it’ll last forever and stretches as far as you can see. You can’t imagine another person’s pain when you’re lost in your own. That’s where he is, right now. He’s lost. I know you’re going through a lot, too right now, Alex. But he can’t see that, right now, not yet. He’s still in too much pain of his own. Not that he’ll let you see. Stupid male pride and all that. So tonight, just—try and remember, okay? That he might come across as confident but he’s hurting. He’s never had your… resilience. So, be kind. For me, Alex? Give him this one night.

A few hours later, after they’d eaten—just a light bento box for him, and he gave half of that to Beth—they sat side by side in their robes in a corner of the quiet rooftop garden with London stretching out beneath them, sipping kir royale in the shade. Alex felt suffused with warmth. It was the most relaxed he could remember feeling since—ever, really, he’d never felt this detached from the worries of life, his fleshy self a pleasant blur and the sounds of early afternoon like distant music, brushing lightly across closed eyelids. Soon, he’d return to Beth’s room and put on a dress and makeup and play the part of girl to Luca’s boy. After that, he’d move into a strange house full of girls and then after that there was work, and then his next performance review just around the corner and then, larger questions of what happens after his probationary period ends, would they invite him onto the accelerated programme, and what about last Wednesday, and he hadn’t had time to process that night, yet, like actually he really just needed some time and space alone in which to catch his breath and rest and sleep and think. And above everything, life: the constant grind of simply existing meaningfully as an adult, and the aching questions that came to him only in loneliness and silence and that liminal lull before sleep: and all those questions seemed to revolve around Blake.

But none of those worries existed in the now. Now, there was hot mud and cool drink and a tingle of the skin and the company of one of the most beautiful and enticing women he knew, sitting half-naked next to him wrapped loosely in a terrycloth robe hanging half open and the curve of her breasts and the beatific smile of her full, pink lips.

This is nice, she said, and he nodded, yes. See, and the thing is, she continued, and it took a moment for Alex to cotton on, to realize that ‘the thing’ they were discussing was again Luca. He’s always wondered what it’s like to date a girl. But especially recently, since coming back, he’s mentioned it a lot, like he feels he’s missed out, somehow, or wonders how it’s different.

Alex nodded, kept his eyes closed, kept silent.

He used to get so jealous, you know, she said. What was her name, that girl you dated in upper sixth?

Libby, he murmured.

Yeah, Libby, he envied you, you know, he’d come home in a terrible funk every time you ditched him to go out with her.

I didn’t ditch him, I never, he answered and after a long silence she said in a quiet voice, I know. But to him it felt like you had. And he hadn’t quite figured himself out yet. And he resented her and sometimes, he resented you.

The afternoon drew on until Beth sighed contentedly. Just one more thing to do, she said, and he followed her docilely and then asked, when he saw the waiting attendants, what’s this? Waxing, she said, and grinned. I can’t wait to see you all silky smooth. No way, he said, shaking his head. Absolutely, she said, taking his hand. It’s already booked. I’m getting a Brazilian, you’re going Hollywood. She stroked his arm. And your back, your arms; they’d do your legs, but you shaved this morning, didn’t you? Then, she lightly brushed her fingertips across his face, a gentle touch outlining his brows. And they’re going to clean these up a bit, too. She kissed him, gently, on the tip of the nose and then again, on the lips. We’re going to look and feel fabulous, babe.

Okay, Alex said.

After they checked out of the spa, she led him back to her hotel room. Alex pretended he couldn’t see the eager glow in her eye. He still felt relaxed despite the sharp sting of waxing and his anxiety at the work done to his face, like with his nails, how long would it last? Meanwhile, Beth floated into her room with a serene glow and collapsed spread-eagle on her bed. Off you go, Juliet, she said dreamily, gesturing with a single hand towards the hotel room bathroom. You go do your thing.

Collecting his suitcase, Alex rolled it into the bathroom. He closed the door and his skin tingled and he felt light-headed. In the bathroom mirror, his denuded body seemed more androgynous than ever. He was used to shaving, but his body after waxing felt new, not so much raw as rejuvenated, the limits of his physical being sensitive to every movement, airflow, change in temperature and this must be, he imagined, how it feels for a snake shedding its skin; or the searching awareness of a newborn chick, freshly hatched from its egg.

Also disconcerting, the work done to his face. By the time the ladies at the spa were done, his brows were shaped into soft, curved arcs sitting higher on his face, the underside carefully thinned and trimmed away. His brows now tapered to clean, delicate points towards his temples and somehow, his face seemed more open and expressive than before.

He stood there for some time under flat bathroom lights. Turning sideways, he admired the flatness of his belly, his slim waist. His arms and shoulders were as slender as they’ve ever been and his skin glowed with the day’s treatments. Over his shoulder, in reflection the curve of his bum, hardly flabby but also not what he’d consider tight and firm. He may have lost weight, but the fat that remained seemed to now live on his ass. Amber had made comments about joining her at the gym. Maybe I should take her up on that, Alex thought, it’d be good for me. Work those glutes. Or whatever.

Though how would that even work, he wondered, it’s not like I can use the women’s changing room.

Stretching out a leg, he admired the way the light caught his thighs and calves, the long line of his legs. Like a swimmer’s body, he thought, only without the toned muscle; borderline skinny maybe, but not unhealthy. Especially compared to two months ago. Weaker, certainly, but considering his current role, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. And it’s not like it’ll take that long to rebuild that strength. Especially considering he’d never been particularly athletic, he grudgingly admitted.

Alex sat to take a piss, carefully wiped himself clean and then selected a roll of 3M tape. He sat on the edge of the tub, porcelain cool against his bum. With practiced ease but taking care with longer nails, he eased his testicles up into his body and pushed back his penis and with two long strips of tape running between his legs, secured everything in place. A few shorter pieces criss-crossing the main strip reinforced the taping and then he stood up and with thighs squeezed together, checked himself in the mirror and saw his smooth, hairless front. He shivered, suppressed an immediate need to go to the loo, again.

He retrieved the tits and hips, his gifts from Beth. One by one, he held each breast in his hand and evenly sprayed their back and placed them on the counter and then collected the hip pads and did the same. He gave the glue a minute to set, idly flicking through his phone whilst waiting. On Luca’s socials, a few updates; he hesitated, shrugged, flicked through pictures of his friend’s manly preparations: hearty shakshuka breakfast, straight-razor shave, a spa visit of his own, muscular chest gleaming with sweat as he stepped, smiling, out of a sauna, towel wrapped around his waist. Alex wondered if Luca had checked out Blake online as well, found her curated collection of photographs: closeups of nails, shoes, jewellery and makeup; a carefully framed photo of her sculpted brow; a glass of kir royale held aloft, rich pink shimmer in sunlight.

He put Blake’s phone down and picked up the breast forms one by one and held them to his chest until the glue took hold, then took up the hip pads and carefully applied them to his flank. These he also held in place for a short time until their grip with his skin felt secure. Then, with everything adhered he again examined himself in the mirror, an hourglass shape partially crafted of silicone, a pale patchwork of flesh and plastic. Like Victor’s Creature, he stood and marvelled in innocence and ignorance at the design of his own crafted body. He traced his contour, one nail trailing from knee over his thigh, the tickle of his own touch and then nothing, the dead feeling of the warming prosthetic and then a touch along his flank and then the non-sensation of his breasts. He flicked a stubby nipple, felt nothing. What might the real thing feel like? The thought made him want to squirm. He dropped his hands to his sides, and gave a little hop, felt the bounce of larger boobs. His inside felt warm, wriggly and weird, though the weight of something on his chest was so familiar now that their absence felt more alien than their presence.

That presence tugged at his chest as he bent down and from his suitcase retrieved last week’s purchases. Each piece, laid gently over the bathtub’s rim: stockings, bra, panties and waist-cincher. Suspenders dangling against white porcelain. Black mesh and blue lace panels, little satin bows, so pretty. A waste, in a way. Nobody was going to see it. Except for Beth. There was something in that, at least. He saw the fervour in her eyes. Clearly, she loved seeing him like this, always had, ever since that first night backstage. I bet she’ll be thinking of me tonight, Alex thinks, and he smiles, rubbing lace between forefinger and thumb. She’ll know what I’m wearing. And so will I, all night. The unfamiliar tug of suspenders, the embrace of boning buttressing hourglass curves, leaving him not so much breathless as constantly aware of his performance and its expectations.

He started with the knickers, an elegant midnight black with cobalt blue satin and lace details, and cute bows at front and back. The panties whispered up his legs and settled snugly over his hips, the thong slipping smoothly between hairless bum cheeks. He felt reassuringly secure with the extra fabric over his genitals.

Then, the bra, a match for the knickers. He held it to his chest and looked at himself in the mirror and thought, it’s a very sexy bra, deep plunge and a contrast of black and blue, lace along the edges and probably the nicest he owns. Owns: it’s his bra, a gift from Beth. What’s he going to do with all this stuff in a few months’ time? Seems such a waste. He won’t miss it, but—okay fine, he’ll miss it just a bit, the colours, the different tactility, a range denied to him as a boy, sensory experience at the expense of comfort. It’s just that Beth’s got such great taste in fashion. Especially underwear. God, he’d love to see her in it. But no; it’s his to wear. To wear, for her brother. That’s weird, how intense Beth’s been in looking out for her brother. Like that joke with the banana, what the fuck was that about? And the money she’s spent. He saw the price list on the waxing. Sure, it had felt nice, which was unexpected. The seeping hot wax against his skin. Cooling, relaxing, until the yank, the tearing of hairs from his flesh. But even that wasn’t so bad, mostly, just a sting. But the cost, Jesus Christ, fifty for his ass crack, more for his groin, and then his arms, his back. The work on his brows. On top of all that, the lingerie, the dress and shoes, and there was still more coming, Beth told him there was hair and makeup to do before the big show.

It was all new to him, this degree of preparation. In its own way, Wednesday’s party had been deliberately unpolished. Other than the nails and the extravagant expense of the dress itself, St-Clair left him to his own devices, his makeup and hair his own, a disguise of his own making. Julien expects you at his party, St-Clair said, as she passed him the red dress, not some girl from a magazine.

And how strange it is, it seemed to Alex, that until tonight he’d only ever dressed to deceive. Breasts and bra and makeup, all to convince a world that didn’t know him that he was Blake. Pass convincingly, or the whole charade fell apart. But not tonight. His disguise was not to deceive but to please, and how that changed everything! It’s not like he was going to fool Luca, that wasn’t the point of tonight. No. Alex was manifesting a heterosexual fever dream for his best friend, one in which the existence of the subsumed boy shouldn’t hinder Luca’s willing suspension of disbelief to lose himself in the cinematic fantasy of a beautiful young woman attending to him on a date. His friend wasn’t there to date Alex but rather Blake, or at least a version of her adapted to the scenario: Luca expected hooded eyes and soft touches and a head tilted to one side, listening, laughing softly at his jokes, distractedly playing with her earring.

For fuck’s sake, Alex thought, how did I get myself into this shit?

He fastened the bra at his front, tugged it around to the back, slid his arms through the straps, and leaned forward to settle his breasts into their cups. It was, as Beth promised, a perfect fit for his larger prosthetics. Absently, he smoothed the straps over his slender shoulders, adjusted the fit and watched himself in the mirror. Just like a warrior, he thought, girding for war before battle. This is my armour, and in reflection he saw the rest of the lingerie set, waiting behind him: stockings like greaves, the waist-cincher and knickers, just another form of armour, his weapons a flash of gleaming nails, the flutter of eyelashes. A shrug of bared shoulders in the half-light and the wet gleam of ruby lips. Yes, he thought. Just like Achilles.

Poetry rose unbidden from memory, a recollection from his dissertation. He wrote about mirrors and the formation of identity and stands now in front of a mirror constructing this new identity through the feminine sacred rites of pride and remembers a verse he mined for meaning in his essay:

Now awful beauty puts on all its arms

And he saw his arms arrayed across the tub and felt intensely just how awful this beauty could be, not only its cost but its effect, on him, maybe on others. But fine then, he thought. Maybe not Achilles but I’d rather be Pope’s Belinda than Swift’s Corinna. And there’s a heroism in all this, anyway. I’m doing this for a friend. He was there for me when I needed him. This is the least I can do.

The waist-cincher came next, also a match for the bra and knickers and for this, Alex realized, he’d need help. He tried, but the fixtures at the back defied him, longer nails impeding his fumbling attempts at the tiny hook and eye closures. He couldn’t do it at the front and spin it around like the bra, the waist-cincher’s grip was too tight.

He opened the door a crack, called out, Beth?

Entering the bathroom, she halted mid-step at first sight of him. A delighted smile and her eyes were bright and hungry and she released a guttural sound, unf. Fuck yes, Alex, she said. You look—and she licked her lips. And he saw himself in the mirror as she saw him and thought, Jesus, yeah; and felt a hot, red flush across his chest, creeping up his neck; and felt himself strain against his taping, and squeezed his legs together, and blushed all the hotter.

Beth, please, his voice nearly a whine. He held up the garment, powermesh and boning unrolling in his hand. I need your help.

With pleasure, she said and stepped behind him and with his hands flat against his tummy he held the lingerie in place and with deft fingers she closed it at the back. With each hook it gripped him tighter, the power mesh nipping his waist in even further, and she struggled a little with the final fixture until he drew in a deep breath, held it: there, she said, done. He could breathe but felt the constant compression over his belly and lower ribs. It’s tight, he said. It’s supposed to be, she said.

Now put on your stockings, I want to watch.

The suspenders with their metal clasps danced against his thighs. Blushing under her gaze, he bent down to take up the first stocking and felt how the boning restricted his movement, only slightly but unfamiliar nonetheless, and brought to mind stories of corsetry and stays, Pamela and Udolpho and all those other classics, with fainting heroines in their too-tight undergarments. He rested his heel on the bath and pointing his toes, gathered the stocking into a doughnut, slowly rolled the gauzy fabric up his calf, pausing at the knee, glancing back towards Beth and she wasn’t smiling but watching him intensely and he shivered, as much for the sensation of the stockings against sensitive skin as for the hunger apparent in her gaze. The stockings were seamed and he checked that the line remained straight as he rolled it the rest of the way up his thigh. Then, he took a moment to thread the suspenders through his panties and affixed the first tab at the front and then the second tab at his side, then glanced back at Beth. A little more help? And biting her lip, she nodded once, a little jerkily. Alex lowered his leg, and in the mirror watched as she knelt at his feet. She smelled of their afternoon together, lotions and the warmth of the sun and at some point she’d sprayed her perfume, coils of Aventus and her touch was gentle but firm as her fingers encircled his ankle and then slowly and languidly slid up his leg, caressing his calf, the inside of his thigh. He shivered again, breathed heavily. A moment later she affixed the tab and stepped back, and she was breathing heavily, too, her cheeks pink and her face troubled.

They repeated this with the second stocking, an unrolling whisper over calf and knee and thigh, a dance of fingers, the tug of three tabs attached and then at the end, a single, light kiss to the thin pale crescent above the welt. With hands at his waist, she guided him back to the mirror and rested her chin on his collarbone. Both their faces were flushed. Her eyes glittered darkly. She rested one palm flat over his stomach and the other slid across his smooth groin, stroked his thigh, the curve of his ass. Then, a finger along a single suspender, pulling it out, letting it snap back against his ass. A sharp sting: his breath caught in his throat; she exhaled loudly.

He’d never worn a suspender belt before, obviously, or anything that held up stockings, six weeks of performance but this kind of thing existed beyond the range of femininity he’d explored. Amber had hinted at dress up Fridays a few times, it’d be fun, she said, fancy frocks and naughty underwear, getting dressed up all posh. As though every bloody day wasn’t already a dress up day. But he got her point. These kinds of things, the suspender belts and the waist-cincher and so on, waspies and basques and—so on, it was a bewildering vocabulary he only dimly understood—they were such intensely feminine items. He’d only ever seen lingerie like this on display in storefront windows, Ann Summers and the like, or worn by women in porn online, or saucy scenes in a movie or tv shows. Or maybe in drag shows. Like corsets, and certain types of heels. Fetishist icons synonymous with allure, or sex itself, emphasising nipped-in waists and curved hips and big tits, relics enforcing sexual dimorphism as metonym for eroticism and hyper-femininity. A throwback, perhaps, to a time when women better knew their place and the restraints that kept them there were at first externally imposed and eventually, internally desired, the allure of oppressive fashion that was thrilling and arousing in its breathless constrictiveness, a metaphor crafted of silk, satin and lace.

God, I love seeing you like this, she whispered in Alex’s ear, and the way she said it, there was something almost angry, something not-quite pleased in her voice, a hot threat against his neck. So much.

His lips were dry, his throat tight and he croaked, Bethany—

She silenced him with a deep, passionate kiss. You finish up in here, she said, stepping away, standing in the doorway. And, um. Take your time. Her eyes had a glassy look to them. She shook her head. Goddamn it, Juliet. You’ve got me so fucking wet, she said and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

Yeah, and what about me? he thought. He sat gingerly at the edge of the bathtub, porcelain cool against his mostly bare ass, and took deep, calming breaths. One hand drifting to his groin, lightly touching, tracing the line between his legs, drifting away: Like, seriously, thanks a lot, Beth.

Eventually, his arousal subsided though didn’t entirely go away. Dressed like this, how could it? Thanks to her, he suspected he’d now be low-key horny all night. Not exactly what he wanted, going out on a pretend date with his best friend. Meanwhile, in the silence of the bathroom he thought he could hear the subtle sounds of Beth’s movements in the other room, a stifled groan, the creak of the mattress. What was she doing? Making drinks, hopefully. God, he needed one. The earlier ones were wearing off, and he couldn’t be sober for this, not entirely. He found his feet and returned to the mirror.

He’d been naked at the start and now he wore lingerie and he gnawed his bottom lip and wondered, what the fuck am I actually doing?

And: I guess I’m really doing this?

And finally: he better appreciate the effort I’m putting in here, Jesus Christ, look at me, like actually just look at me, this is so fucking surreal. Like, he’s gay, will any of this mean anything to him? His tits sat high and proud on his chest in the plunge bra and he’d never displayed such cleavage, Lockwood and Carmichael’s a respectable place of business, even if the horny old male clients love staring at Amber and increasingly, Alex grudgingly had to admit, at him too recently.

Finally, the sight of his own frame delineated in black mesh and blue satin and lace details and cute little bows started to get to him again, and he had to turn away and deliberately ignore the sight of the woman in the mirror, in her sexy lingerie and stockings, as she reached down and collected her dress.

After everything else, the dress was comparatively easy, he’d been wearing dresses for weeks now, after all. And this dress that Beth chose for him really was a lovely one. Had he not worn the absurdly luxurious one St-Clair chose for him earlier this week, tonight’s outfit would’ve easily been the most extravagantly feminine thing he’d ever worn. Alex stepped into it, listened to the sibilant language of fabric as dress and lingerie whispered to each other. It took some effort but with some twisting and turning and the pulling of suspenders taut across his thigh, he tugged up the zip that ran from the middle of his back up to his neck, and there closed the final little buttons that sealed him into his outfit for the night.

Finally, shoes. These, at least, were familiar, his favourite pair of Kurt Geigers, an easy enough three inches he could comfortably manage for the evening. Even Beth didn’t push him for newer or taller shoes: nothing ruins a night, she said, like a bad pair of heels.

Then, he took a final look at himself. Smoothed down the front of his dress, turned this way and that and felt how with each movement it swirled around his legs. Stood with one leg forward and the high slit draped open and then his leg, sheathed in stocking, and a hint of suspender tab, and a tightness across his belly that had nothing to do with his undergarments.

Holy shit, Alex thought. I’m fucking hot.

And in his awful beauty he felt an echo of Wednesday’s terrible doubt, and his knees felt weak and his guts like water and momentarily, a rushing in his ears and the lights of the bathroom felt dim and distant and he needed several deep and calming breaths to find himself.

It’s nothing, he said and then aloud, though not to his reflection: you’ve got this.

He stepped out of the bathroom. Beth now rested sitting up on her bed, propped against the headboard. Her face was a little flushed, dreamy satisfaction in her eyes. Let me get a good look at you, she said. Alex stepped into the room, gave a little turn.

She smiled. You make such a beautiful girl, she said. Thanks, I guess, he answered.

And there was still makeup to do, and his hair. She’d booked someone, she told him earlier, and this woman would take care of him, exquisitely paint him beautiful for the night. And accessories to coordinate, a few bracelets, maybe, a necklace, a little colour to offset the dark navy of the dress. All this, for a single night’s fiction. But then again, all the best narratives required work; and wasn’t the essential fantasy of femininity to shimmer brightly but ephemerally and always, to labour to be beautiful, and effort and beauty one and the same?

Are you sure, Beth said, from her position on the bed, then bit her lip and went silent.

What?

Nothing.

You think he’ll like the way I look?

Then, the way her eyes tracked over him, goosebumps rising across his skin.

Oh yes, Beth said. Absolutely.

***

“Jesus Christ, mate.” Too loud, Luca’s voice in the intimate surroundings of the restaurant. “Wow. Like, holy fucking shit, Alex—”

“It’s Blake,” Alex hisses. “Keep it down, you twat.”

“Christ, yes. Blake.”

“You’re late.”

His friend eases into the seat opposite him. He rubs the back of his neck, opens his mouth to speak, seems to reconsider and instead grins ruefully. “Yeah, I am. Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

“Would it—? Yeah, man, it would actually.”

Luca performs a seated mock bow. “I’m sorry, milady.”

“How fucking gallant,” Alex says, and flutters his eyelashes. The beautician who did his makeup did amazing work, and between her and Beth’s advice, his eyes are expertly made up, blended bronzes and gold shimmer and heavy on the black eyeliner and mascara. Beth tried to get him to try false lashes. He almost agreed. But for some reason, he’s still not comfortable with that, it feels a step too far though he can’t say why. Also, Amber would kill him if he did it now instead of with her. And besides, he’s already got great lashes, even he knows that. But now, with his full face of makeup, Alex feels his friend’s gaze on him and specifically on his eyes and under this gaze it feels as though a vice begins to squeeze, ever so gently, around his chest. “Dickhead,” he says.

Luca folds his arms and leans back in his chair. His friend’s forearms fill out the slim fit of his sleeves, and his shirt draws tightly across his chest. “I’m very sorry?”

“You better do better than that, mate.” Alex also crosses his arms, beneath his breasts. “Like seriously, it’s been nearly half an hour, I was starting to wonder if you were going to show. You didn’t even text.”

“I know, I should’ve, I’m sorry.” Luca reaches into his canvas bag, pulls out a slender bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed flowers. The petals are large and white, darkening to a rich purple at their centre. Looking very pleased with himself, he hands it to Alex. “This doesn’t excuse being late but maybe makes up for it?”

Alex accepts the gift magnanimously and tries to summon an appropriate response to being given a bouquet of gorgeous flowers by the person he considers his best mate. The petals are rich and velvety, with a few drops of dew trapped in their folds. Holding the bouquet in the light, each droplet catches the faint glow of the fairy lights above and gleams like miniature gemstones.

Like buses, Alex thinks. A lifetime without flowers. Now, this is his third bouquet in a week. This is a romantic gesture made by a friend he’s known since infant school and the intimacy of the gift tightens the vice a further notch.

“I was going to stick with roses,” Luca continues, “you know, because I lack imagination, but then you sent me that bit of story. And, well. I thought better of it. There was this flower shop on the way here and I didn’t know what to get, didn’t want to get, you know, the flower symbolism wrong or whatever. Fortunately, the guy in the shop was super helpful.” He shrugs, a little helplessly. “It wasn’t like this dating Kostas.”

Alex brings the flowers to his nose, takes a sniff: fresh, hint of grass, but otherwise almost odourless. “What are they?”

“Calla lilies,” Luca says. His eyes are bright in the candlelight, so are his teeth. Alex doesn’t remember his friend’s teeth being this bright before, he must’ve had them whitened. “I thought they were really beautiful.” He pauses, for effect, and then winks. “Just like you.”

“Stop that, right now,” Alex says, trying for stern but he can’t help it, he blushes anyway. Luca laughs and a moment later, Alex laughs as well, softly. He lays the flower across the table setting. “But—thank you,” he says. “They’re lovely.” He folds his hands in his lap, sits with his back straight. His prim posture pushes out his breasts. But Luca doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes remain fixed on Alex’s face with a searching intensity that makes him uncomfortable. “Doesn’t make you any less late, though.”

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

“No, Luca, I’m not going to let it go.” Simmering resentment rises to the surface. “You have any fucking idea how long I spent getting ready?” His tone is harsher than intended, he feels his Juliet voice tumbling from its high shelf to a deeper register. He pauses, gets it under control but the truth is, he’s annoyed. He’s frustrated and more than a little frightened and also uncomfortable, not so much from the clothes as with the idea of what he’s doing, playing the irate girlfriend in his friend’s insane scenario. Like he doesn’t have enough going on already? Yet here he is, living out Luca’s dream date. But then, how could he not, he feels he must, if not for his friend or for Beth then for himself.

Now, these emotions boil over into an angry sweep of the hand, indicating his outfit for the night, the beautiful dress, the stockings, the shiny patent leather heels. Implied is the additional effort that his friend can’t possibly appreciate, the tight undergarments that create the shape that makes wearing the dress possible, the hours spent shopping last weekend, the time and effort spent today at the spa and then the beautician: the waxing, hair and makeup, all to enable him to pass as a young woman on a Saturday evening in central London.

“Your sister took me to a spa this morning,” he says, “and they waxed me. They poured hot fucking wax over my body and tore it off in strips and it wasn’t my legs, mate, they waxed my balls, and parts of me I never knew were hairy. You ever have your arse waxed, Luca? You have any idea how much it fucking stings?”

“Actually—”

Alex cuts him off. “So, yeah. Seems to me the least you could do is get here on time?” He puffs out his cheeks in annoyance, and realizes he’s not done yet, his annoyance isn’t just a performance, and he needs Luca to understand what this is costing him. “It’s Saturday, Luca, okay? This was my day off, maybe my last day off. This is, like, one of the two days a week where I don’t have to deal with—” he waves his hand in a tight circle indicating his face, his clothes. “This, any of this.”

And this brings home the numbing realization he’s ignored best he can all day, that this was his final weekend in which not dealing with any of this was possible, at least for the foreseeable future, a future in which he removes Blake once and for all. However, for now, Blake didn’t seem to be going anywhere. In fact, she’ll be seeing Luca again tomorrow. Luca, who’s coming around to help Blake move into her new home. The day would start with Alex and end with Blake and who knew when the man might return, trapped pretending to be a girl during the day for work, and pretending to be a girl at night for a house full of other girls?

“So, here’s lesson number one for dating a girl: don’t keep her waiting.” In his breathy, practiced girl’s voice, Alex’s complaint sounds petulant even to his own ears. “A girl puts in all this effort, the least you can do is show up on time. Like, seriously, mate. Not cool.”

Luca nods one, twice. His eyes sparkle and he fights to suppress a grin. “Yeah, I get it, I do. Really. My bad. Kostas used to keep me waiting all the time, too. It’s just—it’s been a full day for me, too, you know. And, I lost track of time, you know, I had so much trouble deciding.” He retrieves a small box from his canvas bag. “The flowers are for the date, but this is for your birthday. I hope you like it.”

Alex reaches for the gift as his friend slides it across the table. Their fingers brush across the smooth surface of the box. They look at each other. Luca’s eyes widen very slightly. His grin wavers. Frozen, they remain like that for a few seconds that feel far longer, fingertips lightly touching. Then, Alex drops his gaze and focuses on the gift. His heart jumps in his chest, once, twice. Luca pulls back his hand, a light scrape of nails against his skin. Then, Alex retrieves his hand and with it the little box and places the box on the table in front of him. Jesus, he thinks. What was that?

He reaches for his wine glass. This time, instead of a tiny sip he takes a gulp and empties it. Luca avoids eye contact as he signals for the waiter.

She approaches, a short, curvy young woman with bottle-blonde hair and auburn roots, in fitted black trousers and a white shirt and black tie. She speaks with a French accent. She’s very cute, Alex notes, about his age, with a freckled face and an easy smile that seems to land more frequently on him than on Luca. As his friend scans the menu, Alex looks at the girl and notes her nails, the gold studs at her ear, the way her hair curls in at her shoulder, the care she’s taken in crafting her professional presentation. Does Luca notice any of this, Alex wonders, does he appreciate the work that goes into the everyday appearance of the women around him?

Luca orders, and the waitress flashes a final smile at Alex and leaves.

His friend holds the wine menu open with one finger pressed to the page.

“Wine is one of the most civilized things in the world,” he reads. “One of the most natural things of the world that has been brought to the greatest perfection.” He looks at Alex over the edge of the menu, eyes bright with humour. “It offers a greater range for enjoyment and appreciation than, possibly, any other purely sensory thing. Hemingway.”

If only I could write like that, Alex thinks. Instead, he says: “Wow, so cultured.”

“I think he was writing about you,” Luca says, “like wine, brought to the greatest perfection.”

It’s cheesy, but Alex reddens anyway. “Seriously, stop it.” He suppresses the urge to throw something at his friend. “It’s embarrassing.”

“The question is, do you,” he reads from menu, tracking the words with one finger, “offer a greater range for enjoyment and appreciation than any other purely sensory thing?”

“You tell me.”

Luca licks his lips, he makes and holds eye contact and there’s something there, a flicker, an acknowledgment that raises the heat in Alex’s cheeks. “Yes, I think you do,” he says. “Absolutely.”

This makes Alex want to look away, he blushes fiercely for wanting to do so. Instead, with hands on hips, he levels a stern glare at his friend. “Luca Williams, are you flirting with me?”

“Yes, I think so,” he says. “Is it working?”

“If you need to ask, mate.”

Luca winces. “That bad?”

“Bonus point for a literary reference, but I’m docking you two for coming on too strong.” Alex raises one hand over the table, palm down, wobbles it left and right. “I give you two-and-a-half stars.”

His friend shakes his head ruefully, a small smile forming. “Makes you wonder, right? How’d I get a hottie like you to a party like this?”

Luca pauses, looks at him expectantly. Alex fights down a smile. “Good one, Dave,” he says.

“You’re a legend, Dave,” Luca intones in the voice of spies exchanging a secret code.

They fist-bump, now openly grinning. A moment ago, Alex felt himself on unsteady ground. The way his friend looked at him, gave him flowers, called him beautiful and perfect. Something in the tone of his voice. Yet the whole point of tonight. Luca, playing the role of a man on a perfectly normal heterosexual date. And Alex, the girl. After all, he’s had all this practice. Yet with nearly twenty years of shared history, more than anything Alex yearned to fall back on the familiar, the easy conversations of their teenage years and the simple pleasure of each other’s company. Sitting side-by-side playing Mario Kart. Or watching TV together in a dark room lit only by the dancing shadows of the screen.

Yet those days were gone and Alex knew there was no returning to them. The places of the past and the people who once populated them were no more. Either they had changed or moved on. Or they were dead. Things said or left unsaid. Even forgotten words leave their mark as indelible scars, faded with time yet present beneath the skin. The present was a palimpsest of experience inscribed on the now, pages of life’s language filtered dimly through the text of today. Alex feels his ‘now’ sitting atop the morning with Beth, and yesterday’s talk with Sophie and before that, permeating everything, Wednesday’s party. Into tomorrow would rise tonight’s events and how could his relationship with Luca ever be the same again? From this time forward, his friend would forever see Alex as he is now, painted and posed as a woman in a beautiful dress under glimmering lights in a fancy restaurant. Luca would look and search, even in years to come, for the girl he encountered this night, much as he sits right now and searches the girl for the boy he knows or thinks he knows. Perhaps he would wonder where Blake went after tonight, or whether she remained, in part or in whole and think, how and why, and what kind of a man, and look down on him for as long as they remained friends. Or so Alex thought.

Maybe; but right now, in the exchange of Flight of the Conchords quotes, Alex feels himself on safe and familiar ground.

“Honestly, I have no idea how you pulled a hottie like me. It sure as hell wasn’t your punctuality,” Alex says. “Not so sure about your looks, either. Like, what’s with that moustache?”

Luca nods, as if this is self-evidently true, passes a fingertip across the thin line decorating his upper lip. “It’s dignified,” he says.

“You look like a World War One fighter pilot.”

“Like I said: dignified.”

Alex rolls his eyes.

“Well, if it’s not the moustache,” Luca says, rubbing his chin, “it’s got to be a money thing. I reckon this version of you is a bit of gold-digger.”

You mean, like your sister? Alex nearly says, and grimaces, instantly thinking of Amber too, and these thoughts flash across Alex’s mind before he can quell them. Then he feels guilty. Both women are beautiful and clever and ambitious, and who is he to judge their choices? Yet they could do so much better, he thinks, if they chased it; they could have him, if they wanted. It feels to him that they’ve settled for security and comfort when they could have, in fact deserved, the world, or if not the world then at least happiness, genuine happiness rather than a shadow of it cast by men they seem to tolerate rather than love.

After all, a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, as the poet said. But not a woman’s, apparently. And maybe that was it. You don’t interrupt a man taking risks, Peterson wrote that. The risk of inaction is worse than the risk of action, a man insulated from risk is left weak and unprepared for the inherent tragedies and challenges of life: these are the truths of masculinity.

But weren’t women taught from very young to moderate their reach? Minimise risk, act sensibly. Passivity over activity, insulated from harm and Alex feels this, profoundly. It’s hard to reach for anything when snug and restrained in a waist-cincher. These nails, the clothes he wears, his shoes: what were they but the very manifestation of those same societal expectations, a prescription to move precisely and carefully, take shorter steps, avoid running, don’t break a nail, dear and take care with your makeup, you wouldn’t want to ladder those stockings, snap a suspender loose, delicate and expensive clothing that tears easily at the touch of anything too harsh. Better to take a man’s arm, it’s tricky walking in heels. The road outside the restaurant was cobblestone.

For all that, Alex realizes, the greatest risk he’s ever taken in life is being a girl.

Alex frowns. Something about his train of thoughts doesn’t feel right. After all, Sophie never played it safe. Beth ran the family business, Amber studied hard, came to London to be a lawyer. Neither sounded particularly safe nor comfortable nor easy. No one had insulated them from the risks of life.

And frankly, the comfort of another’s wealth, an offer of care, security and safety, it sure as hell sounds appealing, now more than ever, and if the currency of exchange was happiness or autonomy, well, surely it was a price worth paying? And weren’t security and safety simply a form of happiness and autonomy in their own right? Less a sacrifice as a transformation; and viewed as such, the cost seemed no cost at all, he’d be crazy not to pay it, with so little lost?

“You’re here for my huge pay packet,” Luca continues. At first, Alex doesn’t hear him, he’s mulling over his thoughts, thinking about last Wednesday, the women he cares for and the books and online content he used to read and watch. “Huge pay packet?” Luca repeats. “You know, huge? And packet? Work with me here.”

“I’ve seen your packet,” Alex says. “It’s not that big.”

And that big pay packet, Alex bites back from saying, it’s not at all because your sister is getting married to some guy who pulled strings to get you an interview to make her happy and it’s not because you still live at home with your family who were all totally fine with you coming out as gay and supportive and loving and it’s not because you got lucky and never had to wear a fucking skirt to hold down a job and a bra and I spent hours getting my hair and makeup done for tonight, for you, you dickhead, and if it wasn’t for Beth I never would’ve agreed to this especially on the weekend, I wanted to collapse in front of the telly one last time, especially after that party, God I just need some space, I need some fucking time to just sit in my pants and I want those pants to be boxers and not goddamn knickers and I want to sit and not think about nails or makeup or shapewear or French fucking aristocrats for forty-eight hours but dammit, here I am because you’re my best friend and because Beth asked me to and because Amber’s been pushing me to go out on a date and I need pictures to show her I’m just an ordinary girl, like really, it’s just a bit of a dating slump, honest and you don’t need to try and fix me up with any guys you know or Jacob’s friend, please, really, please, and having a guy help me move in should convince the girls in my new home to leave me the fuck alone, the last thing I need is a goddamn boyfriend right now, I can’t even.

Alex forces a conciliatory smile to his lips, and he picks up the birthday gift that remains on the table between them.

Luca’s eyes light up in anticipation. “Go on mate, open it.”

“Mate,” Alex murmurs, and slides one manicured fingernail along the edge of the box. Increasingly the word feels just as awkward, spoken from a painted mouth, as it does to receive it whilst wearing a dress. “Thanks and all, but my birthday was yesterday.” Again, a genuine smile tugs at his lips. “The day after my birthday is not my birthday.”

“You wound me.” Luca holds one hand to his chest. “I’ve got hurt feelings.”

“You’re not invincible?”

“No, I’m vincible.” Pinging quotes off each other brings them back to teenage memories of sitting in front of the TV or the laptop or on their mobiles at each other’s houses. Nostalgia is a familiar country where it’s always summer and not too hot, a time located safely in the past when butterflies and bird calls were plentiful, and by retreating there Alex feels the tension between them ebb. Rather, he remembers being at Luca’s, watching bootleg DVDs bought off that guy down the pub in Taunton. Or at Alex’s, watching Netflix on the big screen in his dad’s lounge when Morgan was away with work. Laughing. The kind of shows with the kind of language neither of their parents would have approved. Or violence, super-gory anime and action movies, though nobody cared about that, really.

On precisely two occasions, they watched pornography.

The first time they were fourteen. Luca’s room, a sleepover. The door was shut and after a few hours of playing Minecraft, they sat side-by-side and then Alex pulled out his tablet and said, check this out; and on the screen a girl in a short skirt and tank top. Both boys watched in reverent silence as she lifted her tight top past her breasts and then over her head. Then she was topless and her breasts were large and round and topped with pink and pert nipples. The woman on the screen smoothed back her long hair and hefted her boobs, gripped them tight. She lifted and let her breasts drop. Alex watched, mesmerised. Grinning, the woman bounced up and down on her toes and her breasts bounced, too. Blushing, Alex glanced sideways at Luca and found his friend looking not at the screen but at him with an intense and confusing look.

There was another time, when they were sixteen. A Friday night at Alex’s. Sophie had already moved to London; both Alex’s parents were out, as they often were around this time. Alex and Luca played video games, drank cheap cans of lager, grimacing at the taste. Then Luca put down his can, licked his lips. He looked a little sick, as though he’d had a can too many. Check this out, mate, he said, a guy at school shared it with me.

A girl was on her knees. She looked young, wearing a pleated miniskirt and sheer tights, small tits in a push-up bra nearly swelling out of a tank top. As they watched, the legs of a man entered the frame. The girl pulled down the man’s trousers. He stood over her and his legs were very hairy, and he kicked his trousers out of frame and she reached up and stroked the man’s cock until it stood erect, and his cock was the largest Alex had ever seen. Then, she leaned forward, took the man in her mouth. She swirled her tongue a few times then pulled back and looked at the camera and smiled. She opened her mouth and went down on him again and this time took him in deep. Her eyes watered and her chin was slick, and they listened to wet sounds rendered in poor video quality. Low moans and the grunts of the unseen man, and they watched in agonising silence. I’m supposed to like this, Alex told himself. Luca likes it, he wanted to show it to me. So, I should like it, too.

But he didn’t like it. Watching the woman on the screen, he felt aroused. But that arousal was mixed with guilt. Though she smiled at the start, the woman did not look happy, she wasn’t enjoying the performance. The man gripped her hair and that looked painful. The way her eyes watered, that looked painful, too. Occasionally, she looked up at the man and Alex wanted to believe that this indicated some kind of pleasure, but she seemed mainly to be assessing whether the man was nearly done. The flat, white light over them left little to the imagination and her makeup seemed garish, her clothing cheap. It was sexual but not sexy and he felt embarrassed for her, ashamed to be watching her, even as he was aware of his own excitement and unable to look away and ashamed of that, too.

Eventually, Luca nudged him. Can you imagine doing that, Luca whispered, and why did he whisper? There wasn’t anyone else in the house. His friend smiled, his eyes curiously flat. Do you think you’d like that? and Alex remembers avoiding his friend’s gaze and wondering, what was his friend asking? Having my cock sucked? Or sucking cock? And what a thing to ask, guys don’t talk about this kind of thing. Also, what would Beth think, if she caught them? Sophie—or his mum? It’d be mortifying, it’d scar him for life. Alex never considered himself especially religious but watching that woman give a blow job to a man who existed entirely as a dangling cock and pair of hairy legs felt sinful.

They watched until the man shot his load and then Luca put his phone away. That was the last time they watched porn together.

And now, Alex feels Luca’s gaze fixated on his lips. “Have you ever been told you’re the most beautiful girl in the room?” he says.

“The whole wide room?”

“You could be a part-time model. But you’d probably have to keep your day job.”

Alex bites back a small laugh. He doesn’t want to give Luca the satisfaction. Like Beth said, he’s a dickhead. He’s his best friend. And he feels the earlier irritation at being made to wait finally bleed away. Because at the end of the day, being made to wait like that? His friend can’t possibly understand. The anxiety of sitting in a fancy restaurant on his own under the watchful eyes of the waiters, waiting and primping and wondering whether they see him for a man, under the makeup and beautiful dress that Beth chose.

Luca knows his sister took Blake shopping last weekend, that she booked them in for a spa visit earlier today. Alex can’t help but envy the closeness of the two siblings. For as long as he’s known them, Luca and Beth have had each other’s back. Luca’s always been super protective of his older sister. And she’s always been there for him. And somehow, this has led to him wearing the dress Beth picked for him, and beneath it the lingerie and stockings, and under that his body is the smoothest it’s ever been, waxed and soft, and he wears the makeup that Beth carefully selected for him, and all of it, paid for by her, she’s crafted him into the woman he’s playing tonight.

Alex returns to the gift from Luca. This too, forms part of his friend’s fantasy of the perfect date, a meaningful token passed to an idealized woman. Using the edge of a nail, Alex slits the tape and carefully unwraps the gift without tearing the paper, revealing a small velvet box. The box fits in the palm of his hand and he opens it and, in the box, a pair of earrings rests against a bed of black satin. The drop earrings are thin segmented filaments of gold scaled like a serpent’s skin, set with flecks of lapis lazuli and the rough edges of the blue stones flash under the fairy lights. Alex feels a blush rise into his cheeks and for a moment doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I wasn’t sure what to get you,” Luca says, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely nervous. “I had to get you something but it wasn’t easy, much harder than flowers, you know? I’ve never shopped like this, um, for a girl, and I thought maybe something Romeo and Juliet themed, at the museum but they didn’t really have anything like that, just books and I know you’ve got a lot of books already. But walking here from the museum I passed by a couple of jewellery stores, not far from here like and that’s when I thought, it hit me then, like this is a date, right, like with a, um, you know, a girl and what do girls like and I thought, girls like earrings. So, I bought you earrings. I wanted to get you the kind of thing a guy gets a girl on a date.”

Luca pauses as the waitress returns with a stainless steel bucket filled with ice and two thin-stemmed glass flutes. She clears away Alex’s previous wine glass, now empty, and returns with an open bottle of Delamotte Brut and as they watch with shared, mutual awkwardness, she pours it out expertly, so that the fizz rises precisely to the rim before settling and then she tops up each glass. The waitress stands expectantly by the table as first Luca and then Alex take up their glass. They touch glasses softly and make faint music and then take a sip and after a brief hesitation, Luca gets the waitress’s attention. He brings up the camera, passes her his phone. “Would you mind?” he asks.

She takes a step back and holds up the phone. Alex feels a flash of annoyance—his friend could’ve checked with him first—but also knows this is unreasonable, of course there’s going to be pictures, he needs them himself to show Amber. They both lean in and the waitress taps the screen, shifts the angle slightly, takes another.

“Are you guys together?” she asks.

Alex opens his mouth to answer but Luca speaks first. He nods enthusiastically. “Yes! I mean, we’re on a date,” he says. His voice thrums with restrained humour. “Our first, actually. We’ve been best friends since we were kids but it’s our first time together like—” he waves his hand in indistinct circles, “well, like this I guess, boyfriend-girlfriend kind of thing.”

“Oh, that is so cute,” the waitress says, and the way she says it in her French accent, it does seem cute. “You guys should lean in closer, yes, like for a kiss?”

A hot flush crawls up Alex’s neck and Luca grins wildly. “That’s a great idea, yes please.” Alex follows his lead, silently nods, yes. They both shift their seats so they’re closer together and half-stand and lean over the table. A bouquet of flowers lying between them. Laughter in Luca’s eyes, he’s loving this, but Alex feels there’s something more, maybe. The vice around Alex’s chest tightens ever so slightly and his tongue darts across his lips, wetting them. “Sourire,” the waitress says and in the first picture, Alex feels the light press of his friend’s lips against his cheek. But in the second picture he turns to face Luca to see his reaction to the first and suddenly the distance between them is gone, Luca’s mouth is up against his and they kiss, he’s kissing his best friend.

The waitress returns the phone to Luca. He sits back down and immediately stares into his lap and swipes to look at the photos. “These are great,” Luca says, without looking up. “I almost lost it when she said ‘guys,’ though.” He shakes his head. “‘Guys,’ that’s hilarious.”

Silently, Alex gently holds two fingers to his bottom lip. A memory of his friend’s kiss. His scent clings to him as well, sandalwood and vanilla. A masculine counterpoint to his own floral notes.

Luca looks up. He hesitates, then asks, “First time?”

A few seconds before Alex can answer. “First time?”

“Kissing a boy.”

“Yes,” Alex lies.

      Luca nods.

He keeps nodding and Alex sees with each nod the joy drain from his face until he’s left looking red-faced and stricken. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. He avoids eye contact. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I got carried away. And. I know. Like, we’re just messing around. We’re not really boyfriend and girlfriend. And tonight, it’s.” He tries to smile, the smile dies. “Weird. I get that. And you look so amazing. On your day off. All the effort you’ve put into this and I don’t know what I was thinking, I thought it’d be fun. I was taking the piss but I honestly thought it’d be fun. Like, we’d have a laugh about it later. I just didn’t think. You’ve got so much going on. And your sister.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t have done that. If you want to end it right here, I—”

Alex raises his hand, stop. “Jesus Christ, Luca. It was just a kiss.”

Luca looks crestfallen, looks relieved. He sits back. They take up their glasses and take a sip in silence. Alex can still feel on his lips where his friend’s lips touched his and lingered and felt warm. “My first,” Luca begins in a quiet voice, then reaches for his glass of water. He takes a big gulp, smiles, and when he speaks his lips are wet and spray tiny drops. “My first kiss was Sam, Sam Cooper, remember him? One of the rich kids. He played first eleven for the school. Decent bowler, great at first slip.

“This was a few weeks after our performance, after I came out to you. And I’d stayed late after school that day. I watched the team play and then I realized I’d mostly only watched him. I guess he noticed and came over after the game. And I remember the way the light caught his whites, the grass stains on his knees. His face glowed. It’s not like I knew him, I mean, not well. I’d never noticed how good looking he was. He smelled of sweat and sun. And he just started chatting to me, like we were mates or something. I couldn’t understand why and kept thinking, why’s he talking to me? Outside of drama, I was a nobody at that school, I wasn’t like you. But he was just so good looking. I barely heard a thing he said. Mostly, I stared at his lips. I thought, God, those are sexy lips and I’d never noticed before, that a man could have lips like that. When I had a chance, I told him he’d played well. Great reflexes and all that. And he said,” Luca flashes a small smile in memory, “he said, ‘I’m good at catching balls’, and he paused, looking at me with this cheeky, expectant grin. Eventually, he invited me back to his, said he was having a little post-game party. But when I got there, it was just him. He said his dad was working from their London home that week. Said his mum was around somewhere, that it didn’t matter. Sam grabbed a couple WKDs from the fridge, showed me around the house. It was a very big house. Like yours, only bigger, a lot bigger. We chatted about what we were doing next, after sixth form and then we were in the living room by this great big fireplace and he took the empty bottle from me and placed it on the mantel and put his hand on my waist, right here, I always remembered that. It was the first time anybody touched me there, I mean, like that. And he was so confident and then he kissed me.”

Luca stops and stares into an empty space somewhere a few inches above and behind Alex’s left shoulder. He absently drinks his champagne, puts the flute down, slides it to the middle of the table. “Five years ago, and I can still feel the way my heart pounded in my chest and how my legs shook. I remember thinking, why me? and thinking, I’m like the poor kid at school, the ugly and fat kid, but at the same time, he smelled good and being close to him felt very good and it was exciting, very exciting, and my brain kept looping through yes, just an endless repetition of yes and I can’t believe this is happening as we kissed.”

Luca trails off. Alex waits. His friend shakes himself and smiles weakly. “But most of all, I remember feeling disappointed. And I was disappointed because I expected that first kiss to clarify—everything—that I’d feel—fireworks, or absolute certainty, you know, that all the doubts I carried my whole life would drain away and I’d be left knowing, with complete conviction, that yes, this is what I’ve always wanted and missed. I wanted that kiss with Sam to serve as affirmation of my own homosexuality. And kissing him, oh man, for sure I was turned on. But at the same time, my stomach was twisting into a tight little knot, I felt sick and it hurt and mostly, I felt guilty, like I was doing, that I’d done something wrong, like cheating on someone I loved.”

Alex feels his friend’s attention fully return to him now, as Luca rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and shrugs. Then, a short silence in which Alex trails a fingernail along the small velvet gift box. A slight frown creases his friend’s brow. Gradually, the silence mellows into awkwardness. They’ve known each other for years and the existence of silence between them feels unnatural. Alex leans forwards, gently inclining his chin in the palm of one hand, lightly scratching at his temple with his nail. “How about you?” he asks. “Was this your first time?”

Now, Luca looks confused.

“Kissing a girl, I mean.”

Luca nods.

“What’d you think?”

“A little tacky.” He taps his lip, where a shy smile now appears. “As in sticky, I mean. The gloss. And your lips were soft, I liked that. A boy’s lips can be soft, too, but not like that. Also, I could smell the makeup. That’s different. But also, your perfume. You smell really nice.”

“Thank you.” Alex takes a deep breath. “So do you. Very masculine.”

Luca looks pleased.

After that, they take up their glasses of champagne and ring out a delicate chime with them, and Alex senses his friend watching him again, how he follows the dance of plum lips and black nails as Alex tips the glass and drinks and delicately returns it to the table, slides a finger along the inside of his neckline, tucks back a bra strap, then picks up the glass once more. Another sip, bubbles sparking against the tongue and it’s the taste of a summer two years past, the end of undergrad and a July garden celebration. Family there, a few aunts and uncles, cousins. His mother, of course, and Sophie visiting from London, and his father, and already the visible signs of decline. Regret and anger but also joy permeates this memory. And later that evening Luca arrived, and together in the garden with only the sound of the neighbourhood dog and a rectangle of kitchen light bright against the dark grass, Luca told him the thing they never spoke about again afterwards. In fact, they wouldn’t speak again at all, until the funeral.

I never know what to do, did I do okay? and back to the fancy London restaurant and bubbles on Alex’s tongue, the sheen of gloss on the rim of a glass. Luca holds up his glass. “Am I supposed to swirl it around? Tell the waiter it’s fine? I hate ordering wine, especially champagne. I feel like a pretentious wanker, or a fraud.” He takes a sip. “Feels good to be able to afford to buy this stuff, though. It’s like, check it out, dad! Your son’s done good.” He holds his glass up in mock cheer to the ghost of his past. Then, he indicates his gift once again. “Anyway, what do you think? Of the earrings? Was it a good choice?”

Alex delicately touches the earrings with his fingertips. They are beautiful. He is already wearing simple gold hoops he bought two weeks ago at a sale. But these are nicer, he thinks. And there’s an eager expectation in Luca’s look, one that reminds Alex of nothing so much as the look his friend gave him all those years ago as they watched porn together.

Gold gleaming against his palm. He’s often thought that earrings are more beautiful when held rather than worn, but also there’s something special in the feel of them at his ear, the tug of their weight but especially the light touch against the cheek, an ephemerality in the corner of an eye that gradually disappears in the wearing. With a practiced touch, he removes the small hoops from his ears. “You did,” Alex says, “they’re lovely,” and this isn’t a performance for his benefit, they really are lovely. “Honestly. Any girl would be thrilled to get these.”

“Are you? Thrilled, that is?”

“I am,” and he tilts his head to one side so that his hair falls like a curtain and threads the gift through his lobe and then tilts the other way and then puts on the other earring and then holds the back of his hand against the glittering golden threads to better display them to Luca. “How do I look?”

For a moment, his friend seems taken aback. There is something new in his friend’s eyes that he’s never seen there. Luca appears abashed by the presentation of his gift in his friend’s ears, as if he never really expected them to be worn. Luca leans forward, elbows on the table with his drink in one hand. He smiles. His eyes shine over the rim of his glass. “Beautiful,” he says and the way he says it, it doesn’t sound or feel at all like the banter of before. And it seems to Alex that what he now sees in his friend’s eyes is a look of possessiveness, and this makes Alex want to squirm in his expensive, elegant dress. Luca looks at him as if the earrings are in some way a token of ownership and in wearing them, it feels as though the balance between the two of them has been irrevocably tilted, though in which direction Alex cannot tell, or even on what the fulcrum of that balance rests.

They each take another sip of champagne. Their tall flutes are both empty. The waitress silently approaches and refills both their glasses and takes away the empty bottle. Before leaving, she flashes a secret smile at Alex, and winks. It happens so subtly, he isn’t sure whether he imagined it. He picks up his now full glass, and eyes the sparkling drink and then focuses on his friend. “This is crazy, isn’t it?”

“I know, right?”

“Can you even afford all this?” Alex indicates the bottle, the restaurant room with its glimmering lights and rich decorations, the menu. “It’s all so expensive.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Luca waves the concern away. “It’s fine. Anyway, how’d it go?”

“How did what go?”

“With my sister. You’ve seen a lot of her lately.” His tone is apologetic but the look in his eyes, it’s almost jealous. “She’s been super-intense lately. Like, she’s always been intense but lately, she’s gone into overdrive. I think the wedding prep’s getting to her. But she’s talked about you a lot. And tonight. She’s been very excited about tonight.”

Has she? Alex thinks. And what has she said, what does she think, about all this, and about me?

“She’s been super into it, asking me all sorts of questions, so that we get it right. Very into the details. And then sorting out this morning, booking both of us into all those pre-date things, and getting us a reservation here—I have no idea how she did it, when I checked last weekend the place was booked up for months, but she had a word with Sophie and—” Luca trails off, shakes his head. “Sisters, right?” Immediately, he winces. “Oof, sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re not close like you and Beth. I don’t see that changing. Especially now. But at the same time, she was right. I had to move out although she could’ve handled it better. We’ve talked.” He takes a pensive sip of champagne. “Anyway. You wanted to know how it went with your sister? It was—” and he thinks of the bathroom and the way she kissed his thigh as she helped him dress; and afterwards, after the beautician left, and she stood close and smiled and said, I love that colour on you, and she bit her lower lip, and whispered, why is it I always want the things I shouldn’t have? and then she leaned in and kissed him hard on the lips and when she pulled back, she touched one finger to her own lips and said, look, now we match. “Intense,” he says.

Luca winces. “That bad, huh?”

Alex shrugs.

He searches Alex’s face, frowns. “What did she say, how’d she convince you to do this?”

“Why do you assume I had to be convinced?”

“You were very clear on that point. Insisted it was your day off.”

“Yes. But.”

“What?”

“If I didn’t want to—”

“You want to?”

“No, that’s not what—”

“Then why—”

“Because,” and it comes out loudly and deeper than he intended. He feels the shift in his throat, emotionality sending his words tumbling, and it’s his man’s voice in public and he cringes but nobody notices, maybe it wasn’t so loud and deep after all. He tries to put into words a feeling that he has carried with him since that day, and which cannot be easily said between two men. “I owe you, okay? You were there. For Dad’s funeral.” It barely scratches the surface and yet sat there as he is, it’s already too much. “You didn’t have to be, but you were.”

“Of course I was there,” Luca says.

“Because the time before that, you said things and I—” His hand is at his throat, lightly grasping, he feels the heat crawling up his neck. “We didn’t talk for a year after that, a whole year and—it was my fault, but then at the funeral, you were there. And you’re here now, and tomorrow. You’ve always been there when I need you. You’ve always been a good friend.” And what he doesn’t add but feels deeply is: and I haven’t been, I’m not a good friend.

Alex holds his hand across his eyes. Tears dot his eyes and his face is hot. He thinks, fuck. Then, he feels Luca cover his other hand with his own, and again, fuck. He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares up at the ceiling, where the sky has deepened into the final indigos of evening and the fairy lights glimmer, shimmer and shatter in his view. I’m okay, Alex thinks, he blinks and takes a deep breath and then says, “I’m okay,” and the way Luca is looking at him, it demands too much, he slides his hand out from under his friend’s and hides them under the table and stares at the table as if trying to see through it.

“Listen,” Luca says, softly. “That night, when I said—”

He cuts off as the waitress approaches. They haven’t even looked at their menu and Luca asks for more time. He blushes in doing so, like a clever boy caught out in a lie. With the corner of his napkin, he dabs at the corner of his eye. His friend studiously ignores him and reads the menu. Alex then looks at the menu, and his stomach twists a little. Fuck me, these prices, he thinks. But if his friend is at all bothered, he hides it well. Surely his new job can’t be paying him that well. Yet here he is, splashing out for this date. The bottle of champagne on its own is nearly a hundred quid. Starters for twenty, mains twice that, and the flowers, the earrings. For almost as long as they’ve known each other, it’s always been Alex with the money, Alex from the well-off family, Alex with the big house on the hill. He doesn’t like it, his friend having the upper hand like this. And he finds he doesn’t have the appetite to choose, either.

When the waitress returns to take their order, Alex leans closer to his friend and says, “You pick,” and when he sees the doubt in Luca’s eyes, adds, “it’s a date and I’m the girl and I want you to pick for me.”

Luca looks at him curiously. “You sure?”

“Just keep it light.” He poses with his open hands spread across his hips. “I’ve got to watch my girlish figure.”

At first it seems as though he might protest but when the waitress asks if they’re ready, Luca shrugs and says, yes, let’s start with the scallops to share please, and yes, I’ll have the côte de boeuf with the truffle mashed potatoes on the side, and the lady will have—he hesitates, then continues—the pecorino gnudi, and a bottle of the white, yes, the chardonnay please, thank you, and hands the menus back and the waiter takes them and she leaves, with a backwards glance at Alex, who barely notices, it’s not just the fact he’s ordered the steak for himself and the vegetarian pasta for ‘the lady’, but it’s the confidence with which Luca did it that surprises him.

“All good?” he asks and Alex can’t help but answer with schoolgirl sullenness, “I hoped you’d order me the duck,” and Luca laughs and says, “you should’ve said,” and Alex says, “you should’ve known,” and Luca shakes his head, “how the hell could I,” and Alex snaps back, “you’ve known me like twenty years,” and Luca leans back in his chair, scowling. “Jesus, you really are just like a girl” and Alex retorts, “don’t be a twat.”

A heavy sort of silence falls between them then, one which brings with it lingering teenage tensions of arguments past and a weight of years and wrapping himself in his petulance, Alex sits and looks away, arms crossed, towards the door. But in doing so he feels his friend’s searching gaze and adjusts his posture with an instinct born and reinforced by St-Clair’s instructions: the high-chinned straight-backed chest-out pose of a receptionist for a prestigious investment firm.

Yes, his friend can be a wanker at times. But he’s trying his best. And so is he, all this effort poured into pouring him into this dress and it really is a lovely dress, Beth’s got great taste and even Amber approved when he sent her the pictures earlier. Gorgeous, she typed back, in between a flurry of heart and wide-eyed emojis: but bitch, what’s under it, what’s he seeing tonight? And then another series of emojis that made him blush, aubergines and sweat drops, tacos, pointing finger, drooling mouth.

“It just seems old-fashioned,” Luca says, “me ordering for you.”

“Maybe I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.” And why not, Alex thinks, it feels right that maybe she’s a little old-fashioned, and doesn’t mind if the man takes the lead. It can be a relief to let someone else take charge, sometimes. Blake has largely been defined through her interaction with others—Amber, St-Clair, even his sister—and so why not too this man? It doesn’t require elaborate mental acrobatics to look at Luca and see him as a girl might: he’s caring and good-natured. Good-looking too, tall and fit, a decent catch with a good job.

And easing into the role set out for tonight, it feels one part Alex to one part Blake but is somehow neither. The longer the date goes on, the more difficult it becomes to tell where one ends and the other begins. The ease of being in a friend’s company, all those years as children, then teenagers and finally as young adults, drifting apart then but still, when back together, the time apart falling away. A shared past fed through the filter of Blake: a little flirtatious, maybe, conscious of her appearance, hyper-aware of the cost, and of his needs. A girl out for a good night. Blake on her own would never have ever gone on a date with Luca; but without the girl to hide behind, nor would have Alex.

Luca nods once, twice as though he understands then shakes his head, no, no he doesn’t understand. “Alex—yes, I know—tonight it’s Blake,” he raises his hands, palms out, placatingly. “But I’m struggling, I didn’t know what to expect but it wasn’t this, you’re beautiful, Alex. Most beautiful girl in the room wasn’t just a joke. And it’s fucking with my head, you know?”

“Your head?” Alex bites back a bark of laughter. “How do you think I feel?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Luca taps the side of his temple. “Like, I’ve been on a date with a guy before, I’ve sat where you’re sitting. But not in a dress. I’ve worn one, once, for Kostas, we were messing around in the bedroom. This floaty white thing. Wearing it, I felt profoundly silly. Couldn’t wait to get it off. And I guess what I’m saying is, I can’t even conceptualize, Alex, what you’re going through. You know, like, what it feels like for a girl.”

“I’m not a girl,” Alex says softly.

“I know, obviously.” He nods, nods, shakes his head. “But it’s not obvious because if I didn’t know? I’d never guess. It’s not just the way you look but also the way you hold yourself, the way you wear that dress.” He snaps his finger, struck by a sudden idea. “Tilly Caseman, remember her? That’s what I expected.”

Tilly had been a girl back at school, the one who wore the school uniform trousers, never the pleated skirt like all the other girls did. Short hair and very pretty but with a permanent fuck-you expression on her face. And yet, Alex always got on with Tilly, one of the only guys who did. She’d been pretty and into drama but worked backstage, on set design.

“At the prom, no one had ever seen her in her glad rags before,” Luca continues. “And then she rocked up, all glam and in heels.” He laughed. “I’d never seen a girl look more miserable at a party.”

Yeah, she hated that dress, Alex thinks, the whole setup, what she called the enforced manufactured consent of the whole misogynistic ordeal. Told me afterwards, how the makeup made her feel like a clown, the shoes and dress made her feel less feminine, staggering around in heels, forced into a role that denied her own authentic self-expression. If getting married meant wearing a dress, she said, she’d do without.

“That’s what I expected,” Luca says. “That you’d be like Tilly.”

“I’ve practiced,” he says and unspoken, Alex runs through the familiar defence: I didn’t have a choice. Couldn’t just look. Had to be. Didn’t want to. The part I play. Hate it.

Luca looks doubtful. “Last week, you said you hated all this but sis said she’s never seen you so happy, hanging out with her as a girl and looking at you, I know it’s my friend under the makeup, I see him, but I also see this girl, Blake. And it’s not just the way you look or even the way you sound, it’s—your smell too, I wasn’t expecting that, you smell like a girl and when I kissed you, you felt like one too, or at least what I think it feels like to kiss a girl, it wasn’t like kissing a man.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Alex says. “A date with a girl?”

“I wanted a date with you!” Luca winces, his voice wavers. “I mean, with Blake. After your work party. You came through the door so pissed you could barely stand, I hadn’t seen you like that in ages. It was funny. You wearing women’s clothing wasn’t part of the joke, though. There wasn’t anything funny about that. You were—”

Luca stops, smooths down his tie, one hand chasing the other.

“I thought about it afterwards, lying on your sister’s sofa, staring at the ceiling, I kept picturing you in that sequined dress and thinking, what if? I’d talked to sis about this hypothetical date. It was just this thing we did, working out the details. Over the years, it became more elaborate, more cinematic than reality. It stopped being real. I felt a date with a girl would lack the… emotion? Of a real date, that sense of attraction? The tension, all those but does he like me thoughts, the doubt, the anxious hopes. Yearning for a conversation to carry on into the night, just a little longer. Does that make any sense?”

Alex nods, tip of a manicured nail caught between his teeth.

Silence descends between them. Fairy lights glimmer and the rising murmur of other voices. Their story refracted across other tables. Variations on a theme, couples on a date. That table, maybe lesbians. But it’s heterosexual pairs mostly. A young woman sits two tables over. Glass of wine cradled between her fingers. Her appearance is tasteful and precise: glittering purple gown, hair in an elegant updo. Red-soled stilettos, a height he couldn’t have imagined wearing before Wednesday; the woman wears them with grace and poise. The man opposite wears a grey suit and his hair is greying, too. Her lips gleam in the light as she inclines her head to one side and listens intently to the man. Tilted in that way, a sole earring dances and shines. She runs her fingers through her hair and plays along the dangling earring, and her nails are elegantly shaped, milky white with black dots towards the tip, captivating.

The woman is beautiful. So am I, Alex thinks. But an entire day’s effort to capture the essence of what comes so naturally to others.

When the waitress returns with the bottle of chardonnay, she pours the wine in silence and casts an inquisitive look at Alex. He returns a wan smile as Luca listlessly swirls his glass, takes a sip, nods. The waitress retreats. Alex takes up his glass, breathes in deeply, takes a long drink. The drink helps. Putting down the glass, he feels a growing pressure within his chest. The vice there is tighter than ever. Also, a band around his temple, his throat. He wants nothing more than to take a deep breath but finds that he can’t. There is something within that demands to be spoken and he doesn’t know what it is and he fears what he is about to say.

Alex moves the bouquet of lilies to one side and reaches across the table and lays his hand over his friend’s. Luca starts, stares down at the hand covering his. Long oval nails with their black sheen. Beautiful, as he said. Yes, Alex thinks. His chest feels even tighter, he can’t breathe. He is my friend. If not him, who else? But what if? And he’ll never. I can’t.

“What are you asking me, Luca?”

His eyes dart away, he takes a deep breath, drags his gaze back. Now, he lays his hand over Alex’s over his. Alex’s hand between both of Luca’s feels warm, his friend’s touch is comforting but a little sweaty. Luca leans forward. He licks his lips, though they’re not dry, they’re wet with wine. His lips are full, almost feminine in appearance. They part in a hesitant smile, a deflecting grin as though to say, don’t take anything I say too seriously. “I guess what I’m asking is whether you’ve thought—is it at all possible that maybe—that actually you’re—” and his mouth flops open once or twice, as though working around a word whose pronunciation is unfamiliar. He frowns and shakes his head and exhales loudly and the word that tumbles out of his mouth is: “happy?”

Alex releases a sigh.

“Are you asking me if I’m happy? Being Blake?”

His friend hesitates, nods once.

Alex withdraws his hand from between those of his friend. He shakes his head, as though to say no. And all the instinctive answers crowd forward: of course not, I hate this, I wasn’t given a choice. I’m doing it for the job. Every day is a humiliation. What kind of man? A boy pretending to be a girl. Sophie’s idea, not mine. Stand straight, shoulders back. I never wanted this. Get a degree, get a job. Get a flat, get the girl. Isn’t that how it goes? Not become the girl, no. And yet. Amber and St-Clair and even Beth. The office and nights out and a house full of girls. An intimacy of friendship so different.

“I am,” Alex says.

Chapter Fourteen: As Good as It Gets

And that July evening was mild and mostly cloudy. Rain threatened earlier in the day but held off and the fairy lights his mum had strung up years ago for another party glimmered in the dark. Overhead, a near half-moon glowed behind wisps of cloud and in the garden behind their house, Alex and Luca stood talking.

They stood down by the far end of the narrow garden, where the back wall bordered on the old brick passage winding between the rows of houses. That old path was overgrown and strewn with litter, but as a child Alex once clambered over the wall and found with great excitement that in this nowhere space, he could move unseen between the houses of his neighbourhood. He expected to overhear secret conversation and find lost treasures but instead stumbled into a thicket of stinging nettles. With tears in his eyes, he returned to his mum, who never asked where he’d been but gently rubbed Germolene into the angry red welts.

A wood fence divided the garden from their neighbour’s, and Alex leaned against it, in the gap between his mother’s rose bush and his dad’s work shed. Yellow light from the kitchen window skewed across the grass. Faintly, the sounds of an argument, Sophie and his mum. Luca stood, half-in half-out of the light, with a glass of white wine. They’d been talking for at least an hour outside. At first haltingly, as though the gears of conversation had grown rusty with disuse but soon with old familiarity, so that even the lengthy pauses felt as comfortable and easy as childhood.

… and after that, a doctorate, if I get on the programme, and like, why wouldn’t I, right? Drunk, flushed with pleasure and success and the sense that everything was going as it should. A first in his undergrad, he’d fucking nailed it. Alex sawed the air with one hand, delineating a clear path to the future. Finish postgrad studies, then a job. Then his own flat. Then a girl. Bish bash bosh, Alex said.

Left unsaid, he thought how tomorrow night he’d meet up with Libby Collins and how they’d head down the pub in Taunton, and afterwards, he hoped, she’d come back with him, or he’d go to hers, and they’d have sex, or she’d at least go down on him, and that felt deserved, it felt right after scoring a first on his undergrad. A reward for hard work.

What about you? Alex asked.

Luca’s voice was thin and wavering, as though this was something he didn’t want to talk about. He’d deferred his first year to make money to cover tuition and living costs and keep student loans to a minimum. Consequently, he was entering his third year at Leeds. He explained that he had no clear plan for afterwards. He liked chemistry well enough. But he wasn’t, you know, passionate about it. Marketable, at least. With luck, he’d find a job around Taunton, maybe in Bristol; he wasn’t keen on moving to London.

Alex finished his Stella, crumpled the can against the side of the shed. Sharp metal edges dug into his palm. Nearly invisible in the dark, a black cat padded along the wall opposite, a lithe shadow between two gardens. The argument in the kitchen seemed to have run its course. From somewhere unseen in a neighbouring garden, the quiet and indiscernible voices of another conversation, a smell of cigarette smoke wafting on the air.

Alex asked if Luca was seeing anyone.

Luca joined Alex in leaning against the wall. He answered without looking at his friend. No, he said and then after a long pause: you?

No. Alex tossed the crumpled can in the air, missed it on the way down, picked it up from the ground. Like, I hooked up with a few girls. But it never went anywhere. It’s been harder to meet people at uni, at least, it has been for me. And not much time for it around studying.

Luca nodded.

And your sister? Alex asked. How’s Beth doing?

She’s doing okay, he said. Started seeing this bloke, guy called Jacob.

Jacob?

Seems alright.

Another long silence. Then Alex said, I’m grabbing another, want one?

Luca knocked back his wine, passed him the empty glass. Go on.

Alex returned to the kitchen, pulled two cans from the fridge. Dishes from earlier that day sat in the sink and freshly washed glasses sat drying on the rack. A lot of leftover food on the counter. Condensation beading on the cans in each hand. Muffled voices. He tracked them to his father’s office.

As a child, he was only rarely allowed to enter. Tonight, the heavy wooden door was closed but on the other side he could hear the ongoing sounds of an animated discussion, or an argument. His father and his sister. First their mum and now Dad; no doubt, she’d manage the hat trick of drawing him into a fight too, before heading back to London. But her loudest fights were always with their father. They didn’t see each other often, but when they did, those two fought. After she moved out it seemed to get better, but at Christmas and Easter, anytime all four of them were together, Morgan and Sophie argued and the speed with which they could trigger each other was frankly astonishing. For fuck’s sake, Alex thought. Let it go, just for one night. It’s meant to be my night, after all.

Alex returned to Luca. His friend’s face glowed from below in the rectangle light of his phone. Luca put the phone away and Alex passed him a can. Alex’s can hissed as he cracked it open. Beer foamed, bright white in the dark. Lips at the rim, he caught the foam and sucked it back. Meanwhile, the tab snapped off Luca’s beer. It hissed and fizzed but remained closed. Fuck’s sake, Luca said, and glared at the beer as though it betrayed him. Hate it when that happens.

Alex laughed and said, here, and shared his beer. Luca drank, grinned and passed the can back.

They drank in silence. Another cat followed the first, feline shadows facing off without directly looking at each other on the narrow space of the wall. Eventually one hopped onto an adjacent shed roof and curled into the night, and the other turned back the way it came and disappeared. The conversation in the other garden reached its conclusion. Someone called out a name: Ebony, Ebony. A door slammed.

Luca took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, passed the beer back to Alex and he drank, too and the moon slipped free from the clouds and the garden was bright with silver light and he was there with his friend and life felt good and he understood what came next. It all made sense, everything, the world and his place in it.

This is it, Alex thought. This is as good as it gets.

***

They talk over their meal, share a second bottle of wine. Luca orders the cheese platter. Alex protests, no, no, I can’t possibly, gives in and enjoys a single tangy blue on a rosemary cracker. After, he picks at a few grapes as Luca discourses between bites of cheese. He’s flush with wine and food and seems to genuinely delight in the conversation and company of Blake.

Alex eases into his role as Luca’s girlfriend. The wine helps, the buzz that makes everything easier. To perform the part that he’s agreed to. Though at this point, it feels rude to even consider it a performance, unfair really, when you think about it. There’s nothing performative about enjoying a friend’s company. No, not just a friend: his best friend, maybe his only real friend, at the end of the day. And like, how did this even happen, to end up twenty-three and alone in London, friendless?

Though that isn’t true. There’s Amber, after all. But she’s Blake’s friend; Blake has friends, Alex not so much. And how is that fair? Alex wonders. Everything that is Blake is also me. How does it make sense that not-me is happier than real-me? Yet she feels more real in all the ways that seem to matter. It seems to Alex then that if ‘real’ is defined through possession of a job and friends and a place to live, then Alex barely exists. And this extends online: Blake has reach, people love her Insta. And guys like her, too. All those DMs, Jesus Christ, so many recently, he can’t bring himself to read them for fear of what they show and what might be attached.

And the more real Blake becomes, Alex thinks, the less substantial I feel. Like the chained man in the parable, watching travelling shadows on a cave wall cast by flickering firelight. The man casts off his shackles and escapes blinking into the sunlight. The bright light of day burns his eyes. In pain, a weaker man returns to the comfort of soothing shadows. A strong man endures the light of truth. Am I the strong man or the weak, Alex wonders, and feels himself the shadow, cast by some truer form.

Luca grins and apologises and heads to the loo. Alex watches him go and thinks, lucky bastard. He’ll never know the inconvenience of sitting and peeling back tape to take a piss; or even the simple inconvenience of a long skirt, tucked beneath your chin. Looking down past jutting breasts. The risk of taking a piss with acrylic nails. Now that Luca’s gone, Alex realises how much he needs the toilet, too. It’s not fair.

Alex reaches for the clutch bag, retrieves the pink phone and checks his messages. Amber wants to know how the date’s going: good, he writes back, really good. He attaches the pictures from earlier that Luca shared. Kiss on cheek. Then, an unexpected but light kiss to the mouth. Alex’s eyes are closed, purple and silver shimmer. The sharp gleam of his highlighted cheekbone. Luca’s eyes are open. Unseen beneath the table, his hand resting at Alex’s waist. Looking at the picture, Alex again feels the press of his friend’s lips and the touch of his hand.

First time? Luca asked.

Oui, the man said. Comme ça, just comme ça.

Alex retrieves his compact mirror, fixes his lipstick. He times it for Luca’s return, long pencil poised at his lip. His friend sits and watches as Alex meticulously paints his mouth. Rich plum, the colour of his friend’s tie. Beth’s doing, surely. Wonders what his friend thinks, to see him like this. Waxy colour glides across his lips, a sensation once foreign, now so familiar as to go unnoticed but for the watchful eyes of others. Juliet was years ago and nothing like this. And now, a performance for an audience of one.

Alex delicately dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Luca shifts in his seat. “Enjoy the show?” Alex asks.

“Yes.” Luca shakes his head. “I mean—” he trails off. “Yes. It’s just. I see you sitting there. And instead of my mate, it’s this girl, doing that. And it messes with this.” He taps the side of his head with his finger. “You’re very good at that.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. Have to look good for work.”

“You know what I mean.”

“All of this,” Alex says, “It’s messing with me too, you know.”

“But you’re happy.”

Blake’s happy, he thinks. And if she’s happy, I’m happy.

They talk over the last of their meal. Alex sees himself listening to his friend. His head is tilted to one side. Alex nods and smiles and brushes the hair back from his eyes and pokes it back with his nails. Luca continues to speak but his eyes are now drawn to those beautiful earrings. Unfamiliar in their newness, Alex is aware of the weight and fall of the delicate drops. The earrings are a token imbued with meaning and to wear them is a declaration of his acceptance of that meaning. Tonight, he is Luca’s date. Date: a specification of time, but also one in which a transaction or event takes place. A person with whom you have a romantic meeting. Derived from the Latin datus, ‘given’; a transfer of a thing from one to the other and is he not given to Luca for this specified time?

Alex dated regularly enough in high school: a night out with a girl at Nando’s or Pizza Express, school discos, sixth form evenings to the pub. A few times through university, single dates that never led to more. Occasionally, a one-night stand. Precious little since moving to London. In fact, it occurs to him that his friend probably has considerably more experience of dating in his twenties than Alex does. Certainly, in dating men. Not that you’d know it from watching the two of them. They fit in just fine with the other couples tonight.

And being the girl on a date isn’t so difficult after all, Alex decides. As the tension of sitting opposite his best friend eases, he finds himself slipping into the role almost effortlessly. Most of the hard work was done earlier, the waxing and makeup and clothes and so on. Gathering his courage to even show. That first glass of wine before Luca showed helped. A lot.

Now, he just needs to—listen. Nod and smile, play with an earring, touch up his makeup. Lightly touch his friend’s arm. An occasional breathy giggle, or shy glance. A pretty prop in his friend’s elaborate staging of a perfect night out. It’s an odd feeling, but not a bad one. Looking beautiful, eating good food, feeling mildly drunk: there are worse ways to spend a Saturday evening. One could get used to being an accessory, maybe. And actually, when you get down to it, Luca’s a good guy, a really good mate. He’s interesting and funny and even, Alex grudgingly admits, pretty good looking, if we’re being brutally honest here. And there’s nothing gay in acknowledging that fact. Nor is there anything wrong in being gay. It’s okay to notice that Luca’s been working out, he’s lost weight, he looks good in that white shirt and the way it pulls taut across his chest, yeah, okay fine, he’s looking pretty fit these days. And honestly, it’s even more okay for Blake to notice these things. She knows what she likes and if she’s going to like men, they might as well be fit and wealthy.

And in letting the shame that inflected the first half of the day drain away, Alex sees how his friend has also spent the day trying to look his best for tonight. Sure, it’s only a fraction of what it took to transform Alex into an idealised version of Blake. But still, a willingness on his friend’s part to put forward his very best self, and Alex feels a sudden, unexpected warmth in realizing this, that his friend is keen to impress him and, perhaps, was in his own way as shy and anxious and worried about how he’d be perceived tonight.

Their conversation weaves itself within the quiet murmurs of others, the wash of words rising and falling like a wave. They fit in here, another couple among couples on a Saturday night, attractive and young, and isn’t that what they both wanted, to belong? Luca cuts into the last of the cheese and Alex takes a final water biscuit with a small nugget of cave-aged cheddar, raises it to his lips but returns it to the plate, untasted. No doubt it’s delicious. But he has no appetite for it, he barely ate half his main, let alone the starter, sides and dessert. Truth is, between the food and the bubbly and the wine, despite eating barely anything throughout the day, he’s feeling uncomfortable around the middle. Squeezed, a little bloated. Women’s clothing is unforgiving, or at least what he’s wearing tonight is. At the same time, a pleasant drunken fuzziness and the simple pleasure of being in his friend’s company.

He’s never heard his friend talk this much before and wonders why, why has Luca never talked so freely?

The waitress comes, collects plates, and leaves. His friend’s face is a little pink with drink, his eyes bright with excitement. He’s enjoying himself and Alex feels flushed with pleasure, knowing that his friend is having fun, and that Blake is at the centre of this fun. I really haven’t seen enough of him since leaving home. And each of those times, were either of us happy? I don’t think so. And now look at him. And look at me. This was his idea. But I’m the one making it happen.

It was a tough three years, Luca explains. At times, unbearably lonely. A year older than everyone else and a lot of friendship groups already formed, the price of arriving a year late. University didn’t feel like a continuation of high school but still felt shockingly small at times, insular and detached from the larger city. He loved Leeds. But once university was over, there was no desire to stay and live there. But he appreciated the experience of living in a big city. But Bristol was more to his liking, at the limit of his comfort zone. But still, all that Victorian red brick, an engine of the Industrial Revolution, manufacturing and mills, well-oiled pistons and power. The Corn Exchange, the first M&S. Just so much history. And beautiful in its own way.

But still. He missed home. When his studies allowed, he made trips back to Taunton. Occasionally, Beth came to visit him in Leeds. And alongside all this, his first, furtive attempts at dating.

He never got further than a few drunken snogs. “And those never went anywhere,” Luca says. “I looked around online and the gay scene in Leeds’s fine, and there’s a lot of Pride stuff around campus. Like, I don’t know how it compares to other campuses, but I saw plenty of, you know, queer kids around, guys like me but also some dressed, like… well, you can imagine.” He gives a little cough, takes a large drink of wine. “But it’s not like I ever walked up to anyone and said hello, you know? I was a coward. And after all, I was there to study, right? That was always my excuse. I was there to study. I’d go for months just totally focused on my studies. And so goddamn miserable, you can’t even imagine how crazy with loneliness I got.”

He says it flippantly, with a wry smile, over the rim of his glass.

I can imagine, Alex thinks, but lowers his eyes and says nothing.

“Anyway, I’d get this urge, it’d build up and I’d go for these walks, these long walks at night. Just me trudging along city streets under those new lights, hands in pockets, skirting the centre but eventually, they’d always bring me to the same places. I’d skirt past Queen’s Court or end up at The Penny and I’d see men out front and the rainbow flag over the door. And I’d think, can that really be me? Do I want to go in there? Maybe I’m gay but am I that kind of gay?”

Luca grimaces.

“Well, eventually, I went in. I did this a few times. After, I’d always feel guilty. I’d avoid going back until, well, you know, the urge returned. And I cycled like this until one night, I went in and then never went back. That was the night I got hurt.”

He reaches for his wine, raises it to his lips. “I already told you about that night.” He returns his glass to the table without drinking. His voice and his breathing are very controlled. He looks away, towards a distant corner of the room.

Alex reaches across the table. He takes his friend’s hand in his, holds him firmly. “If you want to talk about it,” he says, “I’m here.” He squeezes his friend’s hand. “And if you don’t want to talk about it, I’m still here.”

A long silence. Eventually, Luca drags his gaze back to the table. He shakes his head. His eyes are watery. “I can’t,” he says. “Not yet.” And then he says, “I ended up in A&E.” He takes a shuddering breath. “The guys who jumped me, they lamped me but good. As far as I can tell, they followed me from the bar and I never noticed. I was in too good a mood. For the first time, I wasn’t feeling guilty. I don’t know what was different about that night. But I felt good about myself. For so long, I’d felt bad about myself but that night, I felt good. I’d had a good night, met this guy, you know, I can’t even remember his name. But he was—friendly. We held hands. He grabbed my ass and then we kissed and honestly, up to that point it was sloppy and drunk and wonderful. When I left the bar, I swear it was like in one of those cartoons, I was practically floating.

“But because I was happy, I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway. These two guys, it’s like they came out of nowhere and next thing I knew, I was in an alley and then the next thing, I was on the floor and then they were kicking me. I went foetal and they just kept hitting me and saying things I mostly didn’t hear until I blacked out.

“I don’t remember much of it, to be honest. Flashes of it, every now and then. And I get these—” he rolls his wrist, searching for the right words, “—revenge fantasies.” His upper lip curls in a grimace of anger or disgust. “Ones where I track them down to where they live and—or I fight back, and win—I smash their skulls into the brick wall—”

He takes a deep breath, gently pries his hand out from beneath Alex’s and slides it back to his side and hides it beneath the table.

“I’m so sorry,” Alex says.

“No,” Luca says, “I am.” He tries to smile but his smile wavers and dies and instead he sneers with self-loathing. He knocks the heel of one hand against his head, and says, angrily: “Fuck.”

“It’s—” and Alex is about to say ‘okay’ but of course it’s not, his friend is not okay. “Luca—”

“This is supposed to be my dream date,” he says, angry petulance rising in Luca’s voice. “Looking forward to it all week. And I keep fucking it up. I’m late. I kiss you without asking. I whinge about—something I can’t change—and fuck—” and he pounds his fist into his open palm—"it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Look at you, just look at you, you’re amazing, I’m sat here with this amazing girl and it’s all I’ve ever wanted and I’m ruining it by—”

He covers his face with his hands.

The silence that follows is heavy and lasts for some time. Eventually. Luca draws his hands away from his face and looks away. His cheeks are flushed red, and his gaze keeps flicking back to his friend. Alex takes a final sip of wine, and demonstrating a calm he doesn’t feel, returns the glass to the table. Then, he stands and lightly grips the table as the room suddenly wobbles. Okay, he thinks. I’m a wee bit more drunk than I thought. Which tracks, considering I’m about to do. Alex smiles at his friend and without breaking eye contact, walks around to his friend’s side of the table. Luca watches his approach with a mix of curiosity and fear. Then, Alex leans down, and very lightly brings his lips to his friend’s lips. Eyes closed, he holds his mouth there for several seconds. His friend’s lips are soft. He inhales deeply, draws in the intimate odour of his friend. Alex then stands straight once more, shoulders back.

“What was that for?” Luca asks.

“Just… because.” He gently rubs his thumb across the waxy plum shadow left on his friend’s bottom lip. “I wanted to, okay?”

Luca looks up at him in wonder.

A giggle at the look in his friend’s eyes: “Now if you’ll excuse the lady,” Alex says, “I need to powder my nose.”

He feels pleasantly drunk and warm, almost giggly. The bands of pressure at his chest and temple are tighter than ever, and yet balanced against rising giddiness, a swelling excitement felt as a tingling in his fingertips, a curling of the toes. He wants to laugh, bites back on the urge and suddenly his neck is prickly with sweat. He pushes through the door to the women’s loo. Normally, his stomach clenches in doing so. Each time, an intrusion into a place he doesn’t belong. Tonight, he crosses over without fear. Still, relief that the bathroom is empty. The reflection in the mirror catches him. He sees himself and suddenly wants to scream or shout out or laugh or punch a wall, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know.

Instead, Alex throws himself into a toilet stall, bangs the door shut, locks it.

Biting back sudden tears, he hangs his clutch bag from the hook on the inside of the stall door and sits with elbows on knees and his head in his hands and holds this position for some time, eyes closed, breathing. Slowly, he feels the swell of emotions retreat. The tight pressure at his temple and chest eases. Jesus, he thinks. What the fuck was that, what’s wrong with me? Get it together, like seriously, you can’t go losing your shit like this. Not now, your friend needs you. You got this, Alex, Blake, whatever; accept the terrible responsibility of the moment.

He retrieves his bag. Inside, the Polaroid photograph of his father. He turns it over and reads the inscription on the back again and then flips it back to the front. Alex traces the outline of his father with the edge of one elegant, black nail.

Hey Dad, he thinks. I really miss you, you know. All told, you weren’t all that great of a dad, if we’re being brutally honest here. But still, I miss you. I wish you were still here. You’d probably lose your nut to see me now. I’m an embarrassment, I get that. It wasn’t meant to be like this. But it’s true, you know. I am happy. I don’t know why and I shouldn’t be and I guess that makes me a failure and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I think if you saw me now, you’d say all kinds of horrible things. But that would be okay, I think, if only you were still here. You could call me anything you like, if only you were still here. And I didn’t get to say goodbye, not properly. And that’s not right. I was afraid. Of what I might say or what you might say or that there’d be nothing to say at all. And now, I’d give anything to hear your voice, just one last time. I don’t think you’d approve of my choices. I guess I couldn’t be the son you wanted me to be. But at the end of the day, I believe that you’d want me to be happy. And I think I can be. I just need to be strong enough.

I’m sorry, Dad.

***

A young couple walk together under London lights. With each step, her stiletto heels click against cobblestone. She giggles a little breathlessly and grips the arm of her date for support. Her navy-blue dress swirls around her legs, and with each step a glimpse of stocking tops. Metal tabs, flashing under market lights. A shine to her lips, and a dance of drop earrings. The man’s arm snakes around the girl’s waist and holds her close, and he raises his phone high and snaps a picture of the two of them. In the picture afterwards, her dark dress cuts a fine contrast to the pale teal of his suit. In the background, stairs lead down to a sunken square where other couples drink. Not captured in the photograph, the music of the string quartet playing The Rites of Spring. The murmuration of conversation. The chill of September night air raising goosebumps across her bare arms and the warmth of their closeness. The eddy of passing people.

Thank you, he says softly.

Let’s grab a drink, she says. I know a place.

Small and dark and intimate, the old cellar smells of moist earth and age, lime and smoke staining the old yellow brickwork. Stroke of luck, getting a seat on a Saturday night. The man returns from the bar, ducking low to avoid the arched ceiling. A glass of white for her, red for him. Hope you like it, he says. I know I will, she says. They touch glasses, sip, and their eyes are bright in the candlelight. They talk, finish their wine, he makes another trip to the bar and when he returns, pulls his seat closer to hers. They sit now side by side. He looks at her and she glances away shyly and then back to him and tucks her hair back and says, what? Nothing, he says. A curious half smile and she says, no, what is it? and he says, it’s just, you really are beautiful and she blushes and says stop and slaps him lightly and he laughs and catches her hand and then his hand is on her thigh. Her dress falls open as if with a will of its own and the man’s fingers rest across her stockings, plays lightly across the welt and brushes the smooth, sensitive skin above. She blushes all the hotter and opens her mouth to say, stop. But she doesn’t say anything. The word catches in her throat. He’s watching her, to see her reaction. She says nothing and neither does he. Still, the curious half-smile. And now he takes up her left hand in his and slowly brings it to his lips and then gently lays a kiss to the back of her hand. She is breathing heavily and feels hot and his breath is a whisper across her fingers. The woman feels tight across her chest. She wants to take back her hand but also doesn’t want to take back her hand. Eventually, he lets her go. Was that okay, he asks. Yes, she says. They drink their wine and the white wine feels as cold and crisp a drink as she’s ever known. She feels quite drunk now but very pleasantly so and the way the man looks at her makes her feel warm and funny inside. Impulsively, she touches the back of her hand to his cheek and his skin is hot. Then, she touches his shoulder, his arm and then her hand also rests against his thigh. His eyes widen. Now, it’s her turn to smile, a small twist to the corner of her mouth. Her hand drifts and then feels how he strains against his trousers, he’s excited, he’s excited by her.

They both pull back and look at each other and drink in silence until she says, was tonight everything you hoped it would be and he says, yes.

***

They take a short walk around the riverside park next to the wine bar, and then up the embankment to Charing Cross. Standing out front of the station, they feel conspicuously well-dressed among the late-night tourist and Saturday evening crowd. They catch an Uber back to Shoreditch. The car drops them off at the hotel where their day started. Alex’s possessions wait in Beth’s room. Thirty minutes’ effort and he’ll be back to being a boy, on his way back to his sister’s, the last night he can call that place home.

“I had a lovely evening,” he says.

“Me too,” Luca says.

There’s an awkward silence as they enter the hotel and cross the lobby together and then wait by the lifts. He pushes the button. His room is on the fifth floor. Beth’s room is closer to the top. After a short wait, the lift door opens. They both step in, Alex mindful of his heels and the gap in the floor. Luca pushes the button for his floor and then after a short hesitation, the button for his sister’s floor. The door closes. They are alone in the lift. Alex stands close to Luca and his friend’s arm is around his waist and Alex leans into him and rests his head. He feels the strength in his friend’s arms and the firmness of his chest. He feels comfortable in his friend’s arm. But something else, too. What is it, he wonders and then realises, he feels safe. He feels safe in Luca’s arms and this realisation sends a tingle down his spine.

This is easy, Alex thinks. At the end of the night. Playing the girl. Or being her, same thing, at least tonight. Barely any effort. Just let the clothes and his expectations lead the way.

The lift stops, the door opens.

“My floor,” Luca says. He doesn’t move. Nor does Alex. After a pause, the door begins to close. Luca presses the button to keep the door open. His arm remains around Alex’s waist and neither has tried to disengage from the other.

“So it is,” Alex says.

“Do you—”

“Another drink?” Alex asks.

“Yeah.”

They leave the lift together and it’s a short walk along the hotel corridor to Luca’s room. He swipes the lock and it beeps and clicks open and they enter his room. The room is much smaller than Beth’s. A double bed opposite a small desk with a mirror over it, and a large window opposite the door, with drawn curtains. A TV on the wall and through a door next to the entrance, a small bathroom. The room is neat and tidy, with Luca’s suitcase stored away and his clothes carefully folded or hanging in the small closet.

Now, they detach and stand inside the room. The air is a little stale, and Alex feels uncomfortably hot.

“Drink?” Luca asks.

Alex nods.

Luca kneels at the desk and opens the small fridge beneath it. “There’s a beer,” he says over his shoulder. “And a can of G&T, Gordons. And bottled water. I fancy the beer. You want the gin and tonic?”

Alex nods. Then he says, “I need the loo.”

And time, to figure out what the hell is happening. Why’d I follow him here? So many reasons. Special providence in this. We’re here, and I’ve got this. The readiness is all. It’s his hotel room at the end of a date. Best not to think about it. Let be.

Avoiding the mirror, Alex sits on the loo and lifts his dress and drops his knickers and winces when he scratches his balls in peeling off the tape. Holy shit, he thinks, I’m so fucking drunk. And he is, the room’s not quite spinning but there’s a definite tilt to it, tunnel vision and blurring at the edges. And why not? It’s Saturday night, he’s young, he’s beautiful. Like, fuck it, actually. Why shouldn’t he have some fun? Girls just wanna. Not that he is, but. For tonight, yeah? Chin up and shoulders back and all that shit, whatever.

He pisses and wipes and realises he’s left his clutch on the desk in the room. Oh. A bundle of used tape in a clump stuck to the wall. Not very careful in removing them. Well, shit. A token effort at untangling the jumble of tape gets him nowhere. How could he forget his handbag? That must be girl 101, never leave your handbag behind. Well, maybe the knickers can do the job. He tugs his knickers back over his hips. Such pretty panties, Beth’s got great taste. Midnight black, blue satin panels, all that lace, gorgeous. She’s waiting for him upstairs. The thong is snug, holds him in place. Well, not really. And thinking about Beth and the underwear makes it worse. Jesus, Alex—Blake—whatever; get your shit together, mate. Babe. He giggles, stands and the dress falls and settles over his frame. A twist, tweak: he checks himself in the mirror. An unmistakable bulge at the front of his dress. He tries smoothing down the front. If anything, he’s straining even more against the front of his dress.

Alex gnaws his bottom lip and thinks, maybe Luca won’t notice?

He steps slowly out of the bathroom, careful in his heels. He really is quite drunk. Luca sits at the edge of the bed. His friend’s gaze sweeps over him. Alex holds the doorframe, arches his back slightly under his friend’s eye. His friend’s eye zeroes in on the bulge tenting the dress. He glances up, an eyebrow raised, a small smile playing across his lips. Alex blushes fiercely, and realizes the flush of embarrassment has him feeling all the more excited. He quickly crosses to the desk, back turned to hide his arousal. He fights back the urge to reach under his dress and adjust himself. Instead, he snatches up his clutch and fumbles in it for the tape and then realises there’s no fucking point, like what does it matter, his friend knows he’s really a guy, what’s he hiding, actually? Like yeah, it’s a shame to ruin the smooth line of the dress but it’s not like Luca cares about that kind of thing. So, with his hands already in the bag, he retrieves his lip gloss. He leans close to the mirror and touches up his lips. The familiarity of the action brings him a little calm. Luca watches him. Alex smiles. This is fine, he thinks. I’ve got this.

His friend still sits at the edge of the bed. Alex slips the gloss back into the bag, turns to face his friend. He leans back on the desk and feels the way it pushes out his chest and wonders if he looks sexy like that.

Luca smiles, pats the space next to him on the bed.

Alex joins his friend on the bed. Luca passes him the glass. He raises his beer and Alex touches his glass to it and then drinks. The gin and tonic is strong and cold, he feels it rush through him. Calming; no, bracing. In the wake of the drink, he feels a strange calmness. The room doesn’t spin if he focuses on Luca. He really has always been there for me, Alex thinks.

They sit turned slightly towards each other. Their knees touch. Now, Alex notices the bulge in his friend’s trousers. Luca sees that he sees and he has the look of someone who believes they are dreaming.

That, or he’s just very, very drunk, too.

“Is this how you imagined it?” Alex asks.

Luca doesn’t say anything.

“The date, I mean.”

Very slowly, his friend nods.

“All of it?”

Now, he shakes his head, no.

“What did you imagine different?”

Luca licks his lips. “How it ends.”

Alex nods. “Did you picture it ending with a kiss?”

“Yes,” Luca says.

Alex realises at some point he laid his hand over his friend’s leg, well, his thigh actually. “Only a kiss?”

Luca looks pale. He swallows nervously. He shakes his head, no.

“Tell me,” Alex says.

“I can’t,” Luca says.

Alex nods, nods again. His hand drifts a little higher, he feels under his touch how tense his friend is. “I want you to do something for me,” he says.

Still pale, Luca nods and his voice is a dry whisper. “Anything.”

“I want you to say to me what you said to me that night,” Alex says.

“That night?”

“In the garden.”

Luca’s breath catches in his throat. He looks away. Alex cups his cheek and guides him back. “That night in the garden,” Alex says. “What did you say to me?”

“Please,” Luca says. “I can’t.” His eyes are rimmed in red. His hand trembles as he puts down his beer.

“Say it,” Alex says. His hand drifts higher and now rests over his friend’s lap and he feels his friend’s erection and how hard he is. “Please?” he says. “Nobody else has ever said that to me.”

“I love you,” Luca says. “That night in the garden, I told you that I loved you.”

“Thank you,” Alex says.

“I love you,” Luca says again. “I always have.”

Yes, you have, Alex thinks, and leans in close and kisses his friend, deeply.

And after the kiss, he asks Luca how he imagines this dream ending, how a date with an idealised woman should finish, what she would do for him, if asked, or without asking, because this is a dream, after all, a celluloid fantasy brought to life.

Luca tells him.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Alex says. “But I can try.”

***

Afterwards, he returns to Beth.

She’s awake, waiting for him. The telly’s on behind her when she opens the door. By her flushed cheeks, he thinks she’s been drinking heavily. She takes Alex’s hand and he follows her into the room. Beth closes the door and leans back again it. The hard points of her nipples poke through the thin silk of a pale blue negligee. She seems to him then the most alluring woman he’s ever seen.

“My turn,” she says.

About the Author

I’ve been writing gender-exploratory fiction for some time under the name Fakeminsk—my roommate's cat, Minsk, was in my line of site when I first needed an online persona. I started with Ranma ½ fanfiction in the 90s and then moved on to Constant in All Other Things in 2006.

There was a decade-long period during which I gave up writing entirely, before returning in 2022. I’ve been writing steadily since, having extended Constant through six books, and writing a few shorter novels, including Who Made the Lamb and Trapped in Amber.

The author currently identifies as cis heterosexual male, though there’s been some vigorous disagreement on this topic. Apparently, if you spend thirty years and a million words writing about boys turning into girls, you just might be repressing something. For now, watch this space.

fakeminsk@gmail.com

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