Having been referred by his GP, it took every gram of courage Frank had to cross the threshold of Beth’s tiny clinic. But he had yet to regret it.
‘Now, first things first,’ she’d said at one of their very first meetings, ‘how would you like to be addressed? As Frank or as Francesca? I’m anxious for you to be as comfortable as possible.’
He hesitated before answering – no one had ever asked him that before. ‘Frank is fine, thanks,’ he told her.
‘For the moment, at least.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I think until everyone is comfortable calling me Francesca, then it’s easier all around if I just stay known as Frank. It’s fine by me,’ he added. ‘I’m used to pretending.’
‘So, when did you first start feeling like this?’ Beth asked. ‘That you identify more as female than male?’
The sheer relief he felt just at being asked was overwhelming. To be able to talk candidly about how he felt was beyond price. For the first time in his life, Frank began to feel that maybe, just maybe, he could tell the truth. His truth.
‘Since . . . since . . . always, really.’
Funny thing, but once Frank began to open up to her, it was actually difficult for him to shut up. Decades of feelings he’d taken pains to suppress started to gush out. Beth, meanwhile, sat beside him and listened, asking all the right questions, taking notes and passing the Hobnobs.
‘Since I was a small child,’ Frank told her. ‘Since I discovered I infinitely preferred watching my mother putting on makeup than playing football like my brother.’
Beth nodded, like what he was saying was the most normal thing she’d ever heard.
‘It’s perfectly common to start that way,’ she told him calmly. ‘More so than you’d think. Society tells us that gender is binary – but supposing it’s not as straightforward as that for some people? Wouldn’t be the first time society got it wrong, now would it? So keep talking, Frank. I can’t promise you that the process will be painless, but I can at least promise you this: from here on in, things will start to get so much easier for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Frank managed to say, sounding choked. All the taunts and jibes in work, he could deal with. It was when he was shown kindness and compassion, that’s when he began to feel like he might fall apart.
‘Tell me everything.’
So that’s what Frank did. He spoke about feeling as if he’d always been born into the wrong body, right back from when he was a little kid starting school – how strange it felt to him to be dressed in long pants and a shirt and tie. The girls’ uniform – kilt skirt, blouse and jumper – had always looked so much more inviting.
‘Why can’t I wear a skirt too?’ he’d asked innocently, but his mum only told him to stop asking silly questions and to do as he was told.
As a small child, his joy was to lose himself in his mother’s wardrobe, where he’d spend hours trying on her dresses and coats, revelling in the freedom of it and then not understanding why he was in such deep trouble when his father found him there one day, in an evening dress that was way too long for him and a faceful of clumsily applied makeup.
There was so much he didn’t understand as a child. Why was it that he didn’t feel like a boy – not once, not ever? When he pretended to be a girl, he was so much happier and more contented. Why was it that when he was writing out his list for Santa Claus and asked for a pair of bright pink evening gloves with a handbag to match, Santa didn’t listen? Instead he and his brother both got Lego, which wasn’t the same thing at all.
Frank talked about his parents, how they’d brushed this behaviour under the carpet, thinking he’d grow out of it in time. As a teenager, he was sent to an all-boys boarding school, where you were ruthlessly beaten up for being in any way different. So for years, Frank managed to suppress that whole side of himself. Maybe it’s gone away for good now, he used to hope, shrinking under the covers in the dorm he shared with a gang of boisterous fifteen-year-old lads. Maybe I’ll never feel that way again.
But he was wrong. Very wrong.
Frank could have talked to Beth for hours more, but to his astonishment, his first session came to a close before he’d barely even tipped the iceberg.
‘It will take many more sessions,’ Beth said, ‘but for today, you’ve made a wonderful start. I’m very proud of you. Now just before you go, tell me this, do you know any other transwomen?’
Frank shook his head. ‘There’s a club I go to sometimes but . . . There’s no one I know well there.’
‘If and when you’d like to, there are support groups we can put you in touch with. It can help sometimes to talk to other people who have been through what you’re doing now.’
Frank nodded. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m not sure if I’m quite ready for that yet. I’m still getting used to talking openly.’ Frank had always been quiet and shy at the easiest of times, and the thought of meeting new people in the midst of all this was still scary.
‘That’s okay.’ Beth smiled. ‘In the meantime, I’m here for you. Now, remember, honesty in all things. If your kids ask, you tell them quite openly that you’re in therapy, that you’re dealing with everything and that they shouldn’t worry about a thing. Also, if they want to talk, I’m here for them too. OK?’
Frank came out of his first session feeling not quite as if a burden had been lifted, but at least that his life might start to be a little more bearable from here on in.
He badly needed his life to be bearable, because that was the other thing. Gracie had insisted that he seek help, but her other firm, irrevocable demand had been that Frank move out of the family home, as soon as he could find suitable accommodation.
It was kind-hearted Jayne Dawson from across Primrose Square who presented him with the perfect solution.
‘You know Violet Hardcastle from down the square is looking for lodgers just now?’ she mentioned to Frank one evening. ‘I’m just mentioning it to you in case . . . well, in case you ever needed to know.’
Of course Frank knew Violet. She was a neighbourhood legend – although not necessarily in a good way. She was famously sour, bad-tempered and a bit of a joke around Primrose Square. Not unlike myself, he thought sadly. But at least renting from Violet would give his family a bit of respite, while still keeping him close to his kids, in case they needed him.
So, the very same evening of his first session with Beth, he trundled home to Primrose Square, packed his bags and shuffled down the road to number eighty-one. Predictably, Amber was the only one of his family who actually helped him, carrying one of his bags and hugging him a tight little goodbye.
‘Don’t be sad, Daddy,’ she told him. ‘This is only for a while, just till Mummy is less cross. Then you can come home again. And at least this way, we can wave to each other every single night before we go to sleep.’
‘I hope so, pet,’ Frank said, standing on the steps that led up to Violet’s house, surrounded by stuffed suitcases and black binliners that contained all his earthly goods. He had to take his glasses off and keep his head down, pretending to clean them, so that Amber wouldn’t have to see her father tear up.
So this is it, he thought. This is what rock bottom feels like.
‘Say “okey dokey” Dad!’ Amber insisted, tugging at his elbow to grab his attention. ‘That’s the only way I know you really are OK.’
‘Okey dokey.’
*
Later, Violet – or Miss Hardcastle, as she insisted on being called – outlined a lengthy list of house rules and showed him to an upstairs bedroom, a bit like a prison governor inducting an inmate. Frank politely thanked Violet for letting him stay, agreed a weekly rent, and prayed to God that he wouldn’t have to stay there for too long.
‘And no funny business while you’re staying under my roof,’ Violet said pointedly. ‘I presume you know what I’m referring to, Mr Woods. There’ll be none of that perverted carry-on in my house.’
&nb
sp; She knows, Frank thought, looking down at the fussy lacy bedspread that stank of damp and probably hadn’t been changed for years. But then why should that surprise me? They all know.
As soon as she’d left him in peace, he sat down on the lumpy mattress and looked around the old-fashioned room.
I’m fifty years old, he thought sadly. For most people, that was a cause for celebration. But for Frank, no matter where he looked, he’d disappointed someone. I’ve worked hard all my life, he thought. I’ve tried my best to be a kind, good, responsible person. I’ve kept my head down and everything I’ve done has been for the love of my family.
And now here he was, a half-century old and all alone, renting a room in a run-down, dilapidated house, just so he could keep the peace at home.
There was just one single bright light left in the life of Frank Woods. One other person who gave him a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Someone who made him feel on top of the world, like he could take on any challenge and win. Someone who knew that there was an awful lot more to him than boring old Mr Cellophane.
Suddenly Frank was up on his feet, rummaging through one of the suitcases he’d packed earlier. A moment later, he found what he was looking for, right at the bottom of his suitcase, carefully wrapped up in tissue paper.
Next thing, he was carefully undressing, then gingerly taking the exquisite fabric out of the tissue and allowing it to slide down over his body.
I’ve lost weight, he thought. It was true what they said – stress really was a great diet. He walked over to the ugly mahogany cheval mirror in the corner, did a twirl and scrutinised himself in the reflection. Already he was starting to feel better, stronger, more in control.
Next, Frank went back to the overnight bag on the bed, unzipped it and fumbled around in a concealed inner pocket. A moment later, he produced a flowery makeup bag and took a seat at the dressing table by the window. Slowly, carefully, he began to apply a layer of foundation.
God, it felt good to feel the creamy liquid glide over his face. His whole mood instantly lifted. Like putting on a second skin. Like putting on armour to shield him from the world. Next, Frank began to apply eye makeup as painstakingly as any professional MUA, taking great care to flick the liquid eyeliner, just like he’d seen on YouTube. A cat’s eye it was called, apparently, and it needed the utmost concentration.
Then Frank unpacked a pair of high heels he’d had the greatest difficulty in sourcing, because his feet were so big, and the only place he could find shoes large enough to fit was some dodgy website in the States. This, of course, led to much mortification when the parcel had arrived at his house all those months ago, and Frank had been forced into a barefaced lie when the postman he’d known for years checked the customs declaration on the parcel and wanted to know why exactly Frank was buying a pair of high spangly heels?
‘It’s meant to be a surprise for Gracie,’ Frank had blurted out on the doorstep, flushing bright red to his temples. ‘For her birthday,’ he added, silently cursing himself for embellishing the lie.
‘And Gracie takes size eleven, does she?’ the postman had asked with a knowing smirk, as Frank thanked him politely and closed the door.
Frank slipped his bare feet into the five-inch stiletto heels and began to walk around the room, feeling invincible, like a goddess. Worth it, he thought. It was well worth the hassle and humiliation of getting the shoes in the first place, just so he could feel like this.
There was just one more finishing touch and then he was done. The elegant, brunette wig, which he’d found in London on a work trip some years ago. He kept it hidden away carefully, constantly transferring it from one hiding place to another, lest Gracie or the kids ever stumbled on it. Frank had spent a fortune on it; this was real hair, none of your cheap acrylic rubbish. This was a class act, glossy and thick, just like Kate Middleton’s glorious mane of hair, and given that Frank was prematurely bald, the wig instantly took ten years off him.
Only then did he allow himself to really look at his own reflection in the mirror. And he liked what he saw. As Frank Woods, he may have been Mr Cellophane, the biggest joke on Primrose Square and a sad disappointment to his family. Like this, though, he felt he could take on the world and win. Because this was the way he should have been born, no matter what anyone said. This was the person he was meant to be.
Like this, Frank Woods simply didn’t exist.
And in his place was Francesca.
Emily
‘Good morning. You must be Emily.’
He stood on the upstairs landing in front of her, a wiry little man with a shiny bald head in a neatly cut grey suit and tie. Somehow, he managed to look groomed and immaculate, even at 6.30 a.m.
‘Oh. Right. Frank, is it?’ Emily said, sleepily stretching out her hand to shake his. She hadn’t expected to meet her co-lodger so early in the morning – she’d only got up to use the bathroom down the corridor, knowing she had another few extra hours in bed ahead of her.
‘It’s good to meet you.’
‘And you too.’
A pause, while Frank looked at Emily in polite embarrassment, as if he wasn’t sure where to look.
‘Well,’ he said, flushing red. ‘I’d better get going. I’m anxious to beat the traffic. Eleven-minute delays, according to Google Maps. You know how the N11 can be at this hour of the morning.’
Emily didn’t, but she nodded along anyway.
‘I hope I’ll see you for a proper chat later,’ Frank said, sounding a bit flustered as he went to leave. ‘Maybe at dinner time?’
‘Sounds good,’ Emily yawned, padding back down the corridor. It was only when she was in the privacy of her own room that she realised.
She’d been wearing her knickers with yesterday’s bra and absolutely sod all else.
*
Later that morning, Emily was starting to get the weirdest feeling that she was being followed. As the day wore on, it became more than a feeling, it became a very deep suspicion. Everywhere she went, she kept noticing a taxi behind her – a silver Audi with tinted windows, so she couldn’t see who was behind the wheel.
You’re fecking imagining things, she told herself. Years of boozing have melted your brain and now you’re being paranoid.
Of course it was all in her head. Emily didn’t know anyone who drove a taxi for starters. It couldn’t be that she’d run up an unpaid fare, because she hadn’t taken a cab in years; she couldn’t afford to. Who’d take the time to follow her anyway? No one cared about her that much to go to such trouble.
Yet as she strode past Trinity College, weaving her way through the throngs of students and tourists who were permanently congregated there day and night, there it was again. That same bloody cab, but this time, its car horn blared at her.
Fuck’s sake, Emily thought crossly, shoving her hands deep into her pockets and marching on. She crossed the busy road at the bottom of College Green and made a point of giving the driver two big fat fingers as she passed by. Jesus Christ, she thought. Haven’t I already dealt with enough arseholes for one day?
Violet – or Miss Hardcastle, as she insisted on being called – had bollocked her out of it earlier for daring to smoke out her bedroom window. Emily had of course told her that what she did in the privacy of her own room was her own business, and the ensuing row had been monumental. Only Violet’s threat that she’d turf Emily out on her ear if she didn’t obey all the house rules prevented Emily from telling the old witch to fuck off with herself.
So now here she was, pounding the pavement, striding all the way to the dole office on Cork Street, right in the heart of Dublin’s Liberties. Annoyingly, the walk took approximately half an hour longer than it should have done, because there was a long list of her old haunts en route, which Emily had to avoid. Neal’s Pub on Townsend Street, the Lock In on Thomas Street, Digger Magee’s on the Quays.
Emily had drunk in all of them, made a show of herself in all of them, and now had to plan route maps for herself t
hat neatly sidestepped each and every one of a scarily long list. But like it or not, she had to get money from somewhere, and the dole, it seemed, was the only option available if you were a forty-year-old single woman who no employer would touch with a bargepole.
It was busy and bustling when she eventually got to the Liberties, but Emily had no difficulty finding the dole office. There it was, right at the bottom of the street, clearly identifiable by the stragglers outside, looking miserable and sucking on cigarettes.
Emily had never signed on the dole before and it was every bit as depressing as she feared it would be. She had a good hour waiting to be seen and when she eventually worked her way to the top of the queue, (hatch fourteen, new claims), a gaunt-looking guy, with round glasses that made him a dead ringer for Harry Potter, nodded curtly at her.
‘So, what exactly was your field of employment?’ he asked flatly, as she sat down on the plastic swivelly seat that was nailed into the floor in front of him.
‘Event management,’ Emily replied, praying that her claim would be swiftly assessed by this ‘community welfare officer’, so she could get the feck out of there as quickly as possible. Sitting in the waiting area surrounded by prams full of screaming kids was starting to do her head in.
‘And what exactly does an event manager do?’ asked Harry Potter, through a glass grill so thick, it looked almost bulletproof.
‘It’s a fancy name for organiser,’ Emily sighed wearily. ‘Basically, my job was to arrange all manner of corporate events, from film premieres to big birthday bashes.’
‘And the reason why your employment ceased?’
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Emily thought crossly. Was it really necessary to make her jump through all these hoops? Couldn’t they just see that she’d been a good little taxpayer all her working life and hand over the giro? But Harry Potter just blinked back at her.
The Women of Primrose Square Page 7
