Even with all the crap I’m dealing with right now, she thought, striding around the square, heading for home, I much prefer being sober Emily. And sober Emily was very much how she wanted to stay.
Whipping out her phone, she texted Leon.
No words to thank you for last night. You talked me in off the ledge. I owe you, big time.
He texted her back straightaway.
Go on out of that, would you?
Emily smiled. Then, to take her thoughts off boozing more than anything else, she distracted herself by taking a really good look at number eighty-one as she approached the house from the opposite side of the square.
Funny thing, she thought, but she’d always been interested in architecture and design. Not that she’d ever really had a chance to indulge her passion – the one and only time she’d been a homeowner was back when she was still married to Alec, and just look how that turned out.
But number eighty-one had something about it that made you stop in your tracks and take a second look. It was slightly bigger and more imposing than a lot of the neighbouring houses. It had a balcony to the front, for one thing, and grand twin pillars on either side of the entrance hall. A house that was clearly designed to put manners on people, Emily thought, although it was beyond sad to see how wretched and decayed it looked now.
Give me a few tins of paint, she thought, and I could have that place spruced up in no time. A house like that could be truly magnificent, something very special, instead of what it was like now – which was essentially Grey Gardens, without either the cats or the Bouviers. Given free rein, she’d sand down the bare wooden floors, then lash a coat of varnish on them, which instinctively she knew would look fabulous.
Emily tripped up the stone steps, part of her itching to give them a decent scrub, so that the granite would really shine. Letting herself quietly through the heavy oak door, she thought about how a good decluttering could really transform the place. Get rid of all that bloody royal family tat, for one thing, not to mention the stacks of royalty magazines that were piled high on the hall floor, so you almost tripped over them as you came in. The bones of a fine house were already there, she thought, taking in the high ceilings in the hallway, its intricate plasterwork now all covered in cobwebs and stinking of damp. It really was beyond heartbreaking to see the place fall into rack and ruin.
If Violet were halfway normal, Emily thought, taking off her shoes before tiptoeing up the main staircase, she’d offer to clean the place for her and give it a good lick of paint. Who knows? She might even get paid for it, or at least get a discount in rent.
If Violet were a kinder person, she sighed, padding across the upstairs landing towards her own room, I might even do it for free.
The landing at the top of the house was gloomy and pitch dark, but from under Frank’s doorway, Emily could see that there was still a light on. So he was still up, then. She stood outside his door for a second, wavering. Part of her didn’t want to disturb him, especially when he was the type who got up at 6 a.m. to beat the traffic to work. But then part of her really wanted to get to know him a bit better. What was he like? Was he nice? Was he someone she might even be able to have a good laugh with about Violet, and how bloody off her head barking bonkers the old witch was?
‘Frank Woods is quiet and unassuming,’ was all Susan would tell her on the subject. He was apparently going through some marital troubles, which was why he’d moved into Violet’s House of Pain in the first place. Apart from that, though, Susan refused to be drawn any further. ‘Let’s just mind our own business and let him get on with it.’
I’ll just say a quick hello, Emily thought, tapping quietly on Frank’s bedroom door.
No response. So she tried again. Straining at the door for a reply, she thought she heard a rustling sound, so she gingerly opened the bedroom door and peeked inside.
But Frank wasn’t there. Sitting at the dressing table, utterly absorbed in putting on fake eyelashes and concentrating deeply, was probably the most beautiful woman Emily had ever seen in the whole course of her life.
Francesca
‘Jesus, you look stunning!’
Francesca was concentrating hard on her eyelashes, which were always tricky at the best of times.
‘Shh!’ she said, spotting Emily in the mirror in front of her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emily said, shaking her head in confusion. ‘I thought this was Frank’s room.’
‘So it is, darling,’ said Francesca, ‘so it is.’
‘Oh,’ said Emily, staring. ‘Are you a friend of his?’
‘I said hush!’ said Francesca. ‘I might make these eyelashes look easy, honey, but trust me, they’re far from it.’
A pause as a whole rainbow of confusion washed over Emily’s face.
‘It’s just that . . .’ she faltered. ‘I thought Frank and I were the only lodgers in the house . . . so . . .’
‘So?’ was Francesca’s smirking response, almost like she was enjoying Emily’s discomfort.
‘Are you a friend of Frank’s, by any chance?’ Emily asked, still staring at her in the dressing table mirror. ‘Like . . . a girlfriend, maybe? Not that it’s any of my business,’ she added hastily.
‘Well, that’s good to know, honey,’ said Francesca, still absorbed in the mirror. She was lashing on mascara now and taking great care to slick it thoroughly from underneath, just like she’d learned to via some random video on YouTube.
‘Right, then . . .’ Emily said, making to leave the room. ‘Well, maybe you’d tell Frank that I dropped by? Just for a chat, that’s all.’
‘Don’t you find a smoky eye just the most difficult thing to do?’ Francesca said, apropos of nothing. ‘It takes so much effort. I’ve calculated it takes exactly eleven minutes to apply and half a pack of baby wipes to remove. I mean, honestly, is it really worth all the bother?’
‘Ehh . . . yeah,’ said Emily, looking more and more baffled the longer this strange conversation went on. ‘Smoky eye. Yeah. It’s a disaster. Anyway, I’d better leave you to it, I suppose . . .’ she trailed off. ‘Nightie night.’
‘Oh now Emily,’ said Francesca, abandoning her mascara and slowly swivelling around to face her full on. ‘Aren’t you just dying with curiosity to know what a total stranger is doing in Frank’s bedroom? Take a closer look, honey.’
So Emily did just that. Francesca couldn’t help smiling as her expression went from bewilderment to disbelief and finally . . . eventually . . . to full recognition.
‘I do not fucking believe this,’ Emily said. ‘Frank? Frank, is that actually you under all that glamour?’
‘It’s Francesca, actually.’
‘Jesus . . . I need to sit down . . .’ Emily gestured towards the bed and slumped down onto it, the very picture of shock.
At that, Francesca began to giggle. ‘Oh sweetie,’ she said, ‘if you could see your face! I expected a reaction, but this is beyond anything!’
Then Emily surprised Francesca by throwing her head back and bursting out laughing.
‘You’re utterly fabulous, Frank, do you know that? Really, truly unrecognisable! You know, I really thought that I’d seen it all in this world, but Christ Almighty!’
Francesca gave her a half wink, then picked up a makeup brush to contour that beautiful, angular face.
‘But I’m not Frank anymore, honey,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’m Francesca. And it’s so lovely to meet you properly.’
She turned around to shake Emily’s hand, resisting the masculine habit of squeezing her hand too tight.
‘Enchanted, my dear. Oh now, don’t look so shocked,’ she added, taking in Emily’s stunned expression. ‘Surely you’ve seen someone transgender before?’
‘Not like this,’ Emily said, slumping back on the bed. ‘Not up close and personal. I mean to say, as Frank, you’re . . . like . . . well, you’re sort of . . .’
F
rancesca smirked, greatly enjoying herself as Emily grappled around for the right word.
‘The thing is,’ Emily was flailing about, ‘as Frank, you’re . . . well, I got the impression that you were sort of conservative. Quiet. That you keep yourself to yourself. But like this,’ she said, gesturing up and down at Francesca, ‘well, I mean to say . . . like this, look at you! You’re breathtaking. You’re a goddess. I want to be you!’
‘Well, aren’t you just a doll,’ said Francesca, brimming over with confidence now and feeling on top of the world. She’d always loved it when strangers got to meet Francesca for the first time; seeing their reactions was so empowering. But up till now, Francesca had really only met other trans men and women in a safe club in town, where rule one was that you never, ever talked about who or what you’d seen there. Just like in the movie Fight Club. Francesca had always held back, and never let herself make friends with anyone there, knowing she’d have to go home at the end of the night and go back to being Frank Woods again.
This was different for Francesca, though. This was meeting someone who actually knew her other incarnation as Mr Cellophane himself, Frank Woods. And to have such an appreciative audience as Emily really was the icing on the cake.
‘So how long have you . . . ?’ Emily asked. ‘And don’t worry,’ she added, ‘you can tell me anything. I’m unshockable.’
‘Oh, since forever, honey,’ said Francesca, uncrossing her long legs and showing off fabulously elegant silvery evening shoes – smart high, but not tart high. ‘Since the age of six, when I was the only boy in my class who actually wanted to play Mary in the school Nativity play, just so I got to wear a long white dress.’
Then she stood up to her full height, which, given the heels, was considerably taller than Frank Woods ever was. She didn’t so much walk, as glide over to the mirror on the wardrobe, and then took off her dressing gown to reveal an almost girlish figure in a long, clingy slip.
‘My God,’ said Emily. ‘Look at the figure on you! You’re like . . . a perfect size ten.’
‘All down to a half decent pair of Spanx,’ Francesca replied, pulling open the heavy mahogany wardrobe door and scanning around inside, till she found exactly what she was looking for. Concealed right at the very back, so no prying eyes could have found it, was a beautifully elegant wrap-over dress, in a deep, emerald green. She stepped into it, before twirling around in the mirror to see the final effect.
‘Wow,’ said Emily, mesmerised. ‘Just wow. You look so tasteful and sophisticated.’
‘Works, doesn’t it?’ said Francesca, flicking back her mane of long, chestnut brown hair and brushing away an imaginary fleck of dust.
‘I mean, I’ve been to drag clubs before,’ said Emily, ‘but there the guys dressed as women always end up looking garish and OTT. But you, though,’ she said, ‘just look at you! Amal Clooney, eat your heart out!’
‘You know what I think?’ said Francesca, playfully swatting Emily with the silk belt of her dress, absolutely glowing from all her encouragement. ‘I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’
‘And you’ve been dressing up like this . . . ever since you were little?’ Emily asked tentatively.
Francesca was well prepped with her answer. ‘Tell me this, honey,’ she said. ‘Did you ever walk around in the wrong pair of shoes that didn’t fit properly and that pinched your feet till they bled?’
Emily looked down at the same battered pair of Converse trainers she’d been living, eating, drinking and occasionally sleeping in for months now.
‘Not really,’ she answered, ‘but I can sympathise.’
‘Well, that’ll give you a small idea of what it’s like to spend your whole life in the wrong body,’ Francesca went on. ‘But you know, I’m so glad you’re here, because now comes the hard part.’
At that, she went over to the windowsill and rummaged through a paper pharmacy bag for a neatly labelled box of pills, along with several other metallic strips of tablets.
‘Oh,’ said Emily. ‘So this is more than just . . .’
‘Believe me, this goes a whole lot deeper than just playing at dress-up,’ said Francesca, taking two of the pill bottles, then sitting down on the bed beside Emily.
‘And you don’t just do this . . . like, for the fun of it?’ Emily asked. ‘For a bit of escapism?’
‘Fun?’ Francesca said, raising a beautifully pencilled eyebrow. ‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Sorry,’ Emily backpedalled quickly. ‘Stupid of me. Insensitive.’
At that, the whole mood in the room seemed to shift. Where they’d been having light-hearted fun a moment ago, now it was more serious.
‘What you have to understand is that this,’ Francesca explained, waving her hands up and down that enviably lean figure, ‘by which I mean being me – the real me, the me you see here beside you – has quite literally cost me everything. My home, my marriage, my kids – and given that I’m now a laughing stock in work, very possibly my job too. I’ve hurt people. I’ve brought a whole world of pain into my family’s lives, and all because I wanted to live an honest life. Fun doesn’t even come into it.’
Emily said nothing but looked suitably chastened as Francesca twiddled with one of the pill bottles, so it rattled in her hands.
‘Let me guess,’ Emily said after a pause. ‘Oestrogen pills?’
Francesca nodded.
‘How long have you been taking them for?’
‘First time,’ Francesca said. ‘Right here, right now. And these aren’t the only ones, by the way. You see those?’ she said, nodding towards a stuffed pharmacy bag on the dressing table. ‘You name it, that’s what I’ve been prescribed. To lower testosterone levels, decrease erectile function and, you know, to start developing secondary female characteristics.’
‘What are secondary female characteristics?’ Emily asked, puzzled.
‘I might start getting boobs,’ Francesca said, with a wry little smile. ‘It’s all to do with female fat distribution. Women carry fat differently and that’s what this first course of treatment is about.’
‘Will it be painful?’
‘Not physically – but emotionally, yes,’ Francesca replied. ‘But then, as I said to my therapist, I’ve come this far. I’ve lived a half-life for so long, and now here I am, fifty years old. It’s time for truth. Everyone knows about me anyway, so why live a lie for much longer?’
‘Fucking hell,’ was all Emily could say, over and over. ‘I mean, this is huge. I came in here thinking you and me might have a good aul’ bitch about our nutty landlady.’
‘This is just phase one,’ Francesca said, with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘The easy part, according to my therapist. It’s when I get to phase two that my life as I know it will really begin to change.’
‘Dare I ask what phase two involves?’
‘Oh, so much, honey. It’s a long, long process. There’s all the social changes to deal with, for starters; people are going to react to me differently, aren’t they? And I have to be prepped for that. In work, for instance, everyone will have to call me by a new name and start using a different pronoun when they refer to me.’
‘And then?’ Emily asked.
‘Then the real body modification begins,’ said Francesca. ‘All triggered off by these little pills. That can take years, but then, all being well, the end goal is full gender reassignment surgery.’
‘Wow,’ said Emily.
‘Wow is right.’ Francesca nodded. ‘It’s scary and it’s frightening – and the part of me that’s still cautious, timid little Frank Woods, who never took a risk in the whole course of his life, is terrified. Because once I swallow this,’ she said, indicating one of the silver tin foil strips in her still-mannish hands, ‘then that’s it. I’ll have begun the process. It’ll be goodbye to Frank for good.’
‘How do your family feel about this?’ Emily asked gently.
Francesca just
looked at her wryly. ‘Well, what do you think, honey? I had to move out and now I’m living in a shoebox. I’m two hundred metres from the son I love, a daughter I’d die for and a wife who can’t accept that I still actually do love her. That, my dear,’ she said, ‘is how my family feel about this.’
‘Sorry,’ Emily said. ‘Dozy question. What about everyone else, though? Your friends?’
‘They’re all acting like I’m dead and gone – but the thing is, I’m not. I’m still very much here. I’m not going anywhere, and I want to be in their lives just as much as I always did. But as Francesca from here on in. That’s all. Otherwise, I’m still here. Still me.’
‘But you’re nervous about taking the pills?’
‘Terrified,’ Francesca nodded, for the first time sounding unsure of herself. ‘I was prescribed them days ago, but somehow I can’t bring myself to actually swallow this very first one. Once I do, I’ll have decided that this is it. It’s letting go of the old part of my life and stepping into the new.’
‘And it’s scary for you and overwhelming,’ Emily said. ‘Believe me, I can sympathise. I know all about what it’s like to let go of the old you and move towards the newer, better version of yourself. For what it’s worth, though, there is one piece of wisdom I can share.’
‘What’s that?’ said Francesca.
Emily sat back against the bedpost and chose her words carefully before replying. ‘You and me, my friend,’ she eventually said, ‘seem to have one thing in common. Frank 1.0 didn’t work in this world, any more than the first version of Emily did. So, here’s to Frank mark two. Here’s to Francesca. This is the part where we both have to trust that the shiny, new rebooted version of ourselves can only be better.’
The Women of Primrose Square Page 14
