By then, she’d repeated the company name so many times, Frank half wondered if the conversation was secretly being filmed and he was a heartbeat away from appearing on a YouTube video, entitled: ‘The correct way to deal with an employee suffering from gender dysmorphia.’
‘What I’m trying to say –’ Hannah blushed – ‘is that if you were to present at work as your transitioning self, we’d be one hundred per cent supportive.’
She means if I came to work as Francesca, Frank thought. Which was more than kind of her, and while he greatly appreciated the offer, it was entirely out of the question for him.
Because how could he possibly? Frank was struggling with so much as it was. He couldn’t even begin to articulate what he really felt. He’d started hormone therapy now, and it was as if he was standing quietly terrified, at the edge of a precipice. It was keeping him awake at night as he lay in that dismal little bedroom in Violet’s house, staring at the ceiling as the hours ticked by, torturing himself with thoughts that no matter where he turned, he was causing pain to someone.
The deep, never-ending fear of hurting Gracie and the kids was almost impossible for him to put into words. If a miracle ever happened and if he ever reached a point where his family were OK with him as Francesca in public, that would be one thing. But until then, doing as Hannah suggested and coming to work as Francesca would just be plain wrong. As far as Frank’s professional life was concerned, all he really wanted was to keep his head down. To go back to being Mr Cellophane.
‘It’s very good of you,’ he said, taking off his glasses and cleaning them fastidiously. ‘But really, there’s no need for concern. None at all. So, if that’ll be everything, Hannah,’ he said, dying to end this mortifying conversation, ‘I have a meeting with a client shortly and I just need to brush up my notes on their account.’
‘Oh . . . just one thing before you leave . . .’ Hannah said, as he got up to go.
‘Yes?’ he asked politely.
‘Well, can I just ask . . . if it’s OK with you . . .’ She flailed about, searching for the most PC phrase to hand. ‘And this is in a purely professional capacity, of course, you understand. But the thing is . . . well . . . how would you prefer to be addressed in work?’
Frank had to give it a bit of thought, never really having considered the question before.
‘Frank is just fine for the moment, thanks,’ he said.
Until Gracie and the kids are comfortable with me as Francesca, he thought, then the kindest, simplest thing I can do is to stay known to everyone around me as Frank.
‘Pronouns?’ Hannah offered hopefully.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I mean, how would you like us to refer to you? As him, or her? Or them?’
‘Him is just fine, thanks.’
‘What about non-binary bathrooms?’ Hannah threw after him, as he was almost halfway out the door. ‘Would that help? Because you know, here in the creative field, we pride ourselves on being gender blind.’
‘I know,’ he replied softly. ‘But really, it’s OK.’
It wasn’t, as it happened, but it was something that Frank was far too embarrassed to be drawn any further on. He’d actually had to stop using the communal men’s room on the third floor after one too many weird looks.
And there’d been an incident a few days ago with Jake, a considerably younger colleague who’d just graduated from college and whose gut-thirsty ambition knew no bounds.
‘You in here, Frankie?’ he’d said jokingly one day – of course when the men’s bathroom was reasonably full, to maximise his audience. ‘Because there’s no Tampax machines in here, you know. Time of the month, is it? Yeah, I thought you were getting a bit over-emotional in that last meeting all right. You’re covered in zits and you’re starting to get bigger tits than some of the real women around here.’
The part of Frank that was Francesca wouldn’t have stood for bullying like that, not for one second. It gave Frank great heart to think of how the real him would have made mincemeat out of the likes of Jake and all his snide little insults.
But the bad news was that he was still a very long way off being Francesca openly. So instead, he did what Frank Woods always did. Blushed red, beat a hasty retreat, then crawled back to the safety of his desk, utterly mortified and aware of the titters from all around him.
‘So, everyone is being supportive to you here at work?’ Hannah persisted, bringing Frank’s concentration back to that gloomy little HR office. ‘You sure there’s nothing more we can do for you?’
‘Certain, thanks,’ was Frank’s quiet reply. All he really needed was to put back on the invisibility cloak he’d been wearing very successfully for the last twenty-five years and get on with his job.
Just leave me alone, he wanted to yell all around the office. You’ve all ignored me for years. Is it too much to ask that you continue treating me like I don’t exist?
He just wanted normality. Not to be the centre of unwanted attention every single time he walked into an office meeting. Not to be stared at and pointed at behind his back as he stepped in and out of the lifts. ‘That’s him,’ he could imagine them all saying. ‘That’s the tranny. That’s the man who’s about to turn into a woman. He probably has a bra and a G-string on underneath his work suit. There goes Frank Woods, the office joke.’
I’ve only just started treatment, Frank fretted to himself. What would the office make of him once the hormones really began to kick in?
The very thought of it made him feel nauseous.
But then, just when he needed a gram of hope most, Francesca’s voice came to him, strong, clear and confident. Oh, fuck the lot of them anyway, babes. What do they know? Eyes up, big smile – and when they go low, we go high.
*
Frank had been to see an endocrinologist, Dr Roberts, to discuss the hormone therapy he’d been taking, so they could monitor his dosage carefully. Dr Roberts had been perfectly polite and informative, but he had a packed waiting room outside and precious little time to talk through the emotional impact of the therapy.
So Frank was given a fresh prescription, but this time was almost taken aback by the whole cocktail of drugs he was expected to take: antiandrogens to decrease testosterone and estradiol cypionate to start boosting female hormones. There were over eleven pills in total, Frank could barely pronounce the names of any of them, and at no point in the process did his harassed-looking consultant take the time to talk through the side effects.
‘You’re having some kind of therapy on top of this, I hope?’ was all Dr Roberts had said on the subject. ‘Because some patients find the whole process more challenging to deal with than others. Remember, so far all you’re doing is taking hormones. But once we perform a penectomy, there really is no going back.’
Subtext read, point taken. Get as much help as you can, Frank Woods, because your whole world is about to shift on its axis and, when push comes to shove, will you really have the emotional reserve to deal with it?
If it wasn’t for Beth Taylor at the clinic, Frank honestly didn’t know what he’d do. Sweet-natured, understanding Beth – the one person in his life who’d listen to him compassionately, without judgment. She’d also helped him get in touch with others who were transitioning or already had, and though he hadn’t got together the courage yet to attend a support group or gathering in person, he’d spent hours on trans forums and websites, reminding himself again and again that he was not alone.
With Beth, you were never made to feel like another patient in a long line of them, to be shoved a prescription, charged through the nose and then dismissed. Instead, it felt almost like coming to visit a friend. And just then, Frank needed all the non-judgmental friends he could get.
‘The thing about the hormone therapy you’re on,’ Beth patiently explained to Frank during one of their twice-weekly sessions, ‘is that often patients are prepared for the physical changes, like fat in your body redistributing, o
r breasts starting to feel heavier and maybe even lumpy. But you’ll find it’s the emotional changes that’ll trip you up. Getting teary at the wrong time and for all the wrong reasons. Emotional changes can be subtle for some patients, and more pronounced for others. Some MTF’s – that’s male to female, by the way – have reported feeling almost euphoric on oestrogen and progesterone. Whereas for others, mood swings can be a major issue. Everyone’s body chemistry is different, and that’s why it’s so important that we monitor your response very carefully.’
‘My facial hair seems to be lessening, which is something,’ Frank told her, over the tea and Hobnobs they seemed to have at every session.
‘How are things with your family now?’ she asked.
‘All the more reason to get teary.’
‘Still that bad?’ Beth asked sympathetically.
Frank just nodded in reply – all he was good for, when he thought of Gracie, Ben and Amber.
Gracie was still so understandably angry with him that it was difficult to have any kind of normal conversation with her at all. In front of the kids, she was always tolerant and even-tempered – but when it was just her and Frank alone, she could barely look at him.
One day, in a fit of remorse, Frank had sent her a huge bouquet of flowers to the house, with a little note that read: I’m so sorry for putting you through this. I love you now and I’ll love you always. He’d even asked for pink peony roses, her favourite. But when he’d come to visit the kids that evening, he’s seen them deadheaded and shoved upside down into the brown bin outside the house on Primrose Square.
Message received, loud and clear.
With Ben, Frank was just trying to be there for him every chance he got. Teenagers, he knew of old, really just wanted money and Wi-Fi, but Frank knew he had to do so, so much more here. Time was the best currency he could possibly give his son, in the hopes that if they spent enough time together, Ben would one day start to thaw.
If he sees I’m here for him day in and day out, Frank reasoned, surely then he’ll know how much I love him?
There was never a single word out of Ben, though; every lift Frank gave him, every time he drove him to meet his friends, every time he dropped him off at rugby practice, he barely got a grunt of acknowledgement.
But I’ll persevere, Frank thought. I’ll keep turning up. I’ll be here for him, day in and day out, till the day he’s ready to talk. One day, he hoped. One day soon.
Amber continued to be the only bright light in his life and Frank thanked God for her smiling face every time he called to the house to see her. The simple things made her so happy, like eating Cornettos together in Primrose Square in the evening sunshine, or going to a blockbuster movie together, then allowing her far too many sugary treats afterwards.
‘Nothing has changed between you and me, pet,’ Frank kept reassuring her over and over. ‘Your old dad loves you more than ever.’
‘That’s what you keep saying,’ Amber said to him one evening, looking puzzled. ‘But if everything is the same, then why can’t you come home?’
What could Frank possibly say to that? How were you supposed to explain to an eleven-year-old girl that you were coping with gender identity disorder and that now you wanted to transition sex? Grown adults had difficulty wrapping their heads around it – what chance had he of explaining it to a child? He had tried his very best and was always left floundering.
‘Just come home, Dad,’ was all Amber would say. ‘I miss you so much. And I promise I’ll be so good. And if you want to dress up like a lady sometimes, that’s OK with me, if you’ll only come home.’
*
‘When it comes to your family,’ Beth said, interrupting Frank’s thoughts, ‘keep taking it back to first principles. Keep reminding yourself why you’re doing this in the first place.’
Frank sighed and sat back against the comfy, deep sofa in Beth’s consultation room. ‘Why am I doing this?’ he repeated softly. ‘I’m doing this because for the longest time, I was living a lie. I’m doing this because for most of my adult life, I thought there was something fundamentally wrong with me. If it hadn’t been for the night of my fiftieth birthday, then absolutely nothing would have changed. I had all this foisted on me, whether I liked it or not.
‘So I’m doing this,’ he said, his voice slowly growing in confidence the more he spoke, ‘because I was given a choice: either to live my truth or to continue to live the shadowy half-life I was used to. I’m doing this because I choose to live in truth. I only wish my family didn’t have to suffer because of it.’
‘You’re in a transitory phrase right now,’ Beth said wisely. ‘But this too will pass. So, you know what? This is the part where you have to trust in the process. You have to believe that living just a single day as the real you, as the woman you were born to be, as Francesca, is going to be worth a whole year of living a lie as Frank Woods.’
‘I hope so,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘I really hope to God what you’re saying is true.’
‘Here,’ she said, thoughtfully handing over a tissue, which he gratefully took to wipe his eyes with. ‘And it’s OK to cry. That’s the hormones doing their job, that’s all.’
‘At least they’re working.’
‘Just let the tears out,’ Beth said, looking at him sympathetically. ‘You know, I wish there was a magic wand I could wave to make all this easier for you and for your family, but there isn’t. There’s no shortcut. You just have to go through what you’re going through. And my job is to be there with you, every single step of the way.’
*
Just one day later, back at Creative Solutions’ trendy, chrome and glass open-plan office, Frank had very deep cause to regret everything.
It was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon and the pressure was really piling on. One of his biggest client accounts wasn’t happy with their latest ad campaign and it fell to Frank to try to fix the problem – but then, working quietly behind the scenes to keep everyone happy had always been his forte in work.
He was beavering away at his desk when Jake swaggered past, pausing at Frank’s desk and perching at the edge of it, as if they were the best of buddies.
‘How’s it going, Frankie?’ Jake asked casually.
‘Busy,’ Frank said, glancing up, dimly aware that a few other colleagues seemed to be looking over this way.
‘I was just nipping out to the coffee shop across the road,’ Jake said as half the office stared over. ‘Fancy an Americano?’
He’s being nice to me, Frank thought, an alarm bell instantly sounding in his head. Anxiously, he looked around for a bit of back-up. Where was Florence when he needed her? Or Tracey, who was always so good at diffusing tense situations?
Just then, Jake’s eye landed on some family photos sitting neatly on top of Frank’s desk. Photos of him taken over the years, with Gracie and the kids. Precious, happy memories that never failed to put a smile on Frank’s face, no matter how stressed out or upset he was.
‘Well, well, well,’ Jake said, picking up one of them and taking a closer look at it. ‘What have we here?’
It was a photo of Frank with Amber, taken at Disney World in Florida on a family holiday about four years ago. She was sitting high on her dad’s shoulders in the shot, with a giant pink candy floss in one hand as she laughed her head off. A gorgeous photo. A happy memory of a very happy day.
‘This your daughter?’ Jake asked, and Frank could have sworn that the office around them went silent.
‘Yes,’ he stammered. ‘Yes, it is. Now would you mind putting that back down, please?’
‘She must be so proud of her daddy,’ Jake went on, waving the photo high in the air as Frank tried to take it back. ‘So tell me, how does she feel about her father dressing up like a freak in his spare time?’
‘Jake,’ Frank tried to say, ‘please, I’m up to my eyes here, just give it back to me and let me get on with my work.’
Jake wasn’t done, though.
‘So,
how’s this going to work in your house, then, mate?’ Jake sneered. ‘Is your little princess going to have two mummies from now on? “Daddy, why are you wearing girlie clothes?”’ he said, doing a crude impression of a little girl. ‘“Daddy, why do you have ladies’ bras and frilly knickers hanging up in the utility room? Dad, are you getting periods now?”’
‘Drop it, Jake,’ Frank said, aware that a few other colleagues had started to look over their way, curious to know what was going on. ‘You can stop it right there.’
‘And what about this fella here?’ Jake asked, hitting on a photo of Ben taken with his rugby team. ‘“Hey Dad,”’ Jake went on, this time dropping his voice in an exaggerated impression of a teenage boy, ‘“do me a favour and stop hitting on my pals, OK? You’re, like . . . seriously embarrassing me.”’
‘Hey, come on, cool off, will you?’ said Joe from sales, coming along at the perfect moment and diffusing the situation. ‘Give Frankie a break, OK?’ he barked at Jake, who instantly backed down and scuttled back to his own desk when faced with an Alpha male.
‘You OK, man?’ Joe asked, but Frank was too upset to do anything more than nod back. He hated himself for not having the guts to stand up to the likes of Jake, and was mortified that someone like Joe had to come along and intervene, like they were kids in a school yard.
If he could only have been seen as Francesca in work, that would never have happened in the first place. She would have throttled Jake with her bare hands and not even considered the consequences. But instead, Frank just slumped back in his office chair, waited till he was alone again, then hid his face in his hands and let the tears flow unchecked.
Rock bottom, he thought. This is it. It cannot get any worse.
Violet
The Women of Primrose Square Page 17
