Be brave, he told himself. No more Mr Cellophane. For once in your life, take a risk.
Frank kept a bottle of Rescue Remedy neatly packed away in the glove compartment, for an emergency exactly like this one. With slightly shaky hands, he put three drops into his mouth, took a deep breath and braced himself. Then he got out of his spotlessly clean Toyota Prius and banged the door behind him, so his whole life as he knew it could begin to change.
*
Beth Taylor saw his type all the time. The ones who were shy, to the point of mortification. The ones who flushed raw red if you dared make eye contact with them. The ones who said: ‘Course I’m not here for me, really, I’m only here for a friend.’ The ones who’d probably knocked years off their lives in accumulated stress just to keep this appointment on time. Clients who looked like they’d wrestled demons purely to cross the threshold of the clinic where Beth worked.
Here’s another one, she thought, spotting a middle-aged guy shuffle uncertainly around reception, before taking a seat and burying his face deep in a copy of that day’s Irish Times, so no one would recognise him, even though the reception area was empty. This man was so average-looking, you’d have awful trouble describing to the Guards if you had to provide them with a photofit image. Medium height, normal weight, wearing round-rimmed glasses, dressed in a grey suit and tie, with neat brown lace-up shoes. He looked sensible – like a tax inspector or a civil servant or a guy who worked behind the counter at a passport office. Beth would almost have said that he looked normal.
Except that if there was one thing working at the Transformations Clinic had taught her, it was this: no one, absolutely no one, in here or in the outside world, was ‘normal’, and that was to be celebrated. Normal didn’t exist. Period.
Beth’s big heart softened because she knew exactly how mortified the poor guy must have felt. How much it cost him just to take this first, brave step into the unknown. She knew that all clients like this needed was a little reassurance and a big warm smile to help them relax. The promise of tea and sticky buns generally helped no end, she found.
As she approached, the man seemed to crumple back into his seat, twiddling anxiously with his glasses, whipping them off and dusting imaginary dust off them.
‘I take it,’ Beth said gently, ‘that you’re my eleven o’clock?’
There was a scarily long pause, where he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Instead he just kept wiping at his glasses till they actually squeaked. Beth used the silence to go back to double-check the appointments book behind reception.
‘Frank Woods?’ she asked respectfully. ‘That’s you, right?’
Again, silence. Even from where Beth stood, she could see that he was sweating profusely. Calmly, she walked around from the reception desk and this time came right over to him. She’d seen many patients like this before and instinctively knew how to handle them. The way she handled everything – with honesty, compassion and kindness.
‘Frank,’ Beth began gently, ‘believe me, I know.’
‘You know what?’ he said, nervously folding and unfolding the paper on his lap in front of him.
‘I know exactly what it cost you,’ she replied, ‘just to walk through that door this morning. So, first of all, well done. I want to reassure you, I’m here to help.’
He stopped fidgeting for a minute.
‘Because this is huge, isn’t it?’ Beth said softly. ‘Just by making an appointment to come and see me, you’re admitting that up until now, you’ve been living the wrong life. Am I right?’
Again, Frank didn’t speak, just focused uncomfortably on the floor. Beth saw the emotion welling up in him and knew this was probably the first time anyone had actually offered this poor man a sympathetic ear.
‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ she offered. ‘We don’t have to talk about the clinic or the reason why you’re here. How about just you and me have a little talk?’
Frank looked up at her with sad, red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’d like that very much,’ he said.
‘I’ll get the kettle on,’ she smiled. ‘And to hell with the diet – how would you like a few nice Hobnobs on the side?’
Emily
There were house rules here, lots of and lots of stupid, gobshite house rules. That much, at least, Emily could deal with. Ever since she’d been turfed out of her sister’s, she’d been couch-surfing with total strangers, thanks to a cheapie website she’d found where hard-up homeowners charged you a few quid to sleep on their sofa overnight. Provided of course that you made yourself scarce the following morning.
For days now, she’d stood in a total stranger’s living room and pretended to listen as her house-proud, over-privileged host or hostess outlined all the dos and don’ts of sleeping on their precious IKEA sofa for a single night.
This one, however, really took the biscuit.
‘No gentleman callers whatsoever,’ Emily’s putative landlady told her, while Emily stood in a gloomy, dusty hallway, backpack at her feet, taking in the dilapidated state of a house that looked like it hadn’t seen a lick of paint since Old God’s time.
Worse still, her new landlady seemed to be a champion hoarder. Everywhere you looked there were mounds of old newspapers and magazines, with royal family memorabilia dotted on every spare surface. Mugs to commemorate the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and coasters to celebrate the birth of Prince William – all that kind of tat.
More’s the pity, Emily thought. Because you could see the bones of a big Victorian terraced house like this were fundamentally good. If you had all the money in the world to pay builders and architects, then you could really do something special, even with a semi-derelict tip like this. Not that Emily had ever been much of a home-maker. A home-ruiner, that was far more her style.
As she pretended to listen to her landlady, Emily wondered what exactly she was letting herself in for. She’d certainly stayed in some dumps before this – for God’s sake, she’d even slept on the streets at one stage – so a kip like this shouldn’t faze her. But even if you left aside the gloom and the dust, there was just something spooky about the place. A distinct atmosphere – a feeling that something really seismic had happened here. She could feel it and smell it, just like she could feel and smell the damp.
‘Excuse me, are you listening?’ her landlady barked, rapping her walking stick on the wooden floor and sending a flurry of dust flying.
‘Yeah, yeah, I heard you,’ Emily said automatically. ‘No gentleman callers,’ she repeated dully, thinking: Ha! Chance would be a fine thing. The last fella she’d dated had been her husband and just look how that turned out for all concerned.
Just then, Emily’s mobile phone rang. Instinctively, she fished it out of her jeans pocket and double-checked the number, mainly because hardly anyone rang her these days.
It was the same number as the missed call she’d had the previous day. Which was weird. And again, whoever was calling left no message either, which was even stranger.
‘And that’s another thing,’ her landlady sniffed. ‘I strongly dislike mobile telephones. The end of all civilisation, if you ask me. It’s beyond rude,’ she added, glowering at Emily, ‘how people these days break off in mid-conversation purely to stare at a blank screen.’
‘OK, OK.’ Emily shrugged, shoving the phone back into her jeans pocket. ‘I’m putting it away for you. Happy now?’
‘If you absolutely must speak to someone urgently,’ her landlady insisted, ‘you may use the house telephone, here in the hall.’
At that, her landlady indicated a dust-covered landline on a filthy hall table, which had a tiny metal padlock on the dial pad, so you could only receive calls and not make any.
Oh for Christ’s sake, Emily thought. Come back, St Michael’s, all is forgiven.
‘Rent is payable in advance,’ her landlady was saying, ‘and I expect your bedroom and the communal areas to be kept spotlessly clean at all times.’
‘Spotlessly clean?’ Emily muttered unde
r her breath, as she trudged upstairs after Mrs Old Lady. ‘The place is a fucking health hazard as it is!’
‘Did you just say something?’ her landlady said, turning sharply around on the stair return to face her.
‘Ehh . . . no,’ Emily lied.
‘Because I could have sworn I heard foul language, and that’s something I simply will not tolerate.’
‘Whatever you say!’ Emily said, throwing her arms up in an ‘I surrender’ gesture. ‘No bad language, I get it!’
‘Right. Well, here it is then.’ With that, the old lady imperiously threw open a bedroom door on the top floor, as if she were showing the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, and not just a poky little box room. It barely held a single bed, with cast iron, uncomfortable looking bedposts, and a knackered chest of drawers that looked like something even a charity shop would reject.
The one good thing about this room, Emily thought, as her landlady droned on about the perils of leaving the immersion on, is the view.
There was a tiny little Victorian sash window that overlooked Primrose Square, and instinctively Emily drifted over to the windowsill, which was deep enough to sit in, so she could look out over the square properly. From that vantage point, she could see the tips of the cherry blossom trees that lined the street below, all the way over the memorial rose garden in the dead heart of the square and out to the opposite side, where lovely Susan lived with her lovely husband and even lovelier daughter.
I could wave to Susan from here, Emily thought. It struck her as funny that such a little thing could make her smile.
‘You’ll be sharing a bathroom with another lodger, who’ll be arriving later this week,’ her landlady was harping on. ‘So, I expect you to leave the lavatory area spotlessly clean behind you at all times. Excuse me, are you even listening to me?’ At that, she banged her walking stick on the dusty wooden floor to get Emily’s full attention.
‘Who’s the other lodger?’ Emily asked. ‘Just out of interest.’
Please let them be nice, she thought. That’s all she wanted. A normal person, so the two of them could get together and have a giggle about this witch of a landlady and the manky state of her dilapidated house.
‘A local resident in need of temporary accommodation,’ came the sniffy reply. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours. In this house, I’ll thank you to mind your own business and afford others their privacy.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Emily shrugged, wondering how soon she could throw open the bedroom window and light up a fag. ‘So would I be violating your code of privacy to ask what I should call you?’
A wary pause.
‘My name is Violet. But you will kindly address me as Miss Hardcastle.’ Then, glaring witheringly down at Emily’s tattered rucksack, which had been dumped on the floor, she said, ‘I’ll leave you to unpack now. But before I go, there’s a distinct stench of cigarette smoke about your person. Don’t even think about indulging your revolting habit in this house. You have been warned.’
With that, Violet swept out of the room, as grandly as a duchess at a state ball.
Finally left alone, Emily slumped down on her rickety little single bed and looked around her. She took in the nauseating flock wallpaper that had long since faded, the pool of droplets on the bare wooden floor where the roof was clearly leaking, and the old-fashioned chest of drawers that stank of mothballs.
I’ve backpacked around South America, she thought ruefully, and stayed in mud huts with corrugated tin roofs that were more appealing than this.
Then her mobile rang, shattering the silence. Jesus Christ, it was that same number yet again.
Whoever this is, Emily thought crossly, they’re certainly not giving up easily.
‘Hello,’ she said flatly. ‘Who is this and what do you want?’
‘Emily?’ said a man’s voice. ‘Is this Emily Dunne?’
‘Yes.’ Emily sighed. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Leon Ryan and I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
Emily racked her brains. Someone she’d worked for? Gone out with? Got pissed with? An old boozing buddy that she’d maybe shagged, back when she was off-her-face drunk? But she drew a blank. The name meant absolutely nothing to her.
‘St Michael’s Wellness Centre gave me your number,’ he explained.
‘Did they now?’
‘You’re not interested in why?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ said Leon, ‘I’ll be your sponsor when you’re going through the alcohol recovery programme.’
‘Oh, will you, now?’ Emily said, a bit sneeringly.
Course they’d spoken about recovery programmes to her back in the nuthouse, stressing how important it was to go to meetings and stick with the treatment. Emily had signed all their poxy forms about joining the AA and all that shite, but had taken it all with a big, fat pinch of salt. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, she’d thought. All I need to do is stick to fizzy water and that’s it – that’s me, recovered. End of.
‘It’s probably a good idea if we meet up sooner rather than later,’ Leon went on. ‘So what do you say?’
‘You want to know what I say?’ Emily snorted down the phone. ‘I say I’ve had enough fucking nutjobs to deal with today. That’s what I say.’
With that, she clicked off her mobile, went over to the window, threw it wide open and lit up a lovely, soothing fag.
Two months, she thought. I give myself exactly two months of living hand to mouth in a rented room that a novice nun would turn her nose up at, in a manky house owned by the sourest old witch in the northern hemisphere. I’ll get a job, she thought. It’ll be fine, providing I tell them absolutely nothing about my past life. As long as I lie through my teeth, it’ll all work out beautifully.
The phone rang again. Yet again, that tenacious fucker, Leon. But Emily didn’t even bother answering this time.
And her AA sponsor could feck right off with himself.
Frank
The gossip at Creative Solutions, the advertising agency where Frank worked, was spreading scarily fast. They’d all been at his birthday party – they all knew. Frank heard people talking about him in the corridors; everyone seemed to be staring at him, and every time he walked into a room it would fall silent. Colleagues who he’d worked with for years started acting weirdly around him, turning on their heels if they spotted him in the hallway, or sending him emails rather than speaking to him at his desk.
So he went back to his default position of smiling and nodding and pretending he was absolutely OK, that he didn’t mind the non-stop humiliation. He kept his head down and worked as hard as he ever did, praying that the invisibility cloak he wore back when he was the office’s Mr Cellophane would soon return, and that everyone would leave him in peace. This had to blow over, didn’t it? Surely this was just a nine-day wonder that would pass when they all found something else to gossip about?
Yet day after day, it dragged out. He was the office joke; they were all talking about him behind his back. Whenever he walked into the staff canteen, everyone went silent. Every head would swivel his way, just in case – what? In case he’d walk in wearing a dress with full makeup on?
Didn’t they realise how prejudicial they were being? Had they any idea of the hell he was going through? Frank had a wife who was barely speaking to him and a son who pointedly ignored him. If it wasn’t for his daughter, he often thought, he might easily have gone and done something very, very foolish long before this.
He was at a crossroads and all his work colleagues could do was suppress muffled sniggers and make him the butt of their jokes. Once he even came back to his desk to find a Post-it note stuck to his desktop screen with just a single word written on it in bold, black handwriting.
FREAK.
*
After everything that had gone down at Frank’s fiftieth birthday, Gracie had insisted on carting him off to their family GP, ‘to see how we can straighten th
is whole mess out’.
‘It’s mid-life,’ she’d said to Frank, on one of the rare occasions when she’d actually spoken to him. ‘I see this all the time in work. Middle-aged men who start acting like complete idiots, just like you. Except their mid-life crises manifest in more usual ways. Like buying a Maserati or thinking that they can still date young girls in their twenties. Morons, in other words.’
‘Gracie,’ Frank said hesitatingly, taking care to close the kitchen door, so that there was no danger of Ben or Amber overhearing. ‘Of course I’ll go to see a doctor, if that’s what you want me to do. I’ll do anything to make this better, you know that. But . . . but . . .’
‘But what?’ said Gracie briskly, laying out a mound of legal briefs in neat piles on the kitchen table.
‘I think I already know what any GP would say to me,’ he said, feeling brave for getting that much out.
‘Oh, do you, now?’ said Gracie crossly. ‘You’ve got a degree in medicine as well, now, do you?’
‘It’s not mid-life,’ Frank said, under his breath. ‘There’s so much of this I don’t understand, but I do know that much at least.’
‘So, what is it then? What makes a perfectly normal man start sneaking around dressed up as a woman?’
‘I don’t know,’ was all he could say. ‘All I know is . . . that it goes . . . so much deeper than just the clothes. Oh Gracie, love, you have no idea.’
It’s frightening, he wanted to tell her. It’s not just dressing up as a woman, it’s much more. And I don’t even know how it’s all going to end. I’m scared and lonely and, more than anything else, I need my family now – in spite of the hurt and all the pain I’ve caused.
He never got a single word out, though. Instead, Gracie gave him a disgusted look, turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen, banging the door firmly shut behind her.
*
It seemed like the only person who listened to Frank these days – really listened to him, that is – was Beth Taylor from the Transformations Clinic. Frank had instantly liked Beth the very moment he’d met her. She was a warm, open sort, and she was the one person who’d shown him gentleness and kindness when everyone else treated him like a weirdo or, worse, some class of pervert.
The Women of Primrose Square Page 6