‘Ah, thanks, you really look radiant. The colour brings out the blue in your eyes and it’s transformed you. You’re Viola, but a mega upgrade.’ They hugged, Viola’s bracelets snagging the back of Caroline’s dress, so I had to nip over and untangle them.
‘Thank you for being here with me today,’ Viola said, facing Caroline and grasping her hands so they were both side-profiled on camera. ‘It means so much, I don’t think I will ever be able to put into words what it feels like to be here, accepted by everyone in the room as me, feeling a million dollars.’ She turned towards everyone and smiled, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘I feel so happy.’ Tears spilled over now and Caroline bit her lip, desperately trying to stem her own tide. ‘I love you, Trisha.’ That was it, I was gone, my throat hurt from my own pathetic attempt to squash sobs back down into my belly. I looked sideways at Lila and she was also weeping. I gently pushed Trisha forward to go and hug them both. The family stood in the centre of the room, united by make-up, glitter and love, a perfect triptych of acceptance. The room spontaneously burst into rapturous applause.
‘Oooh, you two,’ Trisha chastised, pulling away. ‘All my hard work will end up on the floor. You need to stop crying before I have to start again. Tissues!’ And she waved her hand as Lila dived over to the make-up station and thrust a box into her hand.
The camera cut to me, Lila, Caroline, Trisha and Viola all facing forward, make-up all retouched.
‘Lila and I would like to wish Viola all the luck and love for the future,’ I said.
Viola curtseyed and smiled demurely.
‘Thank you for having me. We’ve all had an amazing experience. You girls are consummate professionals. Stella – can I keep the dress?’ A chuckle rippled round the room.
‘So goodbye from us,’ Lila continued. ‘Spread the love, people. Anything is possible!’
‘Can we scream now?’ Francesca asked, her cheeks streaked with tears.
Samantha nodded and raucous shouting exploded, ricocheting off the cupboards, drowning out the short burst of nondescript title music.
28
The Aftermath
Last night I’d dreamed about Carl once more – we were married and deeply in love. I woke up at five thirty feeling ecstatic because for a millisecond I believed it. The cosy cocoon of finally achieving the Nirvana of actually not fucking it up was so all consuming. Reality crashing in forced me into about five minutes of genuine mourning for our perfect life that never was. Ridiculous!
We broke Twitter, Lila had texted at 5 a.m. while I had been married to Carl. It appeared she was awake too. I headed to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and shake off my blanket of inappropriate emotions. I switched on Radio Four and caught the beginning of the news.
It was already a beautiful summer’s day and my dinky patio garden was bathed in crisp early morning sunlight, the wooden trough of cucumber plants showcased star bursts of canary yellow, and the fuchsia geraniums, added for colour and to diminish the likeness to a prison exercise yard, followed suit. I was about to take my tea outside to my postage stamp oasis when I caught something the newsreader was saying.
‘Finally, last night, television presenter David O’Donnell officially confirmed he is a transvestite. Mr O’Donnell appeared on a YouTube channel called Clothes My Daughter Steals, hosted by Lila Chan, a former winner of The X Factor. Mina Prajapati, David’s co-host on Channel Five’s Good Morning with David and Mina, interviewed him about cross-dressing and the aftereffects of being publicly exposed by the Daily Mail. In an emotional speech in which David thanked his wife and family for their continuing support, he introduced Viola, his female persona. Mr O’Donnell has been applauded on social media and in the press. The Daily Mail have yet to comment. Mr O’Donnell is donating all proceeds from the sale of behind-the-scenes photographs to the Terrence Higgins Trust.’
As the presenter went on to parliamentary news I texted Samantha and Lila, then sat in the garden to scroll through social media land before I had a shower. David’s hashtag was trending on Twitter. I hated Twitter. Nothing was sequential and I never knew who was saying what to whom or where the tweet had originated from. It felt like trying to decipher a protracted treasure hunt where the end prize was a steaming dog turd. Instagram and Facebook felt more like comfortable old friends whereas Twitter was like that snooty twat at school that turned every tweet into a bitchy comment and then rolled their eyes and pronounced you thick when you had no idea what a semi-colon was used for (I’m still struggling with that one). I rarely posted on there and had a measly and unpopular one hundred and four followers at the last glance. Acrobatic cats had bigger followings than me. But this glorious morning I had suddenly gained over one thousand followers, including David O’Donnell, Trisha Templeton and Mina Prajapati. I searched vainly for Lila’s tweet that tagged me in with the link to the vlog, scroll, scroll, scroll, and eventually worked out that it had been retweeted over three thousand times. It dawned on me I was a cog in the wheel of some grand plan; we were trending and surfing a wave.
Our YouTube channel had accrued a walloping fifteen thousand subscribers and I knew it would steadily rise as the story unfolded in real time today.
Are you free later? Do you want to come and watch David’s return to the sofa?
Samantha texted.
‘Do you think he will ever present the show dressed as Viola?’ I asked as we waited for the adverts to finish. Samantha’s living room had returned to its natural state, the screen stored back in the shed, her coffee table piled high with paperwork and the sofa facing the TV once more.
‘I don’t know. I think it’s a big risk, not one they might want to take. But I think presenting an article on cross-dressing would be brilliant: make-up tips, something David can personally contribute to. Viola isn’t an act or a show that he wants to parade publicly. He’s not ashamed, but he’s kept her in the dark for so long that it might feel forced and that’s something it can’t be. It has to be natural, like the vlog was. That felt so genuine.’
I nodded in agreement. The familiar music fanfared out of the TV and we stopped talking. The camera panned across the studio and on to David and Mina smiling on the yellow sofa.
‘Hello, and welcome to Monday morning. It’s OK, you can start your week now, we’re back!’ Mina said genially.
‘Yes, sorry for my sudden disappearance last week,’ David said. ‘Personal matters.’
‘Personal matters that have affected our entire audience!’ Mina spoke direct to camera. ‘David kindly let us into a side of his life he has felt the need to keep hidden due to prejudice and fear of recrimination.’
‘Oh, Mina, it wasn’t as big as you’re making out,’ he said modestly. Coming from anybody else it could have been interpreted as a humble brag, but knowing David, I felt it wasn’t. He’d apparently not seen all the comments and thanks and virtual cheering out in the social media landscape.
‘David, let me read out some of the tweets.’ And Mina trawled through Twitter highlights. Obviously there were the haters, but the outpouring of positivity outweighed them. David smiled bashfully.
‘If it has helped one person then it’s worth it,’ he said finally. ‘Thank you, Clothes My Daughter Steals, for allowing me the platform.’
‘Yes, I think we need to get Lila and Ali on the sofa with us to thank them properly!’ Mina said firmly.
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Sam muttered. The show moved on to the schedule of events and Sam muted it, turning to me, holding her coffee cup. ‘I’m getting a lot of enquiries already about Lila and by default, you. I don’t represent you, so you need to talk to your agent today and let her know what’s been going on if she doesn’t already know.’
‘Ah, shit, I don’t think I told you, I don’t have an agent at the moment. It’s a bit of a sad story.’
‘What do you mean? Now is the time you’ll need one the most.’
‘I know; I just couldn’t face searching for another one right now. Finding Alice was hard
enough.’
‘I think you’ll find it will be different now. You heard Mina – she wants you on the sofa!’
‘I hate live TV, though,’ I whispered, shot through with instant fear, an old wound twinging like a rheumatic knee in winter.
‘You’ll be great, don’t look so scared! But you need to sort an agent.’ She gave me a hard-core Paddington Bear stare. ‘I don’t have a fashion stylist on my books at the moment…’
I remained silent, unsure how to react.
‘I can tell you’re not keen…’
Fresh fear licked at my toes, kicking off the ‘What if… game’: What if we fell out? What if I said I couldn’t do a job because of some made-up reason and all Sam would have to do is peer in my windows to find me hiding under the coffee table? I’d already had two agents fuck me over, one literally from behind, and one metaphorically. Letting it happen a third time would either be viewed as very unlucky or carelessly stupid on my part.
‘It’s not that I’m not keen; it’s just that we’re neighbours and friends. What if something went wrong?’
‘Like what?’ She took a sip of her coffee, keeping her unwavering hawk eyes trained on mine. ‘We’re already working on the vlog together.’
‘Like what happened with Alice.’ I let Samantha in on Alice’s betrayal and midnight flit.
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me? I know any decent agent will have the same response, but I would never do that! I have been working in this business for thirty-odd years. The last thing I would ever do is a runner with all my clients’ earnings. I don’t have a desire to spend my golden years in prison! This Alice sounds like she was flying by the seat of her pants and cooking her books. Totally unprofessional.’
‘I know. I liked her, though. So many agents are full of bullshit and don’t care; she did seem to care. Obviously it was all a massive lie.’
‘Look, I can help you. I have Ben de Lisi and a few other smaller designers on my books and I have fingers in a lot of the pies of the fashion world. I know people. Your agent wouldn’t have had the experience to broker TV deals, and I do.’
‘TV deals? I don’t want to work in TV.’ More wobbly guts. I was happier goofing around on our vlog or on the other side of the camera, the power behind the throne…
‘Yes more TV deals! You and Lila are hot property at the moment. I honestly think we need to strike while the iron is hot. What do you say? TV would help clear your immediate debts.’
I was tempted. It had been so hard recently pimping myself out for work while trying to be present in the job I was doing, at the same time as looking after Grace, running a house and keeping on top of an endless list of chores.
‘I can bash out a temporary contract, three months, and then you can opt in for real if you think it’s OK. How about that?’
‘OK. I’ll do it.’
‘Now, I’ve been thinking about the vlog. I think to make it a success we need to have human interest stories, like David’s. The emotional back stories in those TV talent shows are very popular – everyone always wants those guys to triumph.’
‘Wouldn’t we have to advertise to get a breadth of people in? I’ve been thinking of someone who would love to do it. In fact I messaged her twice last week. I’m still waiting to hear.’
‘Great! We need to keep up the momentum, but we have no time for vetting outside people right now. It’s also a health and safety nightmare. Let’s use our contacts. You OK with that? We also need a permanent make-up artist; do you know anyone who can dedicate regular unpaid time in return for exposure?’
‘I’ll ask around but it won’t be easy. If a paid job comes in, that will always take priority. We need someone just for us, which is a lot to ask at the moment!’
*
Debbie’s children were at school when Samantha and I visited a few days later. Jo was there but something was amiss.
‘So – stupid question – but how are you feeling?’ I asked Debbie. Even though she was still recovering from her lumpectomy, the haunted look had left her eyes and she had unfolded her arms and shoulders from unconsciously protecting her chest.
‘Hopeful. This felt like the right decision – to pay for surgery. Waiting filled me with fear. I don’t want the cancer to spread, and no one could assure me it wouldn’t if I lingered on the waiting list. I wanged it on my card and closed my eyes!’
‘She wouldn’t let me pay!’ Jo huffed from her seat next to Debbie’s bed. Jo’s outfit today would have won an award for best in class at Crufts – she’d tied her black hair in bunches resembling a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. At the same time the furry Crocs were honoured with an outing, adding that extra illusion of doggy paws, while the rest of her body was clothed in what could only be described as a beige Ghostbusters boiler suit with the ankles rolled up. I struggled to think where she found her inspiration, or indeed, her actual clothes.
‘I didn’t want you to pay,’ Debbie said briskly. ‘I can pay for my own life, thanks.’ A permafrost settled on the room.
‘So when is chemo?’ Samantha asked, attempting to defrost the atmosphere.
‘Hopefully in a few weeks.’
‘What will happen to your hair?’ I asked. ‘It’ll be OK, won’t it?’ Debbie’s glossy waves framed her delicate face like a halo of light and were a big part of her attractiveness.
‘No, they’ve told me it will probably fall out. But I’ve decided to shave it off before I start chemo and donate it to charity. It will make up for going bald. I can cope with it if I know the alternative is death.’
‘Wow, you’re an inspiration, Debs.’ I was taken aback by her forthrightness. ‘When you’re feeling better, would you come on the vlog?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, I was wondering, I know this might sound controversial and perhaps insensitive,’ Samantha geared up, ‘but how would you feel sharing your hair loss journey on the vlog, and perhaps appearing during treatment? Show other cancer sufferers that life carries on, you can still be glamorous. Would Isabelle come on too? I know she’s shy.’
Debbie looked thoughtful and I could see she was mulling the idea over.
‘You know what, I think it would be a great idea. If it benefits someone else, then that’s good, right?’
I nodded enthusiastically.
‘Would you help me find a wig? Apparently you get the first one free, and after that, you have to pay.’
‘We could do an outside broadcast!’ I squeaked. ‘Film you trying them on.’
‘Maybe I could go radically different, pink or orange.’
‘I don’t think they do clown wigs,’ Jo said quietly.
‘No, they’re more suited to you,’ Debbie retorted snidely.
‘I’m sure they offer wigs for all tastes,’ Samantha refereed. ‘Anyway, we just popped in. Let us know when you’re ready to go wig shopping and we’ll organise to be there.’
‘What the fuck was that about?’ I hissed as we stood outside Debbie’s front door.
‘Jo being Jo,’ Samantha said matter-of-factly. ‘Doing what she always does – trying to take over and Debbie is resisting. Just watch – it’ll all fall apart now Debs isn’t playing the game.’
‘Really? It’s a pattern?’
‘Oh, yes, Jo has to be in charge. Surely you’ve worked that out. Anyway, let me know how you get on with locking down the next fashion victim. I’ll get the contract over to you tomorrow.’
While we’d been talking, Nick’s car had pulled up outside his house. I wondered what he was doing back from work in the day, but needs must and I knocked on his door. He opened it after a short wait and I noticed he looked particularly rough with dark circles under his eyes and an even more of a pasty pallor than normal.
‘Oh, gosh, are you OK?’
‘Yeah, just knackered. Mum’s been in hospital. Thanks for your notes. I haven’t had time to respond.’
‘Oh God, don’t worry. What happened?’
‘She slipped at home and
broke her shoulder. She’s in a lot of pain and of course, the MS makes everything worse.’
‘How is she in herself?’
‘She’s OK, but obviously her weekly visits here have had to be curtailed, so she’ll be trapped at home with Dad, which I think is going to drive her mental.’
‘Is she able to travel at all once she comes out?’
‘Yes, but Dad is being a real pain about it – “only if it’s necessary”!’
‘Would he think appearing on YouTube is necessary?’ I asked, smirking.
Nick leaned against the door jamb and laughed sardonically. ‘What do you think?’
My phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out to check it wasn’t about Grace. Carl. He’d sent me a picture of Homer Simpson hiding in the bushes like a stalker. I almost choked. I wanted to look round and see if he actually was lurking in some undergrowth, but I expected he was just curtain twitching from his house.
‘Everything OK?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes, fine, Carl’s just being an idiot,’ I said fondly, not able to control the stupid grin from spreading across my face.
‘I see.’
‘Do you want my number?’
‘Er, what for?’ He looked a bit taken aback.
‘So we can see if your mum wants to take part? Or you could give me her number and I can arrange.’
‘Ah, yes. You have to get past my dad first.’
‘I think I can manage him. I’m a parent pleaser – it’s one of my many talents.’
As I walked off, my phone pinged. It was Samantha.
Just had an offer from Spanx. They want to sponsor the vlog! We’re on our way, baby!
29
Elinor
Elinor heard the front door slam and peered through the net curtains in her front room. Ali must be shooting the vlog today; she was carrying lots of glossy shopping bags over towards Samantha’s house. Elinor would secretly love to be featured on the vlog but knew her daughter, Karen, would never ever parade herself in front of a camera and allow anything as shallow as a makeover. ‘Mum, you’re all just bowing down to the patriarchy’s idea of what beauty and image is.’ Elinor didn’t blame Karen for saying that; anyone would be militant after having a father like Phil. He’d objectified women based on looks for his entire life.
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