by Amanda Egan
‘The Gossamer Glove’
House of Female Impersonation
Fenton Street W1
Owner: Annie Vestite
I dropped the card in horror and tears began to ruin my perfectly applied make up.
He thought I was a bloody cross-dresser!
*****
I can’t remember how long I sat there. I vaguely remember the waiter asking me if I wanted another coffee and my nodding my consent. I didn’t feel strong enough to talk and the idea of putting a whole sentence together was beyond me.
I was mortified.
After all my hard work, Dad’s money and my positive mental attitude, I still looked like a bloody tranny. Suddenly I felt totally drained. I was a hopeless case, purely because of my outside shell. Inside I was as feminine and soft as the next woman but nobody saw that. Nobody could relate to my day-to-day struggle or turmoil and I was sick of it.
I’d been kidding myself that a new wardrobe could change things and I just felt like a fool. Daddy had invested in me and my new life and it looked like it wasn’t going to alter anything at all.
Somehow I had to repay him. I couldn’t let this latest setback stand in my way. I had a debt hanging over me and I wasn’t prepared to forget that or give in at the first hurdle.
*****
I returned to my flat, fed a complaining Bogey and changed into a tatty but comfy tracksuit.
Settling down to open my email, I picked at the remainder of my mascara and wiped the subtle lipstick from my mouth. Maybe if I wore absolutely no make up I’d look less like a drag queen. I simply didn’t know anymore.
Five emails popped up - three from Daddy with job suggestions (all pants) one from Tom asking how the ‘new me’ was (also pants) and another from Mia about my novel (probably pants).
My finger hovered over the ‘read’ button above Mia’s. Was I really in the mood to hear bad news? Was my fragile mental state ready to cope with it?
I scolded myself. Mia was my best friend and didn’t have a nasty bone in her tiny little body. She would sugar-coat any criticism and smooth the way if she felt my feelings were about to be hurt. I’d read it and deal with it. This could be my saving grace - agents and publishers would be bashing down my door with book deals, I could pay Daddy back and my mother would finally be proud of me.
I opened the email and read:
Lovely Percy.
What can I say? I haven’t laughed so much in years!
Please don’t take this the wrong way but … I’m assuming it was meant to be tongue in cheek? If it was - you’ve nailed it.
All those shudders and sighs, poutings and simperings. Love it!
Not sure what sort of market it should be aimed at but it’s certainly unique.
Speak soon
Mia xx
And for the second time that day, I felt the tears begin to build as a lump formed in my throat. My novel hadn’t been tongue in cheek and I certainly hadn’t written it to give people a laugh. I’d poured my heart and soul into writing my dream romance where women were loved and men were strong but loyal.
But as usual, I was just a joke. ‘Funny Old Percy’ with her hulking great frame and miserable life! What could she possibly know about affairs of the heart or men who loved unconditionally? As for the glamorous careers I chose for my heroines - models, air-hostesses, movie stars - what right did I have to lose myself in their worlds when I couldn’t even get a job on a supermarket check-out?
I’d foolishly assumed that because my life was so dull and my poor heart so battered, that women would want to read about perfection and romantic fantasy.
I’d turned my hand to something to try to dig myself out of a hole and, once again, I’d failed. How could I even begin to write romance when it could hardly be described as my specialist subject?
It was back to square one, once again.
*****
‘Her eyelashes were long, her legs equally so. Her lips like rosebuds and her nose perfection personified …’
Oh shit, it really was crap! Why hadn’t I seen that? I’d tried to juggle some words, do a little re-write here and a tweak there but it all seemed hopeless. People would laugh at it. It was Mills & Boon at its worst. There was quite simply no other way of looking at it - it was bad beyond bad.
It was another lovely bright and sunny day and I’d wasted a morning trying to turn a pig’s bum into silk knickers - or whatever the stupid saying was. It was lunchtime and my stomach was rumbling while my head was thumping with the strain of it all.
Dragging myself through to kitchen, I rummaged through the fridge for something to eat. The usual assortment of leftovers and unappealing scraps greeted me. Food shopping for one held little appeal for me and I spent most of my life existing on toast.
Placing two slices of sad looking bread in the toaster, I stood and looked out of the window. Bogey rubbed up against my legs and then jumped onto the breakfast bar, sending my handbag and its contents flying.
I bent to pick up my loose coins, tampons, make up and mobile and there, amongst the crumbs and bits of crumpled tissues, was Annie’s business card.
Bogey jumped down, sniffed it and then tapped it towards me purposefully with his paw. I could have sworn I saw him wink as he turned and left the room.
I picked the card up and stood it against the tea-pot on the worktop. What did Bogey know about ‘The Gossamer Glove’ that I didn’t? And did I have the courage to find out?
*****
‘So what exactly were you wearing when you met this Annie bloke?’
Tom had popped round with a bottle of Pinot and two tubs of Pringles, eager to hear how things were going for me.
I sipped at the welcome chilled wine and then looked at him. ‘I was wearing the white linen trousers with the silver-grey floaty top that you picked out.’
‘Shoes?’ Tom asked through a mouthful of Pringles.
‘Of course I wore bloody shoes! What d’you take me for?’
‘What shoes did you wear? Please tell me it wasn’t the high black patent ones. Not with that outfit.’
I told him I’d worn the flat beaded, silver sandals we’d found in a little back street boutique, once more thinking what a great gay he’d make. ‘I’m not totally useless, Tom. I know those black shoes don’t go with those trousers. Give me some credit!’
‘Well then, I think you’re over-reacting. He definitely didn’t think you were a transvestite. I reckon you’re just being touchy. You should give him a call - see what the job’s all about. What have you got to lose?’
The previous day, as I’d been sitting outside the café, if someone had suggested that idea to me I may well have decked them. But, after a day of battling with my crap manuscript and realising it wasn’t going to lead to my financial salvation, I could begin to see that Tom was making sense. And the minute the words had left his lips, Bogey jumped onto his lap and looked deep in to his eyes.
Tom laughed and stroked his ears. ‘See? Even the cat agrees with me.’
I didn’t dare tell him about Bogey’s flick of the card or the perceived wink of his eye - he’d think I was quite mad - but it did seem as if my moggy agreed with Tom and it was quite extraordinary to see him connecting with a gentleman caller in a way he’d never done before.
So maybe they both had a point. Or was that just the delicious wine mellowing me and tempting me to see the bright side?
I topped our glasses up and sat cross-legged on the sofa. ‘I suppose you’re right, you two. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?’
‘He could ask you how you get your tits to look so realistic!’ Tom risked a joke at my expense and I chucked a cushion at him, sending Bogey and a glass of wine flying.
But as we both sat there laughing, I realised I’d come to a decision. Tomorrow I would pay Annie and ‘The Gossamer Glove’ a visit.
Chapter Six
It was a tiny little building tucked away in a cobbled road off the main high street. Directly opp
osite was an ancient looking pub called, rather aptly, ‘The Queen’s Head’. They were both so secluded that it made me wonder how anyone ever came across them.
My heart sank - it was a crap tranny bar which probably never saw any clientele and the salary would be peanuts. What on earth had I been thinking?
Pulling my bag further onto my shoulder, I began to cross the road to the pub. The journey had been a waste of time but I was desperate for a cool drink and decided to treat myself to a Coke.
As I sat at the bar, nursing my glass, I pulled out my mobile to call Tom. It would usually have been Mia that I’d touch base with but, if I was totally honest, I was still feeling a little miffed with her about my novel. And she had no idea that I was considering a job in a club so Tom seemed the natural choice.
He answered after a couple of rings. ‘Hi Perce! How did it go?’
‘Oh Tom, I didn’t go in. I’m in the pub opposite having a drink.’
‘Percy, get yourself in there this minute. Where have the balls gone that you grew last night?’
I laughed at his daft joke but continued, ‘Tom, I’m not going in there. Honestly, it looks like an absolute dive. There’s no way on earth I could work there.’
I was waiting for Tom’s response when I became aware of a soft coughing behind me. I turned and looked into the eyes of Annie, this time with more than a hint of make up.
‘A word, if I may?’ he asked.
I mumbled a hurried goodbye to Tom and clicked my mobile shut, turning fully towards Annie.
He cleared his throat again and looked at me with a hint of coldness in his eyes. ‘I know we only met for a couple of minutes the other day but I didn’t have you down as someone who judged a book by its cover. You surprise me.’
I felt myself blush. He’d heard my comment to Tom about his club and I’d hurt his feelings. I opened my mouth to speak but he raised a hand to hush me, adding, ‘At least have the decency to see what’s on the inside before you pass judgement. It’s only fair, isn’t it?’ And he turned on his heel and sashayed out of the pub.
I sat for a while letting the truth of his words sink in. Hadn’t that always been my own philosophy? Wasn’t I crying out for people to take more notice of the inside of me?
I sipped at my Coke and hung my head in shame.
*****
It was with great trepidation that I made my way down the uneven stone steps to the basement entrance. A tiny doorbell nestled amongst the trailing ivy and I took a deep breath before pressing it, fluffing up my hair and pulling myself up to my full height. I still wasn’t quite sure what I was doing there but I felt I owed it to Annie and partly to myself. I’d come this far anyway, what did I have to lose?
He opened the creaky door after a few seconds and stepped back to allow me into the small, dark entrance hall. ‘Oh, you decided to risk life and limb and come and have a nosey, did you? Not such a dive inside, is it?’ he gestured towards the surroundings with a theatrical flourish.
I struggled to get my eyes into focus after the glare of the bright sunshine outside. It was like stepping into another world - a gloriously camp Aladdin’s Cave which belied the dingy exterior.
In the corner of the small hallway was a totally over-the-top padded reception desk in scarlet velvet, complete with a gilded throne à la Beckham. An old fashioned cream and gold telephone took pride of place, along with a huge black satin notebook and feathered pen - the scene almost set for a courtesan’s boudoir. The walls were in blood red satin and featured ornately framed photos of drag acts surrounded by dressing room lights. A coat stand was laden with feather boas, negligees and various flimsy undergarments - clearly for show, they were there to tantalise, not to be worn by the men who trod the boards there.
The air was thick with the scent of femininity and, for some strange reason, the song ‘Lipstick, Powder and Paint’ began to play in my head. I’d never set my size nines in a place like it in my life and I stood in silence, taking in every last detail, drinking in the atmosphere.
I turned to Annie, his hands on his slim hips and a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he studied me. ‘Gorge, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s taken me years to get it looking like this and there’s never a day goes by that I don’t get a little thrill in my heart when I come through that door.’
His face softened as he spoke and I could sense his pride oozing from every well groomed pore. I finally found my voice, although it was a little squeakier than usual and I spoke the words I never thought I’d actually have to say. ‘I’m not a man, you know. I’m not looking for a gig, or whatever it is you people call it.’ I closed my eyes and dropped my head - I’d said it and now I dreaded his response.
I was greeted with a raucous laugh - a laugh that told of a thousand fags and gallons of booze. ‘A man! You thought I thought you were a man? Oh Doll! You soppy cow, of course I didn’t think you were a man!’ He took his hands in mine and looked me squarely in the eyes. ‘You my babe, are a fine looking specimen of womanhood and you’re going to remember the day you were taken in hand by ‘The Gossamer Glove’ for the rest of your life.’
*****
Annie and I moved through to the miniscule back office and he sat me down amongst paperwork, wigs and other female paraphernalia.
‘Drink?’ He held out a bottle of brandy. ‘You look like you could do with one.’
I nodded and took the huge retro glass he offered me, grateful for something to steady my nerves. Annie pulled up a seat close to me and rested his hand on my knee. It was a comforting gesture and I felt myself relax.
‘You’ve had a bit of a time of it, haven’t you? I can see it - very tuned in, I am. Well, it’s time to put all that crap behind you and move on. Trussssst in me!’ He did a bad job of the snake in ‘Jungle Book.’
I took a huge glug of my drink and let out an inelegant splutter. After I’d composed myself I looked at Annie and shook my head with a frown. ‘I don’t understand. What is it you want me to do here? What possible use could I be?’
‘You my babe are going to be my new right hand woman. The balls behind the poof! I’m hopelessly disorganised and I need a Girl Friday and I reckon you’d fit the bill very nicely.’
‘Girl Friday? I don’t know the first thing about …’ I struggled to find the right words. ‘Well, about drag queens or clubs. I’d be rubbish.’
Annie threw himself back in his chair and ran his hand over his bald head. ‘Now hush your mouth with that negative bull. I know you can do this job - I’m not gonna take a risk on another bloody bimbo who thinks she’s hit a cushy number in the glamorous world of entertainment. Do you know how many tits-in-a-trance I’ve employed in the last year? Have you any idea how stressful that’s been for me?’ A tear began to form in his eye and his voice cracked.
I shook my head, slightly taken aback by his dramatic performance.
‘I’ll tell you how many. Six! Six dopey trollops who didn’t have a clue and had no intention of learning the ropes. Half of them spent the night flirting with the straight punters and the other half could barely string a sentence together, let alone understand the vulgarity of gay humour. Tamara, Gawd bless her little peroxide roots, left me in the lurch on New Year’s Eve because she walked in on one of the guys tucking his bits away. I mean, WTF, babe! Where did she think she was working? In a sodding convent?’
He was really getting into his stride now and pacing as much as the confined office would allow, gesticulating wildly and becoming louder and louder. He suddenly stopped and pointed at me. ‘But you! You are different. I can see it.’ He stretched his arm out and then brought his index finger to the centre of his head, placing it between his artfully plucked eyebrows. ‘I can see it with my third eye.’ He closed his eyes and shuddered, leaving me unsure whether he’d gone off into some sort of odd trance.
He quickly recovered and smiled brightly at me. ‘So? What do you say? Fancy climbing aboard the fag train and having the ride of your life? I pay well. OK, I’ll work
your bollocks off - pardon the pun - but you’ll have a fantabulosa time.’ He dropped to his knees and looked up at me with puppy-dog eyes. ‘Say “Yes”. Say “Yes Annie. I’d love to”.’
I looked down at him, a million and one thoughts running through my head all at once but none of them coming out of my mouth. It was possibly the most surreal moment of my life and I was stunned into silence.
He stood and sat back on the seat next to me, looking a little huffy. ‘What’s up? Pussy got your tongue? I haven’t just put on the performance of a lifetime for you to sit there and say bugger all. Speak to me.’