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KATHY I was lying in bed next to my friend Caroline in the pleasant afterglow of lovemaking. Caroline was curvy and attractive and soft skinned. She was funny - a delightful companion - in fact, everything you could want of a girlfriend. Except for one thing. I'd known Caroline for over a year: I was in my second year at university; Caroline was in her third. And although we were in bed together, and had been several times before, we were not in a conventional relationship. "I'm your friend; I'm a girl; but I'm not your girlfriend," was Caroline's refrain. Caroline had a serious boyfriend in the town where she was brought up. She went home often to see him, and he spent the weekend at university from time to time. But Caroline was highly sexed and friendly and joyful, and occasionally after a convivial evening, she would decide that she needed sex. There were a few of us she favoured. She called us her "redki'e malchiki" (she was reading Russian). I always thought I was her favourite: but I guess that the others thought the same about themselves. Nonetheless, it was an enjoyable situation for all concerned. Caroline, because of her innate good nature and kindness, escaped the accusation of being a slut; and I supposed that the malchiki were admired rather than pitied, as might otherwise have been the case. In short, Caroline was gentle, and engaging, and gregarious, and had a way of making everyone she spoke to think she was a good friend. She was liked by everybody, with one notable exception I'll come back to later. Serious conversation in bed was not exactly prohibited by Caroline, but any talk of relationships or permanence was stamped on quickly. My evenings and nights with her were light-hearted and fun, but there was always a barrier, a limit to what could be discussed. But just occasionally, Caroline decided that there were things we needed to talk about, and tonight was one of them. "So," she said, "why aren't you more open about it?" I ran the back of my hand over her breasts and torso and she shivered slightly. The lovemaking had been most satisfactory and we were still in that stage where you want to talk and empathise and kiss and fondle. But her question unsettled me: I knew exactly what she was driving at. Caroline was one of the very few people who I had told about my compulsion to dress as a girl. So far as possible, I'd kept this a secret from my college friends. Oh, I'd been to one or two parties dressed up, but I'd passed it off as a bit of fun - a laugh to be shared rather than a secret to be divulged. Looking back on it, I'm not so sure why I was so secretive. College was a liberal, tolerant environment. But however much people may seem tolerant and understanding, there are always boundaries and areas of discomfort. Perhaps I was too diffident and shy. Perhaps I worried unnecessarily about things. But I sensed that the people who laughed and danced and enjoyed themselves with me at parties felt comfortable with the idea that my dressing up was really not a serious matter. And more generally, in college life, there was a blokish element - a masculine comradeship - that made me shy about opening my heart to my friends. Men would shun me; girls would treat me as a figure of fun. Or so I thought. And then there was the clincher: "Don't forget," I said, "that my last relationship ended because Lisa discovered my secret." Lisa and I had been an item for two terms. She was a tall, skinny girl with small breasts and narrow hips, but with the angular, feminine grace that women with that sort of figure sometimes have. She had short, almost black hair and elfin features, often lit up with a mischievous smile, an infectious laugh, and piercing and very beautiful blue eyes. She had a habit of wearing tight jeans with boots and slinky tops. Her make-up was assertive and bold and designed to contrast dramatically with her pale skin and dark hair. I adored her. But she was deeply insecure about herself and about her future. She thought - and talked about - her future, and my future, and our relationship, and where it was going. I found these conversations difficult - as young men often do - and our discussions often ended in acrimony, with her flouncing out, or me sitting in sullen silence. As for me, I had my own insecurities, and they reacted with and multiplied Lisa's. The relationship was passionate, intense, difficult, and stormy. When Lisa discovered my secret - it's difficult to conceal a wardrobe full of dresses from someone who often shares your bedroom - her reaction followed a familiar pattern: shock, anger, accusations, tears. Our relationship didn't break down immediately, but it became emotionally cold. We stopped trying to please each other and concentrated on our own pleasures - a sterile and unsatisfying way of satisfying our bodily lusts. (The sex had always been thrilling and remained so until the end.) When the break came a few weeks later, I tentatively asked her whether she was going to tell people about my habit. She looked at me with scorn. "Do you think," she asked, "that I'm going to admit to spending six months going out with a boy who likes to wear frocks?" Her comment stung and - if anything - made me more furtive about my habit. We avoided each other in college and when asked we were both reticent about the reasons for the split. We were guarded when we did run across each other on campus, perhaps for fear of raising uncomfortable questions in public. Caroline looked at me thoughtfully. "Perhaps," she said, "the reason you broke up was because you weren't honest from the beginning. Lisa's an intelligent girl. She doesn't make judgments about people. If you'd been open from the start, you might still be together." I wasn't so sure. But in any event, the chances of us getting back together were now zero. She had a new boyfriend (and the relationship, I gathered, was just as tumultuous as ours had been) and I was sufficiently crushed by the break-up to find the idea of getting back together impossible. I'd made several attempts to start new relationships since my break-up with Lisa, but none had come to anything. My eye at present was on a girl called Avanti. She was a medical student. I was studying human biology, and we occasionally found ourselves attending the same lectures or crossing paths at seminars and in study groups. She was a south Asian girl with chestnut-coloured skin and black hair with natural copper highlights. She was slim and stylish and sexy, and we were friendly enough, but she gently rebuffed any advances I (and other men in the college) made to her. No-one quite knew what made her tick. Caroline was persistent. "You've got this huge thing in your life, and no-one else knows about it. If you keep it a secret you'll become bitter and twisted and unhappy. And if you're not open about it from the start, you'll never have a lasting or a satisfactory relationship." I shrugged. Perhaps she was right. But I baulked at the implications. I wasn't ready to - I simply couldn't - be open about my life. The fear of ridicule or worse was too great. "You dress up here in your bedroom. Surely that's not enough for you. How often do you go out dressed up? Once every few weeks? What does that do for you?" She'd hit a sensitive point. Dressing up in the privacy of my own room for sexual gratification was, ultimately, unsatisfying. I did go out just occasionally. I'd met a fellow traveller at one of the parties I mentioned earlier. He called himself Pammie, and he was the brother of a local nurse, who was the girlfriend of a medical student I knew slightly. Much more flamboyant and open than me, he lived on the other side of town, and we used to meet up occasionally for a drink. He dressed extravagantly, had a coterie of friends - male and female - flirted with them all, and seemed to be accepted and liked by them. But I couldn't - I just couldn't - behave like that myself. Apprehension? Shyness? Insecurity? I don't quite know. I envied his self- confidence, but I had to psych myself up to meet him, and I often returned home frustrated and terrified and ultimately unsatisfied. What could I do? ++++++ My conversation with Caroline unsettled me. It so happened that my next meeting with Pammie had been scheduled for the following Friday. It had been weeks since we'd met. He'd rung me to say that he was going out with a couple of friends ("real girls", he insisted) and that he hoped I could join them. His tone was arch and knowing, and I didn't quite know what to make of it. Was he implying that there might be an opportunity to - I don't know - hitch up with one of these girls? Or was it one of his louche jokes? I couldn't stop myself from accepting the invitation; I couldn't stop myself from being terrified by the prospects that might open as a result. So when Friday came round, I found myself revelling in the slow and sensual ritual of transformation. This was often the most pleasurable part of the evening, and what followed could often be a crushing anti- climax Still... Depilate. Shower. Moisturize. Talc. Apply breast forms. Don foundation garments. Open wardrobe. I'd selected a short, tight, black skirt made from stretchy, ribbed material. Black tights and boots with a modest heel. A clingy maroon top with a scooped neck, and a soft leather jacket - biker style - completed the outfit. The jacket was by far the most expensive item in my wardrobe. I'd bought it in the January sales, and my credit card was still groaning under the burden. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I was, I thought, sexy and convincing. Great outfit; perfect make-up (lips and nails the colour of black cherries); good accessories (jewellery, bag, gloves). This is what I was made for. But as soon as I walked into the communal stairway and locked the door to my bedsit, the familiar insecurities returned. Breathlessly, I hurried down the stairs, hoping not to meet any of the other students in the house. And then on to the street. Glances and smiles from other pedestrians, one or two looks - leering looks? - from men. Why was I attracting so much attention? In my heightened state of awareness there was the ever-present thought that someone would recognise me, expose me, subject me to ridicule. The thought that passers-by might just be taking an interest in me as because I was attractive and stylish seemed unthinkable. I walked quickly, my shoulder bag clutched to my torso, and my heels clicking on the pavement. My heartbeat began to slow to normal speed as I left the student quarter and the chances of my meeting anybody I knew diminished. I approached the central bus station, where I'd catch a ride to the bar where I'd arranged to meet Pammie. For a moment - just for a moment - it seemed as if the evening was going according to plan. But it didn't. A screech of tyres, a bump, a muffled cry. A red Audi had mounted the pavement and knocked a man off his feet. I sensed rather than saw him bang his head on a lamp-post, and then he fell to the ground and lay there twitching and apparently half-conscious. I rushed over taking my mobile phone from my shoulder bag, and dialled the emergency number. I tried to remember what to do to make a casualty safe and comfortable. He was breathing quickly and stertorously, and an egg-shaped lump was forming on his temple. A dampness - which might or might not have been blood - was seeping through his trousers. A knot of people had gathered on the pavement, but none of them stepped in to help until a dark haired girl pushed through the crowed and joined me next to the injured man. She was wearing an olive-green jumpsuit, with her waist clinched in by a wide black elastic belt. A tan suede jacket was slung loosely across her shoulders. The colour complemented both her dark skin and the green of the jumpsuit. Black strappy sandals with a flat heel completed her outfit. Odd how you notice these things in moments of crisis. And then time stood still for a moment as I recognised who it was: it was Avanti. If anything could be calculated to raise the level of my insecurity and apprehension it was this. But of course for a moment we were both focused on the casualty. Avanti efficiently checked for a pulse and loosened his tie, and then she took off her jacket and turned it inside- out, and folded it into a loose pillow to support the man's head. "Shouldn't we put him in the recovery position?" I asked. Avanti thought for a moment. "He might have a spinal injury," she said. "I don't want to move him until the paramedics arrive." She looked at me for a moment with an odd expression which I couldn't read, as if she was trying to place a half-familiar face. "In any case," she said, matter-of-factly, "his pulse seems strong and his breathing tube isn't obstructed. There's no immediate reason to move him." We stood together, in shared but silent comradeship, watching over the man while awaiting the ambulance. It seemed an eternity before it arrived, but it was probably only a few moments. A police car careered along behind it, its siren loudly announcing its presence. The paramedics were capable and quick. They carefully loaded the man onto a stretcher and hefted him into the ambulance. The doors closed, but the vehicle didn't move for a good long while. "They're stabilizing him before taking him to A&E," said Avanti. I nodded. By this time, a woman police constable was taking statements from witnesses. Avanti and I were closest to the scene, and our statements were the most time-consuming. I had a stab at remembering the licence plate number of the Audi, and Avanti was able to give a fuller description of the collision than me, as I had seen the moment of impact only in my peripheral vision. "You'll have to come in to the station to sign your statements tomorrow," said the constable. "Names?" "Avanti Mitra." The constable looked at me. I swallowed. There seemed no alternative. "Michael Grant," I said. The constable gave me an uncertain look, while Avanti did a double-take. "I was on my way to a party," I said lamely. The constable shrugged, and wrote down my name, address, and mobile number. Avanti continued to stare at me. I could almost see the machinery of her mind turning over. Could things be worse? By this time, the professionals were at work dealing with the aftermath of the accident, and there was no reason to hang about. By common consent, Avanti and I crossed the road and hesitated for a moment, watching the clearing-up operation. She turned to me. "Mikey?" she said. "Mm." I couldn't for the life of me think what to say. There was a pause, while she looked at me searchingly. "I could do with a drink," she said at length, "and so could you. Let me buy you one." There was a bar a few yards along the road, and Avanti took my arm and pulled me towards it. I was beyond resisting. What was going through her mind, I couldn't imagine. What was going through my mind was beyond analysis. This was, I thought, the end of everything. The bar was quiet and dimly-lit, for which I was grateful. Avanti went to the bar and bought herself a large gin and tonic, and a glass of white wine for me. I sat at a table, unable to speak or even to think. Avanti walked back from the bar and placed the drinks on the table. She looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, as if wondering how to broach the subject which was on both our minds. I was long past trying to pretend to be someone who didn't know her, and in any event now that she had had time to examine me more closely, she clearly realised who I was. "What do I call you?" she said simply. "Kathy," I said. "You can call me Kathy." She looked at her drink, stirring the ice and lemon round with a straw. Moments passed while she considered what to say next. "How long?" "Years," I said. "But you keep it a secret." A statement, rather than a question. "I don't like to be in people's faces," I said. "Most people don't understand." Another lengthy pause. "You're sure about that?" she said. "Perhaps you underestimate people." "Perhaps," I said. "But there are some people who..." I left the sentence hanging, before adding, "Particularly men." She looked at me for a moment and leaned back in her chair, fiddling with her belt. "You're probably right," she said. "But maybe you should give people a chance to make up their own minds." Her tone was abrupt, but she smiled gently to soften the message. I tried to smile back, but I knew that my expression was wooden and artificial. The conversation was never going to be animated. Avanti tried to move it on to other subjects, and we talked a little about the accident, and exchanged a bit of gossip. She was, I thought, making an effort to be normal, but I dreaded what she might say on the campus tomorrow. "Don't you want to get on to your party," she asked, after a while. "I don't think I'm in the mood any more." Avanti gave me a sympathetic look. "Well," she said, "let's just relax for a while." She bought us another drink and we lingered a little, but we didn't say much to each other. My mind was churning in the shadow of the disaster of discovery and as for Avanti... Well, I suppose she had lots to think about too. Not to mention the accident we had both been part of. After half an hour or so, Avanti offered to walk me home, and I accepted. It was at least a gesture of kindness, where I had feared ridicule and contempt. Not for the last time, I realised I had underestimated her. But I could not fling off my feeling of unease and apprehension as we left the bar. Was she just humouring me? The walk back seemed to take an age, and I wondered how to say goodbye and whether to ask her to keep my secret. In the event, that at least wasn't necessary. "I won't tell anybody if you don't want me to." This, as we reached my front door. I smiled my thanks, and Avanti patted me on the arm. I turned round and unlocked the door. Avanti stood on the pavement, waved at me, and paused for a while watching me before turning on her heel and walking slowly in the direction of her own apartment. Undressing that evening was a sad, solitary affair. I peeled off my clothes, folded my top ineffectively into the drawer and hung my skirt in my wardrobe. Tights and underwear into the wash basket; boots flung into a corner. Then deal with the breast forms and make-up. Not for the first time, I asked myself what pleasure I got from all this, and what compulsion drove me to do it. It was still early when I crept under my duvet and tried unsuccessfully to go to sleep. ++++++ As you can imagine, I was aghast at being found out by Avanti - so long the object of my lust, the girl that I'd been trying to get close to for the past six months. And despite her reassuring words, I was far from confident that she would be able to resist telling her friends about our encounter. I'm ashamed to say that I would certainly have found it difficult to keep such a big secret. The next Monday at college was miserable: I was constantly looking for signs that people knew about the previous Friday, and hearing scorn and ridicule in the most innocent remarks. Some kind of salvation came in a conversation with Caroline over coffee in the refectory between lectures. The caf? was quiet, with a few students coming and going, some leaving with cardboard take-away cups of latte. Nonetheless, we talked in hushed voices. I told her in considerable detail about the events of Friday night, about my feelings about the whole thing, and about Avanti's reaction. "If she says she won't tell, she won't," said Caroline. "One thing about Avanti is her ruthless honesty - she's always open about precisely what she thinks about people - and her moral code." I must have looked sceptical. "Would you like me to have a word with her? I knew her quite well in our first year - we were on the same floor in our hall of residence." I wasn't sure what this might achieve. "Well, I could at least get a feel for what she thought about the evening. What she thinks about you after having got a glimpse of your inner life." Caroline knew how I felt about Avanti, and had told me, with gentle amusement, that I was wasting my efforts in that direction. And in truth, I now felt that I had blown whatever slim chances I might have had. I said as much to Caroline, who looked at me thoughtfully, tapping a long fingernail on the table. A waitress came to clear up our cups. "I should think," said Caroline, "that Avanti's opinion of you hasn't changed at all. Except perhaps that you've become a little more interesting." I couldn't really see it myself. A thought occurred to me. "Why has she never had a boyfriend?" I asked. "Does she prefer women?" "Well, she's never had a girlfriend either," said Caroline. "But she did have a boyfriend in her first year. The relationship wasn't a success. I think he was emotionally abusive towards her, and she was less self-assured in those days than she is now. It ended badly. Floods of tears, that sort of thing. I spent a few long nights trying to console her." "And she's never been in a relationship since then?" "Not so far as I know. Certainly not here. She told me once that her parents wanted her to marry an Indian boy - an arranged marriage - but that she was resisting it. I don't know how things stand now." I absorbed this information. Perhaps if I could find out more about Avanti's past, I might be able to get a better idea of what made her tick. But no - any thought of an encounter with her must now be out of the question. "I'll speak to her," repeated Caroline. "I'll let you know what she says." And with that, I had to be satisfied. ++++++ I didn't see Caroline for a few days after that, and in fact it was Avanti who approached me one morning by the coffee machine. We were alone. "I've been speaking to Caroline," she said. "Oh." Heart in mouth. I couldn't think of anything more to say. "She says that you feel...alone." A long pause. Avanti looked at me with an odd expression on her face. Perhaps it was intended to be a sympathetic smile. I realised with surprise that she was nervous. Odd that. Avanti swallowed and looked down. "I'm going to see a French film on Saturday. I wondered... I mean, I just wondered whether Kathy might like to come with me." "Er... would you like me to ask her?" I said, feeling foolish. "Stupid," she said, recovering her composure and punching me on the arm. "Do you want to come or not?" "Um. Yes, of course," I said, rushing my words, worrying about striking the right tone. "Kathy would love a night out." Avanti flashed a smile at me - a genuine one, this time - and said, "I'll pick you up from your apartment at six. The film starts at seven." ++++++ "Don't look at it as a date," said Caroline. "Of course not," I said. She had come to my bedsit after lectures and we were sitting sipping coffee. I wondered idly whether she wanted to go to bed. "But I don't want her to take me out just because she feels sad for me." "I don't think so." Caroline frowned. "She wasn't exactly clear about what she wanted when I spoke to her, but I think she was intrigued by this new person, and she said to me that you seemed more alive and human as Kathy than as Mikey. Despite the stressful circumstances of your meeting." A road accident is not exactly the place to strike up a new relationship. "Just enjoy yourself," said Caroline. I gave her a sceptical look. "OK. I can't tell you any more about why she asked you out or what she wants. But my advice would be not to look a gift horse in the mouth." I stirred my coffee thoughtfully. An image of a goldfish in a bowl came into my mind. I didn't want to be a curiosity - a sort of exhibit trailed around for effect. On the other hand, I might never have another opportunity to spend an evening alone with Avanti. A toss-up. ++++++ For the next two days I was tormented by my own insecurities - the continuing fear of my friends finding out about my habit, doubts about Avanti's motives, worries about what sort of outfit to wear, and much else besides. But there was never any real likelihood that I'd cancel the invitation. For me, there was too much at stake. And perhaps it was time to confront my doubts and insecurities rather than running away from them. On the day, I tried to calm my apprehension by making my preparation as long and pleasurable as possible. After a luxurious scented bath, I sat in a soft, lush bathrobe and contemplated my wardrobe. I wasn't certain about Avanti's taste, but I felt I ought to wear something a little less provocative than the outfit she'd seen me in before, although I still wanted to feel sexy. In the end I selected a short, pleated ink-navy skirt, slightly flared below the hip, a silky top with a glossy sheen, quite clingy, with navy and cream diagonal stripes. Black tights, boots, and my favourite leather jacket completed the outfit. I made myself up carefully, and added some jewellery: drop earrings and a necklace, both fashioned from polished black stones set in silver. Then there was a wait - I was ready at least half an hour before our agreed meeting time. Bother. I went to the kitchen area, found an open bottle of white wine in the fridge, and poured myself a glass, then walked over to the full length mirror carrying my wine with me and checked out my look. Not bad, not bad at all. Then I took a sip of wine, leaving a smear of scarlet lipgloss on the rim, and sat down to contemplate the evening ahead. I couldn't but be nervous. What would Avanti be wearing? Would I overshadow her? Would she be annoyed if I did? I need not have worried. When I answered her knock at the door twenty minutes later, she breezed into my bedsit wearing one of the shortest, clingiest little black dresses I'd seen. Lacy black tights with a swirly pattern and patent leather lace-ups with a high, stacked heel emphasized the length and feline elegance of her legs. As before, her tan suede jacket was flung casually over her shoulders. Her outfit was set off by by a plethora of silver Indian jewellery, which seemed to glow in the dim light. She smiled, kissed me on the cheek, and refused an offer of a glass of wine. Dazed, I allowed myself to be led out of my apartment into the street below. For once, I didn't worry about - didn't care or even think about - the possibility of being seen by the other inhabitants of the house. My mind was entirely focused on Avanti. "My, my," she said, "Quite a sight." "Is that a compliment or a criticism?" She grinned mischievously. "Can't you tell? It's a compliment, silly." "Well, let me return it then," I said nervously. "You look absolutely stunning." And I felt myself blush, with the thought that my rather gauche comment might have been too forward. But she took my arm companionably, and we set off in the direction of the cinema complex. I was conscious of her cat like grace, and acutely aware of the occasional brushing together of our hips. Our conversation was a little stilted at first: I couldn't think of anything to talk about but our outfits, and I was conscious that an extended discussion of that subject might seem shallow and superficial. Avanti put me at my ease, telling me about the film she wanted to see. "It's a subtitled French comedy of manners from the 1980s. One of the few films of the period not to feature Gerard Depardieu." A smile. I recognised the name of the director, and was familiar with his style - understated plots focusing at length on interpersonal tensions and relationship issues, with the dialogue unscripted to make it seem more "natural". I was never sure that I liked the approach, but for me, in any event, the main point of the evening was to be with Avanti. It could have been two hours of Tom and Jerry for all I cared. The cinema was a large multiplex and the film we wanted to see was, understandably enough, on one of the smaller screens. Nevertheless, we had to queue for a good ten minutes before we could buy tickets, as a new Marvel blockbuster was being shown on at least three of the screens, and local teenagers were flocking to see it. But eventually, the transaction was completed. We still had ten minutes before the show started. "I want to buy a bottle of water. I'll get one for you, too, if you like." I nodded, and leaned on a vending machine while Avanti queued at a long counter. The usual cinema staples were displayed in abundance. Popcorn, chocolate, crisps, sodas, more popcorn. 'You could do yourself a lot of harm here,' I thought to myself. We entered the auditorium as the credits for the film were starting to roll, and groped our way to our seats in the gloomy light. Rather to my surprise, I quite enjoyed the film, despite being distracted by the proximity of Avanti's body. But she did not grasp my hand or caress my thigh; nor did our legs brush seductively against each other. I sat upright and tried to focus on the plot. After the film finished, Avanti suggested we get something to eat. There was a well patronised Pizza bar that I'd been to before and enjoyed, and I suggested we go there. Without consulting me, Avanti ordered a bottle of red wine to go with our food, and as the mellowing effect of drink took hold, I relaxed a little. We gossiped about college, our fellow students, and our lecturers (we had a couple in common). We exchanged information about our interests - Avanti told me, surprisingly, that she was a devotee of cross-country skiing - and talked about our plans for the summer. We laughed a lot, and time passed quickly. But there was, of course, an elephant in the room - in fact, there were two of them. Avanti steered clear of asking me about my dressing-up habit, and although I wanted to know something about her supposed fianc? - had she even met him? - I couldn't think of a way to do that without revealing what Caroline had told me, which would have been disloyal. The whole question of relationships and sexuality was therefore given a wide berth by both of us. This was inevitable, but unsatisfying. More than once, I had to pull myself up, and remind myself that this was not a date, and there was no reason to suppose that Avanti had any more than a friendly interest in my welfare. Nonetheless, it seemed that we had both enjoyed the evening. We walked back to my apartment in friendly silence, and I felt bold enough to invite her in for a coffee before she went home. She looked at me thoughtfully, while I mentally crossed my fingers, and hoped I hadn't offended her. "I've got a dissection tomorrow at 8.30," she said. "I need to get some sleep." It was a gentle put-down. And then she leaned forward, placed her right hand on my left arm, and gave me a brief and gentle kiss - not on the cheek but on the lips. "I've enjoyed the evening," she said. "We'll have to do it again, sometime." Puzzled, frustrated, and aroused, I ascended the stairs to my bedsit. The evening had ended on a tantalising but ultimately unsatisfying note. There was only one way to deal with my arousal, and after undressing, I resorted to it. Perhaps, I thought gloomily to myself, my whole sex- life from now on would consist of this sort of unsatisfactory release. Depressed by this thought, I slunk into bed and fell into a shallow sleep, punctuated by disturbing dreams. ++++++ For the next few days, I reflected incessantly on the evening I'd spent with Avanti, and wondered obsessively about what to next to exploit the opportunity which might narrowly have opened. But I saw neither Avanti nor Caroline during that period, and it was another student, George, who was the unexpected catalyst for further developments. We ran across each other one morning at the coffee morning. My immediate reaction, before he had uttered a word, was irritation. George and I cordially disliked each other. This dated from our first year at college, when we had been on the same floor of a hall of residence. Students are used to loud music and mess, but George's habits were on a different level. He monopolised the communal kitchen, used other students' pans and dishes without asking permission, and never washed up. Every so often, he would cause the waste bin to overflow by filling it with three or four weeks' accumulated detritus - pizza cartons, the remains of Chinese take-aways, and industrial quantities of empty beer cans - never once helping to empty the kitchen bin into the large trash bins and recycling containers in the basement. He hogged the bathroom, often fouled the toilet seats, and was wont to hold noisy parties which lasted all night, during the week as much as at weekends. His friends - a boisterous crowd of young men - were equally unsavoury, and treated our floor as their home, although they mostly lived in different halls. Most of our fellow residents complained behind George's back, but it was me who confronted him and eventually reported him to the warden. He'd never forgiven me. George himself was physically unprepossessing. Obese, with a double chin, and a pasty, acned complexion, he wore an assortment of baggy T- shirts (which nonetheless stretched over his ample belly) and cargo shorts with a multitude worryingly bulging pockets. His voice was loud and his sense of humour was spiteful. "Mikey," he said, slapping me hard on the shoulder, "I've been wanting to speak to you." He said this with a grin that was far from friendly: this sounded ominous. "Hello Georgie," I said. Calling him Georgie was the surest way of riling him. A former girlfriend had given him this affectionate name (the most unprepossessing men sometimes seem to acquire partners) and he hated it. He frowned, and looked at me for a moment through narrowed eyes, licking his lips. I wondered what was coming next. "What's this I hear about you prancing around town in a skirt last weekend," he said. I hesitated, heart in mouth. "I don't know what you mean," I temporized. "Ah. Denial," he said sarcastically. "You were seen, you dolt." I swallowed hard I couldn't think of anything to say. "Here, look," he said brandishing his mobile phone. He opened his camera roll and scrolled through it, before pushing it in front of my nose, showing me three pictures in quick succession. Dismayingly, the first was of Avanti and I in the ticket queue. Avanti had her back to the camera, but I was clearly recognisable, smiling, presumably at some joke she had made. The second was a distance shot of me leaning against the popcorn machine while Avanti was buying water (she was not in the picture), and the third was a head and shoulders close up of me, presumably taken using the camera's zoom function. Despite the clothing and the make-up and the loose blonde hair (it was my custom to keep my long hair in a ponytail when in boy mode) I realised that I was unmistakable. "How...?" was all that I could say. "Perhaps you don't know," said George, "that Suzi works behind the popcorn counter at weekends. She was on her coffee break, chatting with a friend, when she saw you and Avanti come in. Fortunately for me, she had her mobile with her. She texted me these pictures the same night. You can imagine my reaction." "Admiration?" I ventured, still hoping somehow to bluster my way out of the developing situation. This was worse than I feared. Suzi was a close friend of George, just as spiteful and a world-class gossip. The only surprise was that her report of the encounter hadn't got round the campus days ago. Also, it was clear, Suzi had told George that the girl with me was Avanti. "Not admiration. I'm not the sort of guy who admires a boy who prances around in a skirt. No - pleasure. Pleasure at the anticipation of the discomfort I'm going to cause you by ensuring that the whole college sees these pictures." I tried to counter-attack. "Prances around in a skirt? At least I dress with some style, and not like something out of East Enders." George reddened. "This," he spat, "is going viral." ++++++ By the following morning, it was evident as soon as I entered college that the pictures had been widely circulated. People's reactions varied, but everybody reacted in some way. Boys avoided my eyes, groups of girls whispered and giggled as I passed, and when I arrived slightly late for my seminar and took the last remaining seat, the guy next to me flinched visibly as I sat down. I floundered through the discussion, unable to concentrate on what was being said. Avanti sought me out in the mid-morning break between lectures, grabbed me by the arm, and pushed me into a corner. Speaking in an urgent whisper, she said, "Have you seen George's Facebook page." "No," I replied gloomily, "but I can guess what's on it." "Here," she said, pushing her smartphone into my hands, "look." There were two pictures - the first, the full-length shot of me leaning against the popcorn machine; the second, of me and Avanti in the ticket queue. But the worst thing was the accompanying text. Written under the picture of me were the words: "Who is this exotic creature, seen strutting through the Palace cinema last weekend? Why, it's our very own Mikey, displaying his unique (and some would say highly questionable) sense of style. I sense that we need a new nickname for Mikey. Free drinks to the person who comes up with the most amusing suggestion." The text under the picture of the two of us was, if anything, even more pointed. "And a bonus to anybody who can identify the sad medical student who took pity on Mikey and acted as his bodyguard for the night. I know we are supposed to support each other through college, but charity does have its limits." I looked up at Avanti. "Ouch," I said. "Ouch! Is that all you can say." Avanti glared at me. "How did he get this stuff." "Suzi," I said. "She works at the Palace at weekends. She saw us." Avanti's look of fury if anything intensified. I guessed that there was no love lost between her and Suzi. "I am NOT going to have people think I went out with you just because I felt sorry for you. And if you've any sense, you won't let people think you're embarrassed by pictures of you wearing a skirt, or that you're intimidated by George's horrible comments." "Um," I said. "How exactly do you suggest we get those points across to people?" "On Friday, we're going to dress up in our most glamorous and outrageous clothes and go to Carey's, and show people that we're proud to be seen in public." I was aghast. Carey's was a busy bar - often packed at the weekends - just outside the campus. Most of its customers were students, and many of my friends and fellow course members would be there. I'd be inviting myself to be a laughing stock. The horror must have shown on my face. "Mikey," hissed Avanti, "you've got to do this for your own sake. And for mine. You're more likely to be ridiculed if people think you're embarrassed to be seen in a dress, than if you're brazen about it. And, more to the point, you can't let people see George win." I hesitated. Avanti's face was set and determined. Her eyes glittered. "My message is that I'm proud to be seen with you; yours is that you revel in strutting your stuff in public. No hiding away from now on." Avanti was clearly not going to let me out of this. I realised that I had no choice. I nodded, still doubtful inside, still apprehensive about what I was letting myself in for. "So we defy the world and dare anybody to ridicule us? Is it a pact?" she said. There was no escape. "It's a pact." "Good. I'm coming to your flat tonight to help you select your outfit." It seemed had no choice, even over what I was going to wear. I gave her a weak smile, as she turned on her heel and walked brusquely to her next lecture. ++++++ And so we found ourselves, a few hours later, standing in front of my open wardrobe, working our way through the hangers, and discussing my planned look. I made a few suggestions, but Avanti dismissed them all as "too understated", although to my mind they were all sexy and stylish. But Avanti was adamant. "The aim," she said firmly, "is to be completely over the top." Eventually, she pulled out a satiny pencil skirt - black, in quite heavy material, with a slit at the back, with the hemline just above the knee. It had a flat front panel, and the sides were slightly ruched where they were stitched to the front panel. The shiny material emphasised the tightness of the garment, which I found quite difficult to walk in. "We can team this with boots and a glittery top. Have you any boots with a really high heel?" Sighing, I pulled out a pair of tight, knee-length boots with a platform and a vertiginous stiletto heel. Avanti nodded her approval. It seemed that both walking and standing were going to be a challenge for me, as Avanti ruthlessly prioritised style won out over practicality. Avanti was searching through my drawers, and shortly pulled out a tight, glittery top - black, with gold filigree - which was quite clingy with a scooped neck. "Have you any fishnets?" she asked. I shook my head. "Well buy some tomorrow. They'll be ideal with the rest of the outfit. You'll look stunning." "It's not my usual look," I said. "Um. Have you ever actually worn any of these clothes outside your apartment." I admitted that I had not. "Well, there's no point in having sexy clothes if you don't display them in public. And don't worry about overshadowing me," she added. "My outfit will be at least as sexy as yours." And with that, I had to be satisfied. ++++++ On Friday night, on tenterhooks, I waited for the sound of the entryphone which would signal Avanti's arrival. I wasn't exactly shaking with fear, but I couldn't be said to be calm. Time seemed to stand still, but eventually she arrived. I buzzed her in through the communal front door, and a few seconds later she rapped on my door. Feeling as though I was walking on air, I opened the door and let her in. I gasped. Avanti was as good as her word. She was wearing one of the shortest, tightest dresses I had seen - blood red and covered with sequins which glinted and sparkled in the dim light of my living room. On her legs were black, shiny tights, and pixie boots the same colour as her dress. The high heels clicked across the wooden floor as she walked over to kiss me on the cheek. The outfit was completed by a shortish, shiny (PVC?), silver-coloured jacket that was - in what I was beginning to recognise as her usual style - draped loosely over her shoulders. This set off and complemented the Indian jewellery, with which she was dripping. I slithered into my leather jacket, and pulled on a pair of soft leather gauntlets with metal studs on the cuffs (which covered the ends of my sleeves). We looked at ourselves in my full-length mirror. "I don't think," mused Avanti, "that people will fail to notice us when we get to the bar." I had no reply to this. We clicked and clattered our way to Carey's, walking quite quickly to avoid unwelcome attention from any drunks and vagrants who might have been in the area. I still felt a sense of unreality as I walked through the surprisingly bustling streets. My dream-like state was, however, shattered as we entered the bar. Avanti gave a whoop of greeting to someone out of my field of view, and waved extravagantly, presumably to attract attention of this unseen person. Heads turned round to look at us, and the buzz of conversation fell silent. Somewhere, someone dropped a glass. The bar was long and narrow, with a counter at one end which was really too short to accommodate the volume of customers. Half a dozen tables lined the walls on either side, but all of them were occupied. I was beginning to reconcile myself to standing for a couple of hours in my heels, when Avanti jostled through the standing crowd to a table on the left hand side of the room. With relief, I saw Caroline seated there with a tall young man I knew by sight but not by name. I realized he must be one of the malchiki. "I told Caroline of our plan, and she offered to come and give moral support." Avanti and Caroline exchanged kisses, and Caroline kissed me on the cheek. The man, who turned out to be a Scot called Angus, kissed Avanti and rather gingerly shook my hand. Caroline gave him an exasperated look. He was tall and muscular, with a square jaw and a powerful face. Later in the evening, it emerged that he was a stalwart of the University rugby team. Caroline went to the bar, and after a few minutes came back with drinks for us - gin and tonic for Avanti, and white wine for me. Caroline was drinking prosecco, and Angus, as might be expected, iced Scotch. Caroline was wearing a pair of shiny black leggings and a short halter- necked top which left her midriff exposed - not quite so extravagant as the outfits Avanti and I were sporting, but still revealing and sexy. Angus was wearing a pale cream suit with a black, open-necked shirt. As the bulk of the crowd of students in the bar wore jeans or cargo pants with loose T-shirts or hooded tops, we stood out a bit. But that was all part of Avanti's - and, I now realised, Caroline's - plan. Caroline and Avanti talked excitedly about their outfits and my (or rather Kathy's) first public appearance. Angus was silent for a while. I tried unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation while Avanti and Caroline talked across us, but he was reticent - I think a little startled by the company he found himself in - until Avanti charmed him into the discussion. As the conversation became more animated his inhibitions dropped away. The bar was hot and we drank quite quickly. As our glasses emptied, Avanti drew a twenty-pound note from her purse, and offered to buy another round of drinks. And then turned to me and said, with a mischievous grin on her face, "Would you be a darling Kathy and go to the bar for me. I need to go to the loo." I opened my mouth and closed it again. When we arrived, I had taken the seat closest to the wall in a vain attempt to be unobtrusive - or at least out of the way of the crowd of students standing between the tables. Pushing through the mob to the bar, where customers were standing three or four deep, was not what I had in mind. But Avanti had already made for the bathroom, and Caroline looked at me expectantly. Angus half stood up and I thought he was about to offer to go to the bar in my place, but Caroline restrained him by laying her hand on his arm. This was, she seemed to be saying to him, a test for me. There was nothing for it. I stood up, and started to push my way through the crowd. Somehow my heels seemed higher than before, and my skirt more constricting, inhibiting my efforts to strut towards the counter with a confidence I did not feel. But the crowd seemed to part before me, and one of the bar staff, his attention perhaps attracted by my extravagant outfit, offered to serve me straight away. Most of my neighbours at the bar avoided meeting my eye, and although at one point I felt a hand on my bottom, and a boy I didn't know stood rather obviously close to me, half turning so that our hips touched, I managed to retain my composure. I paid for our drinks, picked up two of the glasses, and made my way back to the table, treading rather heavily with my heel on the foot of the guy who I thought had groped me. He gave a muffled yelp. I returned for the other two drinks, and was pushing my way back through the crowd, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Tom, a student in my year, who'd lived next door to me in hall when we first arrived at Uni. "Hi Kathy." (How did he now my femme name?) "Um. You know that George is likely to be here later, don't you." "I do," I said. "That's rather the point." "He hates you, you know." Tom looked concerned. "He'll be out to humiliate you." "Well - I'm not in the mood to be humiliated," I said, with more confidence than I felt. Tom gave me a look which might have signified concern. In fact, I wasn't worried about violence. George, like many bullies was essentially a coward, and physical confrontation was not his style. He liked to wound with words, and he had a talent for raising the rabble. He was clever and slippery and had a way of shifting the argument which left you feeling confused and embarrassed. "You'll need to be quick on your feet. I'm sure he's got his attack planned out." Tom paused for a moment. "Good luck. A lot of us will be behind you..." It occurred to me that Caroline had probably spread the word about Avanti and I, which explained why the bar was even more crowded than usual. In answer to my question, Tom confirmed that this was so. I wasn't sure whether to be pleased at the support she'd drummed up or annoyed at the attention she'd drawn to me. As I pushed my way back to the table, a further thought struck me. If George hadn't been planning to come here before, he would certainly turn up if - as seemed inevitable - he'd heard word of my and Avanti's plan on the grapevine that Caroline had so firmly planted I was about to confront Caroline about this as I sat down again, but before I had a chance to say anything, the door opened as if in response to my thoughts and George swaggered through it, followed by four or five of his cronies. He looked round the bar, perhaps searching us out, which wasn't too difficult. He gave us a nod of recognition, and made a beeline for our table, his face contorted by a cruel grin. "Well, well," he said looking at me, "what have we here?" I smiled. "Hi Georgie. I thought after all the free publicity you'd given me that I should give other people a chance to see me." He snorted. "Publicity? You think people want to see you dressed like that?" "Well," I said, standing up and posing with my hand on my hip, "a lot of people seem to have turned up tonight. Perhaps some of them like what they see." A semicircle of people had formed up around us, listening intently to the exchange. I gave a mock curtsey in their direction, which was not altogether straightforward in my tight skirt and platform boots. Someone gave a good-natured cheer and there was a smattering of applause. George shot an angry glance behind him before glaring back angrily at me - evidently trying (and failing) to think of a suitably cutting riposte. There was silence for a few moments - the audience in the background visibly straining to hear what was going on - before George turned his attention to Avanti. "And you," he snapped, "what do you think you're doing here with this freak." Avanti gave him her sweetest smile. I think Avanti would be beguiling wearing a dishcloth, but dressed as she was, she was inevitably - as much as me - the centre of attention. "What am I doing? This," she said. And grasping my hand, she pulled me down on to her knee, pulled my head towards her and started to kiss me, at first gently but then more emphatically - open mouthed, her tongue darting between my lips. This show went on for some time. George, reduced for a moment to silence, stared at her in disbelief. "You've got some balls," he said scornfully. "Although I suppose that compensates for him not having any." Caroline, who'd been silent up to now, joined the conversation. "Oh, he's got balls. In fact, he's very impressively equipped down there. And I can vouch for the fact that he knows how to use his equipment to satisfy a girl." She paused for effect before pouncing: "Unlike some people I could mention." A ripple of interest rippled through the crowd. I remembered that astonishingly, for a few weeks after first arriving at college, George had been one of the malchiki. Perhaps his very grotesqueness had fascinated Caroline. I don't know, but it was certainly an odd pairing. Unsurprisingly, however, she had dumped him brutally and very publicly once his boorishness became apparent. Another person he'd neve forgiven. George reddened and his piggy eyes bulged. He took an aggressive step in Caroline's direction, but before he could say or do anything, Angus stood up and placed himself between them. "I wouldn't do that, pal," he said, his Glaswegian accent thickened with adrenaline. "In fact, I think it would be best not to do or say anything more in here this evening." Angus was an inch or two shorter than George, but whereas George was flabby and uncoordinated in his movements, Angus had the slim, muscular physique of the sportsman. And George didn't like physical confrontation. As if summoned by Angus's words, the semi-circle of people behind George advanced a step or two forward, and George, looking round as if for support, must have realised that the sympathies of the crowd were not with him. He stared at us belligerently for a few seconds and then turned on his heel. "Come on guys," he said, "let's go somewhere else, somewhere where we're not surrounded by dickheads." He stalked towards the door, and Jake, the closest of his confidantes, trotted obediently behind him. His other three companions looked at each other and hesitated, as the bar suddenly and unexpectedly erupted into a burst of spontaneous applause. Caroline and Avanti bowed extravagantly, and I gave another mock curtsey. For the moment at least we were safe. "No hard feelings, guys," I said to George's three remaining friends. "Let me buy you a drink." It seemed a good idea to make peace with them, and besides it might sow dissension in the ranks of George's coterie. The crowd parted as I made my way to the bar. I ordered three beers and looked back towards our table, where the glasses were again close to empty. Checking my purse, I ordered another round of drinks, and proffered three ten-pound notes. "No, it's on the house," said the barman. "Go back to your table, and I'll bring your drinks over in a minute." It struck me then that the pack of students in the bar, who had made me feel so awkward when I'd first entered the bar were now good humoured and friendly. A stark contrast with the embarrassed looks and giggles that had greeted me only a day or two ago in faculty. As I made my way back to our table, I was patted on the back several times, and congratulated quietly for standing up to George. I felt myself growing in confidence as my inhibitions slipped away, and started preening myself and revelling in the attention I was getting. Several fellow- students drifted over to our table and said kind words, and a few of them bought us drinks. There were two further surprises before the end of the evening. The first involved Lisa. I'd spotted her and her boyfriend at the back of the bar earlier in the evening. Now she came over hesitantly to greet me. (Tight denim jeans, matching jacket, black cashmere sweater, boots, red lips and nails.) "It's good to see you...er...Kathy," she said. "I'm glad you didn't let George get the better of you." And she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. "We should meet for a drink sometime." I raised an eyebrow, and Avanti looked startled. Lisa noticed and looked embarrassed for a moment. "Don't worry, I'm spoken for," she smiled, gesturing at her boyfriend behind her. And then turning back to me, "I'm glad you've found yourself. I hope we can be friends again." I nodded. "Let's have that drink soon." The evening drew to its close. Angus checked his mobile phone and announced that George and Jake had been spotted walking into his student apartment with a litre bottle of vodka. "You'll have nothing to worry about walking home." I drew on my jacket and gauntlets, and Avanti stood up. The people in the packed bar drew aside as we made for the door. It reminded me for a moment of a military guard of honour. We walked the short distance to my apartment and the second surprise of the night. We stood before the steps a little awkwardly, both of us I think struggling to think of what to say. And then Avanti closed the distance between us and kissed me on the lips, at first softly and then more earnestly. After a few moments, she stepped back and looked at me, gripping me by the upper arms. "Caroline seems to know quite a lot about your sexual prowess," she whispered huskily. "Mm." There was nothing obvious to say in reply. "I wonder if she was telling the truth." Avanti looked searchingly into my eyes. "Well..." I hesitated for a long moment, wondering whether to take the plunge. "You could always find out for yourself." Avanti stood silent for a moment. "The last time I walked you home, you asked me in," she said slowly. I smiled. "Would you like a nightcap?" "I thought you'd never ask." And Avanti followed me up the steps to the front door, her hand stroking the small of my back while I fumbled in my shoulder bag for my keys. I had no illusions that this would necessarily lead to anything long- lasting, let alone permanent. Much of what motivated Avanti was still a closed book to me. But I determined to make the most of this opportunity, and then we'd see how things went. Our lovemaking was lengthy and satisfying, and so I found myself, the following morning, hardly believing my good fortune, watching Avanti's beautiful brown skin glowing in the thin morning sunlight. (At Avanti's suggestion we'd slept with the curtains open so that we could gaze at the stars.) I stroked her hair gently, and she opened her eyes and snuggled against me, kissing my cheek. I felt my penis hardening again. For the moment, life was good. I had no idea what would happen next. ++++++