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CHLOE I felt wretched. I'd woken up in a strange hotel room next to a woman I'd met for the first time the night before. I'd gone out drinking with some friends to try to get rid of the gloom which had been hanging over me for weeks, and predictably it hadn't worked. When my friends decided to call it a night, I'd been too far gone to see that that was a good idea. I'd carried on drinking in my own solitary, dismal company until the bar I was in had closed, and then I'd staggered into the first licensed premises that was still open. That happened to be a four-star hotel off Regent Street, and I ended up on a high stool in a glitzy chrome-and-mirrors bar in the basement. Bella, who was staying at the hotel, was also drinking alone after - she later explained - a long day and evening of meetings. She was slim, gamine with a heart-shaped face, and a boyish appearance emphasized by hair cut short, with a side parting, creating a floppy fringe which trailed across her forehead. She was wearing boots, a leather skirt, and a burgundy top with three-quarter length sleeves. A leather jacket was draped over the back of her stool. Why she was drinking alone that late, dressed like that I found out only later. At the time, I was too drunk to register the incongruity of the situation. Somehow we'd got into conversation, and my mood had picked up a little. She teased me for my clumsy efforts at conversation, but later we laughed together in easy companionship. We were, as I realised later, both hungry for company for our very different reasons. I can't now remember - I can't imagine - what led her to invite me to her room and me to accept. What I can remember is the utter, abject failure that followed. Whether it was my mood, the alcohol, or the medication I was taking I cannot say. But it very rapidly became clear that physical lovemaking involving penetrative sex was out of the question, and after trying several other things and failing to arouse either myself or Bella, I fell into tearful, embarrassed apology. I think I must have fallen asleep in the midst of my pathetic stammering excuses, and I woke up with a sore head, a tongue like leather, a sandpaper throat, and the nausea, depression, and remorse that comes with a truly epic hangover. These feelings were not assuaged by a buzz from my phone which, on closer inspection, contained several frantic texts and voicemails from my mother who was convinced that I had become suicidal and done something stupid. When Bella disappeared into the en suite bathroom, I phoned my mother back to assure her that I was alive, not suicidal, and that I'd be home later. Bella, surprisingly, did not throw me out of her hotel room immediately. Dressed now in flannel trousers and a rather mannish white shirt, she ordered breakfast from room service to - as she put it - get my metabolism working properly again. She also interrogated me on my state of mind (I think she may have heard me talking to my mother) and my plans for the day. I managed to reassure her that there was no imminent danger of my topping myself, and our conversation passed on to easier ground. Or at least it should have been easier. I asked her where she was from, and she said that she was a Lancastrian from Ribbleport. This was, it struck me, a remarkable coincidence: it turned out over time to be the first of many. "Ribbleport? I'm going to be staying there for a few months," I said. "My grandmother lives there. Perhaps we could meet." Bella looked shifty and gave a non-comital reply. I suppose after the chaos of the previous evening I shouldn't have been surprised by her lack of enthusiasm, but I was disappointed. Eventually, I persuaded her to take my mobile number. "I arrive in two weeks' time. Give me a call." She nodded without real commitment, and declined to give me her mobile number in exchange: "There's no point. My contract ends in a few days, and I'm getting a new number." With this rather odd and evasive explanation, I had to be satisfied. We parted on friendly terms. I'd sought, and received (albeit unconvincing) Bella's reassurance that my behaviour the previous evening had not caused offence. And on my journey home, I reflected that it was not really surprising that she was unenthusiastic about meeting me again. After all, I had given her no real cause to believe that I had much to offer her, either sexually or socially. The most likely explanation was that she simply felt that a further meeting would offer no pleasure but only potential embarrassment. But there was something odd about the way she had expressed herself. "Not really available like this very much," she had said. What did that mean? But after trying to analyse the significance of her remark, I shook my head at my attempts to find meaning in what was probably just a clumsy choice of words. The real mystery was why she had latched on to me in the first place. ++++++ I found my mother tearful on my return home: she hadn't quite been able to believe my reassurance that I was alive and well and not planning to harm myself. While her reaction to an extended evening's drinking might seem excessive, there was reason for it. A few months earlier, I had started feeling nauseous and lost a lot of weight. Fearing the worst, my doctor had referred me to an oncologist for assessment. In fact, the illness was not the big C, but something altogether more obscure that didn't even have a common name in English. Words like "endocrine system" and "metabolic imbalance" were bandied around, and although explanations were attempted, I failed to understand exactly what was wrong. (I'm a musician not a scientist, for God's sake.) I had some fortunately minor surgery to remove affected glands from beneath my arms and from my groin, and was then put on a drugs regime which - I was told - would last at least a year. The drugs came with a grim warning about side effects. "You're likely to suffer mood swings and depression. Some patients even report suicidal feelings. You'll probably lose your body hair. There are also some other possible physical changes, although few patients experience those." There was also some advice about my continued care. Broadly, this boiled down to a need for close family support during what was likely to be quite a difficult period for me. And that's where life had become complicated. I was studying piano, composition, and conducting at the Paris conservatoire at the time, and the doctors were unanimous that returning to a student environment outside my family environment was unwise. But my father - a former RAF officer - was currently working on a big defence engineering project in Saudi Arabia, and my mother - who worked for one of the big consultancy and accounting firms in London - had just landed a lucrative contract in Frankfurt, which would involve a lot of international travel. Neither parent would be able to give me the sort of support the doctors thought I'd need, and our family home in Hampstead was to be rented out while my parents were abroad. There were no close relatives living nearby. And because my own existence had been shaped by the peripatetic routine of a military family, I did not really have any friends in England on whom I could impose. It was my mother's idea that I should stay with my paternal grandmother. This was an odd choice because my father had never been close to his mother. Grandma had two children, and her favourite had always been her daughter. She had been grief stricken when her daughter and her husband had been killed in a car crash, and had taken in their daughter to bring up as her own. My father she had disdained - perhaps even moreso after the loss of her daughter. She was now in a state of renewed grief because her granddaughter - my cousin Emma - had run off to Berlin with a rock musician. "You always looked a lot like her," said my mother. "Perhaps if you get in grandma's good books you can fix up a reconciliation with your father. And she's as rich as Croesus. When she dies, I'd like to think she'll leave some of her wealth to your dad or to you. At present, it looks as though the lot will go to Emma." "We don't really need her money mum," I protested. "And I've not seen grandma for over ten years. She's not likely to want a depressed invalid she doesn't even know in her home for twelve months." My mother was unmoved. "It's the best solution we've got. I'll talk to her. And if she agrees, make sure you make a friend of her." It fell to my mother rather than my father to negotiate with my grandmother ("she's always found it easier to deal with girls"). I don't know what arguments she used, but an air of tension hovered over the household for a few days while discussions proceeded. I gathered that my grandmother had raised some emotional and practical objections. But after several lengthy telephone conversations, my mother persuaded her to take me on for a trial period from her departure in August until Christmas. If things didn't work out we would all think again. Meanwhile, my tutors in Paris agreed I could take a sabbatical for a year, on condition that I took virtual masterclasses to broaden my piano repertoire, and produced a dissertation. The subject we agreed on was "Harmonic innovation in orchestral music in the second half of the nineteenth century", which was both interesting (because it would be of benefit to my conducting) and challenging (because most of the leading authorities on the subject had written in German, which was one of my weaker languages). As the summer lengthened, I prepared without enthusiasm for the trip north. I sent clothes and musical scores ahead of me in a trunk. Meanwhile, the side effects of my treatment started to appear as forecast. Depression - as will be apparent from the start of this story - came in full force, and as predicted I lost all my body hair, including my pubic hair. The register of my voice rose a little from reedy tenor to husky alto. I was told that this was the first time that this side effect had been recorded, but as only a handful of people had ever been prescribed the cocktail of drugs I was taking that was not, perhaps, a surprise. I also experienced some of the rarer physical effects of the drugs - a certain thickening of the flesh around my hips and bottom and - initially hardly perceptible but increasing over time - my chest. By late summer I had to acknowledge to myself that I was the possessor of a pair of small, pert breasts. I disguised my figure by wearing loose tops and baggy trousers, but as the time to travel north approached, the changes to my body became more difficult to disguise. ++++++ And so, one morning in early August, I took the train north to Ribbleport. The journey involved a change at Manchester, involving a trek between two different stations. The branch line to Ribbleport was slow and bumpy and the diesel train was smelly, cold, and clammy. Even though I had brought only a small overnight bag with me, I found it difficult to struggle with my luggage when the time came to leave the train. All in all, I was tired and gloomy by the time I arrived at my destination. A taxi took me to my grandmother's address, and I was greeted by a plumpish woman in her forties with bright red hair and red lipstick, wearing a red rollneck top, red trousers, and red shoes with flat heels. You would have thought at first sight that this jolly lady had neither the figure nor the features for such a brightly-coloured outfit, but over time I came to realise that she carried off her selection of flamboyant outfits - of which this was a typical example - with remarkable aplomb. This vision turned out to be Mrs Goole, my grandmother's housekeeper, whom I gradually came to know as Pauline. She worked most days, arriving at the house just before lunch, and staying until after dinner, which my grandmother took early at around 7 o'clock in the evening. She was distant at first, probably having absorbed my grandmother's reluctance to have me in her home, but inevitably her jolly, friendly personality shone through, and she did more to make me feel at home in my early, depressed days there than anybody or anything else. The townhouse was spread over five floors. The large kitchen and dining room were downstairs from the entrance hall, with the dining room overlooking the long narrow back garden which was a few feet below street level. The ground floor contained a drawing room and a music room with a grand piano, a music stand, an easy chair, and brackets on the wall from which, Pauline informed me, Emma's guitar had once hung. There was a cello and a violin, each in its case, lying on the floor, and a full-length oval mirror on a stand by the window. An expensive music system with large speakers stood against the wall opposite the window. My bedroom and my grandmother's were on the first floor. There were three guest rooms and a bathroom on the floor above. And the attic had been converted into a study and library, where my grandmother - a successful, published novelist - spent most of the day working. She took her lunch in her study, which meant I generally saw little of her before the evening. My bedroom was, like my grandmother's, a suite consisting of three rooms. The bedroom itself was large and airy, decorated in pastel shades with a deep pile cream coloured carpet. The double bed was covered by a glossy pink counterpane (satin? taffeta?), and soft, frilled pillows in the same material sat at the top of the bed. There was a table on which I placed my laptop, an easy chair, and a bedside stand on which stood a lamp and a decanter of water. The room was illuminated by bracketed wall lights with peach-coloured silk shades. Adjoining the bedroom was a dressing room containing a dressing table placed next to a full-length picture window, a large chest of drawers, and extensive wardrobe space. This took up the length of an entire wall, the wardrobes being fitted with sliding mirrored doors, which made the room seem twice as large as it was. Pauline had, she told me, unpacked my clothes already, and as I slid the wardrobe doors open, I saw that that was so. My collection of shirts and jeans occupied only a fraction of the space. Empty hangers occupied the rest of the long rail, with an empty shelf above. There were, I saw, three long dresses hanging at the end of the rail furthest from my own clothes. "Emma's," said Pauline. "She left them behind when she went away. You can only use so many ballgowns, I suppose, and in any case, she was a bit of a goth. She had little use for formal dresses towards the end." I nodded, absorbing the information. I had not met my grandmother for over five years, but from my memory of her style and personality, she seemed an unlikely companion for a goth, and I said so. "She was besotted with Emma and she indulged her. Bought her lots of clothes - in all kinds of styles - and an expensive bass guitar. Paid for her to learn to ride a motorcycle and bought her a Harley when she passed her test. She was devastated when she left. I don't think she's ever really recovered." I smiled inwardly. "Ever" was a relative term. Emma had been gone for only a few months, and my grandmother was, I thought from past experience, tough and resilient. Still, it was interesting that she had not fully got over Emma's departure. Pauline left me to unpack and freshen up. As dinner was at seven - as I say, this was early by the standards of my own family - I should be downstairs by ten two at the lates. "Be prompt," she said. "Your grandma's a world-class clock-watcher." I didn't need to dress for dinner, she reassured me: this evening's meal would be quite informal. I smiled inwardly. My formal clothes were all in Paris; when I'd left, I'd expected there to be little need to dress up during the summer vacation, and there was certainly little scope to do so now. ++++++ Informal the dinner might have been, but it was not a comfortable experience. My grandmother greeted me coolly, and the conversation was polite but stilted. She asked me the bare minimum about myself, my health, and my studies, and volunteered little about her own life. I tried to ask her about Ribbleport and what I might find there to interest me, but her responses were brief. She wasn't hostile, but she appeared bored. She was, I should say, an impressive figure of a woman. Although she must have been seventy years old, it was quite evident that she had been a great beauty when she was younger. She was slim, she dressed with style and aplomb, and although her flesh was stretched tight with age over the bones beneath, her skin was smooth and her bone structure was elegant. She had my family's sculpted cheekbones, elegant jawline, and arched eyes, and the eyes themselves, although somewhat shrunken, were the most brilliant blue that I'd ever seen. Her rare smile, when it came, was radiant, and her teeth white and even. She dressed in surprisingly modern styles: sharply-cut suits with shortish skirts and heels when she went out; slim jeans and beautiful cashmere sweaters indoors. Good quality jewellery, carefully applied make-up, upright posture, the catlike walk of a much younger woman, conscious always of how she might appear to others. Indeed, as I think back, her sense of style was the thing that struck me most forcefully about her that first week. Nonetheless, I found it difficult to warm to her in those early days, and my first week or so there was gloomy. I spent most of my days in the music room. It was an airy spacious room, and I've already mentioned the array of instruments there. The piano - a genuine Steinway, as you might expect from a rich music lover - had originally been bought for my aunt, who was a keen amateur pianist and who worked as a piano teacher before her early death. My grandmother, I knew, played the violin, and I wondered whether we might one day play duets together. Emma had, I think, studied the cello when young, but had, I gathered, given it up as her addiction to heavy rock grew and she transferred musical talents to the bass guitar. So the shelves along one wall contained reams of music for a variety of instruments and styles. I generally spent most of the morning and much of the afternoon practising - mostly in those early days Beethoven, Rachmaninov, and Brahms - and the remainder of the daylight hours reading and making notes for my dissertation. The music room, in effect, became my workroom and study and during the day I brought my laptop downstairs and connected it to the speakers of the stereo system so that I could download files of orchestral accompaniments to practise against. I went out rarely. I'd arrived still depressed, and my depression if anything deepened as the week went by. My grandmother, I felt, was cold and (if not actually unfriendly) stiff and formal. Apart from occasional encounters when she left the house or returned after some social gathering - she played bridge, went riding, and occasionally lunched out with friends - the only time I saw her was over dinner, where our conversations were sparse and polite - never intimate. I found it difficult to know even what to call her. 'Grandma' seemed inappropriately informal for someone I'd hardly met; there was no suggestion from her that I should call her Alison (her given name); and 'Mrs Thomas' would be unfriendly. No - I couldn't think of her as a friend or as a close relative. The only real companionship I had in those early days was with Pauline, who fussed around me, ensured I was comfortable and well-fed, and tried to reassure me that my grandma would unbend with time. But despite this, by the end of the week, I was tense, lonely, and bad-tempered. I wanted above all to be gone, and I locked myself in my room in the evening immersing myself on-line or reading gothic novels. Even if my grandmother did make some sort of overture to me, I thought, I'd throw it back in her face. I was, in short, completely unprepared for the opening when it eventually came. ++++++ It was Friday. I had been in Ribbleport for just five days. I was eating lunch in the kitchen with Pauline who was uncharacteristically and unexpectedly silent during the meal. She answered my questions monosyllabically, and avoided my eyes. I had, I think, just asked a question about what my grandmother did during the weekend, when she looked up at me, an unreadable expression on her face. Nervousness? Guilt? "She likes to dress for dinner." I turned this over in my mind. It did not seem a particularly significant piece of information. "And she likes her guests to dress for dinner." Ah. "But I haven't bought a dinner jacket or even a suit with me." Where was this leading? "I know that. I unpacked your things. I've told her that you haven't any formal wear with you." "So?" I was reluctant - even the money was readily available, which it wasn't - to spend Friday afternoon searching shops I had not yet visited to find a suit and tie. "She suggested," and here Pauline looked away, casting her eyes down to the floor; "she suggested that you might like to wear one of Emma's gowns." She had the grace to blush. "What?" I was shocked, indignant, horrified. "I can't possibly. I'd look ridiculous." "Would you?" Pauline looked at me, studying my face. "I don't think so. You have the same smooth complexion as Emma, the same colouring, the same long, blonde hair. You move with grace and elegance, you even have - if I may say so - something of her figure. And I would say," she looked at me through narrowed eyes, "I think you're almost exactly the same size." I must have looked sceptical. "I know you've been wearing baggy clothes to conceal the fact, but I've been watching you quite carefully. And I know that your mother talked to your grandmother about the effects of your medication. Alison told me: she seemed quite excited about it." I thought for a moment, trying to read Pauline's expression. "I can't believe I look that much like Emma." "Wait," said Pauline, and scurried from the room. A few moments later she returned carrying a large silver photograph frame. Inside was a coloured photograph of a young, blonde girl wearing a shimmering pink dress, apparently of watered silk, smiling into the camera. She was, I had to admit, the spitting image of me. The same shaped face, the same eyes, the same lips, the same white, even teeth. The colour of her hair was identical, and although hers seemed perhaps a little thicker, because it was styled in soft waves rather than falling straight like my own, I could easily see that with a little care and attention my own hair could be made to look just like hers. The only real difference in our faces was the carefully applied make-up, and that too was something that could be dealt with. "I thought you said she was a goth," I said. "She was. But she knew how to please her grandmother," she said, casting a meaningful glance at me. "Socially, when meeting her friends, she was a goth: leather, PVC, velvet in black, violet, maroon. Dramatic colours, sharply styled, and worn with flamboyance and flair. But at home, she could be an English rose. Particularly when she wanted something out of your grandmother." This didn't make her sound a very pleasant girl, but I was intrigued by Pauline's hardly subtle suggestion that pleasing my grandmother could be achieved by dressing according to her requirements. That said, it was one thing for a young, attractive girl to use this tactic; it was quite another to suggest that I might, since it seemed likely to involve subverting my entire identity. Even if I could carry off the look, the whole thing would feel preposterous. Floundering in a sea of uncomfortable thoughts and emotions, I had to try to get to the bottom of this. "But why does grandma want me..." I could hardly complete the sentence. "She misses Emma. I think she wants to see if she can recreate her - or at least to see if you can be made to look like her. It's the whim of a lonely old woman." My grandmother didn't seem lonely or frail to me and I said so. "She's been lonely since Emma left. She loved her deeply. It hurt her savagely when she left. She's never been the same since." "In what way?" I asked. "When Emma was here, she was always talkative and friendly; since she left, she's been moody and bad tempered, and I've hardly had a proper conversation with her. It's been a nightmare." Pauline bit her lip and then looked at me. "I can imagine that this whole situation is difficult for you - much more than difficult - but I wonder whether, if you agreed to do what she suggests, it might just shake her out of her mood." We sat in silence for a moment, contemplating each other. Pauline was wearing bright yellow that day, which I obscurely felt to be an oddly inappropriate colour in which to conduct such a momentous discussion. "And if I refuse?" "I am sure that your grandmother would let you take your dinner in your room. So that wouldn't be a problem." Pauline paused, hesitating while she found the right words. "But I think..." she paused again. "I think you might have blown your chances of establishing a friendly relationship with her." I said nothing, waiting to see what came next. "Look. Dinner is not for another five hours. Think about it. What harm could it do you to agree to what she's suggested? What's the worst that could happen? Consider it a bit of fun. Let the experience roll over you. At least for this weekend." At least? What did she mean by that? Pauline brushed away my question with a dismissive hand gesture. "Don't worry about the future. Let's just get through this evening. I'll come and see you in your room later - about 5 o'clock? - and you can let me know what you've decided." And so there it was. A "suggestion" from my grandmother; a near-plea from Pauline; and a dilemma for me. Of course, I'd encountered cross- dressers before. Both Paris and London had vibrant clubbing scenes where anything went. And nowadays, the taboos had fallen away. But I'd always thought of myself as a "normal" boy. And whilst I'd had little enough in the way of success sexually so far in my life, well, there was always time. I was - I admitted to myself - afraid to expose myself to the temptation my grandmother had laid before me. I didn't know why. Frank embarrassment by the thought of what I'd look like in a dress? A fear of stepping into the unknown? A worry that my entire conception of myself as a person might be challenged? Reluctance to surrender to a forceful and rather unfriendly woman? Perhaps all of these. Against this gloomy litany, my mother had made me promise to try to make a friend of my grandmother. It was clear that refusing this preposterous request would put an end to that. And - as Pauline had suggested - what harm would it do me to play along with her idea for an evening or two? Grandma would surely realise quickly that getting me to wear a dress - however much I looked like Emma - would not recreate her lost granddaughter for her. But there was the nagging worry that that was precisely what she would not accept. And if so would agreeing to comply with her "suggestion" lead to something more permanent and complicated? In any case, the proposal had been put to me indirectly and with much ambiguity - whether that came from my grandmother herself or was an embellishment by Pauline - and I was uncomfortable with that. I struggled with these thoughts all afternoon, unable to practise my music and incapable of working through my feelings. As the clock approached five, I was no nearer a decision. So that when Pauline knocked tentatively on my door, I was quite unaware of how I would answer her inevitable question. The yellow vision walked into the room and looked at me, an expression of enquiry on her face. She said nothing and waited. I hesitated. "I'll do it," I heard myself saying. In the end, the habit of not wanting to offend or annoy had won. +++++ An hour later, having taken a bath, I awaited Pauline's return. I'd spent half an hour in the tub relaxing, and lay on my bed wearing a hooded bathrobe made from soft pink towelling that I'd found hanging behind the bathroom door. As instructed, I'd applied some heady perfume that Pauline had supplied, and dusted my body with talcum powder. I was now contemplating some items that Pauline had left in my dressing room: a pair of stockings, a suspender belt, lacy briefs, a matching bra, and a black satin slip. She had told me to put them on, and I was hesitating, reluctant to take the step that would commit me once and for all. But of course I was already committed. I crept furtively through into my dressing room and eyed the garments cautiously. The suspender belt would have to be first, I thought, and pulled it rather clumsily over my hips. I then drew on the stockings, feeling foolish and uncomfortable. I worked out how to close the buckles of the suspenders, and then pulled on the briefs. It took me a little time to come to grips with the complexities of fastening on the bra, but when I did so it felt surprisingly comfortable. At last I pulled the slip over my head and adjusted the straps carefully. In the mirrored doors of the wardrobes, my reflection undoubtedly looked feminine. The undergarments looked natural, even appropriate, although they felt anything but. I sat, for a moment, at the dressing table brushing my hair, and as I did so, I heard Pauline's knock on the door and called for her to come in. She slid open the door of the wardrobe nearest the window, where the three full-length dresses that had belonged to Emma hung. There was a silver grey silk gown, quite heavy, with a fitted bodice and a full skirt. The three-quarter length sleeves and the neckline were trimmed with black lace. It was almost Victorian in its appearance, and was the most formal of the three. The second dress was the most sexy. It appeared to be made of a black, crepe-like material, clingy and close- fitting, sleeveless with spaghetti straps at the shoulders. The third was carmine-red, glossy and shimmering, with a V-neck and long sleeves with flared cuffs. The skirt was slim, slit to the left thigh. It was easily the most glamourous of the three. I shook my head, indicating that I was incapable of choosing between them. After a moment's thought, Pauline pulled the silver-grey dress from the rail. "The full skirt will be easiest for you to walk in. And we won't have to tuck you away this time." This time? I stepped into the dress, allowing Pauline to pull it up my arms and close the back which had a complicated hook-and-eye fastening. The material felt stiff and cool, but not unpleasant. Pauline produced from somewhere a pair of grey suede pumps with a high, black heel, which she pulled on to my feet, motioning me to try walking across the room. "Small steps. Don't hurry. Remember your posture is as important as your destination." But in fact, I had little difficulty in walking in this unfamiliar footwear, and the feel of the heavy silk brushing provokingly against my stockinged legs meant that I was always conscious of my posture. I was, agreed Pauline, a natural. "Now," she said, "makeup." I stared at her, wide-eyed, not having thought this through. (I was a real innocent in those days.) But she drew me towards the dressing table, sat me down in the leather-and-brushed-steel chair (rather like a hairdresser's chair) which she tilted back, and then drew up a stool next to me. She worked quickly with brushes and sponges, applying foundation, highlighting my cheekbones, and then brushing some colour - a pale, silver-blue - onto my eylids. Mascara followed. Finally, using a brush, she applied a pale, glossy pink lipstick. I wish I could say that this ritual evoked feelings of sensuality and longing in me. But in fact I felt uncomfortable, a guinea pig rather than a swan. In the end, though, as Pauline righted the chair and showed me my reflection in the mirror, I had to admit to myself that the result was impressive. I was, even to my own critical eye, the very essence of a young, lithe and impressively groomed beauty. And - hair style apart - even her close friends might at first sight mistake me for Emma, if her appearance in the photograph was anything to go by. Pauline looked at me, head tilted to one side, through narrowed eyes. Eventually she nodded, satisfied with what she had created. "Now," she said, "time to meet your grandma." We descended the two flights of stairs to the dining room, the skirt of the dress swirling enticingly around my legs, the bodice tightening around my torso and stretching over my pert breasts. The cut of the dress played its part in making my movements more emphatic and visible, and the lifting effect of the bra and the height given by my heels subtly changed my posture. I walked carefully, anxious to avoid catching a heel on one of the steps and plunging down the stairs in an undignified tangle of limbs. The dining room, which had appeared cold and unfriendly on previous evenings, seemed transformed. A log fire burned in the grate, and the oblong room was illuminated by subdued lighting. Candles sat in sconces in the wall. My grandmother was standing, looking a little nervous, by the mantleshelf, sipping something from a small glass. She, too, had been transformed. Always elegant, her dress this evening was more flamboyant than I had seen before. Her dress was, one would have thought, a little too young for her: quite short, with long sleeves and a round neck, it was covered with blood-red sequins which glittered and glowed in the lamplight. The short hemline revealed a pair of surprisingly shapely legs encased in glossy black tights or stockings. She wore a heavy gold choker round her neck, and a matching bracelet on her right wrist. The middle finger of her left hand was decorated with a chunky gold ring with a stone the same colour as her dress. She was immaculately made-up and coiffed, her steel grey hair set off dramatically by the colour of her dress: in short, an outfit of superb style carried off with flair and poise. She turned towards me and smiled - a smile more warm and genuine than I had seen before. "Darling," she said, "you look magnificent." I smiled in return and muttered something complimentary about her own outfit, which she brushed aside with a gesture. "Just an old thing. Now, have a glass of sherry." She picked up a heavy decanter, and poured some golden, glowing liquid into a cut-glass vessel. I took a cautious sip of the crisp, dry liquid, and felt myself starting to relax as it warmed its way down my throat. My grandmother motioned me to the table, and I sat at right angles to her, smoothing my dress beneath me as I took my seat. "So," she said, as Pauline emerged from the kitchen with the first course of the dinner, "tell me a little of your plans for this year, and about how your studies have been going." This was the first real interest she had shown in my work, and to my surprise we started to have a genuine conversation. Where before her questions had been terse and her replies to my own had been bored and almost curt, she was now warm and engaging. I talked about the time I'd spent studying music at Oxford, my subsequent application to the Paris Conservatoire, my ambitions to be a concert pianist, Paris, my medical treatment, and my parents' plans. She, in return, told me about life in Ribbleport, her role as a school governor, her bridge- playing friends, her love of horses, and the book she was writing. This was the second part of a planned trilogy which followed two Lancashire families - one royalist, one puritan - through the English civil war to the Restoration of Charles II. She aimed to draw a contrast between the trials of the wealthy royalist family, and the gradual rise and then sudden fall of the puritans. At the point in the story she'd reached so far, the royalists had been deprived of their offices and much of their wealth, and the puritans were trying to redraw the county in their own image. There was to be a sub-plot involving a love affair between (shades of Romeo and Juliet) the younger son of the puritan family and the eldest daughter of the royalists. But she was having difficulty working out how to get these two haughty characters - whose relationship would be turbulent and dangerous - together. "Couldn't the girl be in gaol, falsely accused of plotting against the state," I suggested, "and be rescued by the testimony of the boy, who uncovers the real culprit?" She considered for a moment, head leaning thoughtfully to one side. "It might work. I'll think about how I might tell it. I'd also need to think about how a scenario like that might affect relations between the two families and whether it would complicate the main plotline. But thanks." She looked pleased and relaxed - two things I'd not seen in her before. After dinner, we retired to the music room, and I played the piano for her - some Chopin nocturnes and the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, which seemed to suit the relaxed mood of the evening. Grandma was impressed by my playing, and suggested that I might perhaps play at a school fundraising concert that she would be hosting the following week. She looked pleased when I agreed. And when I decided to go to my room to read before going to bed, she kissed me on the cheek and hugged me - something which up to now had been quite impossible to imagine. I puzzled long and hard over this change, which had evidently come about as a result of my agreeing to play Emma for the evening. Would this new relationship last, or would things revert to normal after a while? But one welcome consequence of the evening was, I realised, that my depression had lifted, and for the first time since my trip north, I was feeling content with myself and with life. And what - exactly - did that imply for the future? The following evening, Pauline suggested I wear the slinky black dress. "We'll need to tuck you away," she said. And indeed the close-fitting, clingy material would certainly have exposed my masculine anatomy if we had not taken steps to conceal it. The process, which Pauline managed deftly and without embarrassment, was a little uncomfortable - in particular the odd feeling from having my balls for the first time tucked into a body cavity. Pauline provided a sort of girdle to keep me in place, and once I had managed to adjust that to my satisfaction, the dress fitted perfectly. I was slightly disappointed that it was impossible to wear a bra with the dress because of its narrow spaghetti straps - I'd found the experience of wearing one the previous evening surprisingly comfortable and reassuring. Pauline produced a pair of black patent court shoes with a heel and then applied make-up: red lips and nails, this time, and smoky eyes with assertive eyeliner as well as mascara, so that I felt very much the vamp when I descended the stairs. My grandmother was sitting at the table. She was drinking champagne that evening, and poured me a glass. Smiling, she mouthed, "Emma." "No," I said. "Not Emma. I'm myself." Grandma pouted. "I can hardly call you Tom dressed like that." "Not Tom, then, but I want my own girl-name, not my cousin's." There was silence for a while. Thomasina wouldn't do, and I couldn't think of another feminine variant of Tom or anything like it. Pauline was called in to help -she was wearing vibrant purple today - and looked thoughtfully at me for a moment. "Chloe?" she suggested. "Why Chloe?" "No particular reason. It's a nice name. And I think it suits him... I mean her. And it'll be easy to remember - for him...her and for us." As I wasn't planning to dress like this beyond the weekend, that hardly seemed an important consideration. But then I suppose I had brought the subject up in the first place. So Chloe it was. The evening went much like the night before, and again for reasons I could not and can not explain, I felt the tensions ease in the newly warm atmosphere swirling around the two of us. And the following evening was much the same when I wore the long, slit, carmine coloured dress in stiff rather thick glossy material. The slippery material made my flesh tingle as I put it on, and I shivered slightly. What was this? Pauline made me apply my own make-up: it was time, she said, that I learned to do this for myself. Lips and nails to match the dress; eyelids a more subdued red-brown. Pauline decided to fixed my hair. She brushed it back and it tied up. She also fastened on a gold chain- link necklace and gave me a gold coloured bangle for my right wrist. The overall effect -dress, make-up, jewellery - was assertive and sophisticated. As I arrived in the dining room, my grandmother looked at me expectantly. She seemed to like what she saw, and complimented me on my look. "I like to see you wearing different styles," she said. This would of course be the last new style she would see me in, as Emma had left only three gowns in the wardrobe, and incautiously, I said so. Grandmother was not taken aback. "There are such things as shops, you know." We sat silently for a moment or two, absorbing this thought. And then she spoke again. "You know, that look is really quite outstanding. It's the sort of dress you might wear while giving a recital." She looked at me meaningfully. "No." I was temporarily shocked into raising my voice. She clearly had next week's fundraising concert in mind. "I draw the line at that. It's one thing wearing Emma's clothes in the privacy of our home: it's quite another wearing them in public." "As you please, dear, but it's a shame," she said, head to one side, looking at me with an unreadable expression. "Perhaps you'll feel differently in time." I said nothing, not wanting to be drawn into disagreeing openly with her. It was dawning on me that grandma was not just thinking of this weekend as a one-off; she was actively contemplating further dressing- up sessions. I remembered, with apprehension, the reference to shops and shopping, and wondered just what she had in mind. And so it was that, although the feeling of peace and contentment from the previous evenings surfaced again that Sunday night, I went to bed accompanied by inchoate concerns about the future. ++++++ I suppose I shouldn't have hoped that the change in atmosphere over the weekend would last into the following week. On Monday, my relations with grandma returned to their previous pattern: little interaction during the day, and only terse, impersonal conversations over dinner, with both of us retiring separately to our rooms afterwards. I felt the curtain of gloom descend on me once more, a feeling that intensified over the next two days. My grim mood expressed itself in the music room, as I played subdued pieces by Ravel and Satie, and spiky Prokoffiev sonatas. By Thursday, I was feeling bad tempered, irritable, and depressed. It occurred to me that I had hardly been outside the house since I'd arrived in Ribbleport, and I needed to get away, if only for a couple of hours. I decided to explore the town centre, and perhaps do a little shopping. I needed a decent German dictionary so I could start more serious work on my dissertation, and perhaps I might look around to see if there were any suitable clothes - men's clothes - that would pass as "formal". I clung on to the fantasy that if I could dress formally as a man, my grandmother would stop agitating for me to wear dresses at dinner. Ribbleport is an old seaside resort that was once highly fashionable. Frequented at the turn of the last century by the county gentry from Lancashire and beyond, it boasted elegant townhouses, several large hotels, an esplanade, and the usual English seaside attractions. The damp, cool climate doesn't seem to have been an impediment to its development, but now, like other northern resorts, it had fallen victim to cheap and easy foreign travel. It was rather down at heel, still genteel but raffish like an exotic uncle who has taken to drink. The council had made some effort to regenerate the local economy by constructing a marina on the site of the old fishing port, and promoting the town as a business and conference centre. But there was still some way to go, and the town, while it had charm and a sense of its own style, could no longer be called fashionable. The town centre was dominated by a rather soulless shopping mall, although an old fashioned department store - decorated in the art deco style - still functioned across the main street from the mall. So after purchasing my dictionary, and wondering in and out of stores in the mall, I crossed the street to see what the department store offered. I decided to look in the menswear department to see if I could find a suit that might serve for "dressing for dinner". (I had no wish to buy a dinner jacket as I had one hanging in a friend's flat in Paris, along with a white tie outfit that I wore for recitals.) But my heart wasn't in it, and I started looking at CDs and music systems, before descending a floor and finding myself in the womenswear department. I stopped for a moment, thinking. Grandma had hinted at the possibility of purchasing further outfits for "Chloe", and although I had been taken aback by this whim of hers, it might be timely to see what it might involve. Could I, perhaps, suggest that the clothes on sale this season were inappropriate, different from the sort of thing that Emma wore, or too expensive? Without ever taking a conscious decision to do so, I started browsing the racks to see what sort of things might be on offer in the store. I brushed off a "can I help you" from one of the assistants, and then found myself looking at a rail of vibrant coloured, mainly short dresses. The floor was made up of a number of concessions, including both high street chains and named designers. I wondered idly how girls coped with the bewildering array of different modes and styles of dress - so different from the trousers/sweatshirt/pullover and jeans/T-shirt/trainers and suit/shirt/tie to which men were restricted. I sensed, rather than saw, a movement behind me, and turned round as I heard a familiar voice say, "I rather thought I might find you here." Pauline was wearing an tangerine-orange coloured outfit today: PVC hooded jacket, slim trousers, round-necked top - even her trainers were orange. "I was just - er - looking around to see what the shops were like." "Mm," said Pauline. "And what do you think?" She pulled a short, black, sleeveless dress from the rack in front of us. Her tone left me unsure whether she was referring to the shop in general or to the dress which she now held up and examined. I hesitated. "OK I suppose," I eventually said. Pauline gave a snort, the significance of which escaped me. "You know," she said eventually, "this would just suit Chloe. Nicely tailored, lovely fabric, a simple, classic look." She looked at it more carefully. "Perfect fit too, I'd say." "Er..." "You can hardly try it on, but I'm sure this is the right size. It's definitely Emma's size. Emma's dresses fitted you last weekend, didn't they?" "I don't think..." "I expect Mrs Thomas will expect you to dress for dinner this weekend, and you can hardly keep wearing the same three outfits over and over again, can you?" I shrugged. Trying one last time: "I can't really afford these prices." "Tsk," said Pauline, "I've got the card we use for household expenses with me. We'll use that." "Don't you think grandma would mind using that card to buy a dress?" I was floundering, as I sensed that whatever my wishes, Pauline had made up her mind. "Don't be silly, of course she wouldn't mind. In fact, I think she'd be pleased. You could wear it this evening and surprise her." "But it's not the weekend." I think by then I had given up trying to stop Pauline buying the dress, and was reduced to finding excuses delay wearing it. "Your grandmother insists you dress for dinner at the weekend. But I don't expect she'd mind if you chose to do so on other days too." Pauline, with determined stride, bustled towards the cash desk, pushing in front of two slim, young women who had been edging towards it with multiple hangers full of clothes. They gave her an offended look, but then stepped back and started examining their purchases again, giggling together about their choices which - I could see - tended towards the flamboyant end of the colour spectrum, in contrast to the plain black dress which Pauline was thrusting towards the girl at the cash desk. Short of physically wrestling Pauline away, there was nothing I could do to prevent the purchase. The transaction was quickly completed, and the dress folded together with protective tissue paper, and shuffled into a colourful stiff cardboard carrier with string handles. It was quite obvious, I somehow sensed, that the carrier - which bore the name and logo of the concession in bold, colourful type - contained an item of womenswear, and it was with fatalism that I took it from Pauline when she made clear by a gesture and her expression, rather than words, that I should carry it home. Leaving me alone, she bustled towards the accessories department, only too obviously determined to find something that would set off the dress we had just bought. Bewildered, I shook my head: I was up against a will far more powerful than my own, and had fallen at the first hurdle. ++++++ Inevitably, I wore the dress to dinner that evening. I slipped into it easily: it fitted perfectly. And as I zipped it up, the irritation and ill-temper I had been feeling all week faded away. In my wardrobe that afternoon, I'd found a pair of black patent lace-ups with a high, stacked heel, and I now pulled these on and fastened them tightly. Now, make-up: very bright red lips and nails, smoky eyes, eyeliner and mascara, a hint of blusher on my cheekbones. Finally, I slid on a heavy silver bangle that had been placed on my dressing table, presumably by Pauline, and fastened a silver lariat around my neck. I looked in one of the mirrored wardrobe doors to see if there was any imperfection in my look but found none. The tight, short skirt of my dress clung to my legs and rode up pleasingly as I walked down the two flights of stairs to the dining room. I wondered idly whether Pauline - who had left me to dress myself this evening - had warned my grandmother what I would be wearing, but I found her seated at table, frowning, looking down as she fiddled with her cutlery. No hint here of the friendly mien she had shown me the previous weekend. But then, hearing my heels clatter on the wooden floor, she looked up with an expression of surprise, which instantly morphed into a wide smile which reached her eyes. "Chloe," she said, "how delightful to see you." I smiled, as she rose from her chair, and we exchanged kisses. "You make me feel underdressed, my dear." She was wearing close- fitting jeans, flat pumps, and a beautiful plum-coloured cashmere sweater - hip length with a rather high, loose roll-neck. "Nonsense, grandma, you look as elegant as always." We sat down, peace restored between us, and talked companionably as we ate. Tomorrow was the day of the school fundraising concert grandma had mentioned the previous weekend, and she went over the programme with me. I would be playing just before the interval for about 15 minutes, which would be fine for what I wanted to perform. Grandma talked a little about the school and its ethos (her word). It was, she said, a school which had a strong reputation in the arts, an orchestra of its own, and a thriving music department. She talked a little about the head (a Mrs Lincoln, "who you'll be sure to like") and her fellow governors. The deputy chair, Jonathan Porter, was a prominent local businessman, the owner of a chain of hotels, and "the most eligible bachelor in Ribbleport". "I don't think I'm really in the market for a bachelor, however eligible," I said with a smile. "You remember, I'm Tom tomorrow." "Of course dear," she said, with a slight frown. And she shook her head as if to say, what a shame. "Still," she said, "you'll meet some nice people, and I'm sure you'll enjoy the evening." ++++++ We arrived at the school just before the concert was due to start at 7 o'clock. The hall in which it was to take place was an airy oblong which would seat several hundred people (presumably it was designed to be able to accommodate the entire school community) with a low stage at the end of the oblong furthest from the entrance. The head, the governors and their guests, and some local worthies were seated in the front row, with the performers just behind. The audience, consisting mostly I should say of parents, occupied the remainder of the seats. Grandmother introduced me quickly to the head and one or two of the other governors, but there was no time for smalltalk, as the first performer ascended the stage. It was a Year 13 student, a girl who played the harp, who gave an impressively competent performance of some Bach preludes. As she finished and the audience applauded, a latecomer scuttled up the aisle and took his seat beside my grandmother. I had the uncanny feeling I had seen him before although I couldn't quite place where. Perhaps I'd seen him in the street in town the previous day. The next item in the programme was a rock band which performed cover versions of three current hits, and then there was a short poetry recital by a Year 11 boy. And then it was my turn. I'd decided to play the first movement of the Waldstein Sonata - a flashy piece, which I had always enjoyed playing, and which I made flashier by ignoring Beethoven's metronome markings and increasing the pace quite significantly. But as I played I found myself casting my eye over the audience, and more particularly the man sitting next to my grandmother. I had seen him before, most definitely. I allowed my mind to wonder - I knew the Waldstein so intimately I could play it almost without conscious thought - as I contemplated this slim, angular man with the floppy fringe and the familiar heart-shaped face. Where had I seen him? Not in Ribbleport, I was now sure. So where? And then it hit me. Bella. The man was the image of Bella. The same face, the same hairstyle. Only the clothes and the absence of make-up distinguished him from her. A twin brother? My thoughts were interrupted by a burst of applause, and I realised that I had played the closing chords of the movement without even realising. I stood up and bowed; and then as I straightened, I saw the man look me directly in the eye, his expression thoughtful and anxious. Now why was that? I descended from the stage as the audience trickled from the hall to the school canteen where coffee and atrociously undrinkable wine was being served. I found my grandmother talking to some of the staff and governors, to whom she introduced me one by one. I forgot their names instantly, save for one. Jonathan Porter. The man whose appearance had so disturbed me as I'd played. We looked at each other, and he turned slightly away from the group, indicating with an inclination of his head that I should do the same. I did so, and we looked at each other uncertainly. Finally, I said, "Do you know someone called Bella?" Jonathan frowned. "We need to talk," he said. "Not now, not here, but we need to talk." The voice. It WAS Bella. Surely. "Do you know where my grandmother lives?" I asked. He nodded. "Tomorrow. Eleven o'clock. She'll be out riding." He nodded again, and without saying anything else, turned back to the group we'd briefly left, indicating that for now, our conversation was over. I went to grab a glass of wine, and looked for the harpist in a bid to talk to a fellow-musician. She was a sweet girl who had gained a place at the Guildhall, and we had a pleasant enough conversation about our experience and our musical tastes, and promised - as you do, on these occasions - to get in touch. But we didn't exchange mobile numbers, and I realised later that I didn't have any way of tracking her down, so with some regret I filed the conversation in my mind in the category of "met once, no follow-up". And then the second half of the concert was announced, and we trooped back into the hall. ++++++ We'd gone to a restaurant after the concert (Pauline had been given the evening off which she cheerfully told us was an opportunity to flaunt her colour-of-the-day in a bar somewhere). Despite the non-appearance of Chloe on a Friday, my grandmother was in a sociable mood, perhaps buoyed up by the success of the fundraiser, and perhaps reassured by Chloe's appearance the previous evening. The following morning I said farewell to grandma - fetchingly attired in riding boots, elegant jodhpurs, and a beautifully cut riding jacket - as she left the house carrying her hard hat and riding crop in one hand. She kissed me on the cheek, and then - holding me by the upper arms - looked into my eyes, smiling. "I've sent Pauline shopping. I wonder if she'll return with something for Chloe?" I swallowed. I was reconciled to playing the part of Chloe that weekend, but there were disturbing signs that her presence was increasingly expected to become a regular one. I had been too good at playing the part. But I shook the thought out of my head as the time for Jonathan's arrival approached. Prompt at eleven, he knocked at the door. He was wearing a flamboyant charcoal-grey three-piece suit with a wide paler grey stripe in the weave, a white shirt, and a colourful tie. I looked closely at him for signs of curves, and unsurprisingly he picked up on my stare. "I keep them bound," he said without preamble. "You are Bella," I replied. He nodded. "It's a long story." Bella had been born 28 years before in Ribbleport at a time when her father had been hard at work building up his business - a chain of hotels in seaside towns, at first in the northwest, but increasingly spread more widely across the country. Her parents' marriage had never been a close one, and Bella's father had more frequently than not been absent on business, leaving her to be brought up largely by her mother. There was, for reasons Bella did not understand, no prospect of a second child, and her mother - who had yearned for a son - had increasingly dressed Bella as a boy. The look had not seemed out of place when Bella was a toddler, but after she started school it was increasingly difficult to explain to teachers and other parents. Faced with small-town prejudice in an age less liberal than our own, she had taken Bella out of school and started educating her through a succession of private tutors. She insisted on calling her Jonathan, and started to present her to friends and acquaintances as a biological boy. And Jonathan she had remained to this day. "Why?" I asked. "Why not reveal your true self when you became an adult." I remembered Bella, revelling in her femininity, from that awful night in London. "That's where it becomes complicated," said Jonathan with a wry smile, as if the story was not complicated enough already. Bella's father had been diagnosed with cancer in his fifties and the diagnosis was terminal. Bella was in her early twenties at the time, and had been working since she was sixteen in her father's company. At her mother's insistence, her father had agreed to employ her as Jonathan. The job was at first supposed to be a temporary part-time assignment, so the deception seemed manageable. But Bela had found the work congenial, and soon started to work there full time, postponing and then abandoning her plans to go to university. She was energetic and able, and her responsibilities increased, so that soon she occupied managerial position that was quite senior for one so young. Her father's deputy in the family firm was his younger brother Gordon, who expected to take the reins when her father retired. But Gordon, although intelligent, was mercurial and unpredictable, and her father's trust in him increasingly waned. When his health worsened, and it was clear he would not be able to work for much longer, he had persuaded the Board to nominate Bella - Jonathan - as his successor. "But I still don't understand," I said, "why you had to remain as Jonathan." Jonathan smiled. His father's influence in the family firm was paramount. That was why Jonathan could be appointed managing director in the teeth of Gordon's furious opposition. But once his father had departed, Jonathan had had to manage his relationship with the other directors and the shareholders. The directors were not really a problem, and Jonathan had started putting his own nominees in key positions as the existing directors retired or left for other jobs. But the shareholders - most of them family members - were conservative members of a local religious sect: The Disciples Elect of Our Lord. This was a patriarchal, evangelical protestant church with old fashioned values, including an intolerant hatred of homosexuality and all that went with it (or what might be supposed to go with it) and a belief in the subordinate position of women. They would not have countenanced the idea that Jonathan had been living a lie all his life, and nor would they have agreed to his appointment as managing director if they had known he was in truth female. The company had not been floated on the stock market, so the family shareholders were entrenched. And Jonathan needed their support - they were all also prominent local businessmen: suppliers to or financiers of the company - to keep the company going. Gordon was constantly manoeuvring to strengthen his influence, with the naked intention of replacing Jonathan eventually, so Jonathan had to be scrupulously meticulous in preserving the identity that had been created for him. "And is Gordon a member of these Disciples? And are you?" I asked, alarmed. "Of course I'm a member. Formally that is. The family wouldn't get rid of me like a shot if I left the church. I go to services and donate to the church, but frankly the whole thing is just so much claptrap. Now Gordon - he shouts from the rooftops his undying commitment to the church, although a more morally dubious person you could not meet." I raised an eyebrow. "He gets drunk, has a foul temper and an extremely short fuse, and he's had a string of affairs. He hates me and would do anything to get rid of me." I was dubious. Such a man could hardly gain the trust of this puritan clique, still less retain it. I said so. "With the Disciples it's the outward appearance that's important. Provided you give the appearance of being devout, provided you pay your share, you're in. But step out of line, or publicly transgress their unwritten rules, and they're ruthless." He looked me in the eye. "You can see why I was a bit nervous about meeting you in Ribbleport. If I was to strike up a close friendship with another man, Gordon would undoubtedly start spreading rumours that I was gay. In fact, he's tried that already. And while in a normal business environment that wouldn't be a problem, with this group of maniacs, it would be fatal." We lapsed into silence. Eventually, I asked, "So what now? Now that we have met again?" He hesitated a moment. "Of course we can be friends. I'd like that. But we have to be careful." And then in apparent defiance of his own rubric, he stepped towards me, placed his right arm around my waist, pulled me towards him, and kissed me lightly on the lips. "We can be friends," he said, "if you'd like