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Death Mask It's a small chapel, with wooden pews and light streaming in through an abstract stained-glass window. The music is gentle, religious. The space feels heavy, like the air has weight. I decide to sit at the back on the left hand side: a lone young man in a cheap black suit, staring at the flimsy photocopied order of service and avoiding the eye of anyone else who comes in. The photo on the cover is a good one, and in color, which is surprising. I smile looking at her face, reminded of when this was taken. The blue cloudless sky of Italy framing her head -- those gentle bouncing brunette curls, the thin arched eyebrows, the bright mischievous hazel eyes and her lips parted to show even white teeth gleaming in a laugh frozen in time. Olivia Catriona Green. I watched the coffin arrive while I hung back outside the chapel. The hearse, glossy and serious, pulled up and two young and well-dressed men were met by two equally young and equally well-dressed men from the crematorium. I'm one of maybe two-dozen people here, and the youngest by a few years. A quick glance around tells me it's mainly familiar faces and their partners. They all sit in the middle middle, at appropriate places, sharing small talk and maybe swapping stories. A couple of the women fish out handkerchiefs, holding them ready. That's a nice touch. The family is the last to come in usually, but there's no family here. No immediate family. Just the fiance, sitting on his own, staring straight ahead. The widower, I suppose you call him. John. I can just see the back of his head, slightly balding with a close-cropped haircut I assume he had done for the occasion. His shoulders leaning inward in his black suit jacket. I don?t want to stare. I don?t want him to see me. "Please stand as you are able," the priest says, and I do. I bow my head as the coffin passes. The four young men make it look easy as they gently set the coffin in the appropriate place, folding a thick cloth over it. To hide it from view, to hide her, I guess. As if the wood wasn?t enough. I?m quite glad I don?t have to stare at the coffin, to be honest. I?m not sure why I came really. To bury her properly I suppose. And, lets face it, how many times will you get to come to your own funeral? "You may now be seated." --- "Looks like I?m sitting here?" The table was groaning with plates and cutlery, candles and flowers. Individual name tags marked each of the eight settings around the table, some occupied, some still to be filled. I?d already looked up my place on the wall chart, even though I knew where I?d be sitting. I?d talked about the seating plan enough with Sarah the past few weeks as wedding stress had given way to family stress -- which is, let?s face it, what it?s all about. I?d happily chosen my spot, a manicured fingernail tapping on her ipad on what I?d christened the Rejects Table. Sarah had laughed, lightly tapping me on my bare arm, and called me awful. The name had stuck though, and though while it was officially Laphroaig -- Sarah?s now-husband Peter was a whisky man -- we both knew really, deep down, that I and my seven other table guests were "rejects". There was the girlfriend of the best man, the husband of the maid of honour, an older couple who were friends of friends of the family, the priest, a childhood friend who wasn?t a school friend and me. Well, not me. Olivia. I?d met Sarah in what I?ve come to call Phase Three. The less said about Phase One the better: the awful fashion choices, the terrible attempts at makeup, photoshopped pictures online desperate for approval. The only saving grace of Phase One was that it was entirely housebound. No one else could see how bad it was. Phase Two happened by accident when, well... I?m maybe getting ahead of myself. Sarah and I played in an amateur orchestra together. We met on my first night, when I?d gone along not really intending to go back. I just wanted to see what it was like. I just wanted to meet people and see what happened. I?d unpacked my cello and found my desk, smiled at the kindly old lady who?d handed me the music for the evening, hiked up my skirt and gotten ready to play. "Hello! I?m Sarah," she?d said, sitting down next to me in tight black jeans and a mustard sweater. She had short blonde hair, a pixie cut that suited her, shockingly applied mascara and chipped green nail polish. I knew right then we would be friends. "Hello!" I replied equally enthusiastically. "I?m Olivia. You can call me Liv." We giggled and gossiped our way through that first rehearsal, and every rehearsal since. Not once did she call me Liv. One night over gin, after a particularly awful rehearsal, Sarah had shown me her engagement ring and my heart had broken just a little bit. But then I became her maid of honour surrogate instead. For the next three months while her sister was still abroad, she took me into her confidence. Instead of just once a week at rehearsal, I?d get daily phone calls, spreadsheet updates, photos of flowers and favours. One day I will never forget, she took me with her to scope out wedding dress places. Not to shop for the actual dress, a privilege she kept for her mother, but this was close enough. I was excited to be asked to go to the wedding, even though I knew no one. A reject. A spare. I decided to stay at the hotel and to make a weekend of it. This was sort of a test, really. An endurance test. And now I was looking up at a man, who I knew only by the name on the seat next to time. A name I?d seen dozens of times but who I didn?t know. Another reject, sitting next to me, talking to me. John. "Hello, I?m Olivia," I said smiling and offering him my hand to shake. "You can call me Liv." John sat and surprised me by taking my hand but not shaking it. He just held it, gently, like it was precious. "Hello Olivia," he replied, looking into my eyes. "I?m John." He was handsome, trim, with thick brown hair and grey eyes. Clean shaven with a lop-sided smile but manly, not boyish. His face was the kindest face I?d ever seen, and he looked at me like he?d known me all his life. I knew then that Sarah had set me up. God bless her. We talked animatedly over dinner -- an excellent three courses I had personally helped choose -- and giggled conspiratorially over speeches. We were fast friends by the time the cake was to be cut, and it was no surprise that he took me by the hand to join in with the first dance. He held me firmly, leading strongly, and I remember his fragrance of leather and tobacco. In my heels we were the same height, and it didn?t take me long to kick them off and dance in my stocking feet -- I wanted to feel smaller, to look up to him as we jigged and ceilighed enthusiastically. He kissed me after the last dance -- At Last, by Etta James -- which we?d shuffled through with my head on his chest. It was gentle and tender, the sort of kiss you give when you?re trying not to blow it, hoping it?s the right sort of kiss for that moment. It was wonderful, and my heart pounded. Olivia?s first kiss. We stayed up late, well past the time the bridal party had retired. We sat at the same table, rejects both, and made each other laugh, his hands wandering a little to touch my knee, then my thigh. We kissed again, deeper this time, and I tasted him, sweet and boozy. We kissed again in the elevator, and again outside his hotel room door with promises to see each other in the morning. What a gentleman. --- "All things bright and beautiful" I did not choose the hymns. I suspect John was asked and just shrugged. "Whatever you think. Something happy". There?s a peculiar sound that people make when they have to sing and don?t want to, somewhere between a whisper and a groan. It sounds like a competition to make the least amount of noise and I am basically forced into mouthing the words so that no one looks back at the skinny young man on his own. It?s nice that so many people came, I think. Olivia really only existed for a little under a year but when I think of what has happened in that time... There?s Sarah and a few others from the orchestra, of course, and the people she met on Sarah?s hen party. And then there?s Josh and Carol from the music shop, Olivia?s part-time job. The skeleton of a life she had to make herself seem like a real person. No school friends, though. No ex-boyfriends. It?s like she landed from outer space and dropped into the lives of these people. I used to say that I?d moved here from abroad. I wonder if anyone followed up on that? Tried to find me. This would all unravel pretty fast you?d think, but so far so good. They say that breaking up is hard to do, well have you thought about how easy it would be to just die instead? I can assure you, it is not easy. Possible, but not easy. "The purple headed mountain, the river running by." --- It had been a gamble, all things considered. But I was drunk, and thrilled with success. I was excited and horny. And then I was stuck. The dress I?d worn to the wedding was beautiful. Blue silk -- the same colour as my eyes -- with one large pretty flower on it. It clung perfectly to my figure. A modest V neckline showed off a little cleavage and the hemline stopped just a fraction above the knee. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it, and spent the extra on it because I wanted to look amazing at my friend?s wedding. I wanted to dress up. I?m not lying when I tell you that, after closing the door to John and singing a little tralala as I pirouetted around the room in my lovely silk dress, I reached behind me to unzip it and found that I couldn?t. It was stuck. I honestly tried at least twice before my life turned into a romantic comedy. I knew where his room was, and it was easy to just pad back there in my stocking feet and knock on the door gently. He opened it quickly, thankfully, and I saw that he had had much more success getting undressed than I had, given the hotel robe he was hastily tying around his middle. "Can I come in?" I whispered. He smiled and nodded, stepping back and letting me into his room that smelled of leather and tobacco and men. He closed the door behind me, and I hoped, briefly, that he was not going to be irritated by what I was about to ask. "You?re not going to believe this?" I started, but could get no further as he had kissed me, his strong hands on my slender waist and his tongue pushing between my lips. I slid one of my hands inside the robe, finding the bare flesh of his chest and the soft curls of hair there under my probing fingers. I felt his hands move, up my back towards the zip of my dress, which he tugged at once, twice, three times to no avail. We broke off the kiss, giggling. "That?s what I was trying to tell you," I said, turning around to show him my back. "I?m a damsel in this dress." "I see," he said, chuckling at my drunken pun. I felt his fingers against the cool skin of my back, felt the dress pulling as he found the catch and fixed it. "Well we can?t have you in distress," he said, gently now tugging the small zip downwards towards the small of my back. He kissed my neck and slid the straps of the dress from my narrow shoulders. I purred and followed his lead, letting the straps fall down my arms and my beautiful dress fall to the floor. Phase Two was when I discovered the bodysuit company. A late night google here, an incredulous paypal there, and two weeks later it arrived. The first time trying it on was hesitant and required some serious contortionist skills, but some very impressive results. I never wore foam padding or chicken fillets again. The suit stretched from thigh to throat in very impressive detail and changed my life. Clothes fit better, they moved better. Underwear that had before been for fun now became necessary. I learned how to blend the edges and hide the seams. And then, one day in May, dressed in a bodycon dress and boots, I took a step outside. It was thrilling, the first few times. Being a woman in the world. I did all the things you do -- I went shopping, of course. I went to bars. I went to restaurants. In the summer I tested the suit and went to the beach with nothing but a white bikini and a sheer sarong to cover my modesty. Nobody pointed and laughed. I loved when men ogled me, and when women judged me. I didn?t talk, didn?t interact. I just existed, like a piece of public art. "Wow," John said as I turned around. I watched him slowly take me in: my long smooth legs, encased in sheer hose, my curving hips, and large soft breasts suspended by a black balconette bra. All of me fake. All of me for this. I felt his gaze lingering and shifted my weight, striking a catalogue pose before tilting my head and smiling at him. I?ve thought back to this moment a lot in the weeks and months since. Fantasised about it really. One of those moments in time that you commit to memory and replay in the shower with your dick in your hand. It was inevitable that this would happen with someone. That I would cross a line. "It?s the tights isn?t it? Guys love a girl in control hosiery," I said. "Things like this don?t happen to guys like me," he said, still staring. "They do now," I replied, taking a step forward and unfastening his robe. He was naked underneath. His body was lean and muscled, hairy and masculine. His swollen manhood sprung free from the robe as it fell away, and I remember it as huge, thick and thrilling. This was for me. For my body. For this woman I had created and inhabited. "Oh wow," I whispered under my breath, my pulse quickening, heart pounding. I touched it, stroked it with soft fingers from the base to the head. Then again more firmly, watching the velvet skin pulling under my fingers. I bit my lip and looked up at him, where his expression made me go weak at the knees. I?ve never liked sex with men as a man. Maybe that?s just the men I?ve had sex with, but it?s different. It?s not just that you can kiss and look them in the eye while they fuck you. It?s about how men look at women. How John was looking at me now. Looking back, this wasn?t about me wanting him. It was about him wanting me. And God I wanted him to want me. --- "Olivia?s fiance, John, would like to say a few words." I stare at the floor, my hands clasped on my lap. I shouldn?t have come here. This was a mistake. It was all a mistake. Something selfish and personal that I?d had to involve other people in for kicks. Something that had escalated so far beyond my control that I was living two lives and hating both of them. I?d had to get out. Had to stop the lie. I shouldn?t have come here. "I only knew Olivia for a short while," he started, reading from a sheet of paper. His voice sounded strong. Steady. "She moved here recently, with no family or friends and we all, I know, took to her. She was a private person, never one to share herself, but always one to give her time. Her laughter. Her warmth of spirit." It is, I?ve discovered, really easy to pretend to be someone else. Everyone you meet fills in the gaps for themselves. How often do you really tell someone what you?ve been doing every minute of every day? You just don?t imagine that they cease to exist when you leave them. "A gifted Cello player, and a lover of music and clothes. I don?t think I ever saw her in the same outfit twice." A ripple of laughter. "Certainly not the same shoes." I keep looking at the floor. --- "What do you think of these?" I ask, walking again heel toe heel toe across the shop floor. I like them although the heel is far too tall, but having seen what they do to my padded ass in the mirror I can tell they?re a must buy. I also know that John likes my legs, and so any excuse to get him to look is one I take. I don?t really care what he thinks, I just want to tease him. I want that look. "They?re okay," he says, not looking up from his phone. I fix my smile. I?m not sure what?s wrong with him today. I try not to hold the three hours it took to get ready for today against him when he?s obviously not interested. I thought he would be interested, but he?s a man, and I guess he has less creative ways of wanting to pay attention to me in public than I thought. "Oh, okay," I say, slipping my feet out of them and setting them down next to the box. The shop assistant does a good impersonation of not giving a shit. I make a mental note to come back and buy them for ?my girlfriend? later in the week. "Hey," I say, sitting next to him and giving him a playful bump, whilst casually looking at his phone to see if he?s having an affair. Candy fucking Crush. Three hours. Makeup, wig, nails, squeezing into this body... "I?m sorry, what shall we do?" "Sorry." He looks up from his phone and gives me a half smile. "Let?s get out of here." We walk, holding hands. He opens doors for me. We kiss in public. We?ve been dating a little over a month. I wasn?t sure about dating. It felt like too much of a commitment, but it also felt new; Exciting. We?d exchanged numbers after the wedding, and gone on a couple of dates which had all ended in enthusiastic sex back at his place. So when he asked if we could be exclusive I had said "of course!" He?d bought me earrings. Then he asked if he could see where I lived. It wasn?t too difficult really to transform my house into the sort of place Olivia would live. It wasn?t a fiercely male space to begin with. I lived alone, it was decorated in neutral colours, and I already had a wardrobe bursting with women?s clothes. I essentially just moved Olivia into my bedroom, bought some cushions and ornaments I knew she?d like, and hid any pictures that weren't right. It had been exciting, bringing my boyfriend into my house. Cooking him dinner and kissing on my sofa. Getting naked and fucking and canoodling in the shower. That had been a good day. A good memory. Today is all weird though: nothing?s working. I?d seen and loved these high-waisted culottes with a cute floral pattern, and they?d felt nice in the shop, but wearing them out they just weren't great -- I wasn?t getting enough attention. My ass needed better shoes. I vowed silently to take them back and that I should stick to skirts and dresses. We?d been dating for a couple of months by this point. We saw each other every weekend, and some nights during the week too. We texted every day, and called maybe called every other day. The excitement of pretending to be someone's girlfriend had, somewhere along the road, dissolved into me actually just being his girlfriend and talking about the mundane day to day of our lives. Or rather his life, since mine was mostly made up. Did I want to just be a woman? Did I want to just become Olivia all the time? Did I want this life? I was fairly sure the answer was no, and so I had decided that afternoon to break up with John. I?d decided maybe to become someone else for a while. "I think we should talk," I?d started with over coffee. Just how I?d rehearsed in the mirror. I watched him put his phone away guiltily. "I think so too," he replied, his large hands enveloping mine. "I want us to go away together." I paused, eyebrows raised. This was new. "You do?" I asked. "I really do. Do you trust me?" He asked, his eyes gazing deeply into mine. I melted. "Yes!" I replied, glowing. "Just tell me what to pack." Phase three was the mask. Or more correctly the masks. My makeup was getting pretty good through practice, but I had hit a wall: My face. My nose is a little too wide, my brow a little too pronounced, my beard shadow always shows through after a few hours. I started experimenting with more theatrical solutions. It started with just some latex over my chin and eyebrows. Then I learnt how to make little patches of latex to enhance my cheekbones. Then how to hide my nose, and change my face shape. Soon I had more than a dozen little pieces of bespoke skin-colored trickery. I experimented. I had eye pieces that added crows feet and added twenty years. I had a chin piece that rounded out my face and took away ten. It changed everything. I wasn?t just disguising myself as a woman. I could become any woman I wanted and for longer. I could spend a whole day in makeup and look as fresh and natural as when I?d stepped out the door. I took notes and saved combinations that worked and christened them. There was blonde, freckled Dawn; red-head milf Jessica; white- haired porcelain Elizabeth; and brunette thirty-something Olivia. A woman for any occasion. I grew bolder. I went to coffee shops and bars, restaurants and clubs. Dawn started yoga. Elizabeth played bridge. Jessica went swing dancing. Olivia found an orchestra. I started to color-in these sketches of women, giving them hobbies and histories. They became more than just clothes horses and I became richer for it. Every time a woman would welcome me into her confidence or a man would smile at me I would feel a flush of excitement. At least, at first. The harder I worked, the more I did, the better it became. The girls at the yoga class became familiar faces and friends Perky, supple girls who talked easily about their lovers whilst peeling off leggings and wriggling into sports bras. The ladies of bridge would laugh wistfully at lives already led, sharing stories over hands and cackling at the attention of dapper men. My partners in swing-dancing would hold me with confident firmness, grinning as we spun and jived, poking me with their bulging erections. At orchestra rehearsal I met my best friend. The holiday was going to be a challenge: I?d need a passport; I?d need new clothes; I?d need to be with him all day and all night; I?d need time to change. "Oh wow," I?d gushed, sweeping into our hotel suite and taking in the view from the large windows. The room was beautiful, the bed was huge, the Italian sun was warm and spilling over everything. It was all very expensive. "This is beautiful." I threw my arms around him and kissed him then, delighted to give the bellboy a little bit of a show. I was relieved when he held me and kissed me back. The flight hadn?t been the best. Maybe it was the early start -- which of course was even earlier for me -- but he?d been grumpy and short with me: Complaining at the extra baggage allowance we?d needed for my two cases; annoyed that I didn?t want to go through the body scanner and preferred the longer queue for the metal detector. We were over the ocean before he let me hold his hand. And then there was the stewardess. "Hi I?m Gillian and I?ll be leading the cabin crew on your flight," she?d said. She was pretty, trim, almost boyish in a tight skirt and blouse. Great ass. Big tits. John kept staring at her, smiling at her. I bet she didn?t get up at 3 in the morning to fix her face. So it was nice to get to the hotel, twirl around the room while he paid the bellboy, and collapse into the bed giving him ?come-hither? eyes. I?d been fantasising about this moment since he?d asked me. Lazy, loving sex in an Italian bedroom, full of tenderness and excitement and desire. The hundred small irritations about the airport, the flight, the taxi, the fucking stewardess started to melt away. He walked over to me, bent down and kissed me on the forehead. "Come on, let?s explore," he said. --- "Let us pray," the priest says. We all bow our heads. Some even clasp their hands together in a heartwarming display of childhood muscle memory. "We beseech Thee, O Lord, in Thy mercy, to have pity on the soul of Thy handmaid." I was surprised that there would be a funeral at all, let alone a religious one. Olivia had never given any indication that she was religious. I never went to church, didn?t own a bible. I didn?t think John was all that religious either, except for all the fucking churches he made me visit in Italy. "Look with pity on the suffering of this family in their loss. Sustain them in their anguish; and into the darkness of their grief." Because that?s who this funeral was for of course. John. It was John?s funeral. Not Olivia?s. The flowers, the music, the religion, the life summarized into three paragraphs wasn?t anything to do with her. Because she wasn?t any of that. She was makeup and hard work and something more complicated. She was desperate for attention and willing to do anything to get it. She was shame and guilt and an ever-expanding web of deceit to those who cared about her. She had to die, because she couldn?t live any more. "In your mercy turn the darkness of death into the dawn of new life, and the sorrow of parting into the joy of heaven; through our Saviour Jesus Christ, who died, rose again, and lives for evermore." "Amen," I say, standing with everyone else. --- I?d drugged him. Every night of that holiday I slipped something into our nightcap and let him fall gently to sleep. It knocked him out cold until morning, giving me a good 8 hours to get out of my disguise, exfoliate like crazy, sleep with one eye open and put it all on again before he got up the next morning. After the third day of all day sightseeing and no sex, coupled with no sleep and me putting in all this work, I had a tantrum. I knew that this wasn?t his fault, not really. He didn?t know his girlfriend was sleep-deprived and putting on this elaborate show for his benefit. He didn?t think to ask what she wanted to do on holiday because he thought this was what she wanted to do. He thought he knew her. He?d filled in all her blanks. I?d let him. "I?m staying here," I said over breakfast in the sunshine. "I don?t want to go anywhere." "But we agreed that we?d go to San Gimignano today..." "No, you agreed. I want a holiday!" "Calm down, okay Olivia." He went. The bastard went and left me. It was our first row. I actually cried, alone in our hotel room. Big sobbing tears. Why was I here? This wasn?t fun. It was work. I put on one of my unworn skimpy bikinis and a gossamer sarong, made my way down to the pool and lay under a large umbrella feeling sorry for myself. I got myself a cocktail. And then another. I can?t remember if I caught him looking at me first or if it was the other way around. It doesn?t matter really. He was tanned, muscled, handsome and glistening under the sun -- an adonis in tiny black trunks. He was much too young for Olivia. At a guess I?d have put him in his early twenties. I watched him swim in the pool, his powerful muscled shoulders working in the water and inwardly cursed that I wasn?t Dawn -- younger and blonder and more athletic. But then when he finished swimming he pulled himself out the water, dripping wet and panting, and sat down on a sun lounger next to me. He was so brazen in the way he stared at me while he towelled off his hair, his gaze sliding up and down my semi-naked body in a way I hadn?t felt looked at for days. He smiled and said hello. I smiled and said hello back. In less than an hour we were in his room, both naked, a tangle of limbs while I gasped and moaned and screamed. It was so good to be wanted the way he did -- the energy and enthusiasm of youth. I sucked his quivering cock and let him spurt thick cum all over my bouncing tits. Then he spoiled it by saying he was nineteen and here with his parents. Part of me felt like I was a fool, the other part sadder still I wasn?t Dawn. We could have been holiday sweethearts, young and lissom together. Instead I was a bored housewife not getting enough sex from her husband. From one cliche to another. I was back in our room, lying on the bed by the time John came back. I?d changed into another bikini -- one that wasn?t stained -- and brushed my hair. I was arranged like a male fantasy, all curves and soft wantonness. I batted my eyelashes and said sorry first. We kissed while I undressed him, and I lay there while he plunged his cock deep inside me. "Tell me I?m beautiful," I whispered, pinned down by the weight of this man. "You know you are," he replied, riding me. "I love you." There it was. Every girl?s dream. Love: honest and deep and earned. We?d gone beyond passion, beyond desire. He loved me. He loved me. He loved me. Fuck. He proposed on our last night. We were eating outside on a balcony in the middle of the rolling hills of Tuscany. I had a glass of sweet white wine in my hand. He got down on one knee and my stomach lurched. I said yes and played the happy girlfriend while the other diners clapped. I was trapped. I had to get out. --- "I?m so sorry for your loss." The lineup on the way out of the funeral parlour was not something I?d considered. I couldn?t just run past the queue of people. I hang back, last in the line, thinking of what to say to my ex-finance. What to say to anyone. I knew everyone here and missed them. Sarah and her husband spend the longest talking to John, faces set. I can see she?s been crying. I really shouldn?t have come here. I feel like an asshole. I am an asshole. I invented a person and lied about who I was. And when that stopped being fun I just lied some more, getting deeper and deeper into this fake woman until all the fun had been sucked right out of it. I just wanted the good stuff. The fun stuff. The easy stuff. I didn?t want fights and having to consider his feelings and having to make sacrifices. I wanted to be the center of the universe. I?m an asshole. I should have come as Jessica, I think, as the line moves on. I?d have looked hot in a tight black dress. Maybe I could have gotten away with fishnets. Or Elizabeth. I could have been taken into the confidences of these women as they looked after me, crying quietly into an embroidered handkerchief. Or Dawn. Maybe not Dawn. Dawn didn?t do funerals. The lesson here is that you shouldn?t get too close. I went too far. I guess I just wanted more when the thrills started to fade. Dressing at home is fun until it isn?t. Then going shopping is fun until it isn?t (and it quickly isn?t). You?re always chasing the dragon, until, eventually, you?re drugging your boyfriend and fucking a teenager. It?s an old story. It?s only then I realise the music softly playing over the speakers and the memory of it fills me. Etta James. At Last: Our slow dance; Our song. And for the first time at the service I?m crying. Hot, thick tears falling onto my white shirt.