This Charming Man (42 page)

Mart Day. Place overrun with filthy lorries; mooing, slow-moving cattle doing poos in middle of street; farmers in antediluvian three-piece suits and pork-pie hats spitting on their hands and doing deals. Disgusting. Very swaggery farmer-type swaggered towards me in swaggery fashion. Our eyes met, normal eyes to swaggery eyes. Why would my eyes meet with swaggery eyes of swaggery farmer-type? Then knew! It was Blanche. Swaggery farmer was Blanche!

Boss and Moss dropped me home in filthy van.

‘You have company,’ Boss said.

Looked. Stunningly handsome man was sitting on my front step.

Jake.

Just when I had decided I no longer cared about him. Effing typical.

I emerged from van, which immediately screeched away, Moss and Boss yelping, ‘Yee-haw!’ like ribald country and western types.

Jake clambered to his feet. Asked, ‘Can I come in?’

‘No.’

‘Oh… Can I talk to you out here?’

‘Make it quick. Is cold.’

‘Oh… Where’ve you been?’ he asked. ‘You didn’t call round, you didn’t ask Cecile about me…’

‘You wanted breathing space.’

‘Yes! But thought you would…’ Big, frustrated sigh.

Suddenly I understood. Jake was used to ‘breathing space’ women stalking him and lurking outside his house in floods of tears, the way I did to Paddy.

‘Have been waiting to hear from you,’ he said.

‘
You
could have got in touch with
me.’

Extreme bad, burny feeling. Jake is spoilt brat, too sexy for his own good.

‘Let’s get back together,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Manifestly unsettled by my question. I experienced strong sense of satisfaction. ‘Because am crazy about you. Have had many girlfriends, but you are different.’

‘Am only different because I didn’t stalk you.’

‘No! Nothing like that. Is because you are sweet. Cute. You are like kitten. Little quirky kitten. Knew from first time I met you, you were different. Asked for breathing space because was afraid of feelings for you. Too strong, too quickly.’

Either he had read manual on winning women over or was sincere.

‘Please give me second chance,’ he asked.

‘No.’ But was weakening. Was flattering, him being so tortured.

‘Please.’

‘No.’

‘Could you even say you’ll think about it?’

Made him wait long time for answer. ‘Okay. Will think about it.’

Noel and Blanche arrive. Disappear into kitchen to change.

Knock on door.

‘Probably Osama,’ I say.

But wasn’t Osama. Was a woman, swaddled from head to toe in black cloth. Even her face wasn’t visible.

‘Hello,’ I said, thinking, What now? Hallowe’en was a couple of weeks ago!

‘Lola! Is me!’ woman said. ‘Ibrahim!’

‘Ibrahim! What you wearing? Oh! I get it, you are in burka!’

‘Is only ladies’ clothing I have. Not exactly clothing but drop cloth left over from painting pub.’

‘Come in, come in.’

In he came, acres of black cloth flapping. He nodded at trannies in all their finery, refused Noel’s offer of ‘little drinky’, and eyed television, clearly keen for movie to start.

Noel tried to persuade Ibrahim to try a little black eyeliner. ‘Is kohl. Is Egyptian, part of your culture.’

Ibrahim eschewed it firmly.

I started film.

Knock on door.

We froze. Air electric with fear. If we were animals, our fur would have stood on end.

‘Upstairs, upstairs,’ I hissed at the three men. ‘Quietly.’

When they had vamoosed (that strange word again) I composed self. Cleared throat. Opened door. Beautiful woman standing there.

‘Is this party invite-only?’ she asked in sexy, husky voice. ‘Or can any girl join in?’

I was struck dumb. Like automaton, I opened door wide in invitation to join us. This creature was dazzling. Tall, elegant, glossy dark hair, black satin cocktail dress, elbow gloves, taffeta wrap and Swarovski-like choker.

Not exactly sure when I realized she was a man. Perhaps slight ungainliness in narrow, high heels gave game away. But that realization was simply subsumed in all the other dazzlement.

‘I’m Chloe,’ she said, smiling winning smile, navy-blue eyes sparkling. Her eyeliner perfect! Better than when I do own! She flicked quick glance at television. ‘I
knew
that wasn’t a microwave!’

Excuse me…?

‘I hope you don’t mind me arriving like this.’

‘No, no, more the merrier.’ Didn’t mean it. Noel had gone too far this time. ‘I’ll just get the others for you. Girls, you can come down now!’

Chloe put the others to shame. Beside her groomed beauty, they looked like brickies in lopsided wigs.

‘I’m Chloe.’ Chloe extended elegant arm.

‘Natasha,’ Noel grunted shyly.

‘Blanche.’ Poor Blanche couldn’t even make eye contact.

Osama pulled her burka tighter and hung back on fringes of little group.

‘Lola, a word.’ Noel grabbed my arm, moved me short distance and in small, angry voice said, without moving his jaw, ‘You didn’t say other lady would be joining us tonight.’

‘Wha –? What you mean?
I
didn’t invite her. You mean, you don’t know each other?’

Much shaking of heads. Sudden and extreme fear in me. How did this Chloe get here? Where did she come from? Is Uncle Tom’s cabin on trannie ley line? Will more and more trannies start making their way here every Friday night, impelled by forces greater than themselves? Where will they all fit?

‘Please! Let me explain,’ Chloe said.

‘Yes, would be obliged if you would!’

‘Saw the girls getting changed in the kitchen. Have seen it for past few weeks. Wanted to be sure before showing up.’

‘But how did you see?’ The kitchen is at back of the house. Chosen for its hiddenness.

‘From over there.’ She tipped elegant head towards Rossa Considine’s house.

‘You know Rossa Considine?’

Long pause.

‘Lola,’ said very, very gently, ‘I
am
Rossa Considine.’

Extreme shock. Had to repeat words to self a few times before I understood.

Peered at beautiful woman and once I knew what was looking for, could definitely see Rossa Considine under there somewhere.

‘Oh my God! You are girl in Vera Wang wedding dress!’

‘Only a copy, not actual Vera Wang, but yes! I thought you knew all along I was cross-dresser!’

‘Why? How would I know?’

‘Whenever meet you, you are sarcastic.’

Am I? No, am not. Am not sarcastic person at all. Except, actually, had to admit something about Rossa Considine did trigger sarcastic impulse…

‘And you caught me burning clothes.’

‘What was that all about?’ I asked.

‘The purge.’

Noel and Blanche nodded and repeated, ‘The purge.’ Rueful laughs.

‘What on earth is the purge?’ I asked.

‘When we decide we are giving up cross-dressing for good and burn all lady belongings.’

‘A regular thing?’

‘Oh yes!’ Laughter all round. ‘Always regret it!’ Further group laughter. ‘But can’t help it. Self-hate. Resolution to never lapse again. Always do.’

‘Then I saw the girls getting ready in the kitchen every Friday and was like all my dreams had come true.’ Sudden look of mortification crossed her face. ‘Apologies! Should have waited for official invitation before landing on top of you. Got carried away.’

‘But you have a girlfriend,’ I accused.

She smiled. ‘Yes, have a girlfriend.’

‘And you go potholing. Have seen you with ropes and stuff.’

‘Am a man.’ Another smile. ‘And sometimes I like to do manly things.’

‘Oooo-kaaaay.’ My mind being opened.

‘And sometimes I like to wear beautiful things.’

‘Give me example.’

‘You like Alexander McQueen?’

‘Yes!’

Fell into passionate chat. Discovered I had much, much in common with Chloe – admiration for Alexander McQueen, Thai food, Smythson’s passport covers, Nurofen Extra, sycamore trees,
Law and Order
–

‘–
Law and Order
! I LOVE
Law and Order,’
I said. ‘Is best show on telly.’

‘Yes! “These are their stories” –’

‘Duh-duh!’ we both exclaimed. (Duh-duh is gavel noise at start of each episode. Very pleased that Chloe knew to say it. Not some dilettante
Law and Order
fan, but the real thing.)

‘Only a true believer would know that noise,’ I say.

‘That’s because I AM a true believer.’

‘Tell me what is happening in it,’ I beseeched. ‘Haven’t seen it since September.’

‘Why not? What is the true situation with your microwave-telly?’

‘Only plays DVDs.’

‘But you must come to me to watch
Law and Order
! Is not right that a true believer should miss a single episode. Thursday nights, ten p.m. It’s a date!’

‘To you, Chloe – or to you, Rossa Considine?’

Pause. ‘To me, Rossa Considine. Am not usually Chloe during the week. Too much work.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Problem?’

Might as well admit it. She had alluded to it earlier. ‘Perhaps. When you are Rossa, we…’ What were the right words? ‘We seem to rub each other up the wrong way.’

Chloe considered the matter. Didn’t deny it. Admired her honesty and maturity. ‘Let us consider it an experiment. If it doesn’t work, notice can be given on either side.’

‘Very well. Thursday ten p.m. it is.’

Other trannies were clamouring for a ‘go’ of Chloe, wanting to hear her stories so turned her loose onto them.

You know what? Had a fantastic night. Enthusiastic discussions of clothing. Only sad note: Osama didn’t seem to enjoy self. He tried hard to hear film – much shushing from him – over racket of the rest of us making whooping noises.

Musing on events
Trannies gone. Thinking about evening’s strange revelations, to wit: Rossa Considine a trannie. You would NEVER think it to look at him. When he’s a man, looks like he doesn’t even comb his hair.

Further musing on events
Jake. Could you credit it? Isn’t it always the way? The minute you decide you no longer care about a man, they show up, cap in hand. Decide to decide that I no longer care about Paddy, just as an experiment.

Imagined self at some time in the future, having conversation with invisible person. ‘Oh yes, madly in love with Jake. Yes, Love-God. Of course, will always think fondly of Paddy. But have to admit, could never really love a man with hair that bouffy.’

Enjoyable. Uplifting.

Phone rang, jolting me from reverie.

I looked at it. Recognized number. Stared hard. Wondered if mind had finally cracked.

Through bloodless lips I answered, ‘Lola Daly.’

‘Lola? It’s Paddy.’

Roaring in ears. Hope. Never before felt hope in such quantities.

‘I…’ His voice choked. ‘… really miss you.’

‘You’re a stupid, useless bitch and this is your own fucking fault.’ He was panting from exertion as he stood over her, curled in a ball beneath him. ‘Say it. You’re a stupid, useless bitch and this is your own fucking fault.’

He was pulling his leg back for another kick. No. She didn’t think she could take another one and still live. The toe of his boot slammed her stomach against her spine. She retched, retched, retched, retched, nothing but bile left
.

‘Say it!’

‘I’m a stupid, useless bitch,’ she whispered, tears streaming down her face. ‘And this is my own fault.’

‘
Own
fucking
fault. Can’t you get anything right?’

‘Oh here’s Paddy,’ Dee Rossini said. ‘I need a couple of words with him. I told him we’d be having a quick drink in here.’

For a moment I thought she was having me on. With trepidation, I raised my eyes. Christ. There he was, filling the pub doorway, darkening the room.

Panic swelled. I had to get away, but I was trapped; there was only one doorway and he was in it. My head swivelled, as I sought an escape route. The Ladies – there might be a window I could climb out of. At the very least I could hide there until he was gone. ‘Dee, I’ll have to go now…’

But she was waving and calling, ‘Paddy, over here,’ and didn’t hear me.

Paddy looked around the pub with his blue seek-and-destroy gaze, spotted Dee, then me sitting next to her, frozen like a rabbit caught in headlights. For a long neutral moment he watched me, before deciding to unleash his devastating smile.

Another Dee Rossini scandalhad just broken, but this one was far, far worse than any of the others: her boyfriend – yes, she’d had a secret boyfriend all along, I should have known, what kind of journalist was I? – had sold his story to the
Sunday Globe,
probably the most scurrilous of the red-tops. And it was chock-full of the most cringe-inducing details about their sex life. According to him (his name was Christopher Holland and he claimed he was selling his story because he was tired of ‘living a lie’), Dee was ‘mad for it.’ Any time, any place, anywhere. (The ‘anywhere’ bit was because they had once –
once
– done it in her back garden.) She particularly liked it ‘doggy-style’, he said.

The front-page splash kept referring to her as ‘Kinky Dee’, but just in case there was any danger that she’d come across as a sexy minx, there was other, even more gruesome, information: she didn’t shave her legs more than once a fortnight; her bra and pants rarely matched; the soles of her feet were so hard and yellow, if she rubbed them together for long enough she could start a fire; she had cellulite on her stomach. In other words, she was a normalforty-something woman.

The first I knew of it was the headline screaming, ‘KINKY DEE AND ME’, in the newsagent’s on Sunday morning. Mesmerized I picked up the paper and a quick scan showed that the levelof detailwas unprecedented. They must have paid this Christopher Holland a fortune to spill his guts in such a treacherous fashion. I pitied Dee as I had never pitied anyone before and it made me itchy with shame that I was a journalist. Even the fact that I knew the journalist – it was Scott Holmes, the Kiwi who’d been my boyfriend while I was trying to not be in love with Damien – made me ashamed.