Chapter Two: All Bar OneAn hour ter, he meets his sister at the All Bar One on Kingsway, just a little way down from the station.

  “Can we just go home, please?” he asks, exhausted. “I want to get out of these clothes.”

  But Sophie’s not having it. She wants to celebrate, wants to know how it’s gone. There’s a bottle of house white sitting in an ice bucket, South African and the second cheapest on the menu, and two massive gsses waiting. She pours the wine. It’s still bright outside, and their gsses fsh like pale gold in the early evening light. It’s early enough that they get one of the choice seats by the rge windows. They watch pedestrians marching past. Despite the early hour, the bar’s getting busy, mostly young women trickling in from nearby offices. He takes a drink and feels the sweet wine hit a mostly empty stomach. He knows he should stop, but it eases his anxiety and so he takes another deep drink and feels the stress melt from his shoulders.

  In a way, this is precisely what he wanted and expected from London: after-work drinks in City bars, or down by the river. But not like—this, with a face full of fading makeup and a shiny bck top pushed out by a padded bra and tapered trousers fring over artificially wide hips. When sexy girls gnce his way, what do they see, he wonders, what do they think? Not, he suspects, a prospective hookup.

  “Why here?” Alex asks. “We could’ve done this closer to home. I mean, this pce, it’s a bit shit, right? Nice enough, but still—”

  “It’s female-friendly, that’s why.” Sophie cuts him off. “Thought you might appreciate that, dressed as you are.” The chain started as a female-friendly alternative in the 90s, a counter to the darkened windows and cramped spaces of the typical pub. And Alex kind of gets it. He’s always liked pubs, especially the ones back home in Somerset: dark, cozy nooks, real ales on tap, often a dog by the bar.

  But this is okay, too: the broad windows, open space, bright airy interiors. It feels safe, or as safe as it can for a man dressed in women’s clothing. Even though sitting by the window leaves him feeling like he’s on dispy, and people passing by can see him, he also feels anonymous: just another girl in a well-lit pub on a Thursday afternoon. Sophie picks up on his nervousness and pats his hand. “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling wryly. “You fit in perfectly.” He suspects he’s winding him up but at the moment, fitting in, in this female-friendly bar, that feels kind of nice, too. He remembers some of the bars back home, some of the rougher ds there, the drunks, the fights that inevitably broke out at the ‘Spoon. He can’t imagine that happening here, he can do without that bullshit.

  Sophie pulls her mobile from her handbag, pces it to one side, face up. “So, little brother,” she begins. “You ready to go all Norah Vincent for me? Feeling like a self-made woman yet?”

  “Makeup sucks.” He reaches for his gss of wine. “So do girdles.”

  She snorts. “That’s it? I expected more.”

  And he’s thinking, yeah, there’s more, sis, a hell of a lot more. He’s thinking of his dad, and the photo in his borrowed handbag. He’s thinking of Amber, the pretty receptionist at the interview, and how he’d love to get to know her better. He’s thinking it’s a damn odd thing, that for all the stress and anxiety of dressing and passing as a woman he’s carried with him all day, the constant paranoid feeling of eyes tracking and judging him, nobody seems to give a shit, and somehow that’s galling, it’s as much an insult as it is a relief. But also, he's had fun today, in a strange sort of way, not that he'd ever admit this to his sister.

  He shrugs.

  “And she didn’t recognize you from before?” Sophie’s watching him keenly and he bridles a little under her eye.

  He shakes his head no. “Nope. But then, she barely looked at me this morning.”

  The interview went fine, he expins. Certainly, not at all what he expected. The contrast with his earlier meeting couldn’t have been starker. This time, the woman behind the desk seemed rexed, the hard, angry lines of before softened. He found her quite attractive; she was Sophie’s age, maybe a few years older, and he’d always liked that, a slightly older woman. She took a long, searching look at him and then beamed a wide smile. “I’m Sarah St-Cir,” she said, “it’s nice to meet you, Miss….?”

  “Morgan,” he said, extending his fingers. “Bke Morgan.”

  Sarah asked about his degree, why he wanted the job. English Lit, he answered, a first, followed by a Masters, a two-one. And I want the job to gain experience, because you need experience to get a job, and a job to get experience. Very true, Sarah smiled, but why this job?

  “Because I’m passionate about—” and then he faltered, and realized he wasn’t passionate about anything, really, at least recently, other than getting out of his sister’s ft and starting his own life. Also, having spent so much time prepping to pass as female, he hadn’t prepped for the interview. He hardly knew anything about this job he’d apparently applied for. So, instead of trying to bullshit her, he grinned in what he hoped was a disarming way. “Because I’m passionate about paying the rent,” he admitted. Sarah ughed, and he rexed a little.

  Ms. St-Cir commented on his degree, said they preferred candidates with a humanities background, too much STEM grads about these days and they wanted people with social and critical skills, especially in an entry-level job. She asked about his master’s thesis: ‘Cracked in a Hundred Shivers’: The Formation of Subjective Identity on the Early Modern Stage, he said. Sarah raised an eyebrow. How very esoteric, she commented dryly.

  “Then she asked me about—”

  Sophie gnces up from her phone. “About?”

  He blushes. “It was weird. She asked if I was married, if there was a guy in the picture, pretty girl like me, she said, bet they’re queuing up. I mean, that’s not normal, right?”

  “No, Alex.” Her lips purse in a thin, angry line. “That’s not normal. That’s red fg bullshit right there. Forget diversity discrimination, your sexuality, marital status, that’s not an employer’s business.” Then she shrugs, sips her wine. “She ought to have known better. But it’s not surprising. L&C are pretty old-school. They see a twenty-two-year-old girl, right? Total pregnancy risk, you know, start of the danger zone where you might sign on, then pop one in the oven, squeeze it out nine months ter and fuck off on maternity leave for half the year.”

  He feels sick to his stomach. “I’m not a girl,” he says.

  “But you look like one,” Sophie says. She looks him over. “Though your makeup’s fading, the boy’s peeking through the cracks.”

  He groans, wants to hold his face in his hands, but doesn’t dare touch the mask he wears. Slumping in the chair, he gres balefully at his sister. “Today was awful.”

  “Oh, get over yourself.” Gesturing around the bar, she takes in the other patrons. “I mean, look at these people, all these other women. You don’t see them compining.”

  And they’ve had a lifetime to get used to this shit, he wants to say, but he’s too tired to argue the point. Christ, though, the effort—to do this every day—he shivers. He sees the lithe limbs, smooth legs beneath short skirts and imagines shaving his legs every day. He sees the perfectly sculpted eyebrows and manicured hands, the crisp blouses and straight hair—God—the cost in time and money to maintain this appearance. How do they put up with it?

  Not all the girls, obviously—his sister’s a great example of a woman who doesn’t give a shit, except for when she does—but still. That receptionist, Amber: she looked amazing, perfect makeup, hair, a sculpted appearance that spoke—not so much of professionalism—but rather of a recognition of being on dispy and a recipient of the gaze of others.

  “And be honest, Alex,” Sophie continues. “Was it really that bad?”

  For the first time, a smile cracks through, a very small one. The wine helps. “I mean, yes,” he insists, then grins ruefully. “This girdle’s horrible, Soph. And I hate the feeling of makeup, I can see why you don’t bother most days. And the panic attack leaving the ft—” He winces. “But honestly? No—maybe not that bad, at least once I realized no one made me as a guy, or if they did, they didn’t care.” He draws a finger through beads of condensation on the table surface, sketches idle circles. “I wouldn’t want to do it again. But I guess it sure as hell beat spending another day cooped up indoors.” He did enough of that to st a lifetime, he thinks, a year of undergraduate study trapped in a tiny university dorm room.

  Her phone buzzes, she gnces at it and begins to tap a response. “How’d the rest of the interview go?” she asks.

  Fine, he tells her, up until she asked the st question: “where do you see yourself in five years?” Ms. St-Cir read the question off the sheet of paper where she’d been taking interview notes, and he panicked.

  Alex pauses to drink. These gsses are huge, 250ml. Sophie topped it up when he arrived, and he’s surprised to see his already half-empty. A pattern of coral lip-prints glosses the rim. “And I swear, Soph, I didn’t know what to say. I—never really thought that far ahead.”

  Absently rotating his gss, he watches how the wine sparkles in the daylight, and his nails, too, with their clear sheen. But he had to say something, so he fell back on some crap about progressing his career. Making a difference. Someday, moving into a leadership position. The woman’s eyes instantly gzed over with boredom. He changed tact: Actually, he said, I see myself where you are. The woman perked up, smiled, brushed her hair back. Really? she asked. Grinning, he licked his lips, tucked back a bang. Well, yeah. I mean, if I was looking for a female role model, I’d pick you. The way you dress, your confidence, if I was on the other side of that desk in five years, looking as good as you do, I’d be doing well, don’t you think?

  He remembers thinking at the time, what the hell am I saying, don’t say that! Not that Sarah St-Cir wasn’t hot: she was, stern and sexy, dressed for business in glossy bck heels, dark tights, slim bck skirt suit, and very red lips. The frames of her gsses were thick, square-framed and her every movement seemed sharp and controlled. But mostly, he remembers the sudden and surprising feeling of hollowness in his belly, because the idea of being in that woman’s position in five years terrified him. And whether it was the idea of wearing a skirt suit and high heels and pying the female part five years down the road—or the thought of carrying that much professional responsibility on his shoulders—he couldn’t tell, and the rest of the interview passed in a blur.

  Sophie’s fingers hover over her phone. “Alex, were you flirting with her?”

  “Maybe? Christ, I don’t know, Steph, I barely knew what I was saying, alright?”

  “It’s a basic fucking question, Alex. They always ask that. Everybody knows where they’ll be in five years.”

  “Well, I didn’t, okay?” Now he’s sullen. It’s the alcohol, tiredness, frustration, maybe all three. “Or I mean, I don’t. Like, I used to know, or at least I think I used to know. Everything seemed really clear to me a year ago. But not anymore. Finish my degree, come to London. I just kind of expected everything to fall into pce.” He mimes yering bricks, one atop the other. “Get a job. Get a ft. Get a girl. But instead….” He folds his hand in over each other and slid them off the table, out of view.

  “Yeah, well, that’s probably our dear father’s fault,” Sophie says, pushing her phone to one side.

  Alex frowns. “What’s Dad got to do with it?”

  She eyes him levelly for a moment. There’s a look in her eyes he’s never seen there before. He feels her gaze pass over him like a physical presence, like ants crawling across his skin. “You really have no idea, do you?” she says.

  Just then, his phone rings. He picks it up, checks the screen. “It’s them,” he says softly. He answers the phone, presses the other hand over the other ear to block out rising hubbub of the pub. The conversation sts for several minutes. Yes, yes, um yes, this is Bke, uh, Bke Morgan, yes; yes; no, no I wasn’t aware of that; oh wow, yes, that is—yes. A longer pause and then, um—yeah. I’ll get back to you. And then finally: thank you.

  He hangs up, puts his phone down on the table. A moment ter it vibrates a few times, pinging with incoming notifications.

  He closes his eyes, sinks back in his chair.

  Sophie waits a moment. “Well?”

  His smile is thin, more grimace than joy, and he touches his fingertips lightly to his lips. They come away flecked coral. He studies the colour for a moment. He hates this stuff, the tackiness of it, the weight of it on his lips. Around him, he hears the chatter of women. Their lips shimmer in peach, rose, deep crimson, light strawberry. Most are dressed directly from work, pencil skirts and blouses, mostly fts, a few heels. A sparkly top or a colourful long dress, here and there. And It’s te august, so lots of thin straps, shorter skirts, bare legs, light fabrics.

  “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” He speaks to Sophie, but his gaze continues to travel across the bar. He picks out the women sitting opposite guys, men in grey and navy suits with wide pels and rexed fits. They loosen their ties, drape their bzer over the back of their seat. He wishes he was one of them. A pang of—jealousy? grips him around the middle. Maybe it’s just the girdle, worn for too long. But he also sees these young women, and he envies them, too: the table talk, friendly drinks, the after-work experience he’s never known.

  “Well, yeah,” Sophie answers. She watches him curiously. “Aren’t you?”

  “Are you fucking joking? No!” It comes out louder than expected, his own voice, male and outraged. “No,” he repeats, quieter, softer. “I nearly shat myself, Soph. Went for a piss three times before the interview.”

  “Normal jitters,” she says.

  “It wasn’t normal fucking jitters, Soph. What if somebody saw I was a guy?”

  “What if?”

  He squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth opens and closes with disbelief, he digs deep to find the words. “God, Soph, sometimes, you can be such a—”

  “Go on,” she says.

  Alex grimaces. “It’s humiliating, okay? This,”—he waves his hand to take in his clothes, the underclothes, makeup—“all of it, it’s—unmanly, okay? I’m a guy, and dressing like this, in girl clothes, it’s embarrassing.” What really gets to him isn’t the clothes, which are odd and uncomfortable but bearable; or even the makeup, which he hates; but that fact that he nobody seems to have noticed. What kind of man passes so convincingly as a girl?

  “I see,” Sophie says. She takes a deep drink of her wine, looks at him over the rim and there’s a dangerous glint to her eyes. “So, it’s embarrassing being a girl, is that it? Being female, that’s shameful, somehow?”

  He groans. The st thing he wants right now is for her to unch into some feminist tirade. Too tired to think straight, he can’t be bothered to argue. Besides, they’ve been over this shit too many times these past months, and in the years before that. No, it’s not humiliating to be female. Equally, men are different and that’s a fact. Gender might be a construct, but sex is biology and you ignore this reality at your peril. Men are simply stronger, bigger, tougher: evolved to stand up straight with their shoulders back, ready to carry the responsibilities of the world. Men lead and bring order and that means controlling the chaos both within themselves and within their world. Women—girls—being weaker and more accommodating, are less well suited to this. Yes, women can lead, obviously. But not naturally. His sister certainly isn’t accommodating or weak; running her own business, she knows a thing or two about leadership and control. But still. Women are inclined to please. Of course they are, it emerges organically from their mothering role, out of a desire for social cohesion. After all, being physically weaker women are more likely to lose in conflict; with more to lose, they’re biologically inclined to avoid conflict, to negotiate.

  All this, Alex knows to be true. Absently spinning the thin women’s watch at his wrist, he scans across the bar and finds ample evidence. The way these girls present themselves: the clothes and makeup, earrings and accessories, all manifestations of an inner need to please. This externalisation of the female instinct for negotiation signals their willing but mostly unconscious participation in a social contract and beauty myth written in vivid colours, soft fabrics and prescribed hemlines. What is feminine fashion but another medium for communicating a willingness to concede—comfort, time, money—in exchange for—what? Security and safety, and any of the other advantages that derive from feminine beauty, purchased with overt sensuality and passive sexuality. He sees it, in that pretty girl’s glossy smile and the way she tucks her hair, the sparkle of earrings as she mirrors the movements of the man sat opposite her. He leads, and she follows: from the man she derives order.

  But for a man to wear these things is to subvert his natural inclination and fail in his responsibilities. He should be taming his shadow and cultivating the inherent threat of his masculinity: dangerous, yet in control of that danger. Not smothering his threat, constraining it in a bra, disguising it with makeup. To tie down his masculinity and bind it in silk and satin and straps of lingerie, soften it in a skirt or stockings—to hide behind a veil of femininity—it was a surrender to the biologic impulse of the female, an inherent yielding to strength. Relinquishing control is fine and appropriate in a woman but in a man shows him weak, submissive, and unmanly.

  Alex passes his hand across his eyes and speaks with forced patience. “Christ, just for once, can you let it go? You know it’s not the same, these clothes, lipstick on a guy, it means something. Today’s been—hard. I’m tired.” He looks at his near-empty gss. “And I think I’m drunk.”

  “Fine.” She stares into her own gss. “Want to know why I’m enjoying this so much?”

  “I’m getting major sadistic evil sister vibes.”

  “Hardly.” She chuckles. “Okay, maybe just a little. But it’s more than that, Alex. Try and see if from my perspective, okay? Three months, you’ve been lounging around my ft. This past month, I’ve seen you more in your pants than in trousers. You’ve put on weight—”

  He scoffs. “And you haven’t?”

  “—you’re always online and frankly, I’m worried, Alex, some of the shit you say and these past two weeks, especially, you’ve just been so—”

  “Frustrated.” He grinds the word out between clenched teeth.

  “Angry,” she says. “And frankly, more than a little mean. Like, a right proper douche, sometimes.”

  He speaks into his wine gss. “I don’t think that’s fair. You’ve been a bitch, too.”

  “Sure, whatever. But it’s my fucking ft, Alex. My home. Not yours.” She shakes her head. “And these videos you’re watching, the stuff I overhear. I’m worried, Alex. Like, you’re a week away from becoming a proper little incel cunt, on the cusp of ordering me to make you a fucking sandwich or something.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Yeah? Maybe, maybe not.” She shrugs, drinks some wine. “But considering some of the sexist bullshit I’ve heard, I’ll be honest—watching you all dressed up like this, makeup on your face and that breathy little voice of yours?” She grins. “Yeah, it’s been fun.” Then she reaches across the table, for his hand. “It’s also been… reassuring. Because I don’t think a real misogynistic arsehole could’ve done it.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I think.”

  “So, then—” she indicates his phone. “What’d they say?”

  Alex pauses for dramatic effect—or exhaustion—and smiles wanly. “They offered me the job,” he says. “Or rather, they offered ‘Bke Morgan’ the job. They liked her, they said. Ms. St-Cir was really impressed.”

  “Alright!” Sarah raises her hand in a high five. He leaves her hanging and doesn’t reciprocate. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut, and between the tiredness and the exhaustion and the shame, he fights back a desire to cry. “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, I can’t fucking well take the job, can I?” he says.

  “Why not?”

  He looks up at his sister, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? Because it’s for a fucking girl,” he hisses. “And I’m not a girl, or have you forgotten that?”

  “Keep your voice down,” she snaps. In a softer tone, she continues, “But—isn’t this what you wanted? They offer you the job, you accept it, challenge their discriminatory policy—”

  “It’s what you wanted!” he says. “And no—I can’t—there’s no fucking discrimination, okay? I—you—we were wrong, okay? We should’ve looked at the job listing closer.” He grabs his phone, unlocks it, flicks through a few messages and opens a file. He slides the phone over to his sister and watches as she reads.

  Lockwood and Carmichael were a prestigious wealth management firm. Big clients, old money; if he’d known before the interview, there’s no way he would’ve dared this farce. After the interview, he did the minimal research that should’ve taken pce before meeting St. Cir. That he hadn’t done it before applying struck him as odd, but then again, he’d sent out so many of these applications, that first hectic month in London. Probably, he’d been up against an application deadline.

  The job really was entry-level, a receptionist and administrative internship. Not the kind of job he wanted at all, and he was surprised he’d bothered applying for it. Still, it was a foot in the door and could lead to better things. Even just a few months with a firm with L&C’s reputation could make a big difference for his work prospects. So, fine. And there’s no reason a receptionist has to be female, so maybe—just maybe—he could get them on that, although being more than a little old-fashioned, Lockwood and Carmichael clearly preferred someone pretty and polished behind the desk, like Amber.

  After all, it’s a bad look in 2025, even with Trump in the White House deleting inclusive nguage like “identity” and “woman” from government websites. But the fact the entire leadership team was entirely male, stale and pale Oxbridge types left the firm looking dated, the wrong kind of traditional, maybe. Clients wanted innovation and bold forward-thinkers when it came to pcing their money, and L&C were starting to look staid. Some of their clients preferred the old ways—the Russian oligarchs, Japanese tech entrepreneurs, middle Eastern aristocrats—but they were at risk of losing new clients if they didn’t present at least an illusion of changing with the times.

  And therefore, the internship role and its linked DEI “Diversity in Leadership” mentorship program intended to ease young women—and other minority groups—into management.

  “Fuck me, we’re a minority now?” Sophie scowls, gnces up at Alex. “Christ, these old fuckers. How much more tokenistic can you get? Bet they scribbled this shit down on a napkin over lunchtime martinis at the Garrick, pissing themselves ughing.”

  But Alex can’t see the humour. “Maybe it’s a joke, but if so it’s on me, Soph. I can’t go after them for discrimination when it’s a DEI job, can I?”

  “Yeah.” She scratches her head. “Yeah, I didn’t know about any mentorship program.”

  “It’s not fucking fair,” he says. “First job offer I get, and it’s offered to Bke. Like, I don’t want to be a… a fucking girl receptionist; but working in the City? Hell yeah, and the pay’s good, and it’s a fast track to management to boot?” He picks up his gss, knocks back the rest and eyes what’s left in the bottle. “It’s not fair,” he repeats, grabbing the wine out of the ice bucket, spshing the remainder into his gss. He waved the empty at his sister. “Another?”

  “I thought you wanted to go home and change?”

  “Yeah.” He plucks at his top. “But what I really want now is to get shitfaced.”

  Sophie ughs, orders another bottle and a pte of nachos. Outside, the autumn sun dips behind the old building of Holborn, long shadows cast across narrow streets. Alex thinks of centuries-old medieval roads, the steady flow of trade and commerce through these streets, and a steady march of days leading back to Londinium and the Romans, those brave legions of sturdy men marching out of the light into the unknown, carrying with stoic manliness the heavy responsibility of civilizing the darkness.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, he shifts in his seat. He needs to take a piss but doesn’t dare head to the toilet on his own. After so many hours, the girdle’s hurting, and he wants out of this fucking bra. At the same time—he’s enjoying himself, despite the ridiculous outfit. Sophie’s smiling, and that makes him happy. It’s the best night out he’s had with her in years. He licks his lips and realises they’re nearly bare. Now he’s almost giddy with the thought that he should reapply his lipstick. God, how the fuck has he ended up here? Just like that night with Beth, five years ago. He wore lipstick then as well. She did his makeup. He kissed her. Felt a girl’s breasts for the first time. And more. Fuck.

  “Earth to Alex, you okay there? You’re looking a bit flushed.”

  He grins. It makes him happy to think of Beth. According to Luca, she’s living in Bristol now, has a job, is in a steady retionship with some guy called Dave. There’s been talk of marriage. That makes Alex less happy. Then he looks to his sister. As far as he knows, she’s single, too. At least, she hasn’t had anyone around since he’s moved in. Now, he feels unhappy, for being single, and guilty for dragging his sister down. He wants to apologize, takes a deep breath and tries to find the words. He feels the bra tighten across his chest. This annoys him and he remembers: yeah, but this is all her fault. When he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what to say.

  “Sorry,” is what pops out. “For what I said this morning. About you being jealous. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  She shrugs. “Whatever. But hey, look at you. One day as a girl and you’re going all soft.”

  He ughs. “How’s my makeup looking?”

  “Honestly, a bit worse for wear. I’d say to freshen up in the loo, but—you’d fuck it up worse.”

  He flicks his phone over to camera mode, checks himself out. Sophie’s efforts of earlier today have faded somewhat, and whatever she did to soften his features and smoothen his skin is giving way to hints of the man beneath. He sees himself, though that’s not necessarily a good thing. Not that anyone’s noticed, or if they have, they don’t care. He pulls out the lipstick pencil, brings it to his lips. He can feel his sister watching him. He gnces over the phones edge and catches her eye. “What?”

  “Nothing.” A moment ter, she adds, “It’s just a bit weird for me, seeing you do that.”

  “Weird, for you?” Taking great care, he pencils in his lips, feels the slick stuff spread its colour. He watches himself in his phone but sees over its edge that he’s caught the eye of a man a few seats over. For a moment, he feels the power of feminine performance, the ability to draw attention through the simplest of acts. This guy is already sat with a girl; she’s pretty, peach-coloured lips and gauzy white top: but his eyes are fixed on Alex. When Alex catches him out, the guy grins, shrugs and returns his attention to the girl in front of him.

  Alex purses his lips together. “You’re joking, right?”

  Sophie swirls her drink as she thinks. She takes a sip, and shrugs. “Obviously, it’s weirder for you. I get that. But for a moment there, I don’t know, watching you? You did good work; you had a good teacher. It kinda felt like I had a sister, okay? And—that felt good.”

  “Is that what this is? You always wanted a sister?”

  She ughs. “God, no. Can you imagine? Fuck, Dad would’ve been even more impossible.”

  Silence, then. Alex feels his father’s absence like a physical hole inside of him, and it hurts, and when she says stuff like that, it fills that absence with pain. They haven’t really spoken about their father since the funeral, only passing comments, generally negative on her part. It annoys him—no, makes him angry—that she seems, if not actually happy, then at least relieved by his passing.

  “Alex—” she begins, but he cuts her off.

  “What were you going to say, earlier?” he asks, his voice quiet. “About Dad? ‘You have no idea,’ you said. Then the phone rang.”

  “No,” she says. “I don’t want to talk about that now, not anymore.”

  He reaches into the handbag and retrieves the photograph. He slides it across the table until it lies halfway between them. “I miss him, Sophie.” Alex looks up to his sister. “Why don’t you?”

  Her features harden. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s pretty obvious how you feel. You’ve never hid it. You resented him. You thought he pyed favourites, hated him for it. Paid for me to go that private school for sixth form. Paid my university tuition. Everything I ever wanted, I got, right?” He shakes his head. “I’m not stupid, Sophie. And it’s not like other people never said anything. You can admit it, you know. You were jealous.”

  She shakes her head slowly, and he thinks it’s in denial but then realises it’s with disbelief. “Jealous?” Her shoulders shake with silent, angry ughter. “Jesus Christ, Alex, you are such a knob sometimes. Jealous? Fuck no. I never wanted to go to some uptight posh school full of aristo twats. And university was never on the cards for me. Chrissake, Alex, I barely scraped fours at GCSE, I wasn’t ever going to uni. Was I jealous? No, Alex, I wasn’t jealous. But I was angry. You have no fucking idea, Alex, what living under a roof with that man was like, as a girl. I loved him, he was our father, but Christ, he was a proper old chauvinist twat, our dad, and you never saw it. How could you when you benefited from it, hell, enjoyed it, even?

  “From the day you were old enough to sit on your own at the table, he shoved Mum to the side and after that, it was always the two ‘men’ at either end of the table, wasn’t it? Every fucking Sunday he was home, it was Mum in the kitchen serving up the roast and Dad and his ‘little man’ ruling the fucking roost. Let me tell you, the patriarchy was alive and well in the Bke household! I couldn’t even get a word in edgewise most days. He’d shush me, literally tell me to shut up because, oh look, Alex has something to say, let him finish! What golden wisdom might drop from the boy’s honeyed lips this time? And didn’t you just love it, and you never fucking shut up after that. I just gave up. Sometimes, I wondered if I just stopped talking completely, never said a word again, how long it’d take before somebody noticed. Believe me, I couldn’t get out of that pce fast enough after I finished school.

  “And the thing is, Dad wasn’t even around half the time! Always traveling for work, yet somehow he fostered this oppressive atmosphere around the house. God, just talking about it, I can feel it again, like the room’s closing in. It sucked, Alex, being a girl in our household, let me tell you. So, was I jealous? No, Alex, I wasn’t jealous. But I resented him, and you, and the fact that he so clearly loved you more simply for being a boy.”

  Alex listens to the whole tirade, his stomach slowly twisting in knots with every word. He doesn’t try to interrupt. When she’s done, he waits to see if she has anything else to add. She doesn’t. Sophie takes a long drink and then brushes herself down, as though flicking away the dust of the past. “You asked,” she says, but for the first time that night, she doesn’t meet his eyes. “And to be honest, I don’t even bme him, that’s the crazy thing. I bme her. Not once, not fucking once did Mum stand up for me, say anything, or voice an opinion contrary to his. Pathetic, weak woman.”

  “You’re wrong,” he says quietly, but with conviction. “And don’t fucking talk that way about Mum.”

  She leans closer. Her index fingers rests over the poroid photograph, covering their father’s face. “Oh, please, do tell.”

  “He always preferred you,” Alex says. “You were always his favourite.” Saying this hurts; he resists the urge to snatch the photograph back from her, and so he hugs himself around the stomach. He feels the firm grip of the girdle there, pulling in his waist, and feels bizarrely reassured by it.

  “Couldn’t you see that? You were the responsible one. ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister,’ ‘Pull yourself up by the bootstraps,’ he’d say, ‘like your sister did.’ You have any idea how often he said that to me? You followed in his footsteps, after all. Left home at nineteen, got a job. You should’ve heard him talking to his mates, how proud he was of you, using the inheritance from Grandad’s death to find your feet in the big city, then working three jobs in London, barely scraping by but by God, you were doing it. Meanwhile, he paid for me to go to that fancy school and resented me for it. Made me soft, he said. Talked down to me for it. What was the good of all that education, what the hell was I going to do with that? Especially with me doing fucking Drama at A-level, English, History, you can just imagine what he thought of that. Forget the fact that I got three As, could’ve gone to Oxford—no, it wasn’t good enough, sixth form, uni, staying on for a Masters, it was all just—deferring my manly responsibility. I was—that time he saw me—” and then he cuts off, hears his father’s voice once again, clear as day: faggot.

  Alex takes a shaky breath and forces a smile. “You were the son he always wanted,” he says. “Not me. I’m a failure.”

  It’s loud in the bar now, and busy. Most of the table are full. Its nearly eight and the setting sun paints the station opposite in crimson fres as it grows darker outside. The first rush of post-work drinkers has moved on, and the next wave’s arriving. It’s Thursday night, and now the women’s outfits sparkle, skin shimmers as Alex looks at them. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to be home and to crawl beneath the duvet and sleep for the next week.

  “I didn’t know that,” Sophie says. “Dad really said those things about me?”

  He nods.

  “You’re not a failure, Alex.” Sophie says. “You’re just… finding yourself.”

  “Yeah? Look at me!” He plucks at the shiny bck blouse he’s wearing, pulls it from where it clings between his fake tits. “Look at what I’ve found. Some man I’ve proven to be.”

  They sit in silence for a bit after that, as the bar grows steadily busier. A waitress passes by and clears their empty gsses and the pte of nachos. He barely remembers eating them. The second bottle of wine’s nearly empty, too. He sighs; so does Sophie; they look at each other and a ghost of a smile flickers across both their faces.

  “So—what are you going to do, little brother?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It depends on you. I went for the interview, like you said. Are you still going to kick me out?”

  Sophie looks pained. “I—have to, Alex. I’m sorry, I am, but—I need that room back, I need the income from the room. Money’s tight. Business has been slow.”

  There’s a look of panic in his eyes, and it tremors his voice. “I can—pay, I’ve got some money, the inheritance—”

  But she’s shaking her head. “I can’t take that money, Alex, you know that. Besides, it wouldn’t st long. A room in a canal-side ft in Islington, ten minute walk from the station, you have any idea what I charge for that?”

  Pale-faced beneath fading makeup, he stares at her. He feels a terrible anxiety bubbling up inside of him. In a moment, she’s going to tell him to go home. He can’t go home. He needs to stay; to stay, he needs an income; and that means a job.

  “What if I took the job?” he blurts out.

  She nearly ughs. “You can’t take that job. Haven’t we been over this? It’s for a girl.”

  “I got through one day. I can survive another.”

  “And the day after that? And the week after that?”

  “Three months,” he said. “I just need to get through the probationary period, right? I can turn down the mentorship program, and with three month’s experience on the CV, my chances of finding the next job goes up, right?”

  “Alex—”

  “I can do this, Soph.” He’s leaning forward now, across the table, face hot and flushed with alcohol, with shame but also with excitement and passion. “I don’t want to—I mean, I do, I want to work, right? Yeah, it’s not ideal, it’s not what I wanted but the pay’s good, and it’s experience, and if I’ve got to—dress—a certain way, well—I might hate it, but isn’t that what being an adult is all about, doing stuff you hate in exchange for stuff you need? I… need this, Soph, but I can’t do it without you. I need a pce to stay and with an income, I can pay rent and… I’ll need your help.”

  Shaking slightly, he pours out the st of the wine, topping up his gss, and hers too, watching his sister’s reaction. He can see she’s mulling it over. Finally, she seems to come to a decision.

  “One month,” she says. “We give it one month. And if this works, if you don’t fuck it up, once you’ve got that first month’s pay under your belt, you find your own pce to live, a ft share of your own.”

  He nods.

  But she’s not done. “You’ve got to go into this with eyes open, Alex. This isn’t a one-day thing. You got through today, great, but you’ll have to do a hell of a lot better if it’s going to be daily. These people will get to know you. They’ll see you every day. And they’ll have expectations, a pce like L&C, they’ve got a very specific kind of girl in mind when they hire a receptionist. You think you can manage that? One day, and you’re already cracking, Alex. Now think, every day for a month, for three months. Makeup, every single morning and throughout the day, you’ll have to keep yourself looking fresh. And shaving! Your face—chest too, I imagine, and legs, armpits too. And you won’t get away with trousers, either. What was the receptionist wearing today? Let me guess: pencil skirt, fitted top? Now imagine yourself wearing the same thing. You okay with that? Skirts and tights, stockings and high heels, accessories, too—earrings, you’ll have to get your ears pierced. Hair and nails as well. And you’ll have to do something about up top, ‘cause those rice-titties aren’t going to cut it, they won’t pass constant inspection, and I hate to say it, but you’ll be inspected, people are going to check you out, Alex.

  “Or rather, Bke. Because for eight hours a day you’ll be her, Alex: Bke Morgan. Eight hours if you’re lucky! If you’re thinking you can just take her off after work, you’re in for a shock. Job like this, there’ll be te nights. Early starts. Don’t forget commute time. And going out, or are you going to spend the next three months running straight home after work? Of course not, you’ll want—maybe have to—join colleagues after work for a drink, isn’t that the whole point? You’ll have to stay in character, and have you even thought about who that character might be? What kind of girl is she, Alex, what’s Bke like? Because the girl I see in front of me right now, she seems pretty miserable. I don’t think she’s got what it takes, she won’t get through her probationary period. Nobody wants a miserable receptionist. Bke needs to smile! And she needs to look good, too. New clothes, new makeup, shoes—and voice; think you can do that, Alex? Because I’ll be honest, little brother: I don’t think you can. I’m not trying to be mean here, just honest. I don’t think you’ve got it in you, I don’t think most men have it in them to do what a woman does, every single day. I give you a week, before you’re on the next coach home.”

  He swallows nervously, and nods, once and jerkily. “I can do it,” he says.

  “Sleep on it,” she says.

  They finish their wine, order another bottle. They talk. Alex can’t remember ever talking to his sister this easily. The wine helps. She asks about Luca, how his family took the news. Fine, Alex answers, they were cool with him coming out. He already knew, of course. Luca was his best friend and told him first, years earlier, when they did Romeo and Juliet together. After all, there were all those kisses, tender first kiss at the Capulet party, then those fleeting teenage balcony farewells, and finally the two lovers’ final passion before Romeo’s exile. Luca said he didn’t feel right kissing him without letting him know first, which confused Alex at the time; what difference did it make, they were acting, right?

  What about you, Alex asks: anyone in your life? Sophie smiles, shrugs, moves the conversation on to different topics. They talk about school, their shared experiences at the local comprehensive before he moved on to St Oswald’s. They talk about back home. They talk about London. They talk about their father, but only briefly; the topic remains raw and uncomfortable.

  Sophie pays the bill. By this time, it’s te and neither fancies catching a night bus, not back to Islington, not dressed as he is, even though she drags him to the women’s toilets, stands guard as he takes a piss and then, rather drunken and giggling, fixes his makeup before they leave. She calls an Uber. The ride home passes in a blur. Smears of lights stain the gss as he rests his forehead against the cool window. He dozes; next thing he knows, his sister’s pulling him from the car. Arm-in-arm, they stagger back to her ft. The moment he’s through the door, he’s tearing at his blouse, at his trousers, yanks the hairclip from his hair and tosses it to one side. Then, he’s in the loo and puking his guts up.

  When he wakes up, he’s face down on his bed, pillow stained with streaks of makeup. He aches, realises he’s still wearing his sister’s bra and the girdle. Alex groans, staggers to his feet and from his room into the bathroom. He struggles out of the undergarments, takes a piss, drinks some water, avoids looking at himself in the mirror. He pulls on a bathrobe and moves into the kitchen to find his sister at the breakfast table, again in her colourful kimono. Sunlight beams in through the windows and he winces. Sophie seems fine, she grins at him over coffee. He ignores her. He finds the women’s jacket he wore yesterday. In the inside pocket, his phone.

  He makes the call. He only speaks for a minute, using Bke’s voice. “Yes,” he says, and soon after, “I’d love to accept your offer, I’d be thrilled to work for Lockwood and Carmichael. I’ll send the paperwork through today. Thank you.”

  He hangs up and without another word or gnce at his sister, returns to his room. He closes the door behind him. His head throbs. He feels like throwing up again. Alex sits at the edge of his bed and holds himself. And then he cries, like a child given a gift they never wanted.

  Author's Notes:

  That st line is adapted from Book 10 of Le Morte D'Arthur, the healing of Sir Urry scene, though it hits hardest in T.H. White's version, The Once and Future King.

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