Chapter Three: One in Three5:30 a.m. and Aqua informs him life’s fantastic, Sophie’s idea of a joke.

  Alex fumbles for his phone and kills the arm. He hides for several long minutes under the duvet. Eventually, he groans, summons the willpower to leave the comfort of his bed. It’s still dark, and the ft is quiet. Clutching his phone in one hand, scratching his balls with the other, he stumbles to the bathroom. Lights flicker to life overhead. He leans heavily on the sink and stares blearily into the mirror. Thursday, he tells himself.

  He sighs, reaches for the cheap, wide-toothed pstic comb. His hair curls in beneath his chin, styled in a bob cut that frames his face. Fifty quid it cost him, then more for the dye job that turned mousy brown to deep bck. His roots are already starting to show. Sharp strokes clear overnight tangles. Then, he steps into the shower. He twists the dial over to hot. Hanging his head, the hot water courses over his lean frame. He rexes, takes a piss. Wrinkles his nose at the smell of st night’s food returning on him, the asparagus velouté at Margot in Covent Garden. Mid-week hump, Amber said st night, let’s treat ourselves, we deserve it, girl. Her smile sparkled, beautiful and impossible to refuse. His cock twitches, thinking of her. He’s not really in the mood but jerks off anyway. Most mornings, he has a wank in the shower. Normally, it doesn’t take very long, he wakes with morning wood and his spank-bank’s pretty full, he doesn’t have to reach far for inspiration. This morning, it takes a bit more effort than usual. He’s tired, got home too te, went to bed even ter by the time he cleaned his face and brushed out his hair. He’s close to giving up when he gnces down, and the sight of his cock between glossy pink nails makes him think of Amber’s hand and her slender fingers, and that sees him through to a shuddering release.

  Afterward, he reaches for the shampoo bottle, pink with a promise of thicker hair wrapped in grapefruit scent, followed by conditioner, then a moisturizing body wash, shea butter and vanil. There’s a mirror in the shower, which he uses to shave his face. He used to shave maybe once a week. Now, it’s another daily task. Then he checks his legs, armpits, and chest, grimaces, thers, switches razors, and shaves those, too.

  Out of the shower, he pats himself dry, then another bottle, this one peach-coloured, a scented body lotion he rubs into damp skin. He pays special attention to dry patches on his chest. His legs gleam afterwards, long and slender. It still takes him aback, his denuded body, the difference it makes. Now at the sink, he wipes the mirror clear of fog and stares into himself. He takes a deep breath. You’ve got this, he tells himself. You got through yesterday. You’ll get through today. And you’ll get through tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

  He checks the time. He’s doing okay, despite the longer-than-usual shower. First, he checks his armpits. He did fine, no nicks this time, missed hairs, nothing ingrown. He rolls on antiperspirant. Then he washes his face again, an unscented cleanser this time and follows with a spsh of cold water. Tweezers make quick work of a few unruly eyebrow hairs. He fres his nostrils, plucks a few of those too, wincing. He gives his damp hair a quick, vigorous brushing, then pats his face dry, wraps himself in a towel, and quietly pads back to his room.

  It’s still dark and quiet, just gone six, the sky outside the window bruised in shades of mauve and indigo. Sophie won’t stir for at least another hour, probably two. He’ll be long gone by then. He shuts the door to his room and crosses to the vanity in the corner. These days, his room’s a study in contrasts. Faded jeans, an oversized hoodie, and a pale blue work shirt wait alongside shiny blouses, pencil skirts, and a single dress, crammed into a closet whose doors won’t quite close anymore. Dresser drawers overflow with pin boxers and cotton socks, next to a tangle of tights, M&S multipack knickers, and a jumble of colourful bras: pin turquoise, cy bck, demi-cup peach with a satin sheen. Last night’s low-heeled pumps sit alongside mud-stained trainers.

  Sweeping a pair of ddered tights from a stool, he sits at the table and starts. He props his ‘Alex’ phone by the mirror. His ‘Bke’ phone is there already, and he queues up a TikTok video he bookmarked st week. The young woman’s chatter on repeat cheerfully guides him. There’s also a sheet of A5 he’s affixed to the mirror with Blu Tack, a step-by-step makeup sequence Alex wrote out after a few hours’ online research. He half-wonders if any real girl goes through this much effort in the morning. Then again, he’s not a girl. He’s got each stage mostly memorized by this point, but still.

  He dabs a little cream beneath the eyes, then primes. Dark brown pencil to fill in sparse eyebrows, spoolie to brush them out. Now, he gnces over at the video. Soft beige base, switch brush, brown in the crease, blend. He’s been doing this daily for weeks now but still hesitates. A darker brown now, applied to the outer corner. Yes. He considers a little gold shimmer over the lid. Last time he tried, he messed it up, had to start over. Fuck it, he’s still running a little ahead this morning, he decides to go for it. He gets it right. Alex grins. He likes how it brightens his eyes. He’s tempted to try the purple and berry tones in his palette. The tutorials say they’ll bring out the green in his eyes, make the hazel pop. But he’s not brave enough, worries it won’t look professional. Save the colour for a night out. Eyeliner next. This part he hates. Every time, he’s convinced he’ll poke his eye out. With nervous short strokes, he draws in the upper sh. Then, he gives it a little flick at the corners. He’s not brave enough to attempt a full wing yet. But still, not bad. Mascara next. That’s easy. He crimps his eyeshes with a curler, then two coats in bck: done. Amber keeps pushing him to try false shes, but he’s resisted so far. Somehow, that feels a step too far. He tilts his head, checks his work in the mirror. The pretty eyes of a girl peer out from the face of a young man.

  He doesn’t stop; he can’t stop, or he might give up. He swipes a little peach colour corrector over his beard area—Sophie ughed at him the first time, what beard? she said—blends it in and lets it set before reaching for foundation. He pumps a bit onto the back of his hand, dabs dots across his face, spreads it with a sponge, with care over the previous yer. Discolorations disappear: a small patch of rosacea, the pale scar near his temple. There’s a new pimple blossoming at the corner of his mouth. He’s tired, and it shows. Imperfections like these, he never used to notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care. Whatever; now, fws demand erasure. And so, concealer next, a little under the eyes, gently tapping, a bit more along his jaw. He’d found these stages the hardest when he first started practicing in that hectic week before starting the new job. At first, far too much, a heavy, greasy-feeling mask. Wrong shade, too: he looked orange, then pale, or his neck and face didn’t match. He didn’t blend properly. Creases and cracks appeared. He forgot to set. Sophie helped. But mostly, he taught himself.

  Now, he sees the unblemished canvas of his face and already, the boy’s fading, the girl rising to the surface. A little bronzer brings her into sharper definition as he sweeps the brush across high cheekbones, his jawline, a touch at the temple. It makes him think of an archaeologist sweeping away detritus to uncover hidden treasure. Next, he unscrews a little pot, taps his finger in, smiles, applies a little blush, blending it upwards towards his temples. He used to put on way too much. Now, it looks far more natural. His fingers alight on a little pstic box of highlighter—he pulls them back. Last time he tried, his cheeks ended up way too shiny, like he was sweating. Not a great look. St. Cir hadn’t been impressed, commenting archly on appropriate times and pces.

  He turns first right, then left in the mirror, checks the results of his bour. Not bad. Good even. He fancies he can still see the boy beneath the makeup, but only because he wants to see him. It’s a lot of work but at the same time, he thinks: is that all it takes? No: there’s clothes, still, and underwear, shoes, hair and accessories, his nails, a whole routine to bring out Bke. But he sees her already in the mirror, soft-skinned and pretty. He spritzes himself with a setting spray and gives it a moment. He’ll do his lips ter, after breakfast. But he can’t deny, he’s come a long way from that first week, when Sophie surprised him with a makeup kit from Boots. Get practicing, she said; and he did. Most girls start wearing makeup around thirteen; he read that on Reddit, so it must be true. Maybe he hadn’t quite caught up on a decade’s practice in a single short month, but he’d done alright.

  To which he thinks, great. Well, they say London changes a man, and it certainly changed him. Anyways, next step: clothes. He usually tries to have the day’s outfit sorted the night before, to ease the morning’s cognitive load, but he got in too te st night. Now it’s Thursday, and everybody knows Thursday’s the new Friday, and that means grabbing a few drinks after work, and Amber’s already extracted a promise from him, don’t leave me hanging, she said, she can’t bear the thought of being the only woman—the only girl, rather—out tonight, not with those neeks from IT tagging along, a few junior associates, probably a dy or two from HR, even though he knows she’ll probably disappear with Jacob after the first round and Alex will be left to fend for himself, as those asshole associates circle, eyes on the new girl, chum in the water. Probably Amber’s pn, even, she’s been pushing him to go on a date. Christ, that’s the st thing he needs. In any case, he needs something he can wear all day, night too, fine for the office that he can tweak to wear out afterwards.

  No fucking skirts, no fucking dresses, he insisted before the interview. That edict didn’t st for long. He spends more time in skirts than trousers these days. He digs the brown check miniskirt from John Lewis out of the closet. It’s the one Sophie wanted him to wear that first day. As with so many things, she gets her way. But she was right, he looks great in it. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a pair of bck tights, pauses, digs deeper and pulls another pair, stored in a soft linen bag. This pair’s his favourite—not that he’d admit that to Sophie—a pair of Wolford tights, a gift from his sister. He’ll swap into them tonight, when they go out. But not for the trip into work. He did that once, ddered them and just like that, out thirty quid, a fact that still baffles him, that something so ephemeral can cost so much. From the closet, he grabs a fitted button-back blouse with mesh sleeves and a high-necked top. It’s silky and shiny and bck, with a row of frills down the front. There’s a mesh sweetheart panel that’ll hint at the bra beneath. So: the padded bra, then—the red one, full coverage with the floral ce—also his favourite, though he can’t quite say why. For some reason, this one just sits more comfortably, the straps dig less into his shoulders; maybe that’s it.

  Met Office says it’s going to be another hot, bright day, another record-breaking summer, just like st year and the year before that. He envies the fact his female colleagues—Amber, the few female associates, the dies in HR, even Ms. St-Cir—can get away with something a little lighter, a plunging neckline or bared shoulders. Anything to cool down in this weather. But he can’t, he needs the shapewear, and he’s got to draw attention away from his shoulders. He’s getting used to guys staring at his illusion of tits, but they remain just that, fake: no cleavage baring tops for him. Why can’t it be winter, Alex thinks. It’d be so much easier.

  He ys the clothes out on his bed. Strip off his boxers and considers the final and most important step. The girdle would do the job, but he’s not strapping himself into that fucking thing all day. The waist-cincher might work, nip in the waist rather than pad out the hips. Still bloody uncomfortable, but at least he can take a piss without rearranging everything. But the skirt’s short, only falls to mid-thigh, and tight-fitting, too. Pop a boner, game over. He’s gotten away with tights over knickers in looser clothing before, but that’s not going to cut it today. It’s tempting to swap to a floating dress, something A-line that might conceal his ck of curves, but he doesn’t really have anything suitable for a night out. Besides, his legs are his best feature, even Amber said that.

  So he eyes the spool of surgical tape sitting on his dresser, groans, decides against it. Gaff, then, another ‘gift’ from Sophie. He lies back on the bed and pulls the garment halfway up his legs. Then, he gently pushes his testicles up into the inguinal canal, taking care with his longer nails not to hurt himself. God, he hates this. So uncomfortable it makes his stomach squirm. It took several tries and a lot of online research to get it right. He’s done it often enough now to do it without hesitation, but still. He hates it. And he knows it’ll be a real pain tonight, after a few drinks, when he needs to take a piss every fifteen minutes and he’ll have to go through the same faff in the custrophobic confines of a fucking stall in the woman’s loo at some glitzy City bar. But the alternative isn’t worth considering, not after he’s gotten this far. He’s had a few near-calls already, when the taping slipped, or the gaff’s compression wasn’t enough on its own, or he risked something more comfortable and paid the price. He feels himself grow hot beneath his makeup just thinking of it. Christ, if someone caught him—if St-Cir or Amber caught him—or worse, one of the guys in the office—he’d just die.

  The garment’s bck, with a little ce along the edges and a high-waisted ce panel for his tummy. It’s also a thong. He’d never worn a thong before all this started. He remembers Sophie’s smirk, when she first gave him the underwear. It’ll give you a little wiggle when you walk, remind you of what you’re doing. Like he needs a reminder, he grumbles, tugging the gaff into position. He feels the compression as he stands, passes the palm of his hand over his smooth front. Shit, perfectly girl-like, and already he feels the first twinge in his balls which he knows will grow to a dull throb, and eventually pain, before he lets his bits loose ter today and resets.

  Shaking his head, he pulls on the tights, cool against recently denuded legs, then he steps into the skirt and slides it up over his hips. With a little snick, he tugs the hidden zipper at the side up his slender frame and feels the skirt draw tight across his bum and thighs. He pauses to check his silhouette in the mirror, twisting a little, sweeping one hand over his crotch. Nothing there and his legs look fantastic, sleek and smooth in bck. Then he smooths the skirt down over his bum. The way the inner lining slides against bum cheeks left bare—other than the tights—by the thong feels uniquely feminine, whatever that means. It sends a shiver down his spine, nonetheless. But he can’t deny his ass looks great in this skirt.

  Feeling a twinge in his balls, he buries the thought. Now the bra, and it’s much easier now, he doesn’t have to do it up front and twist it around anymore. The only difficulty comes from fiddling with the catch with long nails. From the top of the wardrobe, he takes a pair of silicon breasts. Chicken cutlets, Sophia called them when she gifted them to him. A pair of breasts, high-quality gaff, a makeup kit and overpriced tights: his girl-life starter pack, she called it. Now he picks up the cool silicon teats, applies adhesive to the back of both, and slips them into the bra. He shivers at their touch, but they warm quickly. For the few minutes it takes the adhesive to set, he holds them firmly in pce. His image in the mirror mocks him, his hands on some girl’s tits. God, he hates these things, too. Most days, he doesn’t bother and the padded bra’s enough on its own, and he’s still got those rice-filled stockings. But he’s going out tonight. An inadvertent touch, attentive male eyes, a visit to the loo in company of girls; safer to make sure he fills those cups properly.

  Finally, he shrugs into the button-back blouse, struggling with the row of tiny faux-pearl buttons at his neck. If Sophie was awake, he’d ask for her help. Probably she’d ugh, make some snide remark as she helped. Maybe it’s best she’s still in bed. The shirt is tight and leaves his back bare between bra line and colr. It’s a paradox of feminine fashion, he’s found, that he can be fully dressed and yet still feel exposed.

  Fully dressed, he takes a moment to assess himself in the mirror. He sees a young woman there, professional, a bit prim and proper, maybe, but also more than a little sexy. Her shiny bck top cuts close to her slim frame, pushed out enticingly by full tits, and loose mesh sleeves veil slender arms beneath. A tight miniskirt hugs her hips, ending at mid-thigh and from there, sleek legs sheathed in bck. She’s got great legs. Her eyes are—beautiful, wide and expressive—framed by bck bangs, and her face, soft and meticulously made up; this girl clearly takes care in her appearance. Only her lips want for a little colour.

  Alex sighs. Nearly done. He brushes out his hair with swift confident strokes. It’s a simple enough style, he thinks, thank fuck, though it’s more than he’s ever dealt with. A few minutes with the hair dryer, then a little product, and a few minutes more in the mirror, poking a few stray hairs into pce. He considers a brown hairband, gnaws on his lower lip, decides against it. There’s a little jewellery box on the vanity, washed out grey recimed wood, with tiny drawers and a lid. He digs through it and settles on a pair of mid-sized hoops. Even he accepted he wasn’t going to get away with clip-ons, and the same day he accepted the job, Sophie booked him in for a salon visit, and now his ears are pierced, he’s got two holes in each lobe, glittery stud in the upper, whatever he wears for the day in the lower. It’s one of those things he worries about, especially on weekends when he’s back to presenting as a man. Does anyone notice the piercing holes? Then again, who would? It’s not like he’s got any friends in London, ‘Bke’ has more friends than he does.

  He tilts his head, threads the hoop through the lower piercing, and again the other ear, feels their weight as a still-unfamiliar tug, and in some ways, this simple action feels the most feminine of everything he does. Finally, he slips a bracelet over his right wrist, a silver ring on his left hand, the slim woman’s watch too, and adds a neckce. A small, blue gss ball trapped in silver filigree nestles between the curve of his breasts. It once belonged to his mum.

  By this time the first ruby rays of sunrise slice the far walls of the ft, ncing between slits in the vertical blinds. It’s nearly seven. Alex makes himself a cup of breakfast tea, strong with a spsh of oatmilk. In the fridge, there’s a tall protein shake waiting for him, courtesy of his sister, made the night before, as usual. Sophie started him on a diet the day after he accepted the job. Hypocritical bitch, he thinks, she seems to take special pleasure in stuffing her gob with fatty food in front of him. Yet he can’t deny he packed on weight over those first three months in London, too much beer, crisps and junk food scoffed down whilst endlessly scrolling angry Youtube videos justifying his failures. But the proof’s in the pudding—or ck thereof—a gnce at his narrowed waist and slimming belly evidence enough the liquid breakfasts are working. Shoulders and arms, too. It’s only been a month, and he feels lighter—which is good—but also weaker, which isn’t.

  And yet, he has to stay slim. Officially, his workpce couldn’t comment on his weight; unofficially, St. Cir made it clear he wouldn’t make his probationary period without maintaining a certain appropriate, client-facing appearance. Besides, keeping slim made sense, financially: he fits into Sophie’s old clothes. They certainly don’t fit her anymore. But he hates it, the calorie counting, the constant watching-what-he-eats. And he’s not convinced he’s actually taking in that much fewer calories. Less solid food, certainly. But his new social life involves a hell of a lot more drinking.

  He carries his breakfast and tea over to the little table by the balcony doors looking out over the canal. The light outside has softened to turquoise hues, and the first yellows glimmers across the pcid surface of the canal. A few runners are already out. Alex drinks his tea. These are his favourite five minutes of the day. The world is quiet, and he can believe that this is the life he yearned for, that of the young professional enjoying a cup of tea in their central London ft before heading into the city for the day. Breakfast goes down thickly: oatmilk and banana, yogurt and fxseed, some kind of protein powder his sister mixes in. The taste’s not too bad, but he hates the texture.

  He looks out over narrow boats and early pedestrians caught in the first light of the new day and clings to the transient calm the tea brings. But all too soon, the tea’s done. Breakfast too, and he sighs and stands, the illusion of a perfect life broken. His skirt draws tightly across his thighs, silicon breasts sit heavily in their cups, hair tickles cheek and neck, and there’s a dance of earrings with every move; an ever-present cling of floral scent; and the fsh of pink nails against white porcein mug. He’s reminded: no, this isn’t the dream; and femininity is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

  Alex is still hungry. He’s always hungry these days, used to it now and there’s a Graze bar waiting for him in his desk at work. He checks his handbag. Office ID badge and nyard. His Bke phone, pink which he tucks into its inner pocket. Keys to Sophie’s ft. Slim wallet, bck with pink trim, though there’s not much in there, a loyalty card for Waterstones, punch card for the sandwich shop around the corner, his driver’s license with his name Alexander Bke tucked beneath it. Fake driver’s license with her name, Bke Morgan’ s name; Sophie got it for him somehow, he has no idea how. Small moleskin notebook, pale pink. Two Muji gel pens, one bck, one red. Dog-eared copy of Intermezzo in paperback, he’s about halfway done reading it. Bluetooth headphones. Rollon deodorant. Makeup bag, the same one Sophie gave him that first day and in it, an array of vials, tubes, brushes, pencils and pens, powder. Small, square compact mirror. Colpsible hairbrush. Bottle of Nivea hand cream, and another bottle of hand sanitizer. A few Compeed psters. Rumpled ball of a thin bck cardigan. There’s an emergency pair of cheap M&S tights in there already, to which he adds the small linen bag with the Wolford pair for ter tonight. In a separate, smaller bag, a little surgical tape and skin-sensitive adhesive, just in case. Nail file, and a little matchbook of safety pins, with some thread. In another inner pocket, a few tampons he’ll never need, alongside a box of Ibuprofen he’ll definitely need, and two condoms, which he’ll can’t imagine needing, not dressed like this. Spare pair of crumpled panties. Beneath it all, his old phone, his Alex phone, set to silent and buried at the bottom of the bag.

  His water bottle’s waiting on the drying rack by the sink. He fills it with water from the Brita, wipes it dry. He checks the fridge. Every morning, he wishes he’d had the time or energy to prepare lunch the night before, save some cash, and today like most other days he’ll have to grab a takeaway lunch from somewhere. But there’s an apple, so he grabs that and closes the fridge. He adds the water bottle and apple to the bag, hefts it with one arm. Christ. It’s a heavy burden, this bag, but he can’t think of anything he’d leave out and lighten the load. He misses the days he’d head out with a knapsack over one shoulder with nothing more in it than a novel, a notebook and pen, and a water bottle.

  Leaving the handbag by the front door, he heads to the bathroom. The two minutes it takes to brush his teeth is an invitation to hunt for fws in the mirror. Alex finds himself torn between morbid curiosity and horrified denial in the examination of his own face. There’s a girl in the mirror—a little overly made-up for his tastes, maybe—but she’s pretty with beautiful eyes, and that girl is him. He spits and, shaking his head, returns to his room. Final touches. He settles at the vanity and does his lips. A swipe of lip balm, then a neutral lipstick, and he follows with a bit of plumping gloss. Alex feels the tingle, purses his lips, pouts, forces a smile for the mirror. He still can’t get over the difference a bit of colour to his lips can make. Without the lipstick and gloss, he imagines he can still glimpse a bit of his old self, embodied by colourless, dry male lips. But like this, plump and shiny and pink, the illusion feels complete. Briefly, he loses himself in a study of his own lips. Even to his own eyes, the appear very kissable, full and soft. Maybe instead of his legs, these are his best feature? He gnces down at his legs, sleek in tights, knees pressed together in his miniskirt and skewed to one side as he sits on the stool. It’s a tough call; both lips and legs look undeniable, attractively feminine. Hairs on the back of his neck rise, like goosebumps, as he studies himself in the mirror.

  It’s the click of his nails against the tabletop surface that snaps him out of it. He checks his nails. This was a step he resisted, vehemently, but of course Sophie got her way. A passing comment by Ms. St-Cir convinced him, too. The next day, high quality falsies, pale ovals that still sort of freak him out and he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to them. Sophie and the internet taught him how apply them—it took some practice before he got it right—and now it’s part of his Sunday night ritual: wiping his natural nails clean with alcohol, filing them smooth, scoring the surface before applying the glue and then the patient press of the false nail at the tip of each finger. They st the week if he’s careful. He’s learned to paint them, too, make sure they coordinate with whatever he’s wearing. Which they don’t; he sighs, searches amongst the countertop and finds a colour to match his lips. He’ll take care of it at work.

  Friday night they come off. Usually, and it’s a fucking relief when they do. That first week wearing them, he snagged and ruined three pairs of tights—fortunately, cheaper ones—swearing loudly each time before learning to take greater care. Of all the overt manifestations of his enforced femininity, he perhaps hates his nails most of all. He hates the way longer nails force him to flutter his fingers, the awkward grip of a pen, the challenge of typing, the care they insist he takes with every motion. He’s constantly aware of the fsh of colour at the edge of his vision, or the risk of a chip in the varnish, or worse, catching and tearing one off. Every time he sees his fred fingers and those pearly, pink ovals, he feels himself a right fairy.

  Finally done, he stands, looks at himself in the full-length mirror, brushes himself down, gives his makeup a final check, pauses. Alex slides his hand down the front of his skirt and feels only smoothness. His fingers pluck at the hem, gives a hopeless little tug. He then pokes at his hair, brushes a bang to one side. He’s staring at his reflection, looking for something. Whatever it is, it’s not there. Then he leaves his room. A moment ter he returns and grabs the chocote brown hairband, slips it on. Muttering under his breath, he leaves his room again. He returns a second ter, cursing. He snatches a photograph from the vanity, the Poroid of his father.

  From the living room, he grabs the slender shoulder bag with his ptop in it. To this, he adds the handbag’s familiar weight. He slides the photo into the inside pocket. Then he slips on a pair of ballet fts and leaves home before he changes his mind, turns around, and climbs back into bed.

  Every day, he forgets something. Yesterday, it was his lip balm. The day before that, breast adhesive, and when those bastards slipped halfway through the day, he nearly shat himself with anxiety. Another day, it was his entire makeup bag. Amber nearly pissed herself ughing at his panic, covering for him as he dashed to Superdrug for some emergency sp. Today, it’s his sunnies, and he curses as the sun lifts over the edge of buildings and blinds him.

  But it’s otherwise a pleasant enough walk up the canal towpath, past the drooping willow branches, watching the coots as they dip and dive along the water. He passes several long narrow boats. There’s a bright green and blue one, the Happy Days. Every morning, smoke puffs from its stained metal chimney and there’s a smell of freshly brewed coffee. An older man in a bathrobe sits at the prow, sipping from a dinged metal mug, and nods as Alex walks past. Alex inclines his head in return with a smile. Light sparks on the water.

  It’s good the sun’s up. He’s walked the path a few times at night, coming home te. As a girl, that is; he did it plenty of times as a guy without thinking anything of it. First time he walked at night in a skirt, he was a little drunk and didn’t think anything of it, either. But not the second. That night, a few ds, pissed after a few at the pub, coming down from the Earl or one of the other pubs or bars up top, they saw him as some pretty young thing walking on her own and called out, rude comments to which Alex had no idea how to respond. They approached, a trio of dark silhouettes against the purple of the evening, and—he ran, fts spping against the path, then the stone stairs leading up from the canal, the ughter of the men following him, heart pounding, chest straining against shapewear, legs trapped in the confines of a long skirt. He hasn’t walked the canal path in the dark since.

  But it’s not dark now, and though there’s the promise of heat in the air, for now it’s cool in the shade of the canal, the air refreshing against his back. Alex enjoys the walk, to a degree. But he can’t help but experience it in a feminine mode, not with the breeze whispering against his legs, and the thong riding up his ass with every step, and the feel and taste of still-fresh makeup on his face. Every sensory impression is a reminder of this role he’s chosen. The skirt especially annoys him. It restricts his stride. He wishes it had a little more give, or a vent that allowed for faster walking. He feels it with each step. Still, he grudgingly accepts it effectively reinforces the illusion of girlishness.

  And yet, he enjoys this stretch of the canal, and perhaps being forced to walk it slowly has its benefits. It’s quiet down here, especially at this time of the day, nearby sounds of the city a muted roar beyond the upper lip of old stone wall. Alex imagines the past, sturdy workhorses towing long, low-hulled boats burdened with coal along the water. He imagines the strong men who dug these channels out by hand, the brickyers who built the walls, the engineers who designed the locks, the builders who put them in pce; all men, strong men carving order through the chaos of a growing city. They’re the ones who built London, not—

  A jogger passes from behind, surprising him, phone strapped to her wrist, airpods, tight grey athletic wear and bared toned midriff, ponytail jouncing with each step. He admires her firm ass as she retreats in the distance. Soon after, another runner comes his way, this time from the front, male, bearded, bright shorts, hairy legs, loose t-shirt dark with sweat in a V, and this man openly enjoys his view of Alex: his gaze dances hair-eyes-tits-legs, and he grins as he passes, closer than necessary, nearly pushing him to the wall.

  Wanker, Alex thinks, but refrains from calling out, as his sister would have. At the tunnel, he climbs the cycle ramp up to street level emerging, blinking, from the retive cool of the water’s edge into Islington. He cuts through the Gardens, checking out the row of terraced homes, each one worth millions. Stepping onto the main road, the quiet of his walk falls away and he’s back in it now, even this early in the morning, another London day.

  At Angel Tube station, he retrieves his phone from his handbag as he approaches the turnstile, taps with the unconscious ease of a daily commuter, and passes through and onto the longest escator on the Underground. During the minute-and-a-half-descent, he digs out his earphones, starts up an audiobook. Given the choice, he’d listen to music: Portishead, Massive Attack, Tricky; Radiohead feels appropriate to his mood. Instead, he listens to Why Has Nobody Told Me This Before? Sophie’s filled his phone with a selection of Audiobooks she thinks will help. This one’s soothing, at least, the woman’s voice an antidote to the grinding noise of the Northern Line. And he can’t deny he needs the help with keeping motivated, breaking free of unhealthy rumination, and keeping positive.

  The station isn’t very busy, not this early in the morning, though there’s a steady flow of people into the station. It’s why he heads into work this early; or at least, it’s one of the reasons. He could leave ter. He’d love an extra thirty minutes of sleep. But the difference between a 7:30am and 8am commute is stark. This way, he’s all but guaranteed a seat on the train. He won’t be pressed up against anyone.

  There have been te night trips home on crowded Tube trains. Those were bad enough as a guy, when iry men stinking of booze swore and shouted, or someone puked by the exit. It was worse as a girl: an unwanted hand at a thigh, or on your ass; the awful feeling of someone pressed up against you from behind and breathing deeply, nose buried in your hair. There was one morning, early on, when he left te and the train was so busy, he found himself sandwiched in the press of people. Most passengers had the middle-distance stare of true Londoners. But there’d been one older man in a fine suit who simply stared hungrily into his face the whole time and licked his lips in a way that made Alex’s stomach churn. At the next stop, in the swell of passengers disembarking and crowding on, he suddenly found the edge of a briefcase slipped up beneath his skirt. It pressed into his crotch, a sharp corner rubbing him through compression fabric. He tried to dismiss it as an accident. The next morning, the same crowds and crush of people. No briefcase, this time. He stared stony-faced into the middle-distance. Gradually, he noticed the smirks, wide-eyed gnces, and frowns—all directed at him. The train jerked and screeched around a corner. He stumbled, held upright by the press of people and then felt the hand surreptitiously grope the padding of an unfeeling tit. He froze, red-faced, and didn’t know what to do. Another rough squeeze—the anonymous pervert disappeared at the next stop. Feeling hot and sick, he stumbled from the train and had to sit down at a ptform bench as the uncaring crowds flowed by, clutching his stomach, until the trembling eased. He told Sophie that evening; she looked sympathetic but raised three fingers. One in three, she said. That’s how many women experience sexual harassment on the Tube. Welcome to the other side, little brother.

  Now he makes it a point of getting up earlier and avoiding the crowds. The ptform’s busy, Northern Line smell, but the wait short. Small, steel-grey mice scurry along the tracks. They’ve adapted to the dark tunnels of the Underground, bristly fur the colour of soot and metal dust. Life, he thinks every time he sees the little critters, infinitely adaptable given enough incentives. Then the train arrives with a grind of wheels and a rush of wind that pulls at his skirt, fluttering the ruffles of his top, and he sees himself reflected in the passing fsh of slowing windows, like a stuttering image captured in a Victorian zoetrope, a pretty young woman tucking hair behind her ear.

  It’s a short trip, one stop to King’s Cross, change to the Piccadilly Line, two stops to Holborn. Too quick, really, he wishes for a bit more time to sit and zone out to the soothing sounds of his audiobook. It’s during the morning commute that he misses the more rexed pace of back home most. London feels relentless at times. There’s an energy to that, it’s exciting but still—he's been up for two hours already, yet the day has barely started. Alex wishes he could close his eyes and power nap his way to work. But no, he shuffles onto the train and finds a seat near the middle of the carriage. But he’s barely sat down before he’s up and back out, joining the flow of people in their trudging walk to the Piccadilly Line.

  It’s busier now. The ptform’s nearly full in the narrow pce between wall and track. As always, idiots refuse to move down the ptform. He sidles past, for all appearances just another young woman jostling for space among rger men with legs spread wide around their briefcases, ciming their territory. Alex stands, arms cradled around his handbag, between a lean man in his thirties in a suit, and a younger man in paint-spattered denim overalls, rge duffle bag distended by tools at his feet. It’s the man in the suit that smiles, eyes lingering over Alex’s breasts. Alex rolls his eyes, shifts away. The train pulls in, the doors opening directly in front of him. The man in the suit pushes forward, shoving him out of the way. Twat, Alex thinks. The other man, the one with the tools, shrugs apologetically, stands to one side and allows Alex to board first. Alex smiles appreciatively, but today he’s not getting a seat. Instead, he hovers by the door, gring daggers at the asshole who shoved his way onto the train. The man sits, legs spread wide, briefcase between his knees, eyes fixed on his phone.

  But it’s only two stops. Alex’s eyes slide across the other passengers, picking out the young women—like him—makeup already shining with heat. The train’s hot. The air conditioning’s not working, again. Not for the first time, he wishes he’d forgone tights and waited until he reached the office. He sees blonde hair, light summer dresses in powdery pink, buttery yellow, mint green. Bare arms and shoulders, short skirts, light fabrics. Apparently, nature-inspired tones like teal and chocote brown are ‘in’. Amber leaves him fashion magazines to read during downtimes at the reception desk at L&M. His face feels hot, his top beginning to stick beneath his breasts, and he feels the first beads of sweat gather at the high-waisted band of the gaff.

  Russell Square, and a few passengers disembark, though not many. Enough for him to nab a seat, even if only for a single stop. He sits with his hands beneath his thighs, self-conscious of their size and he tries to keep them as hidden as possible. The four-colour Piccadilly moquette makes a vivid contrast with his beige skirt, a pattern of blue-green, yellow-orange squares, emergent complexity from abstract simplicity. Across from him sits a young woman. He’s seen her a few times, every other day maybe, she follows a routine that bisects his. Today, she’s wearing vivid red trousers and a white top with a plunging neckline. He looks at her, and she looks back, raising an eyebrow, smiling very slightly with vague recognition. She’s very pretty. Her lips are thin and very red, above a small, pointed chin. A stud glints at her nostril, her left eye half-hidden behind a curl of strawberry blonde hair.

  Alex wishes he could get to know her better. He’d ask her to join him for coffee. There’s a little coffee shop on the walk to work, nestled at the end of an alley behind Holborn station. Two attractive girls sat on high stools over cappuccino, nails fshing against porcein white, white-teeth fshing between crimson glossed lips; and then—what?

  But his stop isn’t her stop, and he knows he’s unlikely to ever speak to this woman. For some reason, this morning, this upsets him. The audiobook burbles in his ear, something about identifying feelings, expanding his vocabury of emotions. And he realises he’s not upset, but rather frustrated, which he feels as a prickle at the nape of his neck; and ashamed, a twist in his belly; but also turned-on, a throb in his groin.

  Holborn. He stands. The girl smiles at him, makes a silent little half-handed wave glimpsed between a teenage boy in ripped jeans and hoodie, and a rge, older woman with hair greying at the temples. On the ptform, he watches the young woman through the window. Oblivious to his gaze, she reaches into her handbag and retrieves a novel and thumbs it open as the train accelerates. He wonders what she’s reading. Then she’s gone.

  The sun’s higher in the sky when he emerges blinking at street level. It’s warmer than when he went underground at Angel, but the air still feels cool and refreshing after the stifling heat of the Tube. He stands with the crowd, he’s part of it, feeling open and exposed.

  Rumble of traffic, murmuration of the busy London day as the crowd congregates at the junction. And then, like blood cells from a fresh wound, they flow freely at the change of light: into the big Sainsbury’s at the corner, finding readymade breakfast and lunch; quick stops into Superdrug for makeup or sedatives to self-soothe the day, and down the side-roads and winding alleys, A40 capilries threading through the capital. This is when it hits him, the uncanny sense of living a life not quite his own. Alex watches the ebb and flow of people as they emerge from underground, gather, cross and repeat. He waits for someone to see through the illusion of heavy makeup under the bright gre of day and call him out, to cry, look, look, that girl’s really a boy! But nobody does, nobody ever notices, or cares. The warming air stirs and breathes against his thighs, the back of his knee. He stands with his back to Costa Pronto, holding his handbag by the handle with both hands, and shivers. This is what I wanted. Maybe not like this, not exactly like this, but this is what I wanted: to step into the light of day and feel the living pulse of the city pass through me. He feels proud to stand there, knowing he’s making it. Yet he is also unhappy.

  No. The audiobook has moved on to the subject of grief and how to manage it, but with his eyes on the busy streets, the press of people, the muted din of traffic and the dappled dance of morning light through the canopy of trees lining the road, he doesn’t hear it. Instead, he thinks about the audiobook’s earlier lesson on precision of nguage, the specificity of emotions. So no, he’s not unhappy. There’s an element of the anger and depression he felt in the month before his sister convinced him to begin this insane charade; and those emotions themselves were an echo of a year earlier.

  He removes his earbuds; the sounds of the city return. As he walks, he mulls it over. Often, some swell of emotions overwhelms him during the day. This morning, it’s hit him earlier than usual. Shaking it off, he begins the short walk to the offices of Lockwood & Carmichael.

  Checking the thin watch at his wrist, he decides he’s running early enough to indulge in a coffee. He stops at a little café he likes. He orders an Americano with milk. There’s a seat at the window and he grabs it. After staring out the window for a minute, he digs out his Alex phone. He starts with Reddit, flicks through for a bit, then spends a few minutes reading r/NoStupidQuestions, some girl wondering whether she should question her sexuality after TikTok told her she was bisexual. He reads an article in the Guardian about the ongoing trade wars. He reads a review of Light No Fire. Then he checks in on Luca, finds a picture of him standing on a beach in Cornwall, arms around the waist of some guy. They’re both ripped, skin gilded by the sun and sand. His friend looks happy. Good, Alex thinks.

  Dropping his phone back in his bag, he hesitates, then retrieves the photo of his dad. He stares at it for some time, revisiting details he’s examined a hundred times before. Silently sipping his coffee, he hears his father’s voice: Alex, it’s not what you think. Alex, it’s time you bloody well grow up. Be a man, Alex. You’re too soft. Bloody hell, Alex, why can’t you be more like your sister?

  Alex slips the photograph back into his bag.

  He resumes staring out the window, across the narrow ne and wooden boxes pnted with sturdy greenery. A few pedestrians walk swiftly past: teenaged boy in baggy jeans, middle-aged woman in a vest with tattooed arms, a few guys his age in suits, a girl with short hair and a short skirt, legs bare and bright in the sun. The earlier fantasy, the one in which he sits with the woman from the train, returns to him. This is the café he imagines taking her. An irresistible little smile tugs at his lips. His fantasy is one half soft-lesbian porn to heterosexual desire; he wants her as a man but imagines the soft touches and shining lips of two women sitting closely together over coffee on a sunny Thursday morning. Sleek thighs, side-by-side. The swell of full breasts, nearly touching as they lean in close. The feel of her fingers against his arm, and whispered words. He wants to hear her accent, watch her speak and see the dart of a pink tongue across bright teeth. She’ll smell faintly of gorse and share with him an intimate secret she’s kept close to her heart her whole life.

  His crotch throbs. Fucking gaff, but the compression does its job, nothing disturbs the smooth front of his skirt as he sips at his coffee and squirms in discomfort. Focusing on those earlier sensations again, he tries to identify the precise emotions that seized him stepping out of the station. Overwhelmed, he decides, but also excited, the first felt as a tension across his shoulders, the other a prickling of sweat at the nape of his neck. Vulnerable, a shiver down his spine, but also eager: a flutter in his belly. He shakes his head, staring into his drink.

  He finishes the coffee and knows he’ll regret it in an hour, when he’ll need a piss and goes through the faff of re-tucking, this time in the confines of the too-small dies’ bathroom at work. Hopping down from the tall stool, he pays and returns to the busy street. It’s just gone eight o’clock, and even if his job doesn’t officially start until nine, unofficially it’s a good idea to arrive early. Amber pokes fun at him for it, but she got a proper work contract and everything, and Alex is only one month into a three-month probation. He’s going to beat this job, but Christ, he didn’t expect it to be such hard work. The job on its own’s enough, without the daily challenge of passing as ‘Bke’.

  The main office of Lockwood and Carmichael lies down a narrow side street in Holborn, quiet in that surprising city way considering how close they sit to the main road. The tall narrow buildings here are limestone yellow stone, pre-Victorian and speak of old money, ancient trade and Empire, stained brown with age and centuries of chimney smokes. Walking these alleys, Alex imagines Gothic fog curling sickly wet fingers along ancient brick, the cane-tap of shadowy figures walking wreathed in fog, the cry of orphan thieves.

  A small bronze pque with engraved lettering, mounted to one side of a heavy wooden door, reads Lockwood and Carmichael. There’s a blue pque mounted on the building opposite, the home to some politician over a century ago. He stands there and breathes in deeply. One more day. I’ve got this, he tells himself. Back straight, shoulders back.

  Alex taps his nyard and steps through. The heavy wooden door closes behind him.

  Author's Notes:

  You'll probably notice it's all narrative prose, without any dialogue. My writing is normally very dialogue-driven; I find dialogue the easiest to write, often, and worry I artifically pad out the length of some scenes through dialogue. I set myself the challenge of writing a long chapter that relied entirely on narrative, without any dialogue. For this, I took my inspiration from an early chapter in Sally Rooney's Beautiful World, Where Are You? The idea was to write a single 'day in the life' of Alex-as-Bke, in all its tedious and minute detail, though hopefully without being tedious to read. I'm not usually a fan of ultra-detailed makeup and dressing scenes. It's been done often, and often better. But it seemed appropriate here, especially as it'll be referenced in a future chapter. However, the chapter grew unwieldy long as a consequence. Intended as a single chapter, this is only the first half of Alex's day with the rest coming in chapter four.

  Does it work? Or is it dreadfully dull? Comments and feedback always appreciated. Oh, and if you enjoyed it, you can support more of this kind of writing over at patreon.com/fakeminsk. Or not! Your choice, really. Still, thank you for reading!