Secrets

By Susan Heywood

John finds the body of a neighbour who has been murdered. The police detective assigned to the case deduces that John hides a secret - but the detective has secrets of her own.

Part 3 of 25 - Education

“I’ll teach you.” She rose to her feet and walked towards me. Putting her hands on my shoulders and looking down at me, she said, “You, my girl, are quite attractive. With a little work you will be more so.”

I was dumbfounded but managed to find my voice. “Attractive? Me? I don’t think so. I do my best but…”

She interrupted. “You need the right clothes and makeup; appropriate vocabulary and intonation; good posture and body language. Above all, you need loads of confidence,” She ticked them off on her fingers as she listed them; “I can help with all of those although, from where I’m standing, you’re already more than half-way there.”

“B…but, where do I start?”

“What are your plans for this coming weekend?”

“I should visit my parents but I’m not really looking forward to it. I usually go once a month, out of a sense of duty as I said.”

Now what’s she up to?

“It doesn’t sound to me that you really want to go.”

“I don’t,” I admitted.

“Can you postpone your visit?”

“I suppose so, but why?”

She said, “I’ll pick you up on Saturday morning at eight-thirty; wear something casual and easy to change out of; we’ll go to Southampton. There’s the West Quay Shopping Centre, the Malls and The Bargate; we’ll blend in there, it’s sure to be crowded. As I said, you can get lost in a crowd. We’re going to hit the shops, girl, so polish up your credit card.” Then she clicked her fingers. “Oh, just a minute; show me the card.”

Oh shit! She means it! “B...b...but I can’t go out in public, dressed as a woman,” I wailed, hoping that she would relent - but she didn’t.

She said, very firmly, “You will be dressed as a woman because you ARE a woman. Remember, CONFIDENCE.”

It’s like being told off by the head teacher

Then she repeated, more firmly, “Show me your credit card.”

After another abortive attempt to make her change her mind, I caved in, fumbled in John’s wallet for the card and pulled it out.

“Good,” she enthused, after examining it, “and it’s in the name of J E Smith without a title; that’ll serve our purposes. I presume that Jenny is short for Jennifer.”

I nodded.

“And does Jenny Smith have a middle name?”

“Ellen.”

“Very good then, Miss Jennifer Ellen Smith, I’ll see you at eight-thirty on Saturday morning”.

Without giving me any further chance to argue, she gave my hands another little squeeze, smiled and left.

I stood for a moment, shocked. I knew that I ought to have been panicking but, instead felt a little warm and fuzzy.

Why can’t I say “No” when people press me to do things?

After standing for a few minutes, I took the empty cups and plate into the kitchen, and then retired to bed.

~ O ~

I didn’t sleep too well and was convinced that everyone at work noticed. I couldn’t get the planned shopping expedition out of my mind and I’m sure that my work output must have reflected my anxiety. Celia and Jill kept glancing over at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. At least they treated me like a human being, not like some weird alien, as most people seemed to do. I just tried to concentrate on my work, but it was difficult. I was glad when the day ended and I could escape.

I had an appointment at a local hair and beauty salon called, rather imaginatively, The Salon, where I had my hair trimmed. I had no body hair, I never have. No one else saw my unclothed body because I wore a jacket at work — summer or winter. I suffered at school, in a school blazer, but I had a faulty body and I had no choice in how it was put together.

I telephoned my mother and told her I wouldn’t be visiting. “Something’s come up.” We chatted for a few minutes; then I went to bed early. I was exhausted and just crashed.

~ O ~

Saturday dawned overcast; I hoped that it wasn’t a portent of ill fortune. I figured that my police escort should be able to keep me out of situations with which I would be unable to cope.

I showered and moisturised, then the all-important question; what to wear? This was the first time that I’d be going to a shop to purchase clothes. I still had mixed feelings about this shopping trip; part of me was looking forward to it, and part of me was terrified. Oh well; I’d soon know which part won. I needed to wear something casual; easy to change out of and comfortable: maybe a casual skirt and low-heeled shoes. I presumed that I was going to be walking a lot. Eventually I chose an above-the-knee denim skirt and matching jacket, a Chinese blue square-neck top and navy low-heeled wedge slip-ons; then I applied a little makeup.

Jane arrived on time; she stepped forward, smiled and we air-kissed. “Very good and sure to blend in,” she summed up my outfit. “I’m glad you opted for casual and also something easily removed for trying things on. By the way, I presume that those are not your own,” she said, pointing to my breasts.

“Half me and half chicken fillets; that’s what they’re sometimes called in the TG world — transgender; sorry about the jargon.”

“I’m not unfamiliar with that, but do continue.”

I didn’t pick up on the last comment as I was working out in my mind how to explain the breast forms and my own breast growth. “They have a hollow in the back, so that they fit over my own breast development. That outfit looks casual but very smart; I just love the colour of your top, and that bag is so very stylish and such a useful shape. Anyway, do I call you Detective Constable, or what?”

“Today I’m Jane and you’re Jenny, and your comment about my clothes is just the sort of thing one woman might say to another. Anyway, how have you grown some of your own breast tissue?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and cocking her head.

“Err, well since my late teens, my nipples have been more sensitive and my chest has been quite fleshy. I presume that my puberty is late, not that I’m complaining. A couple of years ago I started taking a small dose of hormones I purchased through the Internet,” I answered, in a small voice. “I don’t want to have to deal with facial or body hair or other male characteristics, and I’m hoping that the hormones will prevent them happening.”

“Without prescription?”

“Without prescription,” I admitted, sheepishly.

“Dangerous and reckless are words that spring to mind. Have you seen a doctor to find out why your chest is fleshy?”

“No, I was scared he might want to stop it.”

“How long since you had any kind of medical check-up?”

“I don’t remember ever having one — other than eye tests,” I answered her.

“Didn’t you need one for school?”

“They didn’t ask, so I didn’t remind them. Anyway, a medical examination might have shown up something I didn’t want to know about.”

“What about a sports physical?”

I laughed mirthlessly. “Sports? With my body? No chance! I avoided sport where I could and kept my head down as much as possible so as to try and avoid injury. I didn’t always succeed.”

Jane wore a vest top and jeans, with a zip-front leather jacket. She wore tan low-heeled sandals. On her right shoulder was a tan bucket bag. Nothing in her outfit looked as though it came from any chain store.

I feel positively dowdy; she looks like a supermodel on her day off

She said, “You keep your hair in good condition, and I like what you’ve done with it.”

I responded, smiling. “My hair has always been thick. I’m lucky enough to be able to go without a wig; I simply brush my own hair into a more feminine style. My father keeps telling me to get a proper haircut, by which he probably means a short back and sides. He says my hair is too long but, as I tell him, that’s my business.”

“You’ve either been practicing your voice, mannerisms and vocabulary or it comes very naturally. From what I saw on Thursday evening, there’s not a lot of work required in those departments. You appear to be a natural.”

“This voice and body got me into so much trouble at school; at least now they might come in useful, and I did purchase a voice training course over the Internet. That taught me about vocabulary, intonation, body language and so on — although I probably sound stupid if I forget and use feminine vocabulary and so on with a male identity. I suppose that someone born a genetic girl would have been taught all that by her mother. I’ve also read a lot of stories on the Internet and picked up some hints from them.”

“Don’t assume anything. Many girls are as much in the dark as you are. Julia, at school, wasn’t told about periods and was shocked and frightened when she started bleeding. Her mother either forgot to tell her or couldn’t work out how to explain a basic female bodily function.”

She saw my change of expression and said, “Periods can be painful and messy, and your hormones can send you from euphoria to depression and back again in no time at all.”

“I don’t care about that. If I had a period, then I’d know that I’m probably completely or mostly female.” I grabbed a tissue from my bag; tears weren’t far away.

“Don’t cry; you’ll wreck your makeup.” She put her hand comfortingly on mine until I’d regained my composure. She then did a final check on my appearance and tidied me up a bit. When she was completely satisfied, she asked, “Okay then; have you got everything? Money? Credit card? Keys? Makeup?”

I nodded and we headed for the door. I thought of something. “What do I do if anyone sees me or recognises me? What will they say? What do I say?”

She replied without a moment’s hesitation. “You look like John’s sister, so why shouldn’t she go shopping with a friend? A visiting sister wouldn’t know anyone here, other than John, so if someone speaks to us on the stairs, in the lobby, or anywhere else, just smile slightly but don’t let the smile reach your eyes.”

We met no one as we left the building, but as I stepped out into the crisp morning sunlight, I felt very nervous; this was my first outing in daylight.

Jane led me to a red sports car and opened the passenger door for me. I was taken aback by both the car and her action but said nothing; I didn’t know much about cars but the badges on the front and rear told me that it was a Lexus.

She commented as I sat in the passenger seat, swinging my legs in so that I avoided showing too much leg. “I’m glad to see you get in properly - bum, leg, leg. Mind you, if you did that when dressed as a man, you might look rather silly.”

“That pre-supposes that someone would offer John a lift somewhere. It hasn’t happened yet, and I’m not holding my breath.”

I was pinned to the cream leather seat as we zoomed off towards the motorway. It made my little car look and feel like an empty can on wheels. I composed myself as we headed for Southampton. To make conversation, I said, “This is a lovely car, not at all what I’d expect a detective constable to drive.”

She laughed. “It was love at first sight. As soon as I saw it, I just knew that I had to test-drive it. Within a few minutes I knew that I had to have it. I love driving it and I get envious looks from some of the plods at the station. They go out and climb into various old wrecks and I have this little baby. The roof folds down so it’ll be great in the summer — if we get one.”

I could see from the number plate that the car was first registered this year and thus was virtually new. I wondered how she could afford to insure and maintain it on a police constable’s salary. I didn’t mention it, though, because I just didn’t have the confidence. I’d always opted for the quiet life and just hoped that I wouldn’t get caught up in anything stressful. Maybe I’d taken my father’s words to heart — “The boat is not for rocking.”

I continued with the car theme as I asked, “Are you another of these people who name their cars?” Says me, who has a pet name for most things; my washing machine is called ‘Doris’ and my microwave oven is called ‘Maurice’.

Jane gave me a disparaging look. “Well, for a start, all cars are female; except when they go wrong, when they’re a useless heap of junk. This one’s called ‘Lizzy’, because the last three letters of the registration number are ‘LZY’. I couldn’t pronounce anything foreign, except French. This is Japanese so there’s no hope.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Mais certainement, mademoiselle, Maman et moi, nous sommes Française.”

“Your mother and you are both French?”

“Yes, although Daddy Dearest is English,” she responded, disdainfully.

Curious. The way that she refers to her father doesn’t convey an impression of a loving daughter. Mind you, I’m a fine one to talk

“You seem to be very fit,” I observed.

“I do some cycling, running and swimming in the sports centre, but I like to watch the Tour de France and the Athletics on television. For getting about, I much prefer this little gem. So does your little Italian job have a name?”

I presumed that she had a file on me somewhere; I hoped it didn’t contain anything too embarrassing. Considering that I was dressed as a young woman and headed for a shopping spree, it’s as well I’ve no criminal record.

I confessed. “My little car is called Buttercup.”

“Buttercup?”

“It’s yellow.”

She muttered something that sounded like “sad bitch” and turned her thoughts back to her driving.

We parked at Southampton and sat for a few minutes to let my stomach settle. I felt that the thousands of butterflies which had taken up residence in my stomach were all about to give birth to kittens — well, I’m sure you get the picture.

Oh well, here goes

I nodded that I was ready and we walked into the shopping centre.

Jane quietly commented, “I’m glad to see that you walk more slowly than most men do.” Then she glanced sheepishly at me. “Sorry, that came out all wrong.”

I smiled to placate her; after all, it didn’t sound as though she meant it unkindly. “Do you mind if we just sit for a few minutes while I get my nerves back together?”

We sat on a nearby bench, and she said, also quietly, “I’m glad I didn’t have to run to keep up with you. We’re not running a race; we’re just two girlfriends out for a day’s shopping.”

Girlfriend? What a joke! Friend-who-is-a-girl, maybe. Anyway, she’s probably got a Hooray Henry stashed away somewhere looking after the horses

She led me through the larger stores, and gave me her take on the differences between the way a man and a woman would go shopping. “Take business wear, for example. A man’s choices are quite limited, and he can often get all he needs - suits, shirts, ties, underwear, socks and shoes - from one shop, like John Lewis. For underwear, he can either have Y-fronts, briefs or boxers, and socks, usually black, come in short or long. And the whole process might take an hour or so at most. Exciting or what?”

I reckoned that she might be over-simplifying it, but then I thought of John’s boring and ill-fitting work wear; I nodded and smiled. I wore panties because men’s underwear was so rough and uncomfortable, and suits never fitted, however much I paid or whichever size I purchased. I once had a suit made; a more badly fitting garment would be hard to find.

Jane continued with my education. “A woman goes into all the shops that sell what she wants; she tries some things on and maybe purchases a top here, a skirt or trouser suit there, shoes somewhere else, even a bag or accessories and, perhaps, some jewellery. It can take all day, or even several days, to get it right; you seldom find all you need in one shop. And then she’s got to do the whole thing again and again because no self-respecting woman wears the same outfit two days in a row. And there’s always planning for the future wardrobe so, in the spring, you look for summer styles; if summer, you stock up for autumn and winter. You usually shop from catalogues, don’t you?”

I nodded again.

“It’s easy for men: winter weight suit or summer weight suit. Some don’t even bother to match the seasons. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ian Salisbury has only two or three suits. I’ve no idea what he might wear off-duty and don’t care anyway.”

I thought again of John; two charcoal-grey suits, blue shirts, dark-blue ties, black socks and black shoes. Not that he had any interest in doing anything different. He bought the cheapest he could find; there wasn’t any point in paying more, they still wouldn’t fit. I viewed John as another person, but then I always had done. He was never the real me; just an act that I had to perform in order to get through life.

Jane continued. “Shops rarely sell clothes designed for tall or large women like me; we really struggle to find clothes that don’t look as though they’ve been washed for twenty four hours on the wrong machine cycle. Things are getting better but there’s a long way to go. I’m fortunate in that I can get most of my clothes in London.”

She accurately estimated my height and dress size and continued to describe the hazards of shopping at high street stores, ending with, “The amount of time and money women waste trying to fit into so-called standard-size clothes is amazing. You’d never believe that there could be such a difference between the actual sizes of garments with the same size label, and often in the same shop.”

We’d been walking around for nearly two hours when she suggested that we stop for a drink; I readily agreed, as my feet reminded me I’d been on them a long time. She headed for a busy coffee shop, passing several others. I asked why that particular one.

She replied quietly. “It’s your first time out in public, and this coffee shop is crowded. Nobody will take any notice of you. If we went to an empty one, you might feel on display. How are you coping?”

“Mainly okay, although I’m a little nervous,” I admitted, “but I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m awake. I never, ever thought I’d be doing this and, other than still shaking a little, I feel wonderful, almost as though I’ve finally arrived somewhere.”

“Well you have; it’s called West Quay Shopping Centre,” she laughed. “Seriously though, people aren’t looking at you, unless it’s to see a smart, attractive young woman with gorgeous legs, out for a day’s shopping with a friend. Men usually eye up anything in a skirt as potential arm candy or bed-mate and women naturally appraise other women, to assess the competition and to work out whether or not a particular outfit might look good on them. We usually wear clothes to show ourselves off and to feel good.”

When we’d collected our drinks, Jane pointed to a corner table and said, “Let’s sit over there; we can talk without attracting attention.”

When we were seated, I asked her in a shocked, hushed voice, “Smart and attractive with gorgeous legs?”

“Very true,” she confirmed, smiling conspiratorially. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it; and you, my girl, have definitely got it.”

I was stunned and not a little embarrassed. Jane was unrelenting, though, and continued in the same low tone that she had so far used. “You look good; with very little work, you will look really good. I’m having great difficulty with the idea that this is your first daylight outing. You are, as I said before, a natural.”

My self-esteem had taken quite a battering over the years, but Jane was a police officer, accustomed to noting detail, and commented on all my little feminine touches.

“I’m pleased to see that you smoothed your skirt when you sat down and stood up, and that you kept your legs together when you sat.”

“I learned that a long time ago and do it at home,” I said.

She continued. “You have to grasp several things very quickly in order to convince everyone else that you are not only a woman but a very attractive and confident one. The most important person to be convinced is you. You must believe in yourself; you must be utterly confident about yourself, such that you have no doubt that you are a woman and that you just don’t even think about it. That will take time but you’ll get there in the end. Other people will take their cue from you. If you look, move and talk like a woman, and relate to other people as a woman would, then they will treat you as such in return. You’d be amazed at how much a “Please”, “Thank You” and a smile can achieve. From what I’ve seen so far, you’re nearly there. The DUCK TEST is often regarded as a humorous term, but it goes something like this; ‘If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck.’ ”

I nodded.

She said, “You should just try to look and sound right. Once you’ve achieved that, there is very little else to do. Clothes, makeup, vocabulary and body language must be appropriate; the aim being to encourage others to deal with you as you desire. Basically, that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s fine as far as it goes,” I complained, “but this is my first time out in daylight. I feel very self-conscious.”

“I understand, Jenny,” she soothed. “I said that I would help you, and I will: you can’t expect to unlearn twenty years of male upbringing in five minutes - although I don’t think that you were ever completely a man.”

“No, not really,” I admitted. “I got into a lot of trouble simply for trying to survive my childhood.”

She gave me some more pointers to the differences between men and women and then said, “I get the impression that a lot of it seems to come naturally to you. What about in the office? How do you relate to your colleagues?”

“Perhaps I do come across as unconventional. I don’t make sexist remarks and the other women don’t clam up when I’m around. The blokes only speak to me when they want something, and everyone probably assumes that I’m gay. I’ve nothing against gay men but I know that I’m not one and insist that I’m not. At least my colleagues don’t seem to regard me as a threat.” I laughed, “Perhaps I sometimes forget that I’m supposed to act the male in the office.”

“I notice you said, “Other women.” That would be picked up straight away by some of your work colleagues.”

“Oops! It looks like I’ll have to be more careful what I say.”

When we’d replaced the crockery on the tray, she said, “Right then; toilet break. Remember, a sensible girl goes when she can - and don’t forget to use the Ladies room.”

I was horrified. “I can’t use the Ladies room,” I wailed, “I’m…”

“Keep your voice down!” Jane whispered, forcefully, and then continued, quietly, “You are a shy young woman who needs to go to the toilet. You certainly can’t go to the Gents toilet wearing those clothes; it would cause a riot and I’d have to arrest you.”

That broke the tension; I smiled and then relaxed a little.

“When you go in, just walk purposefully into an available stall, shut the door and lock it. Don’t forget to sit, and don’t forget to wipe afterwards; women usually wipe front to back. When you come out, wash your hands and check your makeup. When you leave the toilet, we go power shopping.”

I protested. “I’ve always sat down in a toilet, at school, at work and at home. I’m not very well endowed, thank God. If I stood to pee, I’d only spray all over the place, and most would go down my leg. The ‘peeing up the wall’ contest at school was a disaster, and I got teased something rotten in the showers after the obligatory sport. I once mentioned the problem at home and was just told that I’d grow out of it. I kept quiet after that. As a young child, when I was taken into a toilet by my father, and had to stand next to him to pee, I was so embarrassed as it all sprayed down my leg. I got told off for making a mess. Most of the time I couldn’t go anyway. When I was older, I always used a cubicle if there was one that wasn’t flooded, hadn’t been vandalised, and the lock worked. I just told my father that I needed to go. I always carried a supply of toilet tissue against the possibility of having to use a public convenience that was lacking in supplies or the seat or floor was wet.”

“That’s odd, I mean about the spraying bit; you’ve not seen a doctor about it?”

“No; as I said, I was always frightened that someone would want to fix it. I don’t want it fixed — well, not like that anyway.”

Jane glanced at me as we got up. “What do your parents think now?”

“Don’t be silly! I couldn’t talk to them about it.”

“Don’t they know?”

I rolled my eyes. “I hope not. My father would go berserk if he thought there was anything else wrong with me. I’ve enough trouble with him as it is.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’s obsessed with my “meeting the right girl, settling down and producing more grandchildren”, so there won’t be any support there either.”

When we were outside, and were out of earshot of others, I commented about the toilet and how much cleaner it was than most of the men’s rooms I’d had to use in the past.

“Quite right too, although the ones in shopping centres are usually cleaned regularly. Men often go in, point Percy in the general direction of the porcelain, piss and walk out. Sometimes it goes on the floor. Many toilets, as you’ve found, don’t have any paper or running water or the cubicle locks don’t work. Some people don’t bother to wash their hands even when there is soap and water - yuck! When you go to a pub or restaurant, don’t even think of eating the nibbles on the bar; you just never know what’s been in the bowl.

“Our loos and our coffee shops are our refuge when this shopping gets too much. And don’t forget; shopping is looking, purchasing involves parting with cash or a credit card. The two activities aren’t the same and don’t always happen at the same time.”

Me? Go to a pub? Not likely

I was wrong. Being wrong was going to become a habit.

End of Part 3