Read Act One

Aside from a gentle breeze causing the woodlands to sway, the evening feels calm and composed. The night is much more at ease than the hustle and bustle of Café Guru, that is for certain. Perhaps I shouldn’t be walking through these parts as darkness falls over the evening. While it certainly isn’t the latest strolls I’ve made through this neck of the woods, there’s been a handful of early-evening attacks in recent weeks to keep the community on high alert. Be as that may, the urge to extend my commute home has taken hold.

Much like Café Guru, this wonderland of grass and garden once served as another haven for Nat and me. After our initial discomfort had fizzled amidst the warmth of our pigeon chitchat, I opted to show off more of the borough to Nat. Growing up, I’d never much cared for West London. All that traffic and noise. I often dreamed of remaining up north after graduating from Uni. Give me a jovial Mancunian any day of the week. Nat’s arrival sparked something new inside me, however. Knowing of her humble routes from a teeny Bristolian village, I wanted to show off all the endless assortment of amenities available on my doorstep.  

London, the place to be, became my mind’s mantra.

“It’s super liberal about these parts,” I chirped, acting like a pre-schooler itching to explain the concept of our capital to an exchange student. 

Of all the varying types of Sainsbury’s, Top Shops and second hand DVD stores we marched past, it was the silent simplicity of the woodlands that charmed her during that debut visit. Whenever the sun shone and the rain retreated from that day forth, Nat would propose trips out to feed the ducks.

Fresh air and cardio often made for some of our more intimate of conversations. All the excess oxygen thumping around our bodies triggered something in the brain. Tales of trauma and sharing of stories became synonymous with our parkland walks. Recounts on how we’d lost our virginity, the first time we’d experimented with gender presentation, not to mention our early experiences with drugs dominated our discussions.

It was during such walks when she first opened up about her strained relationship with her mum. She was forced to come out to her at an early age. Her dad had caught her ordering female attire on his Amazon account. At that stage, dad had not long moved out, deciding to try his luck with a woman almost half his age. The dumb fool had left his details saved on the family computer. Assuming he’d never bother to check or report back, young Nat got a few items of clothing sent to her address. Immediately suspicious of the fabrics presenting themselves in his purchase history, her dad asked Nat’s mother whether she’d made some accidental purchases under the wrong profile. Amid the drama, Nat folded and told her mum the whole truth about what she was going through.  

Nat’s mum didn’t cast her from the family home, as she’d feared. Instead, mum denied the whole affair. The whole trans malarkey was a great big heap of horse plop, in mum’s opinion. Her darling son couldn’t have possibly been trans. Good heavens no. He  had just been getting poisonous ideas from the websites he’d had been visiting. At least that’s how mum saw it.  Nat didn’t the support she needed. A six month ban from the family computer was put in place, with threats of an extension, should the disapproving purchasing continue.  

She came out to her mum half a dozen times in the years since. All attempts were met with similar levels of denial. Even when she started coming home in skater dresses and fish nets, mum just got mad.  

“Stop fishing for attention. You’re an adult. Start acting like one!”  

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes as she recounted the nonchalant denial her mum had exhibited over the years. Her voice quivered when revealing how the denial turned to frustration, then anger, as the gender dysphoria Natalie was experiencing grew in intensity. With dad now gone and mum on the offence, home-life had become a battlefield.  

I asked Natalie about her social circle, during our walk. How had they reacted? Was there a stream of support flowing from that direction? Did they provide her with any sort of haven? Despite her openness when it came to family affairs, she remained silent when I enquired about friendship. Instead, she shifted the subject, asking what restaurant I fancied trying out that evening. Respecting her wishes, I took flight down her conversational tangent, suggesting a few all you can eat buffet joints I’d had my eye on. 

* 

Monotonous thuds pulse through the windows of Priority Fitness. Pungent chlorine wafts out from the building’s air vents. The smell climbs up my nostrils, triggering my hippocampus and whisking me back to one’s days as a paid-up member.

Deciding to strike up a membership was more of an impulse than a thought-out decision. My work experience placement had fallen apart, only for me to find myself skipping from office to office, pretending to be more competent than I actually was. All the dreams I’d spent my university days believing to be fate were turning to dust, destined for an alternative timeline far removed from the one I live in. The studio placement was meant to be my first step. Soon enough, I’d be the cool, loveable producer I figured I’d grow into. All it would take was a few years on shit pay, making coffees for stuck up conservative presenters, then I’d be in the big time.  

The work placement stuck. The people were lovely, and the presenters I worked around were far from the right-wing plankton I expected. I couldn’t stomach the gruelling commute, measly pay or intense expectation. Dealing with shoddy living standards whilst attempting to navigate the murky minefields of gender reassignment we’re much too stressful. I threw the towel, got a dull as dirt office job, and turned my life into a simplistic hell scape.  

Feeling like a failure who’d ditched her dreams for a salary, I found myself in a nightmare of mundanity. At the peak of my misery, i happened to be strolling past Priority Fitness. The sight of slim lads and toned ladies sparked something within. Perhaps from the ashes of disappointment, a glorious new phoenix of opportunity could rise up. I could outrun my anxieties on a treadmill. I could slim myself up, turning myself into one of those hyper fit trans girls you see on Instagram. You know the sort, 100,000 followers and a shit load of partnerships with dodgy health teas. I might not be the big hotshot with a selection of BBC One dramas under my belt, but I could turn myself into a social media hotshot.  

Without giving myself chance to climb down from such frenzied thoughts, I marched on in and made myself a member.  

Two chaps stroll past. Their mixture of deodorant and cologne elicits a lustful buzz I’d rather not be feeling at this moment in my life. One is tall, handsome, shaven head chap whom I recall from my membership days. From time-to-time, I’d peak over at him, fantasising about the pair of us being an item. As he rummages through his backpack, looking for his fob, he continues harping on to his less good-looking gym buddy about a collective of pesky new set of speed cameras littering his route to work. His less handsome mate scoffs and tuts, accusing the Met of stealing from the innocent.   

I catch sight of a young, blond girl in the studio window on the second floor. Though I cannot hear her, on the count of being outside, not to mention the repetitive baseline that I imagine is originating from that very room, it is clear she is shouting words of encouragement to whatever workout class she is leading. I can practically smell the freshly bleached floor, as though I was up there myself. Classes became a bi-weekly routine for me after I convinced Nat to join. 

Once the housemate honeymoon had settled settled, depression clasped its claws around Nat. She had not spoken with her mum since moving down the previous year, and it was tearing her apart.  

Still disapproving of her transition, Nat was convinced the two of them would never see eye-to-eye.  

Some days, she was fine with this fact. 

“Screw that uneducated bigot,” she sang after a few too many glasses of wine one evening, “you don’t chose family, so why should I care where her gloopy mind thinks of me.”  

Other days, she lay in bed, sobbing herself back to sleep. Mum saw her as a failure. Never would she look at her daughter and feel pride or love. She knew it didn’t matter, not technically, but it didn’t mean she stopped caring.  

Then she found out about her mum’s new boyfriend.  

Nat found out about Darren from a cousins she occasional chatted with over Facebook. Darren was a right proper liberal, apparently. His Facebook page was packed full of Martin Luther King quotes, petitions to sack ableist news presenters and deliver justice to various victims of racist officers. One post even linked an article about a trans activist he was in awe of.  

Hoping her new boyfriend’s world views may reshape some outlooks by osmosis, Nat text her mum. 

Hey mum, how’s life? Heard about Darren. Happy for ya. Get in touch if you fancy a coffee x

Her mum didn’t respond.

The depression took hold shortly thereafter. Her mum’s behaviour used to be considered something to flee from. When getting away was the motive, it gave her something to work toward. Now that the dynamic had changed, drive had been replaced by desire. Nat had found solitude in the form of independence, and now she wanted acceptance. When her mum refused her such a desire, she turned on herself.

“We need to find you a distraction,” I suggested on one particularly difficult afternoon. “Something healthy to keep you busy.”

Considering it had worked wonders on my own soul, joining the gym was my suggestion.

While she’d been jumping from job to job like a kangaroo on a hot bed of coal, Nat’s assortment of transient incomes gave her enough spare cash to splash out on a six-month contract. Aside from her reservations about my so called miracle cure, she got herself a fob and a locked herself in for half a year.

Early sessions together were relatively standard. We’d pop on in after our respective clock-outs, do 40-minutes or so, then toddle on off for a takeaway or quick tea.  

It was Nat’s idea to join a spin class.  

I was perfectly content charging up the stair master or chugging away on a treadmill. As the daily dose of endorphins became a high she didn’t want to outrun, Nat had grander plans. 

“worth a shot,” she suggested, “plus it’ll snatch us out our comfort zones.” 

Session one was a nightmare in the form of a bike ride. My thighs throbbed, by pores perspired, and my lungs laboured. I despised every second on that damned bike. I could feel my body breaking apart beneath me. A reminder how unfit the flesh and blood piloting my mind was. 

My distain softened a few sessions in. The post-workout relief far outweighed the mid-workout exhaustion. Hobbling to Nat’s car after sixty minutes of burnout was a thrill of achievement. I could pretend to feel my body getting fitter with every steps. My muscles tightening as every second ticked to the next. Who knows where we’d be if we kept it up. Toned and adored by any lucky fool who had the fortune to cross out paths. That sense of invincibility was what all the huffing and the heaving were four. We tortured ourselves, so we could feel unstoppable, even in the shadow of  all the troubles and failures populating our life story up until that point.  

Spin became a ritual of ours. Every Monday and Wednesday, we would turn up to spin without so much as a reminder needed. Loyal regulars, the pair of us were. Instructor Becky grew so thankful of our dedication to her sessions, she let us contribute to the workout playlist, provided she felt our choices were within reasons. 

“If it flows, it goes,” we would sing.  

“I’m gonna get them to play The Birthday Massacre!” 

“Don’t,” I begged, embarrassed other class members may judge us for our alternative workout beats. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. Plus like you say, not enough people we know listen to ‘em. Let’s promote the goods! 

Despite my self-conscious protests, the familiar electronic chimes of Midnight echoed out from the studio speakers. To my relief, the room did not appear all that bemused. The class beavered on forth, riding to the rhythm.  

I peaked over at Nat. She peaked on back. He skin glistened thanks to the bed of sweat covering it. She grinned her sharpest smile as she caught my glance, flashing her trade mark wink to cap it off with.  

Becky’s bi-weekly bike rides still remain a mixture of the Priority Fitness timetables. At least they are if their Facebook page is anything to go by. Not that I’d know from first had experience anymore. I highly doubt Becky would even remember me if she say me today. At best, I’d be a ghost to her, though more than likely, I’d just be another face in the crowd.   

The thudding beats and sting of chlorine fades into the distance as I carry on into the night. The memories of Nat and Becky and the Birthday Massacre fading with each step I take.  

* 

The weather is fast turning sour. Light grey clouds darken in tone as the sunlight travels further west. My senses prickle as whispers of a storm brew in the skies above. The sooner I’m home, the better. I make for a sneaky shortcut, through Park Hill. I found it by accident, back in the days when I’d go on mini adventures and seek out new homes to fantasise about someday living in. Park Hill contains some of the snazziest properties these parts have to offer. Who could blame me for taking a peep or two; pondering what life might feel like if I had the good fortune to own one of them. 

Gazing into the spacious abodes is forever a sure-fire way to bring calm to my soul. After a particularly stressful day at the office, down I’d potter for a good old daydream. Sometimes I even like to conjure up images of what good fortune may lead me to afford such comfort. Perhaps some swanky new job would fall into my lap. Never mind the fact I can barely cope with the stresses my low-level administrative duties, in this parallel realm, I was the master of my own story; meeting deadlines and bringing home killer bonuses like you wouldn’t believe. Who knows, perhaps some hidden talent would burst forth in the deepest depths of my cortex, rewriting circumstance and whisking me away in a future of financial fortune. Perhaps I’d read enough books, listen to enough TED talks, or catch sight of a game-changing idea hiding in the darkest corners of my imagination. Who knows, maybe several years from now, I might be on TV, sharing my wisdom with Graham Norton on his fame-soaked sofa.  

Fanciful thought-trains of this nature have been chugging around inside my being for much of my adult life. I’d often shared them with Nat, particularly during the days when I was much too excited to keep them all to myself. At first, she would nod politely, perhaps barely listening to the thought vomits I was spewing in her direction. She’d nod and smile as she fought to hold back the yawns. Even when her ice glazed over like windscreens on a damp morning, never once did she challenge my endorphin-soaked flights of fancy. Maybe she knew doing so would bring no good to our friendship, or the world at large.

Her aloof stance would not last forever. With time, she started entertaining similar daydreams of her own. She’d sketch out landscapes for our potential garden. She even took interest in what we could do with all the spare rooms.  No longer was it simply my fanciful future, it was ours.

“You could turn one of them onto a gym,” she suggested during one of our communal afternoon gym sessions.  

Though I can’t recall when exactly, she got into the habit of inserting herself into these habitual fantasies It wasn’t just my future home, but ours. 

“We could get one of the ones which has the garages underneath.” 

“Maybe we could try get one of the ones surrounded by treats, will give us some privacy.” 

“If we got dogs, they’d love to run around the land!” 

As if by osmosis, Nat also discovered a comfort thinking about hitting the career jackpot herself.  

A year after moving in, the pair of us decided to book a cottage in the Brecon Beacons. During one particularly warm evening, the pair of us sat out on the oak balcony, broadcasting our thoughts as we gazed out at golden sun setting before us, musing over future ambitions.

“Do you ever regret it?” I asked.  

“Regret what?” A crinkled frown formed across her forehead as she strained to suss my words.  

“Giving up on your dreams.” 

I felt myself sinking into a pit of sadness as I said it. At this stage, graduation was seven years behind us. The days of telling ourselves to work hard and crystallise those wealthy visions were nothing more than faded dreams. They weren’t so much an ambition, but more a comfort to distract ourselves from the disappointments of our present.

At least that’s how I saw it.

“Who needs dreams when I’ve got ambitions,” she scoffed, seemingly incapable of feeling even the tiniest yank of remorse tugging at my heart. 

“If I’m still in HR in 40 years time, I’ve failed myself,” I confessed.

The shock hit me the moment I said it; as if I was hearing it uttered from the mouth of another.

Much like the sadness, my horror did not pass on to Nat.   

“It’s alright,” she smiled, resting her hand on my forearm, “when I get my fortune, we’ll get a house on Park Hill. Then you can resign.” 

As fanciful as they were, her words warmed me. For all my negativity, I remained a part of her ambitions. Even in fame and fortune, she’d still make room for me.

The icy bite of the evening air of the night sinks its teeth into my skin. My nerves have frozen and my fingers are numb. Lights glow and twinkle in the heated homes on Park Hill. I can see the dancing explosion of colours broadcasting from a cinema-sized television, nestled inside one of the spacious living rooms. I wonder about the people living within those walls. What are their stories? Are they aware of the fortunate brought about by their materialistic spoils? Perhaps they are the children of lawyers, former graduates who turned their dreams into ambitions, or entrepreneurs who built empires out of gambles.  

Had they ever sat on balconies and confessed their fears. 

In one of the homes, I catch sight of a young woman loading laundry into a dryer. For a moment, I pretend the woman is Nat. For the briefest of points, the comforting warmth of that evening in the Brecon Beacons returns to me.  

Had they ever sat on balconies and promised their best friend the world. 

*  

The cold and callous beast of a night dances ever closer on the horizon of the evening. I pick up the pace as I approach the tatty doorway belonging to my flat. The paintwork is cracked and jaded. Its once fresh paintwork has faded thanks to the rough weather and passage of time. Nat was the last person to have tended to its care. The light grey it once was bothered her more than it should have. She suggested a darker colour would make it more modern. I’m not sure how you make the entrance to a hundred-year-old building modern. Then again, I felt no need to argue with her.  

Boredom had presumably been playing havoc on her psyche, thanks to the fact she was no longer pre-occupying it with a day job. She’d walked away from it a couple of weeks prior. As lockdowns lifted and folks started to reacclimatize to some form of normality, she had decided returning to the office was now beneath her.  

“I feel liberated,” she insisted, “I’m sick of making money for toxic assholes too lazy or stupid to do the grafting themselves.”  

I’d like to say I admired her bravery. After a decade of clinging to a job I feared, terrified of the consequences of walking away from what I knew, surely her angered defiance would inspire me. I didn’t, of course. Instead, I felt something else toward her. Something unpleasant. Something I could not quite put my finger on at the time.

Maintaining a job for a prolonged period of time was something Nat struggled to do from the moment she’d moved down. I suspected the failure to realise her novel-writing ambitions played a part in this. University had carpet bombed the ambitions that towered high throughout her teens and childhood. Amidst the rubble of her literature goals, a itchy footed hopelessness loitered. 

Of all the jobs that had come and gone over the years, the one she walked away from prior to her door painting request was the one that bothered me the most. It was her sixth job since moving to the city. Various attempts to make a money working in bars, restaurants, cinemas and retail outlets failed to capture her imagination. Then, she reached out to the card company, and everything changed.

While not exactly a golden ticket to the sort of life we often dreamt about having on Park Hill, this particular gig sparked a fire from within her. Long before her days of wanting to be the next Jane Austen or Virginia Wolf, Nat loved to draw. She was good at it too. Her teachers forever heaped praise in art class. Some even suggested that with practice she might even make a bit of money out of it, some day. Mum disagreed, of course.  

“Drawing won’t get you into a good university!”  

So instead Nat turned her focused toward Science, Math and English. The last of these three was the one that dominated her time for the rest of her educational career. Even mum got on bored with it, convinced her daughter’s new found hobby held more potential than her doodles.   

“I’d love to, but I’m not sure,” she sighed after stumbling across the position.  

“Go on,” I begged, “I’ve seen the scribbles you make in that notepad. Mock them up in adobe and do them a send.” 

After sitting on it for a few days, she followed my advice. Two days later, they called her in for an interview. A week after, the job was hers.  

The following couple of months where the happiest I’d ever seen her. She would arrive home on the regular, donning the biggest smile on her face. Her cheeks would glow with pride, like a talented school kid who couldn’t believe her luck. Out from her backpack she would pull a wad of sample drafts printed onto cheap paper. I’d flick through her newest collection each evening, picking out my favourites and asking how she’d reached the finish design. There were tap-dancing frogs, pugs gorging on cakes, hamsters breakdancing with buggies, and all sorts of mad imaginings.  

A cute and energetic persona was bursting forth from the shy, awkward girl who’d stumbled into Cafe Guru, all those years prior. The job satisfaction cultivated a sense of self I never know was possible within her.  

Over a takeout one night, the topic of our hypothetical podcast reared it’s head, once again. I gathered she’d been thinking about it a bit more in recent months. The tatty pink notepad she used to bring to our post-movie coffee chat kept popping up in different areas of the flat. Maxim and Marvel, she’d scribbled onto the front of it. I felt so fuzzy seeing it. Knowing my words rubbed off on her made me feel so important. Similar to her parroting my house owning dreams, I suppose.  

“Maybe I could design a website for it,” she suggested, “I could even draw cartoon versions of ourselves. Help promote our brand.” 

I nodded along, joyous at the thought of us building a creative empire together. Witnessing this new job fill her with such passion inspired me somewhat. With a vast body of literature teaming within the email exchanges and coffee shop notes, we had enough ammo in our arsenal. 

As her ballooning confidence refused to deflate nor burst, talk of utilising her artistic talents to conjure up a fortune worked their way back into regular conversation. Work had been placing her on training course after training course, hoping to further cultivate those Adobe skills she was picking up like a pro. Discussions of making her a team leader became common mutters amongst the various team meetings. The big kids saw potential in her and were willing to chuck down a ladder for her to climb. 

Not that it mattered to Nat. She had bigger plans. Plans involver her and her alone. When the time was right, the plan was to jump ship and set up her own company. A competitor would spring from within, like a Trojan horse readying to declare war from within their own walls.  

“I’ll set up my own company and watch them bicker as I flee with their clientele.” 

“You sure that’s how you want to play this out?” I asked over a pot of tea on evening. 

“Yes.” came her response. She was set in her ways.  

I sensed something was amiss long before she’d fled the company. She’d arrive home from the office and retreat to her room.

“Everything good?” I’d ask whenever passing her room. 

“Busy,” was her frequent response.

Threats of a looming pandemic started to circulate on the news channels. Shops were likely to shut, apparently. During a brief exchange, Nat confessed that head office were on edge about what this might mean for the organisation. Even if people carried on celebrating birthdays behind closed doors, chances are they may think twice about buying a card for their loved ones. All those germs, festering in a gift too few cherished these days.  

Laying off folk soon became the dish of the day. First there was Sandra and her catalogue of daft cactuses. Next they sent Pete and his potty-mouthed innuendos. The gang were dropping like flies. While the MD assured her she was safe, she found herself taking on Sandra and Pete’s remaining workload. Even the continued promise of a promotion failed to calm her frustrations. The big kids were assholes, and the more tasks they popped in front of her, the more she fell out of love with the place.  

“I’m better than this!” she hissed one evening, “I have every right to walk on out there and let them topple.” 

“Absolute scumbags,” I agreed.

I often think Nat’s departure from the card company was set in stone from the moment Sandra and Pete were sent away. Part of me never really thought she’d jump, despite all that talk of frothing up her talents and turning on the company who saw talent within her. We’d always talked about rising up and taking on the world. Buying mansions, making podcasts, and reviewing films were just part of what made us a pair of big dreamers. We were frustrated, naïve and lonely souls. I figured we’d be venting frustrations and dreaming of better worlds for the rest of her days. We we sad but comfortable. In my eyes, that’s all we needed to exist on this earth.

Turns out, Nat had other ideas.

I press my head against the cracked surfaces of the withered doorframe. A whiff of dried paint causes my sinuses to tingle. It reminds me of her. Reminds me of the labour she invested into sprucing up this panel of wood.

I used to think she was painting it as a means of distraction. From my perspective, she had nothing left. Just a lack of direction and a need to silence the thoughts.

Turns out, she was building an empire.

Go to Act Three