THE PROMISE

The Boy stood at the edge of the grave and watched as the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. He shuddered at the thought of his mother – such a free spirit in life - cocooned inside that box. He shifted his thoughts to happier times. Those long summer afternoons after he’d come home from school and they’d go out into the New Forest where they lived. She was an artist and she’d loved to paint portraits – not of people, but of each of the trees in the wood – each day a different tree. He’d inherited her talent, as well as her looks. He’d make his way silently to where the wild forest ponies would most often gather and then take out his sketchbook and pencil and draw them. He remembered when he was younger he’d wanted to be one of them. He’d run, barefoot and barechested through the forest, his long chestnut hair streaming behind him like a mane.

Three months later at dinner one evening his father explained how he would be going back to sea shortly to take command of a frigate. The Boy would start at boarding school the next week.

-

“Hey! What’s that you’re drawing? Can I see?”
I looked up from my sketchbook. Hector Marshall was standing by my side.

It had been about six months since I’d started at the Winchester Boarding School for Boys. Although I hadn’t been happy about the change, now I’d settled in I wasn’t desperately unhappy either. At first it had been weird not going home when lessons finished, and amongst all the boisterousness and testosterone I missed my mother and the peace of the forest. Changing college mid term and in the first year of ‘A’ levels had made it difficult to make new friends, but if people could be classed as either ‘participants’ or ‘observers’ I definitely fell into the latter category and I was more than comfortable spending time by myself.

Like everywhere else where people gathered in groups, there were implicit social structures in place amongst the pupils. Year groups comprised of around eighty boys across four classes. Within each year there were the usual friendship groups that formed – the football team, the gamers, the fashion followers, the nerds. Hector Marshall was unusual in that he was universally well liked across all of the different groups. He was bright academically – not freakishly brilliant, but regularly top two or three in exams. He was a good footballer, and played guitar in what was definitely the best of several bands that had formed in the school. But more than that, he had ‘it’. People would stop and look up when he entered a room – a shock of platinum blonde shoulder length hair and startlingly blue eyes. He was in my year, but in a different form group so we didn’t share any classes although I’d see him from time to time at lunchtimes and after lessons. Two or three times on those occasions I’d drawn him, surreptitiously. Art was still my passion and whilst I wasn’t exceptional with anything else, I knew I had a talent with pencil and paint.

I’d been drawing him from memory when he’d walked past and seen my sketch.
“You’re the new guy aren’t you?” He smiled, and I blushed. “Welcome to Winnie’s. I’m Hector.” He paused, waiting for me to speak, but I was tongue-tied. “So. Can I see it?’
I handed him my sketchbook, wordlessly, and he thumbed through it for a few moments. I was embarrassed that there were drawings of him in there and waited for him to call me out as some kind of weird stalker.
“Wow. These are really good. I’ve never seen a drawing of me before. Except when I’ve tried a self portrait in art class. And I’m hopeless.” He smiled again, and I blushed again. He turned to walk away and took a couple of steps and then stopped.
“Would you be interested in giving me lessons? In drawing, I mean. Maybe one evening? I’d really like to get better, and my music lessons clash with art so I can’t do both…”
I opened my mouth at last. “I, err…yes, I mean…yes, I could do that.”
“Great!” He turned away, and again took a couple of steps before stopping and turning back. “I’d better not run off with this.” He beamed, and handed me back my sketchbook.

I managed to persuade the Art Master to let us have access to the art room after lessons finished on Tuesdays. The fact that I was his star pupil helped, and that it would be Hector to whom I’d be giving lessons. We started with still life drawing. We’d sit opposite each other at a table, with the subject between us, both of us drawing. From time to time I’d walk round to his side and review his progress and Hector would reciprocate to see how I approached the same task. Over the course of a few weeks he was so happy to see his skills improve. We’d talk as we drew, getting to know each other.
“So. Favourite band?” he’d asked in our first session.
“Mmm. Not really a band as such. But I love Celtic folk music.”
“Really? I thought you had to be a bit of a beardy to be into that. Although I have to admit I’m partial to a bit of a fiddle myself.” He grinned, and I giggled.
“What about you?”
“Not a band either. Bowie, all the way.”
“Hmm. That figures.”
“What do you mean.”
“Your style. You can kind of see that’s where you get it from.”
“Really? I’ll take that as a compliment, then!” he beamed. “What about art? Favourite painter?”
“Pre-Raphs for me. I know; not really fashionable I guess. But I love Ophelia, floating down the river. And some of Rossetti’s paintings. There’s something about those women.”
“You know the woman that Rossetti painted the most was William Morris’ wife? They were having an affair.”
“Yeah. I always felt sorry for him. She was so beautiful.” I sighed. Hector was looking at me intently and I blushed, and changed the subject quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “What about your favourite film?”
“Ah, I’m going to have to confess there. It’s not your typical seventeen year old boy’s choice…”
“The Notebook!” I suggested, and he laughed.
“No! Don’t be daft! Actually, you’re not far off. It’s Atonement.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why?”
“It’s mine too.”
“No way.” He looked at me again, as though he was going to say something, and then changed his mind. “That Keira Knightley, though, eh?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah; that Keira Knightley.”
He turned back to his sketchbook, and we continued to draw.

I think it was maybe the fifth or sixth lesson that Hector suggested we should try drawing each other. I sat at the table, freed at last from the need to steal my glances at him. To be able to spend an hour poring over his features was a kind of heaven. He walked across to see my drawing and was leaning over my shoulder to look at it more closely. I was intensely aware of his breathing, just a few centimetres away from my ear, his hand on the back of my chair, as I rested back into it to feel his touch against me. I turned toward him to say something and he leaned in and kissed me, suddenly and briefly, then recoiling a step and looking away, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
I stood up. “No, No, it’s ok.” For a second we stood there, poised. Then he was in my arms, our lips locked together.

It wasn’t easy trying to find somewhere where we could be together, alone, away from prying eyes. The art lessons helped, but we could never be sure that one of the teachers wouldn’t breeze in at some point so we had to be careful. When the weather was fine we’d sneak off to a distant corner of the school playing fields. One time I was absentmindedly making my way along a corridor between lessons, and there had been a yank on my arm and Hector pulled me into a storage room where we stole a kiss before heading late into our respective classes, hair ruffled and ties askew.

The Big Event before we were to break up for the Easter holidays was the College Play. It was a tradition that the identity of the play, and the actors taking part, were kept a closely guarded secret until Opening Night. I had a pretty good idea Hector was in it, though. He’d suddenly become busy in the evenings leading up to the performances and was very coy when I asked him about it. I had a ticket for the first performance. Most of the other pupils arrived with family in tow, but as usual my father was away at sea, so I was by myself. The play was announced as Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. I’d barely had time to wonder how a pupil at an all boys college would take on the role of the Egyptian queen when she appeared, and I was dumbstruck. She was haughty, vulnerable, proud, jealous. Dressed in a long, gold lame gown with jet black hair tied through with beads and dramatic eyeliner she was not just beautiful but, in the way she interacted and flirted with Antony, sexy too. Despite the wig, and the clothes, and the make up, I’d recognized her immediately as Hector. I doubted any of the other boys did. But I’d spent weeks and months studying him. The profile of his nose, the jawline, the shape of his hands I’d have known however they were disguised.

I went straight to the dressing room afterwards. The play had been a triumph, and the audience’s cheers were still ringing out. The room was packed with actors and backstage staff basking in their success with friends and parents. Hector was still in his full stage outfit.
“That was amazing! You were incredible!”
He beamed back at me.
“And I can’t believe what an amazing Cleopatra you make. You look…” I held my hands out, gesturing towards him and his outfit, lost for words.
He smiled again. “It’s been fun! It’s kind of cool being a girl, experiencing how the other half live.” He grinned again, teasingly. “And Antony in that toga! He’s hot!”
I poked him in the ribs and grinned back. “Oi, you! You’re taken!” I looked around to check no-one was eavesdropping on our conversation and leaned in closer to him. “Seeing you dressed like that, it…”
“Hey, Cleo!” a centurion walked by. “Great show tonight!”
Hector raised a hand in acknowledgement and then looked back at me. “You should try it, you know. You’d look good. You’re not too tall. And slim…”
I looked up at him to see if he was teasing me again or not. I suddenly remembered being back home, after my mum had died, wearing her things. “I don’t know. No. I don’t think I could. No. I don’t think it would work for me. Not at all…”

The Easter holidays arrived and, with my father still at sea, I’d stayed at Winnie’s along with several of the other boarders. Hector had gone home, but had invited me to go and stay with him over the break. He lived with his mum in a flat in London, and she was due to be away for a couple of days visiting relatives. I counted the hours down until it was time to go. I caught the train up from Winchester and made my way to the address he’d given me. It was a newly built modernist block of flats in Kensington. The door opened automatically as I approached and I entered tentatively, crossing the marble floor to where the concierge sat imposingly at a huge reception desk. I gave him Hector’s name and he directed me towards the lift.

The flat was on the top floor. A young woman answered the door. She was dressed for a night out, her white blonde hair in a shoulder length asymmetric bob, a short black bodycon dress with long sleeves and a boat neck and bright red glossed lips. Before I could say anything, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me in to the longest and most passionate kiss I could ever have imagined in my short life until that point. It was Hector, of course. When we eventually came up for air I was full of questions but he placed a finger, tipped with a long polished red nail, gently on my lips and shushed me. “Later. I’ll explain.” He took me by the hand and pulled me inside, his body pressing against mine, his breathing short and staccato. I gasped as he pushed into my hardness and in turn ran my hands over his contours, burnishing the satin of the dress against his skin. We crashed against the wall of the hallway, almost overbalancing. I kissed my way down his neck and onto his bare shoulder, inhaling the musky scent he was wearing. I felt his hands fumbling at my belt and fly and my trousers fell to the floor. He took me by the hand again and I staggered through into a living room where he eased me down onto a sofa. He looked down at me, lasciviously, from the tall patent heels he was wearing.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the day I first met you.”

He knelt in front of me and I gasped as he took hold of my penis and gave it an exploratory squeeze, red nails glistening in the sunlight pouring in from the window. I moaned and stared down, transfixed, as he smiled back at me coquettishly, from beneath mascara laden lashes. He squeezed again, sliding back my foreskin and leaning forward, his tongue resting for a second against me, warm and moist, before circling my glans, gently at first, and then with increasing vigour. I moaned again, my body arched back into the soft leather, my hands roaming over the surface of the cushions either side of me, trying to find a hold. I’d no sooner acclimatised to the waves of sensation pulsating through my body when he eased me fully into his mouth, glossy red lips encircling me, his hand still squeezing rhythmically up and down, up and down. At length, just at the point when I couldn’t take it any more, he stopped and stood to his feet, smiling triumphantly as I lay there panting. Once he was satisfied that I could go on, he reached down to the hem of his dress, raising it slightly and one leg at a time, climbed out of his panties. He held them in the air theatrically for a moment and then dropped them, giggling, onto the floor. Then he was straddling me, a knee either side of my hips, his lips again locked against mine, his tongue swirling inside my mouth. And then he buckled upwards for a moment, pressing himself against my belly, gripping my shaft with one hand and lowering himself carefully onto it. He was smooth and lubricated, and I slid inside, his glutes gripping me. Without once breaking our kiss, he slid up until I almost popped out from inside him, before grinding back down, gripping hard as he stretched over the surface of my glans, across my foreskin and down the shaft. My left hand, that previously had been looking for a place to grip on the sofa, took hold of his backside whilst my right held his opposite shoulder, pulling and pushing him up and down, grinding deep into him as now it became his turn to moan. Eventually, he cried out, and I pulled him in tight to me, feeling my belly become hot and wet as he came in several long bursts. The spasms erupting through him were enough to tip me over the edge as well and I drove myself deep into him one last time as I joined him in orgasm.

He lay his head down on my shoulder and we sat quietly for several minutes as our breathing subsided, the beat of his heart against mine slowing gradually, my penis still inside him. At last, he took a deep breath and sat up to face me, smiling; kissing me softly and tenderly. “Welcome to London.”
I smiled. “Fuck, Hector, that was amazing. I mean…you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen whether you’re a boy or a girl and, fuck! Did you do that just now just for me? I mean, dressing up? Was it that obvious I fancied you when you were Cleopatra in the school play? And you look so natural – the way you move; everything. I mean, I don’t want to pry, but…”
He laughed. “Yeah, it was kind of for you. But I have done it before. Before Cleo, I mean. And no, you’re not prying. I need to tell you something, though.” He kissed me again and eased himself back to his feet. “Come on, I’ll make you a coffee.”
I followed him through into the kitchen, marvelling silently to myself on how he walked so naturally like a girl. At college, he’d never been remotely effeminate. Elegant, yes; and even graceful, if that’s a word you can use to describe a seventeen year old boy, and yet here he was looking, walking and even talking like a stunningly beautiful young woman.

We perched on stools at the breakfast bar and he told me his story.
“It’s just me and my mum here. I never knew my dad – they were never in a relationship; I was just an accident that my mum decided to keep.” He paused for a second and sipped at his coffee. “She’s always been a bit...different, I suppose you could say. Mentally ill might be another description. I mean, she’s ok most of the time. When she’s on her medication. But if she forgets she can see things and hear things…”
“Oh, Hector! I’m sorry…”
“No, it’s ok. Really. Most of the time. But when she was pregnant with me she hadn’t been diagnosed. And she told me afterwards that an angel came to see her and told her that if she gave birth to a boy, he’d die before he reached maturity…”
“Fuck, Hector!”
He shrugged apologetically. “I mean, it’s just stuff in her head that’s all mixed up. It doesn’t mean anything. But when I arrived and I was a boy she decided she’d raise me as a girl to avoid that happening. I mean, it sounds crazy, but she managed to doctor the birth certificate and everything, and for the first ten years of my life I was a girl full time. Went to school as a girl; everything. I didn’t know any better – I thought I was a girl, it all seemed perfectly normal.” He paused again. “And then it was my final year at primary school. I had a note to say I shouldn’t do sports, so there wasn’t any risk of anything that shouldn’t popping out in a changing room or anywhere. But one day I was in a car accident – nothing serious, but I was rushed into hospital and everything came out. Social Services got involved and for a while it looked as though I might be taken to a home. But I wanted to stay with my mum and that seemed to hold sway. When she told me why she’d done it I kind of understood and I never felt any ill towards her for doing it. I started at a new school as a boy; which felt really weird for a while, I can tell you, but I got used to it eventually. At home, though, my mum was really unhappy. We weren’t as close as we had been and I missed that. So one day after coming home from school I got changed into some of the girl clothes that my mum had kept. And she was so happy when she came home and saw me. After that I kind of lived this double life. A boy at school and a girl at home. When secondary school came around my grandparents paid for me to go to Winnie’s. I think they suspected that things were a bit unusual at home and thought I was better off away. I got out of the habit a bit, but being away for weeks on end I found that I missed being a girl, so even though I didn’t dress all the time at home, I’d still make the effort from time to time. And every birthday and Christmas Helen would get her own presents in addition to Hector’s and she built up quite a wardrobe…”
“Helen?”
“What my mum would call me.”
He stopped and sipped his coffee. “So here I am. Hector/Helen in all my fucked-up technicolour glory.”
I leaned over to him and kissed him gently. “I don’t think you’re fucked up Hector. Or Helen. I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

After our coffees Helen (as I tried to get used to calling her) went for a shower and re-emerged as Hector and we went out for a meal, and to catch a film. I was quieter than I would usually have been; Hector’s story had reminded me of my own mum, and how I’d reacted after she’d died. When we came home, we went to bed and made love again, and afterwards I lay with my head on Hector’s breast, quietly listening to his heartbeat, thinking back to what he’d said.
“Hector?”
He grunted, already half asleep. “Hmmm?”
“Which do you prefer?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hector or Helen? Which do you prefer being?”
He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d want to be either full time. I kind of like the options. Best of both worlds so to speak.” He paused. “I think I’m a boy in my head. I’m kind of rational I suppose. More than emotional that is; not that girls aren’t rational of course…but dressing as a girl is way more fun!” He paused again. “What about you?”
“Which do I prefer?” I smiled and kissed him gently. “I love you both!”
“Haha! Avoiding the answer. Nice one!”
He flopped back down onto the pillow and we were quiet again.
“Hector?”
Again the grunt. “What?”
“Can I tell you something? About my mum?”
“Mmm Hmm.”
I sat up, leaning against the headboard.
“On Tuesday it’s a year since she died.”
“Yeah I’m sorry. It must be awful. I’d be in bits if my mum wasn’t around, even if things are difficult sometimes”
“I still miss her.”
“I bet. That’s natural. I expect it never goes away.”
“You know, when she first died, I used to lie on the bed with her clothes, inhaling her scent.” I paused, and swallowed. For a second, I wondered whether I should change my mind and not say anything, but I’d come this far. “And then one day. I don’t know why. I decided to wear one of her dresses. I though it might bring her back, somehow. I don’t know why.” I glanced across at him, looking for a reaction, but Hector didn’t say anything so I continued. “It felt like it helped. It felt like I was making a kind of connection. At the time I thought that was with her, with my mum, but now I’m not sure. Anyway, I thought that there was a link between me getting close to my mum and dressing in her clothes. I started dressing completely – underwear, shoes, make-up; the lot. But the more I dressed…I don’t know, it felt like she was always just slightly out of reach. Like I needed to try harder…” I’d started to shake with the emotion of recalling the story and I stopped, knowing that I’d start to cry if I continued.
Hector pulled me in closely and stroked my hair “Ssshh. It’s ok. It’s good to let it out.”
After I’d composed myself I went on. “And then I started at Winnie’s. Every night I’d lie awake in the dorm trying to make sense of it all. The thing is…it’s difficult to put it into words…the thing is; when I was dressed, even though my mum wasn’t, you know, there there – actually physically in the flesh – it did feel like she was with me somehow and I felt comforted. Comfortable.” I turned to Hector so we were facing each other, the tips of our noses almost touching. “It felt like she was ok with me being a girl. Not just ok with it, but encouraging it. Like it was what she wanted.” I burst into tears. Hector pulled me in tightly and kissed me gently on my forehead. My sobbing gradually subsided and I fell asleep.

-

When I awoke the following day the bed next to me was empty. I rolled over groggily and looked at my phone. It was almost 2pm. We must have talked half the night. The door opened and Hector came in carrying a breakfast tray. Delicious aromas of pancakes and fresh coffee followed him into the room. He was wearing a simple towelling dressing gown, the cord of which must have loosened as he’d walked from the kitchen, exposing most of his chest, and a chink of sunlight where the curtains didn’t quite meet flashed across his still tousled bed hair as he approached. I decided that he was unequivocally the handsomest, most beautiful person in the whole of England.

He placed the tray down on the bed and climbed in next to me, grinning. “How’s Sleeping Beauty this morning? Sleep well?”
“Mmm. Listen, I’m sorry about last night. Getting so heavy and everything. I won’t mention it again.”
“Don’t be silly. If I can’t be here for you when you need me, what’s the point?” he leant over and kissed me. “I’ve been thinking myself, whilst I was making breakfast.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Listen. And feel free to tell me to shut up if you think I’m over the line.”
“Go on.”
“So about what you said. It seems to me that either you’re trans…and that’s totally cool, and by the way who am I to speak and by the way again I think you’d make a fantastic girl, even though you’re also equally a really amazing guy…” he took a breath and a mouthful of pancake. “Or…” he went on, munching as he spoke “…you’re not. And you dressing up in your mum’s things is just a totally understandable reaction to a massive emotional upheaval.” He stopped, waiting for me to say something.
“OK.” I paused whilst I absorbed what he’d said. “When you put it like that. Fuck; you were right when you said last night that you had a rational brain.”
“Sorry. I’m over-simplifying.”
“No, no, it’s not that. You’re right. It really is as simple as that.”
He smiled. “And I’m no psychologist, but it seems to me that the feeling you get from dressing up could be either because it’s your mum’s things, and you’re dressing at home, and it’s all contextual, and it really is all about reacting to your loss, or, alternatively, you feel good about seeing yourself as a girl. Full stop. And if it was that, then you’d probably feel good as a girl even if it wasn’t your mum’s things, and even if you weren’t dressing up at home.” He waited again for me to respond but there were too many thoughts running through my head. “And I got to thinking. There’s a whole roomful of Helen’s clothes here that I’ve built up over the years. We’re pretty much the same size and build. What size shoe do you take?”
“Six.”
“There you go. The same there too. Why don’t you try dressing here? See how it feels when you’re in a different place; wearing different clothes?...”

It didn’t take long for me to make a decision. The genie was out of the bottle now – I had to do something to try to resolve things one way or another. And his idea made a kind of sense. I was scared of what I might find out, but excited too. He offered Helen to help me out, but I said I’d rather be by myself as I changed, and he understood. He showed me into the room in the flat they kept just for her, kissed me gently, and clicked the door closed to leave me alone.

The room wasn’t massively different to Hector’s. Sleek, elegant and modern, there was a double bed on the left, and next to that a door into the en-suite. A huge built in wardrobe with doors lacquered in a cool grey gloss occupied the full width of the wall opposite. Across from the main door was another door opening onto a roof terrace and next to that a worktop, also in gloss grey, running the full length of the remaining wall. Drawers occupied most of the space below. In the middle a chrome Eames chair sat facing a mirror on the wall above. In front of it strewn untidily in what was the only clue that this was a girl’s room was a cornucopia of make up – pots, trays and boxes of every size and shape and colour. I walked to the wardrobe and opened each door wide, then sat on the end of the bed, opposite, surveying the contents.

Although Hector and I were alike in so many ways, Helen’s taste in fashion differed significantly from the clothes that my mum had worn. It was only natural I supposed – Helen was still a teenager, living in central London. My mum had been thirty seven when she died and lived a rural life. In as much as I’d inherited most of my tastes from my mum, a lot of Helen’s clothes just didn’t appeal to me. They were sleek, contemporary, urbane; like her flat. The clothes I’d liked the best of my mum’s were softer and more feminine. I began to wonder whether I’d made the right decision in taking Hector up on his offer. I turned my attention to the make up on the dressing table counter. Our colourings were so different as well. A blue eyed blonde versus a brown eyed brunette. I sifted through them. There was so much there; surely there was something that would work?

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of bright emerald green from amongst the blacks and greys and beiges of Helen’s dresses, like a lonely tree in a city square. I pulled the hanger out from the wardrobe. The material had been casually folded across the rail. I lifted it off and, holding it by the spaghetti thin shoulder straps, allowed it to drop to its full length. The skirt was flowing, floor length and vaporous, but the most striking feature was the back neckline, cut daringly down to waist level. A drape tied around the hips would emphasis the wearer’s slim silhouette. I recognised it instantly. It was a replica of the dress that Keira Knightley had worn in Atonement.

I skipped out of the room into the living area where Hector was relaxing, reading a book. He looked up. “Everything ok?”
“Yeah. Ummm, I was wondering…I mean, it doesn’t really seem fair that it’s just me that’s getting dressed up.”
“Oh. OK. You want me to dress as Helen, you’ve changed your mind?”
“No. I was wondering. Do you have a dinner suit?”
“You want me to wear a dinner suit?”
“Have you got one?”
“Well, yes.”
“Great. I’ll see you back here in a couple of hours.” I kissed him, and left him looking puzzled as I made my way back to the room.

Now I knew what I was going to wear I wanted to take my time and enjoy the process of getting changed. I poured a deep bath and lingered in the bubbles, as I imagined what I might get up to later that evening with Hector. I borrowed one of Helen’s razors to remove the few faint hairs that had regrown since I’d last transformed myself. Dabbing myself dry, I moisturised until I was silky smooth all over and then slipped into the satin wrap that was hanging on the door, wrapped a towel around my damp hair, and made my way back into the bedroom. Sifting through the make up on the counter, I identified some colours that would work for me and then picked up my ipad and googled ‘Keira Knightley Atonement’, zooming in on one of the images of her that best showed how she had been made up. Picking up a tube of foundation, I went to work. A few minutes later my skin was smooth and soft and dusted with a fine sheer powder. I paused, examining myself in the mirror against the image on the ipad, and then turned the ipad off and cast it aside onto the bed. I’d spent months trying to copy how my mum looked. I wasn’t going to replace that by simply copying someone else instead. Hector had been right – I had to find out if this was the real me. I had to find my own identity. I paused, less confident now. All my life I’d drawn what I’d seen in front of me. Never before had I started out trying to make a piece of art without knowing what the final appearance would be. I was in unchartered territory.

I picked up some eyeshadow in rusty browns and reds. I applied a small amount onto the lid and brow, and blended it carefully. I was aiming for something between a natural daytime look and a full-on smoky eyed evening image. Satisfied with how that turned out, I moved on to a chocolate coloured eyeliner and then, more confidently now, mascara, blush and finally a dark rose pink lipstick. Easing the towel from my hair I brushed it through whilst blow drying it and then set to work with a pair of curling irons trying to mimic a 1930s fingerwave. Ironically my hair, out of its regular ponytail, was longer than Keira’s in the film and at first I struggled until eventually I had to admit defeat, retrieve the ipad, and copy a similar style that suited my longer length. At last I was finished. It had taken longer than I’d thought, and I worried Hector might be getting impatient. But then I smiled to myself. Surely this was one of the prerogatives of being female? I found a lacy black thong in one of the drawers below the dressing table and slipped it on, tucking myself carefully into place until I presented a flat front. I took the dress off the hanger again and stepped into it carefully, luxuriating in the feel of the satin as I drew it up my body, slipping the delicate straps into place on my shoulders. A pair of strappy gold sandals with a three inch heel weren’t quite of period authenticity, but worked well with the colour of the dress.

I took a few exploratory steps, enjoying the satin of the skirt swirling around my newly sensitized legs. The dress fitted perfectly. Whilst at first I’d regretted my lack of curves, I smiled as I thought that Keira wasn’t exactly well endowed in that department either. The lines of the dress suited my skinny frame. I felt a curious mixture of elation and satisfaction. I looked in the mirror and although there was no trace of my mum visually, I felt a strong sense of her presence, and an equally strong sense that she was happy with what I was doing. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. For the first time since she’d left, I was truly content.

I texted Hector that I was ready and he replied ‘See you on the terrace’. Opening the door I stepped outside. It was an unusually warm April evening. The sun was just about to set, casting a warm orange glow over the side of the apartment. Hector was leaning on the balustrade at the edge of the roof, looking down on the city below, a thousand car headlights twinkling softly in the dusk. I’d never seen him look so handsome. He was a man now, his hair gelled, his suit sharp, his shirt crisp and brilliant white against the darkening sky. He turned as I approached. He didn’t need to say anything; his eyes spoke for him. For a second I thought I was going to burst into tears because the moment was so perfect. He held out his hand for me to take as I reached him and kissed me softly on the cheek.
“My god. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He smiled. “I should have known you’d pick that dress. I’d forgotten I had it. How do you feel now? I mean, erm, after what we talked about before…”
In response I reached my arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his, and kissed him again, slowly and lingeringly.

When the sun finally set we went back inside. I took his hand and led him to the sofa where Helen had seated me only yesterday. I parted his knees and knelt down on the floor between them.
“I want to try what Helen did yesterday.”
He grinned.

It must have been around four in the morning. I turned over in bed and reached my hand out for him but he wasn’t there. I waited for a minute or two to see if he’d just nipped to the bathroom but when he didn’t re-appear I got up. The stone tiles of the floor were cold and I tiptoed, the long satin nightgown I’d borrowed swirling about my legs. He was in the living room, sat in the dark on the sofa. I sat next to him, pulling my legs up underneath me for warmth.
“You ok?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep. Thinking about having to go back to college again tomorrow.”
I groaned. “I was trying not to think about it.” It was cold in the room. One of the windows had been left open, and the sky outside was clear enough to see stars. A patch of moonlight illuminated where we’d stood a few hours previously on the terrace. I pulled myself closer to him to share his body heat.
“We’ll need to go back to just pretending to be friends again. For appearances.”
“Yeah. I suppose.” I kissed him on the cheek and tried to lighten the mood. “I think I can keep my hands off you if I really concentrate!” but he didn’t return my smile.
“I don’t want things to go back to how they were. For all this…” he paused for a moment “just to be a one-off.”
“Neither do I, I…”
He interrupted. “I don’t mean just us. I mean you too. The way you’ve been tonight. You’ve been so natural, so happy. I don’t want you to go back to the shy little wallflower you were when you came to college. You need to keep exploring this side of yourself.”
“I know. And I will. And you can help me. You and Helen…”
“But I might not always be here! Promise me you’ll carry on. Even if I’m not here to help.” He was looking at me intently now; gripping my hand tightly.
“I promise, Hector.” I reached my hand up to his cheek and kissed him gently.

-

We’d been back at college only a fortnight. I was already counting the days until the summer break and we’d started planning some time away together, just the two of us; a quiet cottage somewhere in the country near a forest. I so much wanted to take Hector to the forest. Although the cricket season had started, there was still one last football match left to finish off the league. Hector had been trying to persuade me to go along to watch him play since before the Easter break. I wasn’t a football fan at all but now, with just the one game left, I’d relented. It was a home game, and a small crowd had gathered on the touchline to watch – some other boys from college, a few mums and dads, and some fans our opponents had brought along. Hector was playing on the opposite wing to where I stood. When I saw him with the ball, I regretted not watching him earlier. Even though I knew nothing about the game, I could tell he was a good player.

Midway through the first half both teams were still yet to score. Most of the action had taken place on our wing, and I could hear Hector calling for the ball, out in space on the opposite side of the pitch. He looked across at me and caught my eye, and smiled, and I smiled back. He’d been so happy when I’d agreed to go to watch him. And then he fell. I assumed he was joking with me at first, but he’d gone down like a felled tree, face first into the turf. When he didn’t get up I shouted and gesticulated. “Referee! Referee!”
It took a few seconds for him to notice my cries and by then I was already running onto the pitch. I got to where Hector lay and turned him over onto his back, calling his name. He was limp and unresponsive. I bent down to his face but couldn’t detect a breath and I couldn’t find a pulse either. I fought back a mounting sense of panic, an urge to cry out. Check his airways. All clear. Start the compressions. I was only vaguely aware of the commotion around me. Someone offered to take over the CPR to give me a rest, but I pushed them away.

Everything was a blur; like a watercolour painting that had been left out in the rain. The paramedics arrived. Hector’s football coach lifted me up. I was in his car, following the ambulance to hospital. We were in the waiting room, outside A&E.

The commotion stopped, and the blur lifted. Everything now was frozen, fixed, solid, silent. The only sound my heartbeat reverberating through my body, like a timpani in an empty cathedral. I don’t know how long I sat like that; it might have been minutes or hours. The hospital corridor down which Hector had been taken receded into infinity in front of me. Eventually a doctor appeared, retracing Hector’s route; his footsteps matching the slow thudding of my pulse. He stopped in front of us, and we stood, the coach and I. The doctor looked at me, and then at the coach, and then back to me again, and gently shook his head. “I’m so sorry.” He said. “We did everything we could.”

-

The Young Woman stood at the edge of the grave and read the inscription on the headstone. “Hector Marshall 1996 – 2013. Always in our hearts.” It had been ten years. Lichen now inhabited the carved letters, and the sharp edges of the sandstone had weathered smooth. A gentle breeze caused the chiffon dress she was wearing to swirl gently about her legs and her long chestnut hair fluttered across her shoulder blades. Like the stone, those ten years had brought changes to her too. She laid a single red rose down at the grave and whispered gently “I kept my promise to you Hector.”

She stood in silence for a moment and then turned, walking back to a small car that was waiting for her at the entrance to the cemetery. As she approached a young man stepped out and took her hand gently. ‘Are you ok?” She nodded, squeezed his hand reassuringly and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. As they drove away the evening sun emerged for a moment from the clouded sky and for a few seconds the headstone was illuminated by a golden glow before the clouds returned and the sun sank silently below the horizon.

THE END