The Man Who Loved Dresses
Nick Watson was an unremarkable man. He was of medium height, middle aged and mild mannered. Some might say he was timid and diffident. His voice was soft - when he was agitated it got a bit high, but that didn’t happen too often.
Nick worked in the finance department of a company that ran party boats on the River Thames. His boss Mr Parker, was a charming but very disorganised man. This meant that every day Nick had to patiently and carefully straighten out all the mess and muddle that Mr Parker had created the day before. Anyone else might have been exasperated, but Nick was alright doing this. After 21 years of working with Mr Parker, he was able to detect a pattern in the muddles, so they were not all that difficult to sort out. Not for Nick anyway.
Every morning, he took the train in from Hitchin and changed at Kings Cross. He then took the tube to Bank and the DLR to South Quay. Nick had done this every day, for 21 years. Because he always looked down when he walked, he recognised every stone on the pavements, and every nick and scratch on the tiles along the platforms. Some would say that his existence was boring and mundane. Nick disagreed - he was comforted by the routine and the monotony. In fact, by now he could predict many things about his days - including what Mr Parker would say before he’d said it.
At home, things were similarly orderly and routine. Nick always ate the same cereal at round about the same time every morning. Lunch was always a sandwich and drink, bought in a meal deal at the Tesco Express near work. He went in everyday at 1.03 pm and had something quite akin to a panic attack if everything wasn’t exactly where it had been the week before. Supper was a few potatoes and a bit of meat, either chicken or beef with weak gravy. If he was feeling generous he’d add in mushy peas or beans. He’d always shop at the end of the day – from a local cornershop in Hitchin. He’d been going in there for 40 years. He remembered old Mr Patel from when he was a little boy, and then watched with some trepidation when he was replaced by the younger Ravi, or Ravs Patel as he liked to be called. All through the nineties Ravs sported a fierce mullet and huge shoulder pads on all his leather jackets. Luckily over the last two decades, he had toned himself down, and acquired a wife and a son. He had also begun to look more and more like his father. So much so, that now Nick went into the shop not just for his groceries, but also for a warm feeling brought on by a combination of familiarity and nostalgia.
Nick was so fastidious about everything, including the way he dressed – that few suspected that inside his head things were not equally neat and ordered. Because he was always in grey or black trousers, crisp white shirts and almost too inoffensively plain jumpers and pale mackintoshes, few guessed that underneath it all, Nick really wanted to wear women’s clothes. Not a soul knew about this fantasy, because it had not yet culminated in any action. Nick never actually wore women’s clothes or went into any shops selling them. He never even once ventured into the women’s floors of M&S, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t often tempted.
But he did spend enough time in the virtual shops. Every evening after supper he’d pore over sites selling women’s clothes. And these were not the staid sort either. Unlike the clothes he wore everyday, these were flamboyant and sexy and loud and colourful. He looked at Vivienne Westwood and Cavalli. At Mcqueen, Missoni and Gucci and Pucci. He looked at Sophia Webster and Alice & Olivia. He imagined patterns, colours, textures – the caress of silk, the softness of satin, the sheen of leather. He trawled through Net-a-porter and Etsy, through Outnet and ASOS…discovering new designers, and following them on Instagram and Facebook (always under a different name). But he never bought anything. It seemed like a travesty to have them delivered to his parents’ home. His mum and dad weren’t alive but their memory loomed large, and their presence still invaded every room. In fact, so intimidated was he by his parents’ memory, that Nick still slept in the small bedroom, even though their room had been sitting empty for the last 11 years. He hardly ever went in there. He’d also left everything exactly where it always was. Once every week he hoovered and carefully wiped the film of dust that invariably collected over his mum’s knick-knacks. And when he trawled through the fashion sites every evening, he was tempted to hide his laptop under his duvet. Just like he hid the comic books he read when he was a boy, shining a torch on the colourful pages long after the lights went out.
Nick couldn’t remember when it was that he first started to think about dresses and skirts, about lace and leather, and silk and stockings. All he knew was that it had been long enough. But he liked his desires to stay exactly where they were – deep within the crevices of his mind. On first sight there was nothing remotely feminine about Nick. In hindsight some people might have said that he often crossed his legs at the knee, holding one foot poised and arched, like a ballerina. Or that his hands were exceptionally soft and manicured. But these were only telltale signs if anyone knew. And the reality was that no one knew, and no one even suspected. Nick was determined to take his secret to the grave.
Sometimes though, Nick let his guard down. Just a tiny bit. He couldn’t help it. Like that morning when he got into the train at Kings Cross. Nick was sitting there, minding his own business and looking down at the floor - when there appeared in his field of vision the most delectable purple shoe. It was of royal hue and made of sumptous velvet, adorned with the most extraordinary ruffles. He had seen those shoes on Net-a-porter just the day before. He remembered that they were by a new designer with a suitable exotic name – Marco de Vincenzo. A sharp sense of thrill ran up along Nick’s spine, like an electric shock. Almost despite himself his eyes travelled up, caressing the shoes with their gaze, then past them to the splendid, splendid dress. Dark silk, with vibrant hand painted pink flowers, perfectly pleated skirt and delicately enameled buttons. This was not a garment, it was a work of art. Nick stared, transfixed by its beauty. The more he looked, the more he discovered new details to admire. The complexity of the stitching on the cuff. The way the collar was delicately curved like the neck of a swan. The way the pink belt curved around the waist - rich leather, vivid pink like flamingoes.
Nick’s eyes shone with excitement and he had to clench his fists to stop his hands from wandering. Not sinisterly of course – Nick had no interest in women other than as props for all the gorgeous creations he wanted to wear. How he wanted to reach out and touch this exquisite masterpiece that he’d normally only see on a computer screen. But even in the absolute throes of his ecstasy Nick knew better and kept his hands where they were, clenched and hidden under the newspaper on his lap. Though try as he might, he couldn’t quite stop his eyes from wandering back to the shoes and the dress – and eventually – to the owner.
And how disappointed he was. For she was not a flamboyant fashionista with movie star – or even attractive – looks. She was at best mousy and trying to make an effort and at worst a middle aged woman who had picked the wrong dress for herself. The garment overwhelmed and engulfed her – making her seem as insignificant as some dull wallpaper behind a Chippendale chair. Most people wouldn’t notice her – if not for the dress. And even then, there was an awkwardness about her, like she was a crow in peacock’s feathers. Nick couldn’t help thinking that she’d borrowed the dress from a glamorous sister or daughter for a wedding or some other important event. But as he continued to stare, his eyes unfortunately locked with her’s, and stayed locked for a bit longer than he would have liked. And that’s when, much to his consternation - and before he could look away - she smiled, presumably at him.
Rather hurriedly, Nick opened up his newspaper, trying to deflect this unexpected - and very unwelcome - attention. Unfortunately for him, he dropped it on the floor and the woman, standing as she was right next to him, bent down to pick it up. As she did so she also looked up at him – with what was for him an almost repulsive coyness – and said ever so softly but distinctly - “Hello”.
By now Nick had had enough. Forgetting his manners he stood up and brusquely brushed past her to get to the door. Fortunately for him, it was rush hour and within seconds the crowd had parted and closed around him. He didn’t dare look back but he knew that he was safe – there were at least four people between him and her now. Luckily the train pulled into the station just then – and he knew it was a matter of seconds before he would be able to get out and increase the distance between him and her.
The train stopped at Bank and after what seemed like an agonising wait, the doors slid open. With an urgency that made him slightly unpopular with the passengers ahead of him, Nick moved towards the door. As he wrenched himself free of the knot of people, his feet hit the platform with a violence that made his ankle ache. But Nick didn’t stop to examine the damage. Instead, he ran. Down the platform and up the stairs he went, not once stopping to look back. It was only once he’d swiped his Oyster that he paused. With trembling hands he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out the checkered handkerchief he’d bought only the day before at M&S, and wiped his sweaty brow. What a narrow escape!
It was then that he felt a slight tug on his elbow. He turned around and saw her. And this time he saw her - not the dress and not the shoes. She was speaking and holding out something for him. Nick couldn’t hear what she said - his ears were ringing and his heart was beating with an intensity that was altogether unpleasant. It felt like the monotonous beats of that shit band he’d gone to see in 1993. He even remembered what they were called - 2Unlimited. Though why this useless bit of information should float into his head at this particular moment, he didn’t know.
She was looking at him with a vacant and more than slightly doting expression - like the way some teenage girls look at pictures of Harry Styles. He felt nauseous. His eyes traveled past her face to what she was holding out. It was a wallet. He knew it was his - how he had dropped it he didn’t know. He realised that he should be grateful to get it back. But all he could feel was the ever increasing pain in his chest - and an intense and overwhelming rage.