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He stood in the shop, surrounded by giggling girls and bright lights, pop music blaring out, fingering the soft cotton mix of the lilac ditzy print skirt. He felt everyone was staring. He panicked and fled.
Straight down the escalator and out of the shopping mall on to Riverside, instantly lighting up and slowing down to lean over the railing of the River Kennet, inhaling his cigarette deeply before flicking it into the river.
Okay. He could do this. He turned tail and headed back to the Riverside entrance of the Oracle Shopping Centre in Reading.
The wigs were dreadful. And this shop was worse. It was full of younger women and girls. Dreadful music. He rushed out again, this time taking the up escalator.
He sat, fortified with skinny latte and a Danish pastry, looking over the side at the Lower Level.
He was fine. He could do this.
After all, he had decided this was the only way. Being totally indispensable hadn’t worked. Friendship. Subtle glances. Little hints. Deep sighs. Make up. Coming round every Friday with a takeaway. Even coming round other evenings and cooking for his boss. Nothing at all had worked on his boss in the slightest. He had it all worked out. Lewis was invited to Grainger’s birthday bash at the White Horse. He wasn’t. He just had to go in disguise and...
Well. He hadn’t worked out the details after that. It would be more a question of playing it by ear. What a weird expression, that was. One of his mother’s, maybe? Mustn’t think about her. Check out the root and meaning of the expression when he got home.
Yes, it would be fine. If only he could stop blushing. Maybe if he could come up with a plausible excuse?
Smiling, James Hathaway thoughtfully fingered his warrant card in its wallet in his jeans pocket. He drained the last drop of coffee and wiped a finger over his plate and licked it before standing up and striding purposefully to the rather expensive looking hair salon.
The badge and the excuse brought the owner – a plump, balding man in too tight clothing and a flamboyant manner - scurrying out of his office. He insisted on personally attending the yummy sergeant, finding wigs, placing them on James’ head, tugging at them to become perfect, accidentally brushing James’ neck and cheek, telling him how gorgeous each wig made him.
James chose a long, wavy wig with a fringe in exactly the same tone of blond as his own hair. It cascaded down his back in a lovely way, it said nice girl not sexy girl, which was what he was aiming for, really. Nice girl having a drink after work, not a vamp. He’d observed the women Lewis looked at: Successful. Educated. Middle class. A bit vulnerable, perhaps? That was fine, all fine. He could do all that. He was all that.
Feeling that little bit more confident with his cover story, he hit the boutiques and shops. Dresses, skinny flares, tops, shrugs, floaty tops and dinky cardigans. In fact, he was beginning to discover, shopping for women’s clothes was more fun, there was so much more choice!
Shoes were next. They had to be girly but flat, he really didn’t need extra height. In fact his height was already a handicap in being a convincing woman for the evening. So, flat little pretty sandals, knee high boots and pretty purple converses would do it.
Handbags came next. Woah! How much were women prepared to pay for these things? This was madness, a serious fetishism of commodity. He decided to go to Claire’s Accessories. No way was he paying that price! He chose something unostentatious, fabric not leather, a bit funky, something that said academic in Oxford rather than smart businesswoman or shop girl trying too hard.
Wig? Check. Shoes? Check. Handbag? Check. Clothes? Check. Make-up? Got that already. What about nail vanish? Good idea. But... but... what about underneath?
Courage fled and James ran out of the Oracle again, this time on to the High Street. Another Starbuck’s, another latte, this time a double shot, outside with a much needed nicotine fix. While he sat there his gaze fell on the big store opposite – Marks and Spencer...
Now James knew very little about women’s underwear, having been to an all boys’ boarding school, been in a Catholic Seminary, and being gay and mostly celibate. However, he had a mother, and aunties and cousins and two grandmothers, and where did they all buy their underwear? M&S!
James almost fled again once upstairs in the store. Millions! There were millions of bras! Who would have thought that there needed to be so many in one store?
Something of his panic must have shown on his normally stoical face because a young Asian assistant came up to him.
“You looking for a present for a girlfriend or shopping for a wife?” she asked.
James stared at her, momentarily at a loss. “Um. No. Don’t have either.”
“Maybe you have a sick mum?”
James shook his head. Not any more.
“Oh?” she arched her eyebrow suggestively, it disappeared under her navy hijab.
He knew he was blushing again. He gave his prepared spiel about going undercover and produced his badge. The young woman immediately grew very excited and threw herself into the exercise straight away, talking about different types, and he followed her, mutely, to a group of brightly coloured padded bras. She showed him under the thick cotton padding little sacks of gel.
“Instant boob job,” she said. She looked at him appraisingly. “So tall and skinny. Women would die for your figure. Catwalk proportions. We don’t need to add much, wouldn’t be believable. You’re a 32 chest right? So we’ll go for 36B.”
James nodded, still bright pink. “Whatever you think best.”
“Okay. What else? Knickers?” she smirked as he went pinker. He nodded. He weakly allowed her to talk about bikinis and high legs and midis and let her put a pack of high legs to match the two pack of pink and purple bras he’d chosen. She added a four pack of opaque tights and pleaded with him to come back and tell her if the operation worked and they caught the criminal. Fortunately she thought the blushes were still to do with the underwear and not guilt at lying to such a sweet, helpful girl. Lying to the nasty letch at the hairdressers had been easy.
*
James hovered in the doorway, hit by a roar of male laughter. Practically every man over 50 in CID, uniform and traffic appeared to have come to Grainger’s 50th birthday bash. James had dressed very carefully for this planned ‘chance’ meeting but now he was unsure if it was the right thing. In fact he was bloody terrified. He was wearing a dark and light blue close print floral knee length A-line skirt over black knee high boots, on top a powder blue v-neck sweater and a string of chunky blue beads and a gold crucifix. Three plastic bangles on the one wrist and two surfer bead bracelets wrapped around the other. The long wigged hair he wore loose, down his back. He had chosen the outfit to look like he had just finished work for the evening.
He bit at the skin around his thumbnail, now coated with purple nail vanish to match his eye shadow, much more thickly applied than he ever had experimented with, surveying the scene with a slight tilt of his head, worried eyes widened through nervousness and feeling uncomfortable, shrinking back, his shoulders hunching, curling up with nerves. What to do? He felt like turning tail. Nice girls didn’t force their way into crowded pubs on their own did they?
He didn’t have to fret long. A very, very familiar voice said at his ear, “Are you okay, love?”
James felt himself blush. Agh! Not good!
James tried to soften his voice. Not easy against the noise. “Um. It’s busy tonight, isn’t it? I usually come in here for a quiet drink before I go home. When I’ve been at the Bodlian. It’s never been this busy before.”
Too much information, maybe? He felt rather than saw Lewis’ eyes rake over him, appraising him.
“Follow me, I’ll find you a seat.”
James followed demurely. Someone – Hooper, probably - made a dirty to comment to Lewis as he passed. It was something about being a fast worker.
“Ignore him. Some of the lads are here celebrating a colleague’s birthday.”
He led James to a far corner, away from the rowdy, drunken Thames Valley officers.
“What can I get you?”
“Er,” James fumbled for his handbag.
“My treat.”
What? Not a pint, obviously, although his friend Bernie drank pints, so did Maggie, but somehow that didn’t meet the image he wanted to present. Scotch? No.
“Red wine would be nice, please.”
Lewis returned a few moments with a pint for himself. “Mind if I join you,” he said sitting down anyway.
James shook his head and tried to smile.
“You can call me Robbie pet, what do I call you then?”
“Um. Er...” He knew he forgot to plan something! “Jamie.”
Lewis snorted.
“Is there something wrong with my name?” James demanded, a flash of anger showing.
“No. Coincidence, that’s all. My sergeant’s called James.”
“Oh, your sergeant. Are you in the army?”
“Police. I’m in CID. A detective inspector.”
“Oh. That’s impressive. Is he here, your sergeant called James?”
“I’m... not sure,” Lewis replied carefully. “Can I get you another?”
James was surprised to realise he’d already knocked back his wine.
“Um, yes, thank you.”
They sat in the corner for just over an hour, talking of nothing, of everything. James let Lewis talk about his kids, Val, his work, the mystery of his sergeant. James, deciding feminine intuition was required, told Lewis his sergeant probably wasn’t at all that mysterious, just gay and in love with his boss. Adding, flirtatiously, he could understand anyone falling in love with Robbie.
Lewis frowned and told him that his sergeant was a Catholic.
“Okay, gay, in love and guilty about it,” he conceded and then went on to discuss Catholic theology and it’s attitude to homosexuality, having already got out his cover story about being a theology research fellow at Trinity.
Davis and some others called Lewis over, they were about to embarrass Grainger big time. Lewis smiled apologetically and asked if they could meet again.
James nodded enthusiastically and they agreed to meet on Friday night. Where took some discussion, but eventually they decided to eat but nothing too formal, and agreed on Spanish, to meet outside La Tasca at the Oxford Castle.
James left just as Grainger’s red haired stripper arrived, dressed, obligatorily, as a policewoman.
*
James stood outside the restaurant in the little market square, Castle complex and hotel looming in the twilight, smoking furiously. Smells from the Chinese opposite and the steak house next door drifted through the air. Arm in arm a young couple, both male, walked past holding hands and laughing, looking into each other’s eyes. They were probably on their way to the Castle or the Jolly Farmers around the corner in Paradise Street, James decided. He had, never, ever got up the courage to go to either in the ten years he’d lived in Oxford.
He was wearing a maxi sun dress with spaghetti straps, a deep fuchsia pink with a black shrug and a long chunky beaded necklace with matching beads entwined around one wrist. On his feet he wore brown, flat, strappy sandals. He’d dumped the bright shoulder bag for a pink clutch, large enough for phone, wallet, keys and cigarettes. He’d been rather surprised how much it held. It was like a TARDIS. It must be the reason why the smaller the designer handbag the more expensive they got – some kind of trans dimensional engineering?
Looking up, James noticed Lewis approach. He flicked his cigarette away and smiled nervously, surprised when Lewis picked up his half smoked fag and handed it to him, silently, smiling hello.
“Sorry,” James said. “You probably don’t like women who smoke.”
“Nor men,” Lewis agreed mildly, “but I’m prepared to make exceptions in rare cases.”
“What cases would they be?”
“When someone needs it. When I’m in the company of a beautiful, intelligent young person. Can’t believe you’d want to see me again, pet. You’re almost half my age. I’ll bet. Shall we?” Lewis indicated the direction of the restaurant now James had properly finished his cigarette.
The evening was a pleasant one, and James could have been in his own clothes and they could be at the Trout or sharing a takeaway on Lewis’ sofa, so comfortable with each other they were. Lewis confided in James the murder investigation he was working on and seemed to value James’ input. It was almost the same. It was hard when Lewis questioned him about himself, or herself – his fictional persona – it became a bit awkward. To stop lying and to fill in, James answered the questions more generally, as close to the truth as possible.
Ah, if only Lewis knew it, that night he learnt more about his sergeant’s childhood and reasons for studying theology in the one night than he’d learnt in five years. Guard down, worried about revealing who he was, James probably said far too much than one should on a first date. But it didn’t matter; Lewis just grew more gentle and kind.
Suddenly they realised, after sharing tapas, paella, and a huge chocolate cheesecake, as well as two bottles of wine, that almost three hours had gone by. They smiled awkwardly at each other.
“I should walk you home. Hell, I should walk meself home after, drunk far too much to drive.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.” James smiled his usual lop-sided, self-depreciating smile.
Lewis put his hand over James’, which was nice, until he thought about the fact that his hands were probably a little too big for a woman’s and he tried to pull away. Lewis tightened his grip and ran his thumb across his palm.
“You’re lovely, you are. Lovely. Really understand me. Not felt this way since Val.” He pulled James’ hand to his mouth and kissed each of his fingers. “Lovely fingers. A guitarist’s fingers.”
Wow! Oh wow! All this in two dates? “Did I tell you I play guitar?” James asked uncertainly.
“You must have done, love, mustn’t you? How else would I know?”
James nodded and reclaimed his hand. Lewis called for the bill and paid and then turned back to James. “Let me walk you to a taxi, at least.”
As they walked through Cornmarket to the taxi rank James agreed to come to Lewis’ flat the following night, Lewis would cook for him. Or rather, her.
*
James arrived ten minutes early and paced outside the block of flats, smoking. He had ummed and ahhed a considerable amount about what to wear and what to bring, having settled on smart casual – skinny flares over his purple converses, ditzy lilac print floaty top with dinky pink cardigan over the top, hiding rather masculine shoulders, the only jewellery his gold crucifix, his make up his normal minimum. The wig he’d styled up for a change, a scruffy, high ponytail with lots of wispy loose bits hanging over his face and neck. He brought with him a bottle of red wine and, on impulse, some flowers.
Lewis, now, looked curiously at the flowers. James caught his gaze.
“This is the twenty first century, right?”
“Oh sure, where there are so many choices and not enough labels, eh?” Lewis said cryptically before ushering him in to the living room.
Monty yowled and leapt off the sofa, wrapping himself around James’ legs. Clothes were immaterial to Monty. James smelt like James, of course, even if he had added a strange floral scent to his usual smells.
“That cat almost seems to know you. You didn’t know a Dr. Black, did you? From Lonsdale College?”
“Er, no. Cats like me, that’s all.” He sat down on his usual end of the sofa, pressing his legs together. Monty jumped straight up onto his lap. “S’sh,” James hissed after Lewis took the wine and flowers to the kitchen, “you’ll give the game away.”
Monty seemed to get the message he wasn’t wanted. Affronted, he leapt off James’ lap and, tail held high, stalked out down the corridor and through the cat flap.
“Oh? Did Monty go?” asked Lewis as he returned, a glass of wine in each hand. “Honestly, that cat is a law to himself.”
“Most cats are,” James agreed mildly.
The food pleasantly surprised James. Instead of the takeaway or superior pierce and ping from M&S he’d been expecting, Lewis had made a passable spaghetti bolognaise with green salad and shop bought Tiramisu to follow.
After the meal was over James offered to clear up, loading the dishwasher and making coffee, forgetting to pretend not to know where things lived. Lewis sat on the sofa and hopefully hadn’t noticed.
James put the coffee on the table and sat next to Lewis, tucking his long legs to one side, knees pressed together.
“This is nice,” Lewis said, sliding along the sofa to James’ end, stretching his arm out and snaking it around James’ shoulders, pulling him close. James rested his head on Lewis’ shoulder and curled his legs up onto to the sofa.
“James – Jamie...” Lewis began.
James looked up, startled. Lewis kissed him and all worry and analysis fled as the kiss deepened, Lewis’ tongue probing his mouth, teeth nipping his bottom lip. As soon as Lewis’ hands began to wander from thigh to higher up James leapt away as if he had been burnt.
“No!”
“Sorry, pet. Is this some Catholic guilt or your miserable childhood or something else?”
“Something else?” James asked, puzzled.
Lewis’ smile widened and he chuckled, reaching out to touch James’ wig. “Fear I’ll find a very un female reaction between your legs-” Lewis pulled off the wig “-James, pet.”
James stared for a long while, all the time Lewis just smiling in amusement.
“How long?” James whispered, and then coughed. “How long have you known?” he tried again.
Lewis kissed him again before answering, this time so passionately James couldn’t help but moan.
“Well, James, let’s see? You know where everything goes in my kitchen. Monty knew you. But apart from that, I ‘forgot’ to give you my address, and yet here you are.”
“Oh.”
James looked so crestfallen, Robbie couldn’t help himself, he laughed.
“Stop it!”
“Oh James, the real answer is I knew it was you standing in the doorway of the Whitehorse. I just wanted to know how far you would go.”
“Oh?”
“And what’s the answer? Still a good Catholic girl or were you just hiding your bad Catholic boy reaction?”
“Uh?” Lewis kissed him again, this time hands quickly undoing girl jeans and pulling them swiftly down. “Sir!”
“Well, James, tucked between your legs out of sight, now that has to be uncomfortable.”
“Sir!” James repeated, more a strangled moan.
“I told you to call me Robbie, didn’t I? Was that a no?”
“No!”
“What?”
“No, it wasn’t a no.”
“Was that a yes then?”
“Yes. Oh fucking yes!”
“Good.” And Lewis silenced him with another deep kiss.
*
Afterwards, tucked up in bed, head on Robbie’s chest, arms and legs wrapped around him, held tightly by Robbie, James asked, “What gave me away then?”
Robbie Lewis seemed to consider before replying. “Your body language,” he answered carefully. “I spend nearly every day with you, have done for nearly five years.” He kissed James on the forehead, gently. “And your lovely eyes.” He kissed James’ nose. “And just your general loveliness.”