Sneak Peek: Alla Norma (Patreon)

Chapter 6 - now repackaged as chapter 1 of book 3 - has been both a fun and infuriating chapter to write.

The first 20k words of it flowed pretty easily. The club scene, especially, was a joy to write, as were the initial scenes with Julia. But the second half of the chapter, as we transition from the funeral into setting up the rest of the novel, has been challenging.

I've written, and rewritten, and moved around the different beats of this scene several time, trying to get the flow just right, adding and cutting out all sorts of details. Initially, it transitioned into more flashback "stories" - and still might - jumping to Cindy's first day at work, focusing on different details of that day (clothes / commute / meeting the boss). Those fragments are still around and might show up elsewhere. But the transition always felt forced. As much as I want to develop the backstory of what happened with Dan, or with the office girls, ultimately I ended up cutting those scenes.

For now, however, please enjoy this first (incomplete--and rough!) draft of the scene, Alla Norma.   

***

Nine: Alla Norma

“Talking of hunger….” Julia says.

            We’re sat on the sofa now, knees nearly touching as we curl up at our respective ends—I say curl but the tightness of our dresses don’t leave much leeway for that, so it’s more of an awkward legs-to-one side pose.  I’ve long since kicked off the heels, and I’m feeling hungry, too.

            I nod.  “Yeah.  We should eat.”

            She nods towards the outside dark. “Order in?”

            I stare into the night for a moment and then smile. “Nah,” I say.  “I’ve got some stuff in the fridge. I’ll throw something together.”

            She eyes me dubiously. “You can cook?”

            “Guess we’ll find out.” But I laugh at her vaguely horrified look, and add, “yes, I can cook. But,” I continue, squeezing my tits, “not with the girls hoisted up in my face like this. I’m going to get changed first.”

            “You still have that homemaker dress I bought you?” She smiles wistfully. “I’d love to see that again.”

            I hold her gaze long enough for it to become uncomfortable. “You don’t get to tell me what to wear anymore,” I say.

            She winces and looks away.

            But I soften my voice, and add, “But I kind of miss it too, you know.”         

            Which is why, five minutes later I’m breathing a lot easier and wearing that polka-dotted red dress. I’ve swapped sexy lingerie for simply cotton bra and panties. It’s a shame the dress really only works with heels, but I keep those sensibly low, a pretty pair of kitten heels with a decorate bow.

            Truth is, I would’ve preferred sweatpants and a t-shirt, but I just can’t seem to help myself around Julia and while there’s nothing aggressively sexy about what I’m wearing, it’s still a step up from simply cute. A moment to swipe on a little lipstick, dab on some gloss and brush back my hair, and I pose in front of the mirror and like what I see there.

            Julia’s waiting by the kitchen when I return, and she eyes my floaty dress and the way she smiles puts a little flutter in my belly and totally justifies the effort.

            I nod towards the bedroom. “Go on,” I say as I tie on an apron. “Why don’t you slip into something more comfortable, too?”

            She arches an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

            “Hey, it’s just us girls, right?” I open the fridge and start to rummage around.  “We’re not too far off on size. Have a look, I’m sure you’ll find something comfy that fits.” I occurs to me I don’t want her to dig around too deeply, but the stuff I wouldn’t want her to find is well hidden.

            I glance back at her over my shoulder. “Pasta alla norma okay?” I pull an eggplant from the fridge and wave it at her.

            Julia’s face is more than a little flushed with drinking, the tip of her ears red, and even without heels she’s swaying a little. She stares at the eggplant for a moment, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “Eggplant? Like the emoji?”

            I roll my eyes. “Go get changed.”

            The veg’s diced and frying in olive oil over a low heat when she returns. I’m expecting jogging pants or maybe jeans—but she swans in wearing a pastel blue babydoll and boy-cut panties. The hem skims her thighs and she’s blushing red as she glares at me with this weird look in her eyes, one part defiance to one part mirth.

            “Found this at the back of your closet,” she says. She stands, leaning against the wall, arms crossed beneath her breasts, and she knows I’m struggling to not stare. Her nipples stand veiled and erect beneath pale blue fabric, and I yearn to caress her tits. Even after everything that’s happened, I feel a twinge in my pussy and bite my lip.

            She grins wickedly at me. “Comfy,” she says.

            “I’d forgotten about that thing,” I say, dragging my gaze away from her.

            “It’s pretty. Wear it often?”

            “Hardly.” I toss a pinch of dried oregano into the frying pan.  “It’s what I was wearing when I first woke up as Cindy, all those months ago.”  I stir the eggplant with a wooden spoon, crisping up the edges but careful to not let it burn. Remembering that first day brings an echo of unpleasantness, a sudden nausea that doesn’t sit well with the night’s drinking. I focus on the cooking and push aside the memories.  “I still have nightmares about that morning. I should’ve thrown it away.”

            So intent am I on the food that it takes me awhile to realize Julia’s gone quiet. When I look up at her, she’s holding one hand balled up into a fist to her chest, and she looks stricken.  “Oh, God—Cindy—I’m sorry. I thought—”

            I force a smile. “Hey—hey, it’s—”

            “For a laugh—”

            “It’s okay—”

            “I’m so sorry….”

            “It’s fine, really…”

            But she’s gone, suddenly, flying back to the bedroom, her gorgeous, pert ass dancing beneath the hem of the babydoll.  And I’m left thinking how I’ll miss her, after tonight. I already miss the sex with her. And I wonder if somehow things could’ve gone differently, in another life, and what that life might’s been like. 

            By the time she returns, I’ve stirred in the tomato paste, red wine vinegar and capers, and brought the pot of salted water to a boil.  I look up from opening a can of chopped tomatoes to see she’s slipped into a pair of faded ripped jeans and a figure-hugging t-shirt emblazoned with “100% Princess.”  That shirt, too, carries memories; it’s funny how much more weighted with meaning clothes are to Cindy.

            “Smells good,” she says, reprising her spot on the wall.  I can see she’s repaired the damage to her makeup again, fresh concealer and mascara. I appreciate the effort in a way I couldn’t have, before. 

            She watches as I place the spaghetti in the boiling water and give the sauce a stir.

            “Did you really say all that?” she asks.

            “What do you mean?”

            “All that—you know—feminism 101 stuff, about clothes and patriarchy and so on.”

             “Yeah.”

            “Did you mean it?”

            “I guess so?” I toss my hair. “I was still pretty fucked up at that point, but he really fucked me off, too. I was feeling the pills more than the booze, brain sparking with ideas, you know? I’m not quite sure it came out as clearly as it sounded in my head, but he got the point.  I’ve definitely got a different perspective on this stuff these days.”

            “Huh.” She watches for another moment, and adds, “David Saunders, feminist crusader. I never would’ve guessed.”

            I wince. ‘Feminist’ still sounds like an insult, somehow, especially in recent years. I shrug.  “I’m not sure a real feminist would agree.  I mean, I did go home with him after all.”

            “And…?”  She smiles and waggles her eyebrows.

            I laugh. “Yeah. I got in some practice.”

            Her eyes go a little wider. “Seriously?”

            I nod. “We stopped at this little noodle shop he knew on the way back to his.  Ramen. I was really coming down by this point and man, I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten food that tasted better than those noodles and that broth did at that point. With the high gone, I really felt the booze and it hit me like a brick to the face. I slumped, I slurred; I was a mess.

            “He pretty much had to carry me the rest of the way to his. There was a taxi, I think. I crashed hard. And you know, this kid, he was alright. I got lucky.” The memory brought with it a little smile. I really hoped everything turned out okay for him, considering. “He dumped me on his bed and crashed on the sofa. And yeah, nothing happened that morning, let me tell you. I felt like death warmed over.

            “But I bounced back quickly.  He fried me up a full breakfast, bacon and eggs and all that, and let me hang out at his place. His roommate, the bouncer, had a stern word with me.” I grinned at the memory of Bruno towering over me, wagging a finger in my face. “And then it was just Jonas and me again for the rest of the day.  We—get this—played Nintendo for hours. We ate pizza. And then suddenly it was, like six in the evening and so….”

            I forced a grin for Julia’s sake. “Well, it seemed a fine way to express my gratitude, right? He was working on his laptop, running some checks on the Tartarus security A.I. and I… how can I put this? Snuck in that practice I promised.”

            “And you were sober?” Julia asked. “You just—”

            “Yup.”

            “And….?”

            I shrugged. “Mission accomplished?”

            “You mean—?”

            Just then the pasta boils over, starchy froth spurting from beneath the lid and sizzling as it hits the stovetop.

            Swearing under my breath, I lift the pot off the stove and drained the water away.  I quickly stir in a lump of butter and some salt, pepper and grated in a little nutmeg before giving the noodles a quick fry over a high heat.  Then I split the seasoned noodles between two plates and spoon the sauce over both servings. We return to the table.  Julia opens the last bottle of red she’s brought with her and pours out two glasses while I grind out a little black pepper.

            We sit and she pokes at her food with her cutlery. She twirls a little around her fork then moves it around her plate. “That was your first?”

            It takes a moment, but I get what she’s asking. “Yeah,” I say around a mouthful of pasta.

            “Did he—”

            “Cum in my mouth, jizz down my throat, feed me his baby gravy?” I spin my fork in my plate. “Drop a load on my tongue, uh—” I stared at the ceiling. “I’m running out of euphemisms here. Spunked—”

            “I get it,” she said. “And…?”
            “Yeah, he did.” I shrug. “It wasn’t as bad as I expected.”

            “Really?”
            And for a moment—just a moment—the charade nearly breaks. My toes curl and my hand, unseen beneath the table, clenches around my knee and I’m sure the knuckles whiten from the tension; but above the table, I remain calm and sweetly smile. “Really, really. Like, so really, I sucked him off more than once.”

            “Huh.”

            “You can’t be that surprised,” I say. “Like, together, we’ve—”

            “Yeah, but that was….” She hesitates. “Different. And I thought—”

            “That was the first one?”
            She nods her head.

            “Sorry to disappoint.”

            She contemplates that for a moment. “So, what happened with you and that boy?”

            “Jonas?” I sigh. “I went around to his place a few more times, and we hung out, and it sort of petered out. He was a nice kid, but—you know.” I wave the fork at me. “Look at me—major hottie, right? Out of his league.”

            “Bitch,” Julia said, and laughed. “Who knew?”

            “What can I say? He was a bit boring. He also never got over the whole sexist incel thing. That got to be a real drag, really quick.”  But I smile at the memory, and a little regretfully add, “but I guess I could’ve done a lot worse.  He was my first, after all: my first blowjob, my first boyfriend.”

            She stares at me, swirl of spaghetti suspended over her plate. “First….?”

            “Yes?”

            “You know—”

            “What?”

            “Did you—have sex with him?”

            “A lady doesn’t tell.”

            “You’re no lady,” she says. “And by the time I was back on the scene….” She trails off, then shakes her head.  “Your life’s complicated, Cindy Bellamy.”

            Picking my glass of wine, I raise it in cheer. “To a complicated life—a long one.”

            Her glass chimes with mine, and she takes a long drink before finally taking her first bite of food. “Hey, this is pretty good.”

            “Thanks,” I say wryly.

            We eat in silence. I’d forgotten how nice it is to cook for someone, and I’m enjoying the moment, sharing food without there being any awkwardness. Her company is reassuring, as is knowing there’s no pressure for anything to happen afterwards. The meal wasn’t a prelude to sex or making out on the sofa; it wasn’t an attempt to impress. It occurred to me then that this meal might be another first: my first time sitting down with a girl for the simple enjoyment of their company, and nothing more.

            And so, because it’s just two friends sitting and sharing a meal, I ask, “how’s work?”

            Julia’s face twists into a scowl. “Really?”

            “Oh—sorry, I didn’t—”

            “Work sucks,” she interrupts.  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Then she jabs at her food, takes an angry bite, and then clearly does want to talk about it because she launches into it with fervour, face reddened by booze and anger. 

            “It’s all fucked up, is what it is. Ever since that jackass Malik got the promotion over me—” and I swear she pauses here and glares at me, as though I’m somehow responsible, and I shiver—“it’s been a nightmare.

            “He keeps pulling me up on anything, everything, the tiniest infraction that isn’t precisely according to the new owner’s guidelines—including the dress code—the fucking dress code!—and that’s how they’re getting at us, now, isn’t it, finding little transgressions to use against us, keep us in line, keep us off balance, distract us from what matters.” She waves her fork angrily in the air. “The hypocrisy is staggering. Have you seen the way Malik dresses?”

            She spears a piece of eggplant and glares at it, glistening on metal tines. “He actually sent me home one day, can you fucking believe it? For not being dressed properly. Like some schoolgirl with her skirt rolled up too high, except these goddamn perverts want the short skirts, don’t they?  But it was just a pretext to get me out of the office, to miss a meeting with the client they’d secretly arranged—and when I was out of the office, they went and fucked up my project! My project—I’ve been working on the Unifab marketing campaign for months.

            “They went and changed the tagline, you know, I told you about it, the “Because you’re worth it,” campaign. All the pieces were lined up, we had the creative agencies on board, advertisers, copywriters, the client was happy, this whole massive product line aimed at women and it tracked well, V.I. research indicated it was a hit with the target audience.

            “And now? Now it’s “Because he’s worth it” and instead of the whole thing being this self-empowerment thing, it’s all about the man, the usual heteronormative bullshit, reinforcing stereotypes, women seeking external validation from male authority. Hard-working men have never worked harder for this country, the bosses said. Brave men are dying in wars overseas, they said. Selfless men are keeping this country going, they said. Isn’t it time we thought about the men for a change?

            She growls from somewhere deep in her throat. “Like, the message to women is clear, isn’t it? Reward your man! Dress up for them, wear makeup for them… spread your legs for them—aren’t they worth it?”

            A heavy gulp of wine silences her long enough for me to squeeze in a word. “How’d the new tagline go over with the focus groups?”

             “People loved it!” She bangs the poor table with her first and the plates rattle, a little wine sploshes onto the table.  “They loved the idea of rewarding men for all their so-called sacrifices. They loved the idea of a return of traditional values, women in the household, men at work.”  She growls into her plate of food. “They should’ve strangled that fucking trad-wife movement in its cradle thirty years ago.”

            I give her a moment, considering my words before speaking. “Does it matter?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Either way, it’s just selling shit nobody needs to people who ought to know better.” I shrug.  “One way or another, it’s just about making money.”

            She glares at me. “You sit there in a dress and think it doesn’t matter?”
            “No,” I say. “I sit here wearing a dress and think it wrong, and yeah, it sucks but there’s fuck-all I can do about it. But I also sit here thinking there are people out there actively looking to kill me and there’s fuck all I can do about it.”

            I wave my hand at the night outside Cindy’s little apartment, towards the distant city and the world beyond it. “I sit here wearing a dress, and the world’s going to shit, there’s wars on beyond our borders and riots in our streets, the oceans are boiling and the coasts are flooding and governments world-wide are going ape-shit crazy, we’ve got pandemics breaking out every couple of years here, there and everywhere—and we’re just waiting for another freaky AI to try and wipe out the world and—guess what?

            “There’s nothing I can do about it, about any of it.

            “Compared to all that, what’s my story worth? A guy witnesses a murder and ends up in witness protection disguised as a girl, and does his best to fit in and survive—and what does it matter? Maybe I’ll get back to being a guy someday. Maybe I’ll be stuck as a girl for the rest of my life.  Maybe they’ll get me and kill me in some horrible, horrible way. Either way: the world’s still going to suck. And your campaign’s going to sell stupid shit to stupid people and make some stupid assholes a truckload of money.”

            Julia stares at me for a long time, as though trying to decide whether I’m being serious or not. “Doesn’t anything matter to you?”

            “This matters,” I say and wave my fork at her.  “You matter. This moment in time? It matters.”  I pluck at the neckline of my dress.  “And this matters because this is something I’ve got some small control over. I wore this dress because I knew it’d make you happy, and yeah, that made me happy, too.”

            She blinks, and I swear there’s sudden tears in her eyes, and her lips twist into something that’s almost a smile, almost an expression of pain.

            “Thank you,” she says, voice barely audible.

            “My life—it’s a small life right now, and I don’t know—maybe I’m okay with that. I don’t want to change the world.  I can’t change the world. The best I can do is…”  My hand flutters in the air, nails flashing. “… is be a good girl, I guess, the best girl I can be; and maybe there’s a virtue in that. Maybe there’s happiness to be found in that.”

            Then I smile at her. “And if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get in some good food and drink along the way.” I raise my glass of wine in mock cheer. “And even better company.”

            Julia eyes me for a moment, and she sits back in her chair and a little smile breaks through. “And sex?”

            “Hell yeah,” I say. Then I pat my frustratingly smooth groin, and grimace. “Well, not so much these days.”

            “Fine.” She pushes what’s left of her food around her plate for a moment, biting her lip. “Here and now. Fine.” She frowns, then glances up at me, and sighs. “You’re turn, then. How’s work going?”

            “Fine,” I shrug, and begin to tell her—a not particularly exciting story of low-level inter-office politics, data entry, minor mistakes and just a frisson of sexual tension. I’m holding back the good stuff for later, but notice then that Julia’s stopped eating. She’s staring blankly at her half-finished plate of food.

            “Everything okay?” I ask, even though obviously it isn’t.

            It takes her a moment, and a deep breath, before she makes eye contact. Her eyes shimmer, as though still holding back tears—but no, it’s not that. She’s drunk and yeah, maybe that’s got her a bit mawkish, but there’s something more profound than simple sadness in the way she looks at me.

            “Julia?”

            She stares at me for a moment longer, and then sighs. “I was just thinking.”

            “About?”

            Instead of answering, she stands and steps away from the table. Stepping across to the little funerial display I’d made, she gazes down at the little circle of flickering candles and the framed photo in the middle. She picks it up. Her fingers trace the face of the man she sees there. She glances back at me, and her smile is a little watery.

            “He really is dead, isn’t he?” she says.

            I flinch. The words hurt, far more than expected.

            “Do you remember the first time we met?” Her voice is soft, but in the deep quiet of the room easy to hear.  She focuses on the photo as she speaks.  “The first time I met Cindy, I mean.”

            It takes a moment to remember. “At Café d’Eon?”

            “Yeah.  And after, at the restaurant—remember? You told me a story, a story about a wedding dress.”
            I nod.

            “It was all lies, right?”

            I shrug. “No. It really happened. Except for the epiphany part, you know, suddenly discovering I wanted to be a woman because I saw a gorgeous dress.” Then I smile. “Though that part was true, too. It just wasn’t my story. I knew this guy—girl, rather—years back; performer at a drag club. It was her story; I stole it and made it a part of mine.”

            “But you know, that story—the dress—the wedding dress—have you ever thought about—” but then she frowns, and cuts off, and stares at her food again.

            “About?”

            “Marriage,” she says and then quickly adds, “or even just the future. You talk about how nothing matters except the here and now, but you must’ve thought about…?” She trails off, and gently returns the framed photo to its little ring of flickering lights.

            Cocking my head to one side, I consider how to answer. The whole situation is surreal. Sitting opposite Julia in my tiny little apartment, the night outside flaring with the passing lights of drones and the distant city centre—me in a dress, her in my borrowed clothing—the remains of a meal I’ve made on the table and… I kind of get where she’s coming from, I think.

            “About?”

            “What happens if….” Her hand traces little circles in the air between us, delineating me, my apartment, my current life.  “If Cindy, you know…?”

            I take a deep breath. “Is… permanent?”

            She nods.

            I stand and step away from the table. My heels tap out a gentle rhythm as I walk up next to her and join Julia in quiet contemplation of the deceased. His green eyes and sardonic grin and innate confidence belie a future he can’t possibly imagine.

            “He’s dead,” I say. “But not gone, not completely. I mean, there’s a bit of him right here,” and I pat that smooth space between my legs, and smile weakly, “that I definitely intend to see again someday.” I glance aside at her. “But otherwise—yeah….”

            I’ll be damned but tears gather at the corner of my eyes, and maybe I’m as drunk as she is, and getting maudlin too. Blinking to clear them, I quickly step away from her so she doesn’t see the tears.

             “I don’t see anyway he comes back from this,” I mutter and yank open the patio door.

            Passing through, I step out onto the small balcony, hugging myself against the chill night air.  The wind tugs at my hair and sets the hem of my dress dancing around my legs. The earlier rain has passed but the city smells of dampness, and even at this time of night cars sluice through the water in the streets, headlights throwing up shimmering pools from below.

            Stepping outside, staring into the darkness, it all feels so performative, an act for Julia’s benefit—and the benefit of any watching assholes, whether Jeff or the Clinic or some pervert from one of the other high rise buildings.

            But it’s also genuine, and I hadn’t expected that.

            Julia’s standing next to me now, also hugging herself against the night. “You okay?”

            I turn to her. The wind catches my hair and blows it into my face, and I pull it away from my eyes and from where it sticks to my lips.  “What the fuck do you want me to say, Julia?”

            “I want…” Her shoulders sag, and he shakes her head.  “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what I want.”

            “Have I thought about what happens if I spend the rest of my life as Cindy?  Yeah, I’ve fucking thought about that.  Of course I’ve thought about that.”  I turn away from her, looking back at the city.  My office is out there somewhere; possibly, my future as well. “Living the rest of my life as… Cindy.  And if you’re asking—if you’re asking, does that future involve marriage?  Have I thought about getting married? Wearing white, being a bride, being—” and here I all bit spit the words, “a wife, yeah? Is that what you’re asking?”

            Her touch at my shoulder brings me back to her. “Watching you cook,” she says, quietly, voice almost lost to the wind. “And what you’ve done with the place. I dunno. I just thought—” and she gives a little smile, a touch mischievous but also genuine and a little sad. And now it’s her turn to stare at the distant city lights. “Or imagined, rather. I suddenly pictured—us.”

            She takes my hands in hers. “Can you imagine it, too?”

            And the things is—I can’t.

            I don’t tell her this, of course. I let her have her fantasy—some alternate reality where we stayed together, I guess, dated for a year or two, got engaged, got married. Sat around the dinner table, eating home-cooked meals and talking about our day. Work. Bills. Sitting up in bed, side-by-side and… reading? Isn’t that what married couple do? And fuck, I suppose, from time to time.

            Thing is, I’ve never thought much of the future. As David I never really looked ahead. Never imagined myself as an adult—as someone with a pension, though I paid into one, or as someone paying off a mortgage, though I’d made good progress on that, too. I simply hadn’t imagined myself as old; I certainly never imagined myself growing old -with- anyone.

            I give her hands a squeeze. “And when you imagine us together, is it—me?  Or is it… me?”

            She smiles wistfully. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? It’s—both.  I want both.”

            “I know,” I say, and give her hands another squeeze.

            She winces.  “Ouch,” she says.  “That hurts,” she says.

            “Good,” I say. “I think it’s time.”

            Julia’s eyes widen.  “No.”

            “I want to tell you the story,” I say, and my voice turns harsh. “Or rather, finish the story of the ex-girlfriend.”

            “No!” she exclaimed.

            But I tell her anyway.