Sneak Peak: Waiting for a Decision (Patreon)

I haven't actually read the novel, but there's a passage in Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar that inspired some of the following.  The "fig tree" extract is as follows:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

Anyway, I've, ah, 'referenced' the above in the sneak peak from the Interlude below.  Still in an early draft form, and some of the below is likely to change with revision - especially the bit that borrows from the fig tree, I think, but also the bit just before he heads into his meeting.

I'm a little concerned that his self-convincing that he's heading home male has come out of nowhere; I need to look back over the whole Interlude and make sure it's a convincing self-delusion for David to be carrying.

Enjoy!

***

Leaving the infirmary, David checked the time and saw he still had a half-hour to go before his meeting. He felt momentarily at a loss. What to do? There wasn’t time to hit the gym; he wasn’t hungry enough, yet, for the canteen; and as nice as the staff were, he hoped to never visit the salon—any salon—again unless it was to get these damned acrylic nails removed or long hair hacked down to size.

Walking without direction, he checked his phone. Nothing from Julia over the past few days. Her last message warned him something had come up at work. She’d be busy, but was looking forward to his return, needed a good fuck and had some darling outfits she couldn’t wait for him to try on. Nothing from Dan, either: the last message was nearly a week ago, a few cheeky exchanges following the dick and boob pics, sexy promises, dirty late-night vulgarities and some saccharine words, then nothing.

Probably caught up at work as well, David thought.

He could visit Chad, maybe?

The thought brought an unfamiliar tingle to his tummy, a pleasant flush that caught him entirely by surprise. A memory of last night flashed across his mind before he could still it: strong male hands at his waist delineating his corseted form before effortlessly twirling him around, reaching for the laces behind; the near ecstasy of the undergarment being loosened, unclasped, and pried away; then the breath of cool air against his skin as he shimmied out of the light cotton tank top. Standing there naked but for panties and bra and smiling shyly up at Chad and taking his hand in his and leading him towards the sofa….

Fucking hormones, David grunted.

Further wandering brought him to a little nook, one of many dotted around the Clinic, little oases of calm where clients and staff could retreat, relax and reflect. It was unusual to find them unused, but then David was wandering in unfamiliar locations outside of his usual times. This little alcove contained a semi-circular divan set before an expansive curved window looking out over a little garden, Japanese Zen-style of combed pebbles and perfectly placed features constrained within a narrow bamboo enclosure.

He stood there unmoving for a moment, a short-skirted silhouette against the daylight. The silence of solitude beckoned him, with only the muffled sound of his steps intruding in this secluded retreat. He smoothed down his skirt as he sat, and then grimaced, wondering why he bothered with the performance when he was alone. With legs crossed at the knee, hands resting in his lap, David stared into the garden.

Minimalist features drew his gaze to the lines in the gravel and he followed the pattern as they curved and swirled around larger stones, a few modest shrubs, the tiny pond. In focusing on the simplicity of the arrangement he found himself suddenly mindful of his isolation. An unexpected ache of loneliness seized him. He quelled an instinct to reach for his phone and contact—anyone.

Instead, he took a deep breath. He felt the constriction around his chest and the slight movement of air against his bare arms and breathed out slowly and again breathed in and again breathed out and felt a welcome calm settle. In his calm he felt hyperaware of his situation and appearance, the gentle grip of boots at his calves and the slight arch to his feet; the tickle of earrings touching his cheek and the weight of long hair; the straps over his shoulder and the reality of breasts; the dull ache of his testicles; caress of pantyhose and the annoyance of a rolled waistband across his belly; even the mostly insubstantial presence of makeup on lips, cheek and eyes.

He felt all this and breathed and felt the anger and frustration and breathed and tried to let it go. And it seemed as though two distinct voices spoke within him.

This is the last day, one said.

You’re fooling yourself, the other answered.

I don’t need you.

I’m not going anywhere.

I can’t endure this any longer.

Yes. We can.

Opening eyes he hadn’t consciously squeezed shut, David followed the maze-like pattern outside to where they converged at the base of a small pear tree. Its leaves danced in the turbulent winds beyond the window and the riot of oranges and yellows contrasted vividly with the placid restraint of the garden beneath. David watched the tree for a moment, the way some of its branches reached upwards as though to escape the confines of the space created for it.

And it seemed to him that he could see his own life branching out before him in the boughs of the tree outside. Reflected in the glass, the trees arms seemed to extend from the faint image he projected. Each split in the tree led to a different branch that dipped and swayed in the wind, winking in the dappled light, grown fruit hanging heavily.

His eyes traced branches on the far side of the tree, the side that curved back into the garden. Sheltered a little from the autumnal blast they held more colour, more leaves and lent their brilliance back to the communal space. He saw in these branches the continuance of Cindy’s life and even as his mind balked at the possibility, for the first time David directly confronted a female future.

His fingernails dug deeply and painfully into his palms as hands curled into clenched fists. He looked down. Such beautiful fingernails, glossy and shaped and softly pink, a testament to the artistry of the Clinic’s salon and his own developing skills. His breathing became laboured and something churned deep within his belly and he looked up.

From the tip of every branch, like a plump and juicy pear, a colourful life beckoned and winked. One pear was a young girl dancing, sequins and sparking heels in the strobing light, and another was a secretary, pencil skirt and fitted top, sitting attentively by the side of the boardroom, and another was coffee shop chic, and another lounged in the brilliant glare of sun and beach, sunglasses and bikini, and another twirled in platforms and tassels around a pole under lurid lights, and yet another melted into the arms of her lover, and another was a girlfriend, always pretty and attentive and taken care off.

And there were other pears beyond those, swaying in the shadows just out of sight, hints of a life he couldn’t quite make out, but always a life that shimmered and glowed so long as youthful vibrancy endured, dancing and partying in defiance of irrelevancy, work days flirting with male colleagues and nights, endless nights filled with daring outfits and even more daring heels, moist lips and eager curves, pressing up against the hardness of men and the constant games of predator and prey until, finally—it ended, with age, with faded beauty, with the once-sought, once-resented gaze of others turned elsewhere.

Other bare branches struck him as more sombre, lonelier paths of frustration and resentment, seeking to reclaim lost authority in a world reluctant to take her seriously no matter how she presented. In this future what she wore or how cleverly or knowledgeably she spoke seemed irrelevant. Power suits and power heels, subdued makeup, impassioned speeches, further studies, ignored opportunities, denied pleasures, focus and hard work, anger, manicured fingers curled into tight fists pounding endlessly against an unbreakable glass wall in a fruitless effort to regain what was lost.

The far side of the tree bore fewer fruit and the branches were far barer, having reached upwards and outwards and therefore suffered the buffets of autumnal winds. On this side David imagined he saw his lost male life. In it, he saw surprisingly little. The few branches led only to the life he’d known six months ago. Dark suits and white shirts, heavy shoes and standing bored at the head of a boardroom table whilst lines jumped and fell on the screen behind him. He saw the long counter of a bar under dim lights and him standing there, with some shallow little bitch at his side drinking at his expense. He saw a man sitting in a chair with a lonely tumbler of single malt whisky staring out over the cold, uncaring, unblinking lights of the city from the high perch of an expensive condo.

He saw no branches beyond that, no fruit to pick; and could not imagine a life beyond the one he’d been forcefully torn from. And with each branch he traced he felt a spark that grew to a flame to an inferno within, a rage that suffused his being until he realised that what he really wanted was none of these things, he wanted to tear the tree down, set it afire and burn the whole fucking garden to ashes.

The bracelet at his wrist vibrated.

Shaking his head, trembling slightly, David regained his feet. He had an appointment to keep.

It was only a short walk to the building where he’d been meeting regularly with Crystal over the past ten days, and he arrived in good time for his appointment. The door was locked, and subtle red light indicating they weren’t ready for him yet. He took a seat and waited. On the other side of that door, he knew, his three… keepers, he supposed, was the correct word; beyond that threshold, Crystal, Jonathon and K were determining his future.

He was leaving here a man. He plucked nervously at the woolen outer fabric of his skirt, and his other hand tightened around his nylon-covered knee. He had to be. What purpose could there be to trapping him in Cindy’s life for any longer? For a moment it seemed as though he could even feel it, a physical reality defined by absence: the weight gone from his chest, feet no longer pinched and poised in an arch, his scalp unburdened, a face free of makeup, his frame no longer constrained by tight feminine clothing.

I’m leaving here a man, the voice in his head said.

Wanting it doesn’t make it true, the other voice answered.

He checked his armband. The appointment should have started by now. Nervousness bubbled inside of him—what could be taking so long?—and he rummaged around inside his handbag and pulled out a little sparkly bag. Gazing into his mobile, he began to touch up his makeup. The soft sweep of the brush at his cheek, the attentive line of the pencil at his eye, and the smooth touch of lipstick brought with it a reflexive calm, until David suddenly found himself outside himself, watching this frivolous little princess primping in public, and felt seized by disgust.

You’d miss this, the second voice said. You’d miss me.

Would he? Sitting there, he considered what he’d miss from the past six months. Six months! Since that fateful night at the top of the Neopharm tower, he’d gone from—

From what? the second voice whispered, the girl voice.

Global director, David thought. Top job. Suits and wing tips and a heavy watch at my wrist.

That was never you, the voice said.

From being a man, then, he returned. From bending Jeremiah Steele’s personal assistant over her own desk and fucking her senseless.

From being lonely, the girl in his head returned. From chasing anything in a skirt in the hopes of recapturing something you lost long ago, in the hope of recapturing—

No! David squeezed his eyes shut.

You’ve never had it so good. With Julia, the voice said. And with Chad, the voice said.

Chad; again, the little flutter in his stomach, a bubble of happiness at the memory of their meetings over the past ten days. And last night, leading him by the hand to his—to her apartment, walking the lamp-lit pebbled paths of the Clinic under the half-moon, shivering a little in the rising wind and cold air until he pulled her closer, nestling in his grip as they passed through one of the many gardens. Pausing, under the swaying branches of a sheltering trees, a riot of yellows and reds and feeling a man’s hands at her waist, at her shoulders, behind her neck and gently pulling her into a—kiss.

David’s wristband vibrated. It was time.