Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

‘It’s great to see you again,’ he said planting a trademark fat kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re a major media star these days!’ I began to feel better.

      ‘And you’re a Major – full stop!’

      ‘About bloody time!’ he laughed. ‘But then I always was a late developer,’ he added with a good-natured smile.

      Now, as I had my one glass of champagne, my stress levels plummeted from their Himalayan heights and began to stroll calmly around at Base Camp. So what if Mary-Claire was living with Ed? It didn’t make any difference to me. In fact it’ll make it easier for me to get over him I thought, knowing that he’s moved on so fast. I’m not bothered about Ed, I said to myself. Ed’s over. The credits on our marriage have rolled. As things turned out, it wasn’t the major motion picture it was meant to be – it was only a short.

      As Henry chatted away to me I gazed at his handsome face. His sandy hair was retreating a little, but he looked much the same as before. The lids above the forget-me-not-blue eyes were a tiny bit crinklier and there were two parallel lines etched on his brow. He’d put on a little weight since I’d last seen him, and there was an incipient jowl beneath his square jaw. But he looked so attractively manly in his sports jacket, smart cords and polished brogues.

      Henry and I had met at a barbecue in Fulham five years before. We were involved for a while, but it didn’t go anywhere – well, he was always away. Which, funnily enough, was exactly the same problem I’d had with my previous boyfriend, Tom. He was a pilot with British Airways flying the Australian route; we’d had a few nice stopovers here and there but otherwise things didn’t really take off. Anyway, Henry was posted to Cyprus for a year, then Belize, then Gibraltar, so our affair soon fizzled out. But we’d remained in touch intermittently and I’d retained a soft spot for him the size of a swamp. It was two years since I’d last seen him and as we ate we reminisced about old times.

      ‘Do you remember the fun we had re-enacting famous battles with your old Action Men?’ I asked fondly.

      ‘With you doing the explosions!’

      ‘Playing Warships in bed.’

      ‘You always beat me.’

      ‘Making Lego tanks.’

      ‘Oh yes.’

      ‘Watching reruns of Colditz.’

      ‘And The World At War.’

      ‘We had fun didn’t we?’

      ‘Ra-ther.’

      He told me about the NATO manoeuvres he’d been on, the Balkan skirmishes – ‘Fabulous stuff!’ His stint with the UN Peacekeeping force in Bosnia – ‘bloody hairy!’; a recent tour of duty in the Gulf. Then I told him about my marital battles, and about Mary-Claire Grey; he squeezed my hand.

      ‘She’s moved in with him,’ I said dismally, feeling the shock of it all over again. ‘I’ve just found out. I can’t believe it, Henry. He’s only known her three months.’

      ‘That’s tough.’

      ‘Still, I guess it’ll make me a better agony aunt,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘You know, been there – suffered that. And what about you?’ I asked as the waiter brought my lemon sole.

      ‘Well,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘I’m newly single too. I got dumped by my latest girlfriend.’ My ears pricked up. That was clearly why he’d wanted to see me.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I lied.

      ‘Well, Venetia’s a super girl – but it didn’t work out.’

      ‘Wouldn’t she make the explosion noises?’

      ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘It wasn’t that. It was just that’ – he sighed, then pushed a piece of steak round his plate.

      ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ I said quietly.

      ‘No, really, Rose, I do. I do want to tell you,’ he repeated sadly as I sipped my water.

      ‘So what happened?’

      ‘Well,’ he went on, awkwardly, ‘it was just that there was…’ he exhaled painfully then drew the air through his teeth, ‘…another woman.’ Oh. Now that didn’t sound like Henry at all – he’s never been a ladies’ man.

      ‘And Venetia found out?’

      ‘Yes. But it’s slightly complicated actually,’ he said, his face aflame. ‘In fact Rose, do you mind, if I…well, if I pick your brains a bit? You see I’ve got this, um…well…problem, actually.’ My heart sagged like a sinking soufflé. That’s why he’d wanted to see me again – he just wanted to ask my advice.

      ‘I don’t want you to think I asked you out under false pretences,’ he said with a guilty smile, ‘but it’s just that I know I can trust you. I know that you won’t judge. And I was feeling so dreadfully low the other night, and I couldn’t sleep, so I switched on the radio and, to my amazement, there you were. And you were giving such good advice to all those people, so I decided that I’d ask you for some too.’ I looked at his open but anxious face, and my indignation melted like the dew.

      ‘Don’t worry Henry,’ I murmured. ‘Of course I’ll help you. Just tell me what it’s about.’

      ‘Well,’ he tried again, with a profound sigh, ‘the other woman. You see…the other woman, as it were…’ he cleared his throat. ‘This other woman…’

      ‘Yes?’

      He glanced anxiously to left and right to check we couldn’t be overheard. ‘Well,’ he whispered, running a nervous finger round his collar, ‘the other woman…is…erm…me.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      Henry had flushed bright red, his face radiating a heat that could have melted Emmenthal. Now he discreetly pulled aside his speckled blue silk tie and undid a button on his striped shirt. Then he parted the fabric to reveal a square inch of black filigree lace. I stared at it in stupefaction. Henry? Never. Henry? No way! Henry? Not on your life! On the other hand, I suddenly remembered, cross-dressing is not uncommon amongst men in the forces, something which has always struck me as strange. The thought of all these big, macho, military types dolled up in frocks and high heels.

      ‘When did this…start?’ I enquired with professional curiosity, trying not to show I was shocked.

      ‘About a year ago,’ he replied. ‘I’d always been fascinated by women’s clothes,’ he admitted in a whisper. ‘In fact, when I was a boy, I used to “borrow” Mum’s petticoats. I suppressed it of course but then, as I got older, I got this unbearable…urge. I found I couldn’t get dressed without putting on a pair of lacy pants first. But then Venetia caught me going through her knicker drawer and went crazy: she said I must be gay, but I’m not.’

      ‘Of course you’re not gay,’ I said. ‘Ninety-five per cent of cross-dressers are totally straight and in fact most are married with kids.’

      ‘I know I’m definitely attracted to women,’ Henry went on, ‘always have been, but there are times when I simply want to be one. I can’t explain why. This strange compulsion grips me and I know I’ve just got to go and put on a dress. But it freaked Venetia out and she walked.’

      ‘Well some women are very understanding about it,’ I said. ‘It’s a common…’ – I avoided saying, ‘problem’ – ‘…thing. You wouldn’t believe how many letters I get about it,’ I added casually.

      ‘Well I thought you’d have come across it before. You won’t tell anyone,’ he whispered.

      ‘No, I won’t.’

      ‘And you see, there’s no-one else I felt I could ask.’ I looked at Henry’s honest face, then dropped my gaze to his large,