Stepping Out Read online

  My thanks to M, for the conversations

  Her new shoes lay on the bed, on top of the smoothed-out sheets of tissue paper they had been wrapped in when she’d taken them out of the box.

  Paula stood them up with their heels together, ruby slippers style.

  She remembered the day the parcel had arrived: how she had chatted with the delivery guy while he’d faffed around sorting out the receipt for her to sign; how long that minute or two had seemed before she’d been free to shut the door and run up the thirty-two stairs to her flat. She’d resisted ripping the packaging and had instead opened it carefully, in case she needed to reuse it to send them back.

  The first time she had held the maroon velvet shoes in her hands, she’d made herself wrap them up again and put them away without trying them on, because with socks or with bare feet, they might have looked ugly. So she had waited, bought a new pair of tights on her way home from work and then – only then – stepped into them.

  The heels had felt higher than they’d looked. Her body seemed to have been reset; its angles altered by her weight shifting onto the balls of her feet. Her bum stuck out a little, and her spine curved in a way she wasn’t used to, the small of her back now concave.

  She had practised walking in the shoes from room to room and, just once, down the stairs and up again, hoping none of her neighbours would pick that moment to open their front door as she passed.

  It wasn’t as hard as she’d expected but, even so, tonight she had made herself a mug of tea to have while putting on her make-up, rather than the kind of drink she knew she could really do with.

  It was nearing the time she was due to leave home, and her hands were beginning to shake as she tried to finish her lips. She made a face at her reflection and put down the lipstick. There was a bottle of white open in the fridge: maybe she would chance a small glass after all. Just enough to take the edge off her nerves, but not make her wobbly on those heels.

  Her phone rang as she was pouring the drink.

  ‘Hiya, Angie,’ Paula said.

  ‘Alright?’ asked her sister. ‘Just checking: are you sure you don’t want me to come and pick you up?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ll see you there.’ Paula smiled as she spoke, a tip she’d picked up to make her voice sound brighter, which would also, she hoped, disguise her jitters.

  She walked back into her bedroom, sipping her wine as she went.

  ‘Okay, great.’ Angie paused. ‘You really are coming, though, yeah? You’re not gonna change your mind?’

  ‘Babe, I’ve spent three hours getting ready.’ Paula sat down again at her dressing table. ‘I didn’t do all this just to spend the evening in front of the telly.’

  Her smile looked fake in the mirror, but it must have done the trick because Angie laughed.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘And, Paula, I’m going to make sure I get there before you, okay? So you won’t have to worry about waiting on your own, or anything.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve only got to get dressed now – and have another go at my lippy, once I’ve knocked this back.’ She clinked her glass against her phone for her sister to hear.

  ‘Dutch courage? I don’t blame you.’

  ‘See you in a bit, then. Love you loads.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  Paula’s hand looked elegant in the mirror as it held her wine glass. She was glad she hadn’t put on the false nails she’d bought online the other week. Her own nails were short but, nicely filed and painted with a clear gloss, they looked groomed rather than attention-grabbing. And she certainly didn’t want to grab attention tonight, with her nails or anything else.

  She paid what she hoped would be her last visit to the loo, then returned to her bedroom where she’d arranged her outfit on the armchair the night before.

  Everything was new.

  She put on her briefs, adjusted them until they felt right, and then took off her bath robe and put on her bra, with a filler tucked inside each cup to give her a bit of cleavage. Next came what her gran used to call a panty girdle, which used to set Paula and Angie off giggling when they were kids, neither of them imagining that they would ever end up wearing such a thing.

  Paula had to wriggle and pull to get into it, but once it was on it felt comfortingly firm, smoothing her body from waist to thighs.

  The full-length mirror stood in its usual place facing the wall. Now, though, she turned it around.

  She closed her eyes for a moment before she looked at the reflection of her body.

  Paula breathed again.

  You’re getting there.

  Then she scrutinised herself, front and side.

  Her bra had become lopsided – it must have slipped as she’d fought her way into the girdle – so she straightened it and, after another struggle, re-fastened it on the tightest hooks.

  She should have put her tights on first, Paula realised, because the girdle’s hold on her made it difficult to bend to reach her feet. But she persevered and managed it, and after the tights came the trousers, their black fabric hanging softly from a high waistband.

  It was a lot of layers to be wearing, but each one felt like protection.

  She returned to the dressing table and finished off her make-up, patting on a little more powder to make sure her foundation would last, and painting her lips with a steadier hand – thank you, pinot grigio.

  Her blouse wasn’t a dressed-up style, but it was pretty with a print of tiny flowers, some of them the same maroon shade as her shoes. Paula wanted to look as if she might have come straight from the office, and had not spent weeks in anticipation, planning what to wear – sometimes with excitement, other times with dread – nor a whole day off work to prepare herself.

  Her first attempt at tying her silky scarf made her look like she was wearing a surgical collar.

  ‘Silly bitch,’ she said, and had another go, looping it less tightly.

  Better.

  She’d bought her jacket from a charity shop so, although it was new to her, it looked a little bit lived-in, as if its previous wearer had been comfortable in it as well as in her own skin. Putting it on, Paula hoped some of that comfort might rub off on her, second hand.

  Finally, the shoes.

  She set them on the floor and sat on the bed. There was a subtle sound, she had discovered, when a tights-clad foot slid into a shoe; a shh as it slipped into place. Paula could imagine a future in which that sound would become so familiar she would no longer notice it and, years from now, even forget that she ever had.

  She stood for one last look in the mirror to make sure everything was right, and tried out her smile again.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, then picked up her bag and left.

  Her heels were noisy on the stairs, and again she expected her neighbours’ faces to appear from behind closed doors as she made her way down.

  Get a grip, Paula. There were other women living in the block – why should her footsteps attract any more attention than theirs did?

  It was a short walk to the bus stop. She hung back as she got there, glancing at the handful of people in the queue: a teenage boy and girl far too involved with each other to look at anyone else, and two men and a woman each preoccupied by their phone.

  When the bus came, though, Paula made accidental eye contact with a guy getting off and felt a flush of panic. He worked in the newsagent’s she went to every week to buy a lottery ticket, and she usually had a chat with him about whatever was on the front of the newspapers. But tonight he showed no sign that he recognised her.

  She sat down and stared out of the window for most of the fifteen-minute journey, barely registering what she was looking at. She was concentrating instead on what the people on the bus were saying, fearing it would be about her.
Their conversations, however – one man chatting on his phone and a pair of girls heading out for the evening like Paula – turned out to be mundane.

  Someone got on and took the seat between hers and the aisle, unconsciously spreading into her space. She shrank back and hoped he would get off before her so she wouldn’t have to ask him to let her out.

  Perhaps she should have had a bigger glass of wine.

  A couple of stops before her destination, she began to worry. What if Angie had been held up and wouldn’t be at the bar when Paula arrived? She pictured herself searching through the crowd for her sister, as the eyes of a hundred strangers appraised her.

  She scrabbled in her bag for her phone and messaged Angie: There in 5 xx

  The answer came straight away: I’ll come outside and meet you xx

  The man beside Paula was still seated when the bus neared her stop. She would have to speak to him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Can I just . . . ?’

  He stood up to let her past. Paula smiled a thank you and he nodded, and in her head she marked it as another step taken.

  Walking in heels along a crowded pavement was a different experience to practising at home. She slowed down, scared not that she would topple over, but that she might look ungainly if she rushed.

  Angie was standing just outside the entrance to the bar. She was looking in Paula’s direction but didn’t seem to see her. Even at a distance, Paula could read the anxiety in her sister’s expression and in the way she dragged on her cigarette.

  It wasn’t like her at all.

  Angie had been the fearless one ever since school, putting herself in between Paula and the name-callers and setting them straight. Always turning up with the right thing – a bar of chocolate back then; a bottle of wine these days – when all seemed hopeless.

  It wasn’t until they were just a few metres apart that she recognised Paula, smiled, and became that big sister again.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure it was you,’ Angie said as they hugged.

  ‘You okay?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Me? Course I am.’

  ‘Ange?’

  She hesitated. ‘It’s a big night, that’s all, for me as well – a night out with my sister.’ She squeezed Paula’s hand. ‘You look gorgeous, girl.’

  Paula shrugged. ‘It’s the best I could do, anyway.’

  ‘No, I mean it, Paula. You look better than me, you skinny thing.’

  ‘Who’s in there, Angie?’

  ‘Right, so apart from me and Mark, it’s just my mate Kim from work, and her boyfriend, Lewis. They’re both really nice. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Just a couple of people who don’t know anything, so you can see if . . .’

  ‘Yeah. Is it crowded?’

  ‘Not very. You coming in, then? It’s your round so you’d better be.’

  They smiled at each other and, arm in arm, they went inside.

  #

  Two hours later, Paula was home.

  She hung up her jacket and scarf and took off her shoes.

  She put her trousers back in the wardrobe and removed her blouse. She turned the tall mirror around to face the wall again and then discarded her bra and tights, rolled down her girdle and stepped out of it, and put on her robe.

  When she unpinned her wig, her hair was flat against her scalp. She combed it through. She would be glad when it had grown long enough for her to be able to put that wig away for good.

  Paula took her blouse with her to the bathroom and dropped it in the laundry basket; she took off her briefs and threw them in there too.

  Freed after hours of constriction, her penis felt lighter, altered, as if, after tonight, it had already become less present than it was before.

  She sat down on the toilet to pee and then turned on the bath taps. By the time she had cleaned off her make-up, the bath was ready. She sank into the water and closed her eyes.

  The night had gone better than Paula had dared hope.

  Once or twice, when it had seemed as if the focus of the conversation might shift to Paula, Angie had jumped in and drawn it elsewhere. A couple of times, Paula had felt as though people in the bar were looking at her curiously, but when she’d mentioned this to her sister, Angie had told her it was probably because they’d fancied her.

  She could have even stayed for another drink, but then she might have had to use the bar’s toilet, which had felt like one step too many for tonight. Having to pull down all those layers of clothing and then back up again would have been challenging enough, she’d told Angie, never mind anything else.

  So, she had said goodnight to her sister’s friends, had kissed Angie goodbye as the bus arrived, and now, as she lay unwinding in the warm bath, she could barely remember the journey back, except for the sound of her heels bringing her home.

  It was only when the water started getting cold that Paula climbed out, wrapped herself in a towel and went back to her bedroom.

  Her shoes were where she had left them in the middle of the floor. She picked them up and placed them carefully on the seat of the armchair. Tomorrow she would brush their velvet uppers and put them away in their box.

  Ready for the next time.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  S. J. King lives in London and has worked as an actor and for a solicitor. Stepping Out was the winner of the Books and the City Choice Award in the #heatseeker short story competition in partnership heat magazine.

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2018

  A CBS company

  Copyright © S. J. King, 2018

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of S. J. King to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-7816-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

 

  S J King, Stepping Out

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