Once through in the departure lounge, I went straight to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Perching on a chrome barstool, I once again tried to lower the hem of my skirt, to no great success.
The long drink didn’t last very long, and I found myself ordering a second.
“Nervous of flying, huh?”
Turning towards the speaker, I felt a little annoyed, but was unsure why I should be. He was a slightly plump and sweaty man in his mid thirties. His accent told me he was American, while his crumpled suit and scuffed shoes told me he’d been travelling a while without the benefit of female companionship.
“No, just had a rough few weeks.”
“Hey, some accent, are you French?”
“No, Canadian. But I’ve been away for some time.”
“Even better. I’m Mick Brenner.”
“Julianna Blanchard.”
He thrust out a sweaty hand, which I shook briefly and slithered free as quickly as possible.
“So, what brings you here, Julie?”
“Julianna, please. I’m a journalist, you?”
“Oh, nothing so romantic, I’m a salesman.”
I smiled, as I wasn’t surprised.
“What do you sell?”
“Oh, this and that, you know.”
“No, does that evasive answer mean you sell arms?”
He went a little pale, staring at me as if to work out my angle.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Most salesmen I’ve met would be halfway into their product pitch by this time, which means you don’t talk about your product with just anyone. So, it’s either embarrassing or strictly confidential. So what is it, arms or incontinence knickers?”
“Actually, it’s technology, but related to the weapons industry.”
“Nuclear or conventional?”
“You say you’re a journalist, right?”
“Right.”
“For which paper?”
“Freelance, but I specialise in fashion and showbiz.”
“Yeah, right, like I believe that.”
I smiled, sipping my drink. I hadn’t intended to be quite so aggressive, but this man annoyed me. He had come onto me as if I was just a little girly who’d find him mysterious and exotic, but instead I had put him strongly on the defensive.
He looked around, as if trying to work out whether I was working with anyone else, while I sipped my drink and opened a magazine I had bought. He pulled his stool closer to mine.
“Actually, I sell computer software used in marine defence.”
“What, for anti-submarine warfare, or ship to shore?”
“Both. It can be used to coordinate batteries or to calculate underwater incursion and course variants.”
I grinned. “Okay, you’ve just lost me. Do you like it?
“What, the product or the job?”
“Either or both. It can’t pay that well, as your suit has seen better days.”
Looking embarrassed, he wiped his sweaty hands on his suit, making damp stripes down the front of the light grey material.
“I’ve been travelling a while. I have another suit in my case. This is the one I use for travelling,” he said, apologetically.
“Oh.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Hanoi, there’s a fashion show and exhibition. How about you?”
“Korea.”
“North or South?” I asked, teasing, but he looked quite alarmed.
“South, we don’t do no business with the commies.” He sounded quite insulted.
“I was joking,” I explained, but I think the damage was done. He sat in silence for a while, playing with his empty cocktail glass. I looked at the pages of the magazine without really seeing them. It was a woman’s magazine, full of clothes, makeup, perfume, jewellery and gossip. I was completely disinterested in the whole package, but the problem page amused me. One woman wrote in to say her husband would only make love to her while he was dressed in her underwear. I had to smile, as it really was a very strange world.
“Can I buy you another?” Mick asked.
“No thanks, my need has been filled for the moment.”
He nodded, saying, “Have a good trip.”
“And you.”
Then he picked up his laptop and walked off. I felt quite relieved at him leaving, but cross at myself for being quite so obnoxious. I knew I’d have to try to control myself better. I wondered why I was so touchy, but then recalled Maryanne telling me that the low doses of oestrogen in my implant might make me slightly more emotional than usual.
There was a mirror behind the barman, so each time I saw my reflection, I couldn’t believe that pretty girl was me. I think it was the nose. I mean, not so much the nose, but the lack of it. The nose I remembered had been splattered all over my face, so tended to dominate the face and reduce other features to the sidelines. This new, pert and pretty little nose strove to accentuate the eyes and mouth, instead of obliterating them. My lips, having been redesigned and increased to unforeseen plumpness, appeared a completely different feature. The eyes were mine, albeit camouflaged by mascara and eye shadow, but they were the same grey eyes I always had. The rest of the face was a stranger’s, particularly now my old battered conk had been removed. The fact I could breathe perfectly through both nostrils simultaneously for the first time in fifteen years was nothing short of a miracle, and almost worth the stress of everything else. Doctor Guya may have few social graces, but he was an exceptional surgeon.
I felt strangely at peace with my new persona. I suppose I wasn’t sure whether to be freaked-out or embarrassed. In reality, I was neither. I was self-conscious, but no more than had I suddenly been constructed along the lines of Brad Pitt or some other strikingly handsome male movie star. I wasn’t a beautiful woman, for I was a little broad in the shoulder and certainly a little too sinewy, but I was certainly more on the attractive side compared to being plain. I caught sight of my elegant nails, varnished in a deep red colour, which seemed to match the auburn lowlights in my hair and my makeup. Something akin to excitement welled up deep inside me, which I quelled, as I wanted to be able to return to being me when this was all over. It was as if a small voice was trying to be heard, but I didn’t want to hear what it was saying to me – yet.
I checked the letters of introduction and official passes that had been acquired for me. I was an accredited journalist, with permission to attend the fashion show and exhibition in Hanoi. Vietnam was making a huge amount of clothing products for the west, yet very little was anything other than copies of brand names to flood the West with cheap imitations. The strange thing was the imitations were cheap, but the quality was remarkably good, so the fashion industry, recognising a good thing when it saw one, was looking at utilising the cheap labour market to its benefit. Vietnam, seeing the advantages, offered great financial incentives to any companies that sought to relocate to Vietnam.
This show was intended to show the world just how good the Vietnamese were at not only making clothes, but also at designing and training new designers for the industry. My cover was to attend the show, which just happened to be at the same time as an international arms convention in the same city, although not in the same location.
I paid for my drinks and walked through the duty free shops, enjoying my first real taste of freedom for many months. I tried not to think about the prison, as I still woke up screaming in the night, with my body covered in sweat. To be able to mingle with normal people was a luxury I never again thought to take for granted.
Whilst browsing, I found myself actually attracted to clothing for the first time, sparked off by what it looked like rather than function. I resisted the urge to buy too much, but did spend some money on a scarf and some designer sunglasses.
With twenty minutes to go before boarding, I paid a visit to the ladies room. Once in my cubicle, I couldn’t help but be impressed at the doctor’s handiwork. I knew I was still a male underneath, but there was no evidence of it on the surface. Physically, I looked like a normal female, both in figure and structure. Similarly, my genitalia appeared female, as I urinated just as if I was a girl, but of course, I had no vagina, and therefore could not engage in any sexual activity involving penetration, through that route at any rate.