You dinnae get to be a sixty-four-year-old Scottish, out trans-woman, and bloody good nurse without a thick skin. But Christ, if standing at the bar at this bleedin’ Italian resort wearing a black bathing suit, massive brimmed hat a-la Hedy Lamarr, red lippy, and wedge cork sandals isn’t reviving forty-year-old memories of my first day out in a frock.

     Stop it, Vera, you cow. I’ve berated myself with that phrase several times a day since I set foot on the bloody plane. My unit, my bairns in Neuro ICU, got together and bought me the trip because in thirty years of nursing, I’ve never taken a vacation. Never saw the point. Who was I gonnae spend it with? In the early days I knew I’d waste the time being jealous of all the happy families around me, what with my being disowned by my own and stripped of my son. After a while, I just put the idea out of my head. But those conniving nurses hatched their bloody plot and here I stand, determined to have fun, and desperately trying to remember how.

     I cannae fault their taste in locations. The place is magnificent. It gleams with heat. The sun blares equally upon the beach sand and the cragged cliffs above the peach hued postcard of a town in which my four-week stay is booked. A seam of foam separates white beach from water so truly aqua it should only exist in Photoshop. Around me crowds of sun-browned Italians mingle with tourists whose tans range from pasty to various shades of lobster. Reflexively I tug the sleeves of the flowered cover up I’ve donned to protect my own Celtic-grey hide. The only things threatening to spoil the trip are the American frat boys in the hotel room next door to mine, and my own insecurity. My outfit felt fabulous in the hotel room. Bugger, I’d better get some alcohol down me before I chicken out and book a taxi to the airport.

      Stop it, you cow.

     A glance at the drinks menu yields standard liquors, beers, a wine list thick as a novel, and load of beach themed abominations masquerading as cocktails. Be fun, you cow. I concede to the spirit of the day with an old-fashioned. I’m about to drink whiskey with fruit in it.

     Thankfully, the booze warms off the chill off my nerves.

     Now what?

     As I’m weighing the options, the voices of two wee boys arguing in English catches my ear. A family makes their way to some lounge chairs, and the boys are fighting over a tablet while howling “My-turn!-No-it’s-not-you-frog-faced-git!-Mum-Rupert-is-bullying-me!-No-I’m-not-you-grassing-snot-rag!” The Mum launches into some predictably weary chiding, but it’s neither she nor her bairns that I notice in the group. With them is an elderly gentleman channeling a very silvered James Bond of the Dalton and Connery school of charm.  But his handsome face wears a sour expression. No. Not quite sour. He’s looking at those two bairns as though they’re two slugs he’d gone to great lengths to rear and feed in the hope of turning them into swans only to find they’re still bloody slugs.

     “Why did you let them bring the iPad to the beach, Nora?” asks the older man. Hmmm. I cannae place the accent. It’s posh lacquered over something more provincial.

     “Don’t start, Dad,” answers the mum.

     “They’re in Italy for god’s sake. Why don’t you encourage them to swim, or build a bloody sandcastle? Something other than stare at that blasted metal thing they look at every day at home.”

     “There you go. Because you footed the bloody bill, you get to play dictator, is that right?”

     His hands lift in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sorry. I only meant I’d hoped the boys might take advantage of—”

     “Oh, shut up, Dad.”

     Christ, but there’s decades of baggage in that exchange. The handsome grandfather obeys, and tells his daughter to have a nice time, then pivots in the direction of the nearest alcohol, which points him my way. As he advances toward the bar, I hear him mutter,

     “Cretinous little turds.”

     I snort into my old-fashioned.

     Laughing dips the brim of my hat into my vision, but I think I caught a glimpse of the fellow looking my way. Shit, I hope he dinnae notice me.

     I turn back to the bar and pretend to be absorbed in my drink. I feel more than see him stand next to me and order scotch. Then,

     “Is it too much to hope that such a dazzling woman was laughing at my shameful nickname for my grandsons instead of my understandably angry daughter’s expert dismissal of the overbearing patriarch?”

     I blush, but cannae help a wee glow of flattery at being called dazzling. He has a really lovely voice. That’s the ghost of a Welsh accent round his vowels. At least he’s not English.

     “No,” I answer and turn to him. “But you did sound a bit Lord of the Manor.”

     “I’m sorry?”

     “Great pratt waving his pocket book about.”

     “Ah,” he says and smiles. It’s a soft, warm expression, like he’s genuinely pleased.

     “Tis also a rotten thing to say about your grandchildren,” I add.
     Guilt replaces the smile, and he sighs. “I know. It is. It’s rotten, but I’m afraid the little scamps are…difficult to like?”

     I glance back to the kids, one of whom is squatted on a chair with the iPad, and the other of whom has been pacified with a phone. The one with the phone kicks his brother in the ribs, then resumes his onscreen activities. The brother gives him the finger.

     I look back to Grandpa Bond and shrug. “Well, I wouldnae call them charmers.”

     A mischievous glint returns to his eyes. “How refreshingly blunt you are,” he says.

     “Well, we cannae both be pouring on the charm.”

     He laughs. “I am laying it on rather thick aren't ? But I can’t help it. It’s been a long time since I met such a beautiful stranger.”

     Christ, I’m blushing like a school-girl. But there’s also the distant thunder of worry growling in the back of my mind. Can he tell your trans, and if not, how’s he gonnae take it? I signal the barman for another old-fashioned. I’m on vacation. I’m not gonnae listen to the demons right now. I’m gonnae drink my whisey and enjoy the flattery from a handsome stranger, damnit.

      “Normally,” I say after I sip my fresh drink, “I’d find you a silly old fart and tell you to bugger off. You’ve caught me in as close to an adventurous mood as I get. My work friends sent me on this trip, and I’m determined to enjoy it for their sakes if not my own.”

      He tips his head a bit, his expression inquisitive. “Do you so rarely enjoy yourself?”

      “Given myself away already, have I?” I dinnae quite manage to keep the shame out of my tone.

      His lips press together, and he looks thoughtfully at his scotch. After a glance at his family, he scoots closer to me.

     “This may sound a tad odd. But I have a proposal.”

     I raise an eyebrow.

     “My daughter would rather swallow live eels than spend today with me sighing about my grandsons’ every insufferable antic. And, truth be told, they see me more as a walking ATM than a grandad. So, what would you say to a day spent adventuring with a silly old man whom you’ve rather captivated?”

     My heart leaps into my throat. The practical, unadventurous side of me screams dinnae be an idiot. Every lecture I’ve ever given the girls on my unit about fast moving charmers races through my brain. Charm is an act, not a personality trait. It’s usually manipulative. Dinnae trust bloody strangers full of flattery. Christ, haven’t I had the shit kicked out of me enough times by drunk charmers who didnae quite pick up on the truth of my expression of womanhood till I finally pointed it out? There are reasons just the sight of the frat boys next door triggered me. I’ve only been speaking to this sod for five minutes!

     He seems to sense my guard flying up and adds, “I do know how mad I sound. But I’m seventy-seven. Nice things like meeting beautiful Scottish women in idyllic settings don’t happen to me anymore. I’d just like to see if we could enjoy one another’s company for a day.”

     My heart’s pounding like hummingbird wings. I shouldnae do this. But…God, it’s been so long since I let my guard down. I’ve spent years in a dingy flat with nothing but the tele for a friend while I write letters to a son I’ve never met.  After so many years alone, can one day really be so bad?

      “I may end up blaming this on the bloody alcohol, but…why not.”

      The smile on his face is pure delight. He offers me his hand to shake.

     “I’m Gareth Rhys.”

     “Vera Machoan.”

 

#

 

     What was supposed to be a day, becomes weeks. Weeks of long drives up the Amalfi coast. Weeks of walks on the beach at sunset. Weeks of laughing at his crap haggling skills, and my Sean Connery in Highlander attempts at Italian. Weeks of finding that instead of a smooth talker, he’s a bit of a dork who lucked into leading man looks, thus masks the awkwardness with charm. I'm finding I like the awkward. And I'm finding a small storm cloud of worry growing every night when I go back to my hotel room and spend half the night sleepless while the American frat boys stay up to the wee hours getting pissed, making a hellish racket, and fueling my anxiety. A gnawing sense of guilt for not having stated my identity begins to haunt me, but I battle it down because it won’t last. Nothing about this relationship is sensibly replicable outside this setting. Half my brain says I’m being reckless. Half is swept up in the most beautiful month of my entire life.

     The last week finds us on the beach together walking back to my room.

     “I don’t think it’s possible to express how grateful I’ve been for this time with you,” he says.

     I squeeze his hand and swallow past the lump of worry in my throat. “Go on,” I mutter.

     “I mean it. I’m an old man, and not a particularly healthy one. I don’t expect to make it to ninety. My life is checkered with broken relationships. Mistakes. One great love. Many great regrets.” He turns toward me and tips my chin up with a gentle brush of knuckle. “I’m so grateful to have met you, Vera Machoan.”

     I bite my lip and feel tears start. Concern lights his eyes.

     “What’s the matter?”

     I swallow. “I…sorry. I just feel such a cow. I’m grateful for you too, but…I feel like a fraud.”

     “Whatever for?”

     I swallow the tears and let the self-loathing out. “There’s something about me you dinnae know, because I’ve put off saying it. Chirst, I’ve not put myself in his position in decades. I’m –”

     “Trans?”

     I gasp. He kisses my forehead lightly. “Oh, dear Vera. I’m old, not daft. I’m also too old to be precious when I’m utterly smitten with the human I’ve had the privilege of befriending.”

     “Oh you bloody charming cad, I should slap you!” I say through ugly tears of relief.

     He holds me while I cry, then kisses me gently. I kiss him back with a touch more urgency.  He’s a bit breathless after, which feels quite good.

     “Shall we go to yours?” he asks.

     “Christ no. The bloody drunk frat boys next door will spoil the mood.”

     The laugh we share at that blows away the final whisps of storm in my mind, leaving glowing blue skies of joy.

 

The End.