Wychwood Venice First Days

She/her

One

Despite, or maybe because of, everything that had happened at Wychwood, Sandy knew she wanted at least to try to live as she wanted. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it was the revelation at Wychwood that made her so sure. When the helicopter landed in London, she was surprised to see the crew unload two large suitcases for her. When she returned to her small London bedsit and unpacked, she found they were full of clothes: dresses, lingerie, shoes, nightwear, and suits from Lady Eleanor’s wardrobe. Inside one suitcase, she found a handwritten note.

‘Sandy, I guess you might not want to hear much from me right now, but I am so sorry that things have ended the way they have. I hope you will forgive us for any hurt we have caused you. Everyone here at Wychwood and I only ever wanted you to be yourself. I hope you know I grew very fond of you, and I wish you all the best in whatever decisions you make in the future. Sir Robert asked me to pack a few things for you in case you find them useful. Kisses, Sam.’

Sandy sat on the bed and read it, blinking back tears. She had not wanted to see anyone at Wychwood before she left, but had she overreacted? At the time, she had been angry and hurt by what she saw as their deception. Sam’s note made her reconsider. After all, it was what they had done for her at Wychwood that had shown her what she really wanted. It was too late to make amends now. A new chapter in her life was opening, and she needed a fresh start. Anyway, she thought, she wouldn’t see any of them again.

Thankfully, the dreams she’d had at Wychwood stopped, though they were burned into her memory. She spent a few sleepless nights trying to make sense of some of what had happened to her at Wychwood. She even wondered if she had experienced some kind of psychosis there, but in the end, she accepted that there were things that were beyond rational explanation.

Overstrand kept his word after Sandy left Wychwood. He paid the fee in full and even threw in an unexpected bonus. It wasn’t a fortune, but if she were careful, it would be just enough to fulfil her dream of moving to Venice.

She felt a surge of exultation as she closed the door to her miserable bedsit for the last time and headed to Venice. She had rented a small third-floor apartment in a block in the Cannaregio district, backing onto a canal. It wasn’t the prettiest part of Venice, but Sandy didn't care. It was cheap and off the main tourist trails, yet she could walk to the Grand Canal in a few minutes and reach Piazza San Marco in ten minutes by vaporetto. From the bedroom window, she could watch the activity on the canal. It was a place where tourist gondolas never ventured, and the water traffic was mainly delivery boats, water taxis, and the occasional ambulance or police launch. She never tired of it. People hung their washing on lines strung between windows, and children played in the campo in front of the block, which was blessed with a few small trees, a bar, a restaurant, and a Coop minimarket. She felt she was living in the real Venice. She was living her dream. 

She wanted to explore the city as a Veneziano, not a tourist, and she spent her time walking the streets and alleys, riding the vaporetti until she could find her way around the city’s canals, calli, campos and churches with confidence. She could avoid the overcrowded tourist trails to find areas where tourists never ventured. Otherwise, she practised her new identity, refining her looks, mannerisms and behaviour until she felt comfortable enough to venture out as Alessandra. 

She was determined to start this new life in Venice, living there full-time as a woman. But for the first week in Venice, she had only gone out in the evenings, fearful of being outed. Nothing had happened apart from a couple of wolf whistles, and her confidence had slowly begun to grow.

She was nervous about visiting the local bar, which opened early for workers before they headed off to work, but she braved it one morning for breakfast. Apart from the sharp glances reserved for newcomers everywhere, nobody paid her any special attention. Franco, the barman, seemed to take to her, and she often hung out there in the evenings. When she didn’t fancy cooking for herself, she sometimes ate at the restaurant in the campo, where Guilia, the owner and chef, served traditional Venetian food. 

She got by teaching English to children of wealthy parents, as well as doing some office work translating contracts and legal documents. Speaking Venetian helped a great deal, and gradually she found herself more or less accepted.

Two

Sandy couldn't avoid hearing or reading about Overstrand. He was all over the media in Venice, campaigning to save the city. To some, he was a hero; to others, just another foreigner with no right to stick his nose into Venetian affairs. 

Since moving to Venice, Sandy realised that the arguments for and against tourism had grown ever more heated. The recent wedding party for a billionaire, which had disrupted Venice for days, had become a catalyst for anti-tourist protests. Rumours began to circulate that people were planning to take direct action, and vested interests in the tourism industry were campaigning for the police to crack down on the activists. Venetians are famous for talking and talking, and then talking some more. There were always announcements of grand, expensive plans and initiatives, none of which ever came to pass, but inevitably the money went somewhere. Sandy wondered bitterly whether anything would ever change before her beloved Venice sank back into the marsh from which it had emerged.

She was happy to be living in Venice, but she was lonely, and she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t sometimes wonder what might have happened if she had stayed at Wychwood. She had followed the press coverage of Annabelle’s stalker and what had happened at Wychwood. Even Overstrand hadn’t been able to keep it entirely out of the media. Someone, probably one of the police involved, had leaked the story, forcing Annabelle and Fleur into the open. It sparked a media frenzy for a couple of days until another salacious story broke about the British Royal Family. 

However, proving that no publicity is bad publicity, the attention given to Annabelle’s career gave it a boost, with new shows in the pipeline. It didn't harm Fleur’s career either, as she became a social media influencer. Sandy's identity had not appeared in any of the reports, and she presumed Overstrand didn’t want that part of the story out in the open. But she had never expected to hear from anyone connected to Wychwood again, so it was a surprise when, one day in early February, she received a text message.

Annabee1: “Hi, Sandy. I hope you’re well and enjoying life in Venice. Fleur and I are here for Carnevale. Despite my warnings, she’s determined to see it for herself. It would be great to catch up if you’re up for it.”

Sandy stared at the message, wondering whether to reply. She didn't want to revisit the past, but she had always liked Annabelle. It might be fun to catch up with her. She hesitated, then thought, Why not?

Arossi: “Hi, great to hear from you. I would love to meet.”

Annabee1: “Great. Name the place.”

Arossi: “How about tomorrow at nine for a coffee at Caffè Florian in the Piazza San Marco?”

Annabee1: “Super. See you there.”

Three

Sandy arrived early at Caffè Florian and ordered a cappuccino and a cornetto pastry while she waited for Annabelle. The children in the piazza had grown bored of chasing pigeons and were now chasing each other, running between the outdoor tables, laughing and shouting, to the annoyance of some customers. Sandy looked up and smiled as a woman approached the table. They exchanged air kisses. “Ciao, Annabelle.”

“Ciao, Sandy.” Annabelle smiled as she looked Sandy up and down. “Or, should I say Alessandra?”

Sandy smiled. “Alessandra is who I’ve become, but Sandy will always be fine.”

A waiter appeared, and Annabelle ordered what Sandy had. Once the waiter left, she took Sandy’s hand. “You look fabulous, Sandy. I always knew you were gorgeous. You’ve let your hair grow. It suits you. Venice must be treating you well. Speaking of which…” Annabelle looked out over the piazza and added, “I owe you an apology.”

Puzzled, Sandy said, “What on earth for, Annabelle?”

“Remember when I told you and Robert that I didn't get the fascination you both had for Venice?”

Sandy laughed. “I do remember you called it an obsession, and you weren’t very complimentary.

“Well, I still think all those things I said are true,” she said with a smile, holding up her hand to cut off Sandy’s protest. “Seeing the city again, but through your eyes, I understand why you love it so much. Despite all its flaws, you are right. There is nowhere else in the world like it.”

Sandy squeezed Annabelle’s hand. “Everyone falls for it in the end. How are you and Fleur getting along?”

“We’re doing great, thanks. Fleur sends you her love.”

“Send her mine, too.” Sandy hesitated, chewing her lip. “Annabelle, do you mind if I ask you a question about that night?”

“No, what?”

“The window. Did they ever find out how it got broken?”

Annabelle frowned. “Yes and no. They found a single black feather amongst the glass fragments, but nothing else. They said it might have been blown in from outside after the window shattered.” Annabelle looked curiously at Sandy. “Do you still think it was a bird?”

Sandy said. “All I can say is what I saw. Or, at least, what I thought I saw. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m just thankful it happened.” But she knew she had been right; the rook had saved her life that awful night.

“Amen to that, sister,” said Annabelle. 

Sandy changed the subject. “What happened to your stalker?” A shadow passed over Annabelle’s face. “Sorry to bring it all back, Annabelle. But I haven’t heard anything out here.”

Annabelle shook her head. “No, it’s okay. Robert made sure the reporting was as low-key as possible. But if anyone has a right to know, it’s you. She’s in a secure mental asylum now.”

“I hope she never gets out,” said Sandy.

Annabelle nodded. “Fleur will make sure she stays there. By the way, do you remember the policeman she left for dead that night?”

Sandy nodded. “How could I forget? Poor guy. What happened to him?”

“Incredibly, he pulled through. Spent weeks in the hospital and then rehab. He’s on indefinite leave. He has a young family and may not return to work, so Robert has set up a trust for them.”

Sandy nodded. “That sounds like Robert.”

There was a pause, and then Annabelle said softly, “Talking of Robert, he’s here, you know.”

Sandy smiled, “I guessed he would come for Carnevale. He said he never missed it.”

“Sandy, I have to ask. Are you sure you made the right decision?” 

Sandy looked away, then back at Annabelle. “I was confused, scared, and overwhelmed by what was happening, Annabelle. It felt like I was drowning, and I had to leave to stop myself from going under. I had to come here to find myself. It was always my dream to live here. I rent a small flat and make ends meet by teaching and doing some translation work. You know, stuff like that. Of course, I get to live in Venice, and I’m content.” Sandy looked off into the distance before saying, “Tell me, did he get someone else to finish translating the diary?”

Annabelle shook her head. “No. After you left, he locked it away and hasn’t spoken about it since. It was something you two shared. I don't think he wants anyone else involved.”

”That's a pity. It’s an important document.” Sandy said, looking away from Annabelle. “He must hate me. I mean, leaving like that.”

”Hate you? Never.” Annabelle said, touching Sandy's hand. “He doesn’t hate you. He was disappointed and sad, but he would never hate you. You dared to do what you thought was right.”

Sandy sighed. ”No, not courage, Annabelle. Cowardice, more like. I know I ran away. But it did show me something. It made me understand this was who I wanted to be.” Sandy gestured at her dress. “Annabelle, be honest with me. Did he send you?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not his messenger. He doesn’t know I’m meeting you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Sandy felt embarrassment colour her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Annabelle. That was ungracious of me.”

Annabelle laid her hand on Sandy’s and said gently, “No offence taken, Sandy.” Her tone brightened. “By the way, Samantha sends her love. She would be beside herself to see you like this.”

Sandy laughed. “When you see her, tell her I owe her a lot.”

“You could always tell her yourself.” Annabelle frowned. “Sorry, that was mean. I shouldn’t have said that. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Sandy. You deserve to be happy. Anyway, I have to leave to meet Fleur. She’s booked a romantic gondola ride for us, God help me.” Annabelle stood up and rummaged in her handbag. “But I do have something for you. Use it or bin it. Your choice.”

She pressed a piece of plastic, the size and shape of a credit card, into Sandy’s hand, kissed her on the cheek, then walked away. Sandy watched her leave, then looked at the card.

Invito al Ballo del Doge

Signorina Alessandra Rossi

Sandy stared at it in astonishment. The Doge’s Ball was the ultimate social event of Carnevale, and invitations were rarer than hen’s teeth. People had resorted to bribery and blackmail to secure an invitation, and at least one duel had been fought over one. She couldn't go, of course. It just wouldn’t be possible. It was ‘Un ballo in maschera’, an opportunity for the wealthy to show off, wearing masks and outfits that would not have been out of place in the 17th century. In truth, it was only an outrageous fancy-dress party, but heaven help anyone who called it that. Sandy would have to go in character, which meant hiring an obscenely expensive outfit for the evening. She sighed. Of course, she would love to go, just once in her life, to see what went on, but it was totally out of the question. Just then, her phone pinged with a message.

Annabee1: ”If Cinders wants to go to the Ball, call this number. You’ll get everything you need.”

Annabelle had added a local telephone number to the message. 

What was Annabelle thinking? Sandy couldn’t afford whatever it would cost to arrange a costume for this ball or any other. 

Arossi: “Thank you, Annabelle, but I can't afford it.” 

Annabee1: “Then let us be your fairy godmothers. Fleur and I owe you so much more. This one’s on us.”

Arossi: “OMG. Are you sure? That’s far too much.”

Annabee1: “This won’t even come close to what we owe you. Go to the Ball, and you don't even have to be home by midnight.” She added wink emojis followed by hearts.

Arossi: “Thank you both so much. This is much too generous. Enjoy the gondola ride.”

Annabee1: “I hope the gondolier doesn’t sing.”

Arossi: “He will, unless you pay him not to.”

Annabee1: ”LMAO. Ciao ciao.”

Four

Sandy called the number and booked an appointment for the next day. The Ball was only four days away, and Sandy had no idea what they could achieve in such a short time. The address was in Dorsoduro, not far from the University and close to where she had lived while studying there. She found it easily enough, in a calle just off the Rio San Barnaba. Feeling apprehensive about what would happen, she spoke her name into the entryphone, and the door clicked open. Waiting inside was a tall woman in her forties, her silver-grey hair swept into an elegant chignon. She was dressed entirely in black: T-shirt, jeans, black trainers, a tape measure hanging around her neck, and a pincushion at her wrist.

“Buongiorno, Signorina Rossi. I am Beatrice, and I will be attending to you today. May I call you Alessandra?” She spoke Italian with the accent of a Veneziano.

“Buongiorno, Beatrice. Yes. Alessandra would be fine.” 

Beatrice smiled. “Some of our clients insist on us using their titles, so I always ask.”

Sandy giggled to herself, thinking Lady Alessandra would have a nice ring to it. She followed Beatrice into a large, open room that must have run the full width and depth of the building. It was packed floor to ceiling with rails of beautiful costumes for men and women, with half a dozen women at sewing machines and a few more bent over tables, cutting fabric.

Sandy stared at the costumes. Are these all for Carnavale?”

“Sí, we store costumes for clients as well as make new ones. Most are awaiting collection by clients. Mi scusi, but given the short notice, I’m afraid all we can do is alter a gown we have in stock. Signorina Annabelle has given me your size, but I will need to take more precise measurements for the fitting.”

“Beatrice, whatever you can do will be fine, I am sure. Thank you.”

“Bene. I will take you to our fitting room, where I can take your measurements in private.” Inside the fitting room, Beatrice said, “Please remove your clothes, but leave your underwear on.”

Sandy froze. For some reason, she hadn’t imagined she might have to strip down to her underwear. Oh God, she thought, Beatrice would find out who she was. She couldn’t face the humiliation.

“Do I have to? Isn’t there another way?” she said, panic edging into her voice.

Beatrice looked puzzled. “But if we are to make the necessary alterations, then yes, we need to measure you properly.”

Sandy felt like crying. She had been so excited about going to the ball, and now it was going to be snatched away. 

“Oh. Then, I’m sorry for wasting your time, Beatrice. It won't be possible.”

Beatrice’s face lit up. “Mi scusi, Alessandra. Signorina Annabelle told me you are una persona transgender. I thought she would tell you we knew. It is no problem.”

Sandy blushed scarlet, cursing Annabelle for not telling her Beatrice knew. 

“Ah, no, she didn't tell me, but thank you for your understanding, Beatrice.”

Beatrice shrugged. “We have many, many clients, Alessandra. We treat everyone the same. If you’re happy to go ahead, I will wait outside. When you’re ready, press the button to let me know I can return. There is a robe you can use for your modesty.”

Beatrice left, and Sandy sat for a moment to collect her thoughts. She loved the life she was now leading, but it was not easy. She had felt safe in Venice, yet there had been times, especially when walking alone at night, when she had felt vulnerable. The fear of being outed and ridiculed, or worse, made her a little paranoid. Sometimes a glance or a whispered comment from someone could make her panic. As she grew in confidence, the feelings lessened, but never disappeared completely. She sighed. If her embarrassment today were the worst that would ever happen to her, she would light a candle every day this week to Saint Marina the Monk, a woman in the sixth century who lived undiscovered as a monk until her death. 

Sandy took off her clothes, put on the robe, and pressed the button to let Beatrice know she was ready. Beatrice opened the door and asked, “Do you mind if my assistant comes in to take notes, signora?”

Sandy nodded. “Sì, certo, Beatrice.”

A young woman carrying an iPad followed Beatrice into the room. “Signora Alessandra, this is Ricci, my assistant.”

“Buongiorno, signora Alessandra,” Ricci said softly, her head down, not looking directly at Sandy.

“Buongiorno, Ricci. That's a pretty name.” It translated as ‘curly’, but it was an unusual Italian name. Probably, thought Sandy, the name came from her dark, curly hair, worn in a short pixie cut, shaved at the sides. She, too, was dressed all in black. Like Beatrice, she wore black jeans and trainers, but her top was a sheer mesh vest that revealed her black bra. She wore black lipstick, and her nails were black too, giving her a sophisticated goth look, if that wasn’t a non-sequitur, thought Sandy.

“Grazie, signora,” replied Ricci, still not looking at Sandy.

Beatrice asked Sandy to remove the robe, and as she did so, Sandy noticed the young assistant looking at her for the first time. Sandy thought the assistant was cute, with small, elfish features, dark skin, and almond-shaped eyes. 

Beatrice began taking the measurements, calling them out to Ricci, who recorded them on her iPad. Sandy noticed Ricci stealing surreptitious glances at her body, and the girl’s face looked a little flushed. Sandy smiled at her, but the girl surprised Sandy by dropping her head and turning away. Was she embarrassed by who Sandy was? After Beatrice had said they treated everyone equally, Sandy felt a flash of irritation that someone in here was watching her, almost naked, and reacting like that. Sandy was about to say something to Beatrice when Ricci caught her eye, and a shy smile crept across her face. It took Sandy by surprise; then the penny dropped. Ricci wasn’t embarrassed by her; she liked Sandy. Now it was Sandy’s turn to be embarrassed. Wow, she thought, I didn't see that coming.

Beatrice came to her rescue, saying, “Alessandra, I’ve finished for now, so please put the robe back on and take a seat. I’ll be back shortly.” She turned to leave, and Ricci followed, throwing a backward glance and a coy smile over her shoulder at Sandy. 

Sandy was stunned. Was she misreading the signals, or had Ricci really just come on to her? Sandy shrugged; she would never find out, but even the thought did wonders for her self-esteem. She put the robe back on and waited for Beatrice to return. 

The door opened, and Beatrice and Ricci pushed a clothes rail into the room. Three beautiful Carnevale costumes hung from the rail. Each was a breathtaking creation of colour, fabric and design. The skirts were long and full, and the bodices were embellished with ribbons and ruffles and finished with glorious embroidery. The first costume was a riot of crimson and gold, the second black and silver, and the third pale blue and white. Each costume came with a matching cape and mask.

Beatrice came over to sit with Sandy. “These are the costumes that we can adapt for you. Do you like any of them?”

Sandy could hardly believe how beautiful they were. “Beatrice, I love them all. They are stunning.” She stood up, walked to the rail, and examined each in turn. 

“I can’t make up my mind; they are all gorgeous.” Sandy turned to Ricci, who was standing by the rail. “What do you think, Ricci? Which one should I choose?”

Ricci looked at Beatrice to see if she should answer, and Beatrice nodded. Sandy’s heart gave a little jump as Ricci smiled at her. A genuine full-face smile, one that clearly said ‘I'm interested in you’.

“Signorina Alessandra, I think you will be beautiful in any of them,” she said, locking eyes with Sandy. “But if I may make a suggestion, I would choose this one.” She gestured towards the crimson-and-gold costume.

“That’s the one, then. Thank you, Ricci. It’s the one I liked best, too.” Sandy saw Ricci’s eyes flash with delight, and her tongue slid across her lips in an unmistakably sexual gesture. Sandy fought the urge to walk over to Ricci and kiss those black-painted lips. Calm down, she told herself. You’re making a fool of yourself. She took a deep breath and turned to face Beatrice.

“Can you come back for a fitting tomorrow, Alessandra? After that, your costume will be ready the day before the Doge’s Ball. I believe Signorina Annabelle has arranged for someone to collect it and deliver it to the salon, where you will be made ready for the Ball.”

Sandy was confused. “Salon? Made ready? I don’t understand.”

“Sí, for the hair and makeup. They will help you with the costume as well.”

Annabelle had thought of everything. 

As Sandy opened the door to leave the building, she felt a touch on her shoulder and turned to find Ricci behind her. She put her finger to her lips to tell Sandy to keep quiet, pushed a folded piece of paper into Sandy’s hand, smiled, and mimed a phone call.

Sandy walked down the calle to a bar, ordered a coffee, then unfolded the paper. It was a simple handwritten note. ’Meet me?’ and a phone number. She felt a warmth spread through her that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

‘Why not?’ she thought, and began typing a message.