Eddie didn't know how to treat me when I came mincing in daintily, playing the queen meeting a john, in case there were prying eyes about us, or pricked-up ears. They should be convinced after my chatter asking him how he liked my new, curly hair and how I'd bought a new, pink lipstick just for him because he liked it so much, and how did he like my new eyelashes, that I'd curled just for him? I was going to be too much woman for him, I just knew it, I declared, as I shut the door. Eddy backed across the room, his face a sickly shade of yellow, matching the grimy curtains.
I didn't see Westham's reports on me until very much later. I didn't know he was telling Polanski I was changing, that I was actually looking more and more like a woman, facially at least, and was very attractive as one. Westham had written that even my gestures didn't give me away for I was acting confidently (if he only knew!) and was unaffected. He'd seem far more manly women than I was. My frilly shirts and tight pants weren't out of line with what women were wearing. With my hair in curls at my neck, he'd have sworn I was a woman, Eddy reported on me.