Chapter One

1^st October 2015, Herefordshire, England

As usual, at one o’clock on Thursday, I left my admin job in the Cleveshill district and walked for half an hour across the city of Castlewhite to reach my counsellor, Jasmine Hart. I glanced in a shop window as I hurried past. I saw what I now was, a woman about to turn thirty, short, curvy and olive-skinned with dark brown corkscrew curls and equally dark eyes set in a heart-shaped, dimple-cheeked face. Dressed in a pair of black trousers, suede boots and a beige knee-length coat with a blue leather bag over one shoulder, I looked like the administrator I now was and not the girl band member I had recently been.

I truly was Esme Stark, just as my parents christened me, and not Esmeralda Strong, one third of Minx, a girl band from the noughties.

I shook my head and kept walking. I still sang, I consoled myself. Esmeralda Strong had not died nor been hidden away permanently. It was just that I no longer sang full time and I had been obliged to take on part-time jobs to support myself for the past four years. The band split shortly after I turned twenty-three. I moved into classical music and I signed a two-album deal before my twenty-fourth birthday. The first album sold well. The second bombed, my record company dropped me and I had to temp whilst repeatedly trying to make a living in the business.

Rain began to fall and I glanced at my watch. One twenty-five pm. My appointment was a minute’s walk away and not until one forty pm. I entered the Boots opposite Jasmine’s office to kill the time and immediately wished I had not.

The first thing I saw was the cosmetics display and I masochistically looked for Nailed It, the nail care and varnish brand Marie had advertised since our days in Minx. It was sold everywhere and it made her a lot of money. I looked away to the magazine and newspaper stand. Again, Marie’s success was present. Her image was on a glossy magazine under the heading ‘Marie Cho is Pearl Porter!’ I picked up a copy. Her face smiled back at me, youthful and wholesome, her black eyes sparkled and her smooth black hair was styled into a shining beehive. She was wearing a mid-sixties style bright print dress, which suited her petite frame, and the penny dropped.

Marie went into musical theatre after leaving Minx and she had since been critically acclaimed in the West End. A glance inside the magazine confirmed she was going to play a major role in a new musical debuting on Broadway in December.

Great.

I tried to be pleased for her success. The three of us had parted on good terms and we had simply drifted apart over the last seven years. Our lives went down very different routes. Torturing myself further, I turned the pages to where I knew Roxanne’s column would be. She too had done well since leaving the band. Not only was she the lead vocalist and songwriter for an indie band headlining festivals, she also wrote a weekly magazine column and regularly contributed articles to broadsheet newspapers. In this week’s column, she proudly announced her band, Pegasus, had entered the U.S. charts at number five and they planned to play a number of gigs in New York.

Roxanne added how proud she was of Marie, her old bandmate, who was going to star in Broadway and how it had been six months since they last saw each other. Talking on the phone and WhatsApp were just not the same and she could not wait to see her. The article included a photo of them taken earlier in the year by Roxanne’s boyfriend of five years. Roxanne was as gorgeous as ever in skinny jeans and a pink hooded top. Her rich brown hair hung loose down her back in waves and she wore her trademark silver jewellery in her ears, around one wrist and on her fingers. Her dimples showed as she smiled, her green eyes sparkled and she looked as slim as ever.

I put down the magazine, looked at my own stomach, then at my watch before hurrying to Jasmine.

One advantage of no longer being famous was that no pap would snap me enviously spying on my ex-bandmates’ success and friendship.

I did try to count my blessings.

I had been visiting Jasmine weekly since the end of August. My reasons for seeing her were a rumbling low-level anxiety and depression that had troubled me on and off since childhood. Since the spring, the feelings of despair, panic and gloom had begun to interfere with my life, so, in the summer, I bit the bullet and arranged to see a counsellor. In the past, I took different medications but I never found a drug whose side effects were not worse than the benefits. Therapy helped me before and I decided to try it again.

Deep down, I knew my main problem was loneliness. At this point in my life, I was estranged from both my parents, my relationship with my sister before she died was distant and I had limited contact with my wider family. I had one close friend and mentor, Antonio, in the music business, who was also a bit of a father figure to me, but we could not meet regularly. For the past five years, I had been single. My longest relationship lasted two years and that was in my early twenties.

I got on fairly well with the people I occasionally saw in the music business but I could not say the same for the people I dealt with at Inkpot, the office supplies company where I worked part time as an administrator. Unfortunately, I needed the money.

I reached Jasmine’s office. She greeted me in her usual quiet, friendly way and offered me a cup of tea. This was our sixth session and I believed the therapy was helping. I told her so and she looked thoughtful.

“What would you say you are suffering from?”

“Anxiety and depression.”

The question surprised me. Why ask it now? We discussed this in my first session.

Jasmine leaned forward, a sure sign she was deliberating over what to say next. I felt apprehensive.

“What do you think is causing this?” Her slight London accent faded to Standard English, another sign she was choosing her words carefully.

“My life is not going in the direction I want it to, despite my best efforts, and I am lonely, despite my best efforts. I feel helpless.”

“Do you think there could be another cause?”

“My childhood? Juliet’s death and our parents’ reaction?”

“Anything else?”

“No.” I was puzzled. Where was this leading?

Jasmine sat back in her easy chair and regarded me steadily. I looked at her. She was a petite woman in her mid-forties with an angular face, braided hair to her chin and dried-date dark skin. Her eyes were almond shaped behind gold-framed glasses.

“Do you know what the term transgender means?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t apply to me. I know I am living in the right body.”

“Do you think you are living in the right era? Have you ever considered you might be transtime?”

If I had not put down my cup of tea, I would have scalded myself.

“Pardon?”

“Today it is widely accepted that a minority of people feel they were born in the wrong body, we call them transgender. However, an even smaller minority of people say they were born in the wrong era, they are referred to as transtime. You have spoken about escaping into historical fiction, watching costume dramas and reading history. I’ve noticed you focus mainly on late eighteenth century Britain. Do you think this term could apply to you?”

“Are you joking?”

“No.” Her face was serious.

“Well, I’ve never really thought much about why I have always enjoyed history and been drawn to that era. It’s just escapism. Lots of people do it. That’s why big-budget costume dramas are a worthwhile investment, they always generate high viewing figures, enticing people to go and buy the DVD. It’s the same with sci-fi. People watch it, read it and dress up at conventions as escapism and to immerse themselves in a good story. There’s nothing more to it.”

She is trying to get me to think about what I like from a different angle. That’s it. It must be some technique she learned when training to be a psychotherapist.

“I’ve never heard the term transtime before.” I spoke truthfully and wondered how she would respond. Maybe it was a metaphor and I misunderstood her meaning.

“It’s very rarely used and there are reasons for this. If someone changes their gender, it only affects them. If someone changes their era, it involves a careful balancing act. They have to swap with a soul from the era to which they transition. People need to be very careful when they change gender. Sometimes the cause of their problems is not their physical body but something else entirely. This can be the same with transtimers.

“People watch a costume drama for escapism, as you say, and think they would like to live then. In nearly all cases what they mean is that it would be nice to be a mediaeval princess and dance in magnificent dresses. At the same time, they also want modern comforts. The prince must be masterful yet have a modern attitude towards women’s rights and personal hygiene. Castles must have central heating. The princess must also have easy access to paracetamol, the contraceptive pill and antibiotics.

“However, for a very few people, statistics suggest one in a million, they really would be happier living in the fifteenth century than the twenty-first, regardless of if they were a princess or a beggar. They would give up every benefit of life in modern Britain to live in the age where their soul truly belongs. They would travel through time to live as the same soul but in a different body and year.”

Jasmine paused to observe me and sip her tea.

“What you are describing is impossible. No-one has travelled through time, not in real life.”

“No-one that you have heard of. This is kept very quiet. Otherwise, just think how many costume drama viewers might decide to visit their favourite eras on a whim? The laws of physics allow it. We must manage it wisely and ethically. Two souls from two different eras need to swap and once a swap is made, that is it. No further time-travel is possible.

“Like I say, only one in a million of us are estimated to be transtime and not all transtimers decide to travel through time. You are the second person I have encountered in twenty years who might fit this description.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t believe you. What you are describing is impossible.”

“I can call up a second opinion.”

I nodded my consent.

She fiddled with what I thought was her smart phone. From out of nowhere appeared a man who looked like Dracula’s father but was dressed as if for a job interview.

I jumped. The door had not opened since I entered the room some minutes ago and I was always careful to shut it out of concern for my privacy. The window could open fully but it was shut against the autumn drizzle and Jasmine’s office was on the first floor.

“Esme, this is Gabriel. He is a celestial being who specialises in this field. Gabriel, this is Esme who I mentioned in our conversation last week.”

“Are you an angel?” I breathed.

“I prefer the term celestial being.”

His tone was polite but it suggested I had used a politically incorrect term. His accent was plummy and his voice was extremely clear.

There was an awkward pause before he smiled and spoke.

“Jasmine has told me a little about you but I would like to hear your story in your own words. Firstly, how do you identify? People seem to be very keen to label themselves these days. What word or phrase best defines you?”

I thought.

Female. Bisexual. Mixed race. English. British. About to turn thirty. Single. Lonely. Singer. Failure. Administrator. Mental health problems. Estranged from my family. Once famous. Dull, I bore myself at times. Short. Plumper than I’d like to be. Physically healthy. Ungrateful. Scared.

I decided.

“I identify as Juliet’s sister. It’s how other people identified me when I was growing up.”

Gabriel and Jasmine did not react to this odd statement apart from a slight nod from the former. He spoke again.

“What is it about the last quarter of the eighteenth century that interests you?”

This was easier to respond to.

“I like the look of the fashion. When I sang in Minx, I sometimes wore corset-style tops and I liked the feel of them. I like costume dramas and novels set around that time. I am the only person I know who has read Fanny Burney. I think what really appeals to me is the sense of community that is described. I see it in Jane Austen and many other writers from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.”

“Could you give me a brief summary of your life so far and what has brought you to therapy?”

I repeated what I had told Jasmine when we first met.

“I was born in Castlewhite, in the Rosborough area, on 31^st October 1985.  I was my parents’ first child. Their names are Gary and Judith. My father is black and from London. My mother is white and from a village in Gloucestershire. When I was four, my sister Juliet was born.

“When Juliet was tiny, she was diagnosed with severe asthma. I was healthy and older, she often had to be rushed to hospital and so naturally, our parents’ focus was often on her. She was a beautiful, precocious child but her personality was attention seeking and spiteful. I don’t know if this was due to the asthma or if she would have been a cow regardless of her health.

“I sing, I am classically trained, but Juliet’s voice was even better. A family friend who is an opera buff spotted her talent. She took singing lessons and the exercise helped her asthma. The idea was that she should train seriously to be an opera singer, when her voice was old enough to take it.

“Instead, she died at the age of seventeen. She had brain damage following a severe asthma attack when she was eight. After that, family life fell apart. My parents are still married, they cling to each other, but we haven’t spoken for years.”

“That is a very sad story. What do you consider to be the key fact in it?” Gabriel asked.

Jasmine discreetly took notes, something she never did in our previous sessions.

“Juliet’s death.” My response was automatic.

“What I consider the key fact is that you have told me very little about yourself. You have told me where your parents grew up, you have told me their ethnicities, you have told me a lot about your sister but you have told me very few details about yourself. Does this answer my second question? Is this what brought you to therapy?”

I nodded, the realisation went off in my head like a firework.

“How old were you when you first really got into history?” Jasmine spoke, her pen still poised in her hand.

“When I was about six or so, I was very young. It was when we realised how bad Juliet’s asthma was and what it meant for her, for all of us. Girls in the books I read were princesses, or at least the daughters of very wealthy gentlemen. They were always loved and protected. Even when bad things happened to them, they had their supporters.”

Another firework went off in my head.

“I think this is why I became so interested in history. I wanted to feel protected, wanted, important and loved because I don’t think I felt any of these things for most of my childhood.”

“Interesting. Having heard all of this, I really am in two minds as to if you are transtime or if you are simply unhappy to the point where it is affecting your health. Jasmine, what do you think?” Gabriel turned to my therapist.

“I think we need to explore this over further sessions. Transtime is never diagnosed straight away and I want to consider other diagnoses such as anxiety and depression. You might even simply be very lonely, Esme. Are you happy to explore these possibilities?”

“Will we still meet every week as we have been?”

“Yes, and my fee will stay the same. Gabriel will join us, if that’s okay with you.”

I consented and we spent the rest of the session discussing what being transtime and transitioning through time entailed. One thing was stressed repeatedly, transitioning was a one-way process. If I chose to travel through time, I would be stuck there, just like I had assumed I was stuck in the twenty-first century.

I left the session with some leaflets describing the condition I had not heard of only an hour earlier. On the bus home, I read them carefully and disbelievingly, I was becoming convinced I was the victim of an elaborate hoax. Jasmine’s motivation though was puzzling.

One phrase appeared on all of the leaflets. This information is only visible to those intended to see it.

Cynically, I dropped the leaflets on the seat and made to get off the bus. We were approaching the stop nearest my flat.

“Hey, you’ve dropped your gloves, duck.”

The man in the seat opposite me handed me a pair of red leather gloves, an item of clothing I had never owned and my seat had been empty apart from me, my bag and the four pieces of paper. It was now completely bare.

I stuttered out a thank you and got off the bus, clutching the cool leather in my hands.

I looked down at my hands as the bus drove off. There were no gloves and no red leather items either on my person or near me. Over my right shoulder was my blue leather bag, in my left hand were the four leaflets.