A novel about cross-dressing, social apathy, and seeing the best in people, a little too late. It started when I came home and found my bloody pointless stupid bastard boyfriend, Charlie, on my sofa, in my blue Lycra dress. He was having some sort of breakdown. It transpired that Charlie had been having an epiphany of sorts. The previous night, standing on his balcony, he had witnessed an attack – on a woman he'd just kicked out of his bed. Ahsen and shaken, on his way to work the next day, he had found a dead body in the train toilets and now here he was, in a dress, sobbing uncontrollably. I had been ready to dump Charlie once and for all – he was an unfaithful bastard (so was I, but not to the same extent). But he convinced me to run off with him to Devon for a week to sort his head out and I decided I owed him that much. Sizzling in the unlikely heatwave that week, everything changed between us, as we sucked on ice-creams naked on deckchairs, and hi-jacked an old people's bowling green. But despite the fact that our relationship had never been so strong and never meant so much to either of us, could we handle what was waiting for us back in London?