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Author's note: Dear All, thank you for taking the time to read this story. It is long but hopefully you'll appreciate it. Please note it is very different in character and type to the other two stories I have on FM. If you are looking for a quick fantasy gratification story, sorry, but if you want to read a carefully developed sensitive story, I hope you'll find it here. This is only the first part of this saga and if there is sufficient demand, more parts will follow. No Half Measures By Jenny Walker (c)2003 CHAPTER 1 I began to belt it out as my fingers hammered the keyboard's keys, "So take a good look at me now...I'll still be standing here...and you coming back to me is against all odds...and that's a chance I'll have to take...so take a look at me now." The final chords faded and I looked up, smiled and into the microphone said, "Thank you, have a good night folks." As the usual crescendo of applause hit my ears I felt that buzz, that indefinable rush that I always got with performing. Perhaps some people got used to it, but I doubted I ever would. I hoped I wouldn't. I looked around the club and through the smoky haze saw folks chatting, ordering a last drink or getting ready to go. I leaned back in my chair and after a few slow breaths, found the energy to rise and steeled myself for the hated task of packing up my equipment. At last the keyboard was in its case as was my guitar. The sequencer was carefully packed away with my laptop, all cables neatly coiled and bagged, and my amplifier unplugged and ready to go. By now the club was practically empty and the staff were beginning to clear up. Dave came over and offered to help me lug my gear down to my car. I gratefully accepted. "Great set as usual," he remarked as I packed the stuff into the back of my beat-up Ford Fiesta. With everything packed in tight, I stood back, wiped my brow and grinned, "Thanks Dave. Good number in tonight." He smiled, "Thursday nights with Nick Evans are becoming a popular tradition in The Last Stop". He handed over a brown envelope, "There you go Nick," his brow furrowed, "Real sorry I can't give you more, you know I'd love to, but making ends meet and all that." I shrugged and waved a hand at him as I took the envelope, "Dave, you know I'd gladly do it for free..." I paused, "If I could live on air alone." I winked. He laughed and replied, "You know I think you would. Say, any comeback from your recent demo?" I winced as he reminded me. "Yeah well, I've got to go and meet one of the agents at Sony tomorrow." I stuck my hands in my pockets and idly kicked the kerb with my right foot, "But I don't hold out much hope," I continued, looking at the ground. Which was a lie, as I had great hopes, great dreams, but was well aware of their potential to be shattered yet again. "Well, it's their loss if they turn you away if you ask me," Dave replied giving what was probably supposed to be a friendly light punch on the shoulder. However as he was 6 feet something and somewhere over 200 pounds and I was, well a good bit less than that - I staggered and nearly fell over. "Sorry man," he said with an apologetic smile. I shrugged and waved. "No problem, I'll see you next week," as I got into my car. "Good luck tomorrow," he called as I pulled the door closed. -*- When the alarm blared at seven the next morning, I groaned and despite trying to ignore it, turn it off, destroy it or at least maim it, I eventually remembered I had deliberately placed it out of reach of my bed to protect it against such intended destructive actions. I dragged myself out of bed and heading for the shower murmured, "Damn it, I'm an artist. Shouldn't have to get up at such ungodly hours." I worked late into the night and rarely rose before mid-morning, but not today. Getting dressed in the one and only suit I owned, I thought briefly about breakfast but the immediate wave of nausea that crashed over me laid that idea to rest. I checked myself in the mirror and tried to make my straggly shoulder-length black mane look something approaching respectable. I heard my mother's tones in my head, "Nicholas, would you not think of a haircut once in a while?" I grinned to myself as I heard myself tell her I was an artist and not subject to the same expectations of society as the worker drones were. I sighed as the usual progression of such conversations played through my mind inevitably moving towards the issue of me getting a ' proper job' or the like. With the current feeling in my stomach, a part of me was siding with my mother this morning. I shrugged, straightened my tie and headed out the door. From my Greenwich bed-sit flat, it was about a 35-minute ride on the Tube with one change to get to the headquarters of Sony Music in central London. Sitting in the crowded carriage, I played my demo disc over and over in my head. I was damn proud of this one. I had poured body and soul into the writing of these songs. They were full of emotion, pathos - full of me. I had recorded them again and again on my digital four-track recorder until I was at last fully satisfied with them. I had no doubt that this was the best I could do, and hence why I felt so nervous this time. Hell, I had had plenty of experience of rejection but up to now I had used the negative feelings to spur me to better writing, better singing and performing. This time? This time I wasn't sure if I had anything more to give. I had chosen Sony, as on my previous round of rejections they were the most positive. If it is possible to have a positive rejection, that is. As I walked up Great Marlborough Street towards the Sony building, I thought I was going to have to stop and throw up in the street. "Get a grip would you," I muttered to myself and then I noticed the look a woman passer-by gave me. I just smiled and nodded to her as I walked on. Inside the building, the plush entrance lobby was probably twice the square footage of my miserable flat and the cheerful girl behind the desk, after checking her computer, told me to go to the 4th floor lobby and ask for Simon Andrews. Of course, I was kept waiting. I expected nothing less. After 40 minutes, a tall tanned guy in what had to be an Armani suit came out and, effusively apologising, introduced himself as Simon Andrews. He ushered me into his office that needless to say was large, plush and expensively furnished. I politely declined his offer of coffee as my stomach did another somersault and I sat in the proffered leather chair as he sat down behind his desk. "Well, Nick," he began with a smile, his palms face down on his desk, "Can I call you Nick?" he asked and then carried on without waiting for an answer. "I have to say I was really impressed with your demo. Strong songs, good writing, good performing." He paused. I felt my heart was going to break through my chest, but I managed to keep it in and smiled faintly, "Thanks." He nodded, "Yes good songs, accomplished writing. You obviously have a talent." He paused again and nodded and I began to get an impending feeling of doom. There was a ' but' looming on the horizon I was sure. "However," he said with a slow intake of breath, "although the songs and the musical performance are very strong, I'm just not sure that your vocals are exactly what we would be looking for at this current time." He smiled apologetically. It was that old familiar kick in the stomach feeling. My vocals weren't strong enough? I don't have much of an ego, but I did feel I had a good voice. After letting his words sink in, I steeled myself and made myself ask the pathetic questions, "So you are not sure? Not what you are looking for at the moment, but maybe another time?" I hated myself for asking. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably and that was all the answer I needed, but he spelt it out, "Look to be honest Nick, we wouldn't be considering taking you on as an artist," he paused and half-winced, "now, or at anytime really." He spread his hands. I nodded, "OK. Thanks for being straight with me." Sure thanks for kicking me in the teeth; for removing the last straw of hope. I don't know what it was that made me press on. "I'm sorry for going on," I began, "but it would be helpful for me if you could explain just why my vocals aren't what you are looking for." He nodded as if to say ' fair enough' and with a bit of hesitation replied, "Well, I don't know quite how to put it..." his voice trailed off and he looked like he was searching for the right words. Instead of telling him ' where' he could put it I stifled the reflexive urge and said, "Look just give it to me straight, I can take it." I lied. "Alright," he said a little more happily, "to be honest in today's climate we are looking for male vocalists with voices that are stronger, more commanding." I blinked a few times, "But my voice is strong." I was a little puzzled. He nodded, "Ye-es, it is a strong voice however what we are looking for is a voice with...." he paused and wrinkled his brow, "with more balls let's say." I sighed, and rubbed my chin, "Was that the only reason?" As I asked I knew from his expression that it wasn't, "You can tell me straight, I promise not to cry," I forced a smile. In front of you, I added mentally. As for later? All bets were off on that one. He sighed, "Well, the agent who met you initially did remark that he didn't think your image would be very...how can I say it...marketable?" I gave what I am sure was a very cynical smile with an unimpressed snort. "Marketable," I repeated and shook my head. "Alright, Simon - can I call you Simon?" I said and continued apace, "Well thanks for your honesty. I'll not take up anymore of your time." I stood up and was about to head for the door when he spoke again. "Nick, wait." I turned around as he continued, "I said we wouldn't be taking you on as an artist, but we would be very interested in working out a deal with you as a songwriter." I paused and chewed my lower lip, "A songwriter." I repeated. I shook my head, "I really don't think so. I'm not going to give up so easily." He persisted, "Alright, but at least think about a one-off deal. The five songs on your demo we would be very keen to cut a deal with you on." He could obviously see my expression building up to the ' get stuffed' look as he raised his hands defensively, "Look Nick, just think about it ok? Here take this proposal and look at it, give me a call if you are interested." He held out a white manila envelope and smiled almost pleadingly. I shrugged and took the envelope from him and headed out the door without another word. -*- The weather fitted my mood. Typical November London day - grey, misty, drizzly and windy. I walked, head down, and walked. From ever since I could remember, I had loved music. It had been my life and I always thought I would make it. Despite all the rejections I still had the belief in myself. Until now perhaps. This was the big one and as they say the bigger they are, they harder they fall. A voice with more balls. A marketable image. I knew what he was getting at. He wasn't the first. OK, so I didn't want to play rugby at school, or any sport for that matter. I had made every excuse to escape to the music department at every opportunity. I wasn't what you would call well built. Slight and thin, neither the tallest, nor quite the smallest though at 5 foot 7. I shrugged and winced inwardly as the memories came back from my school days. Pretty boy. What a hateful nickname. It didn't start out spitefully as in fact it was some of the girls who had coined the term for me. They meant it factually. I was fine-featured, as I liked to think of it. However once it got out, I was stuck with it. It was eventually shortened to PB and that was how I was known by most of my year. I sort of hoped most people forgot what it originally stood for. The jocks didn't beat on me at least; it was just what they called me. I think if I hadn't had my music, if I hadn't had something in my favour, something to be respected for, I may have attracted the casual beatings that other non-entities did. I closed my eyes and pictured the yearbook caption to my photo, "Award for: Most gifted musician. Nickname: ' PB'." I sighed then jumped as the car horn dragged me from my reverie and back to reality. I jumped onto the pavement and gave the car driver a two-fingered salute. Couldn't he see I was in a ' not to be messed with' mood? I paused to gather my bearings as I had been wandering aimlessly. Charing Cross Road. I pulled the collar of my jacket up as the rain became more persistent and headed for a familiar coffee shop about a hundred yards down the street. Ordering a black coffee I slouched into a corner seat and slipped back into my self-pitying introspection. Marketable image. The words seared through my brain. Damn, I mean I could eat more, put a bit of weight on, work out a bit. I stirred the coffee and added two sugars and then a third, feeling that I deserved the extra fix. Problem was if it came to spending the hard to come by cash on decent food or a new piece of musical equipment, I knew which would win. And if it came to a choice of spending time cooking, exercising and the like or working on a new tune, or even just listening to music, I knew what I would do. I drank the coffee and realised that music was my life. Take it away and there was little left. It seemed a little pathetic put like that. I pushed my straggly wet hair back from my face and rubbed my eyes. What now? What else could I do? The rain had eased a bit so I dragged myself from the chair and headed out again and after pausing for a moment to decide my route and destination; I decided it was home via Charing Cross station and two tube changes. I trudged on with heavy feet, not sure what I was going to do when I got home. I'd left school with two A-levels. Music of course - an A grade. English a C grade which I was pleasantly surprised with. The Maths had been an unmitigated disaster. I shrugged; the Maths and English were by the bys. I'd spent most of my younger days spare time involved in music of some kind or another. Orchestra, choir, whatever. A voice with more balls. I winced. Sure I was just about a tenor, as long as it wasn't too low a part. Sure I occasionally had helped the altos in choir practice, but I had a strong voice, I knew it. When I got home, I passed on lunch despite having had nothing to eat all day. No nausea, just no appetite. I stripped out of my damp clothes and tossed them in the corner of my bedroom with a mixture of anger and frustration. With nothing better to do and feeling exhausted I decided to climb back into bed and see if the world looked any better the other side of a few hours nap. It didn't really. -*- It was about 6pm when I surfaced and showered. I didn't bother getting dressed again even though there was something pathetic about sitting around in my dressing gown having slept all afternoon. I didn't really care though. I forced myself to eat a cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps. I turned on my stereo and selected one of the compilation CDs that I had made for myself of music that I liked. I lay down on the sofa and let the music wash over me as I tried not to think. Easier said than done. A voice with more balls. The words cut into me over and over again. What was he trying to say? I had a girly voice? Rubbish. I reached for the remote and turned up the volume as one of my favourite songs started. 'Show me Heaven' by Maria McKee. I loved the way it started slow, quiet, mellow and built up to an emotional crescendo. As it finished a strange thought came to me. A girly voice? No way, I'll prove it. I can't do it. I switched the stereo off and went over to my studio. OK, the corner of my living room cum kitchen that contained my equipment. I fired up the sequencer and four-track and began to lay down some tracks for 'Show Me Heaven'. I never stopped giving thanks for the ears that God gave me. To be able to hear a song and, without much trouble, to be able to sit down and play it was not something I ever took for granted. I laid down a background keyboard track, a bass guitar riff and then programmed in the percussion on the drum machine. I played it back and nodded to myself, not bad. I never tried to play a song exactly as others performed it. Take what you hear, interpret it, play around with it and add a bit of yourself to it. I picked up my semi-acoustic guitar and plugged it into my amp, switched on the microphone and added a bit of reverb to the mic channel. I adjusted the mic stand's height - I never could do the old sit down and sing with the guitar thing. You had to stand, had to perform. I paused and closed my eyes. I wasn't going to sing this song as a man might. Think, think - how would a woman sing it. I touched the record button on the four-track. I would give it my best shot and still it would be me. No balls, huh? The intro started and I began a little finger plucking on the guitar and closing my eyes, sang the familiar words. "There you go, flashing fever from your eyes. Hey babe, come over here and shut down tight. I'm not denying, we' re flying above it all. Hold my hand, don't let me fall, you've such amazing grace. I've never felt this way..." I smiled to myself as the music crescendoed. I really loved this song and as the chorus kicked in I forgot about what I was trying to do and just went with it and sang it out, "Oh, Show me heaven, Cover me, Leave me breathless, Oh, Show me heaven please." I added more rhythmic strumming on the guitar, "I've shivers down my spine, and it feels divine." I did have shivers down my spine. That inexplicable feeling of being lost in music, lost in the moment of performance. I felt the dark cloud of the day slipping away as I reached for the high notes at the end and finished with some mellow guitar fingerpicking. I sighed and turned off the recorder. I smiled. It was good to play. Good therapy. Cathartic. Now let's hear it. I sat down on the stool and pressed play. The intro started and I winced as I heard a slightly off note from the guitar. I resisted my perfectionist urge to stop right there and do it again as the verse started. It was good. Or I was good, a little too good for my liking. I sighed and closed my eyes and tried to listen as impartially as I could. I shook my head as the chorus burst in. This was not good. What I heard was a next to perfect rendition of this song. Emotion, feeling, all the notes perfect. As it closed, I felt a strange mixture of feelings. Professional pride, yet personal distress. I had a strong voice all right and, being honest, I had just heard one of my strongest vocal performances. A strong voice, but right enough I doubted anyone would have said the singer had a ' ballsy' voice. After sitting staring into space for a few moments I mentally shook myself. All right, one song doesn't make a diva. It's a fluke, a scary one, but a fluke. Let's try it again. I thought for a few moments trying to think of another familiar song to try to prove myself wrong with. 'Torn', by Natalie Imbruglia. If you' re going to be a one-hit wonder may as well make that hit a great song I always said. I knew the song well. The tracks were laid down and I grabbed the guitar. As tempting as it was to deliberately do it badly, I just couldn't do that. I gave it my all and as I sat and listened to the playback, it was the same again. As the song ended, my head was in my hands. Was slimy Simon right? I shrugged and like a failing gambler looking for double or quits, I decided to give it one last shot and raise the stakes. I racked my brain for a song that had a fantastic female vocal. After running through many possibilities I knew the one to try. 'Unbreak My Heart' by Tony Braxton. God, I loved that song, fantastic vocal. Starting low with a hint of veiled emotion but building up to melancholic heights of vocal agility. This was the hurdle on which I would fall. I shoved in the CD and listened to it a few times. Fantastic. And unmatchable, I was sure. I followed the same procedure and determined to give it my all, no matter what. I even laid the guitar track in first so I could concentrate on the vocal. Taking the microphone in both hands I put my heart into it and surprised myself with what I thought was probably a reasonable effort. I was wrong. It wasn't reasonable; it was ghastly. Ghastly because it was brilliant. I was sure I would sound like a man in pain on the high falsettos, but no. I rubbed my eyes. It had been a long day and I felt like an emotional wreck. I transferred the three songs to a blank minidisc. Why? I always kept a record of what I had done. The old obsessive-compulsive side coming out again I guess. I crawled into bed for what I knew would be a fitful and disturbed night's sleep. -*- I reached out for the alarm clock and tried to thump it, crush it, the usual. I smacked it across the room but still it kept trilling. I was sure I hadn't set it, as I had had no particular intentions on the getting out of bed before lunchtime front. Eventually I realised it wasn't the alarm clock, but the phone and, gathering enough coherent cognitive power, I managed to co-ordinate my right hand to lift it off the cradle and bring it to my ear. "Yeah," I murmured into it, hoping I was holding it the right way up. "You' re still in bed!" the voice accused, "I don't believe it - well actually I do." Jools. "Umm, hi Jools," I said, forcing myself to sit up to ensure that consciousness was maintained, "Wassup?" "Not you obviously," she said with more than a little hint of irony in her voice. "Umm no," I agreed as I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I looked for my clock to see the time and was puzzled when I couldn't see it. I spotted it in the corner of my room, upside down. I vaguely remembered launching it in that direction subconsciously. "How are you?" "Oh I'm fine," she said brightly, and then in a sarcastic tone, "except for the fact that a good friend has stood me up for the brunch date we had." Damn. "Oh...yes," I said slowly. "Erm sorry. I sort of well forgot." "So I gathered," she retorted. "So should I cut my losses or can you make it here sometime before sundown?" "No, I'm coming now," I said more awake now and climbed out of bed just before dropping the phone. "Crap," I muttered and grabbed the receiver, "Jools, you still there?" "Of course Nick, I'm always here aren't I?" "Err OK; I'll see you in about 20 minutes. Bye." I set the phone down and grabbed a pair of jeans. I looked in the mirror and wished I hadn't. No need to shave at least - did that yesterday. Hair a mess, could do with a shower. I shrugged as I pulled on a shirt and shoved my feet into my already laced sneakers. Grabbing my jacket and just remembering to grab my keys as I ran out the door, I also as an afterthought grabbed my minidisc player with last night's disc still in it. I knew I should make more of an effort with myself. I thought that it least it was only Jools. Only Jools? Julie Carstairs. Possible the closest friend I had right now. We'd been a lot more at one time. When I first came to London 5 years ago, fresh out of school and painfully na?ve, a friend suggested I get myself an agent. Not knowing any better I got a music mag and looked up the classifieds for agents. There were two entries under ' A' and one under ' B'. As serendipity would have it, the first was a wrong number; the next two were answer phones. Under ' C' I phoned Julie and when she spoke to me she must have realised how green I was and taken pity on me. We met up and chatted. She was only 4 years older than me yet shared the same love of music that I did. She couldn't play or sing much but had decided to get into the business in the best way she could. Julie could sell ice to Eskimos and having completed a business degree was starting out as an agent. Her business was small and scanty at that time, but she had the fortunate backing of wealthy, generous and concerned parents. Not that mine weren't generous; I was just too stubborn and had this thing about making it on my own. As we chatted, we realised we had a lot in common and she agreed to try and get me a few gigs to start off with. I had nothing to pay her with but she didn't care. She came round and I played her a few songs and I knew she was impressed. We met up regularly and one night after a gig, she came back to my place and, well, things got personal if you know what I mean. For a few months, I was able to say for the first time that I had a proper girlfriend. It didn't last though. Things sort of got stale. Music was both of our priorities. Her business was picking up, and she was representing a growing number of West End performers. It wasn't what she really wanted. She wanted to crack open the commercial music industry with a big star, but she was still waiting. I wasn't going to be it despite both of our hopes and things sort of petered out. We both decided to shake hands, separate and remain friends. Most Saturday mornings we would meet up in 'Marnies' Caf?', a little deli at the start of the Portobello Road and chat about life, give off about our lack of success, laugh, cry and basically hope and dream together. I ran out of the Notting Hill Gate tube station and huffed and puffed my way up the street until I got there and collapsed into the seat opposite her, red-faced and panting. She smirked and shook her head, "20 minutes! More like 35 and you look awful." I shrugged, "You know I always promise more than I can deliver, and you look wonderful." She laughed. "Flatterer." Looking concerned she continued, "But seriously you look like crap." I raised an eyebrow and with a mirthless chuckle retorted, "You sure know how to kick a guy when he is down, Jools." After the waitress came and took our order, she said, "Didn't go well yesterday then?" I shook my head, "You could say that." I related the exchanges between myself and Simon and she made all the right sympathetic noises. I told her the specifics of the reasons why he'd turned me down. She just commented that he sounded like a jerk. She didn't quite contradict what he had said though. When I mentioned the offer of buying my songs, her business brain clicked into gear. "How much did they offer?" she asked with interest. I shrugged, "I don't know, I turned him down of course." I bristled a little with indignation, "You know my views on just being a songwriter, Jools." "That's fine, but you need to live and eat. So you weren't interested to know what they were offering?" Julie could be so darned practical and real at times. I suddenly remembered and fished in my pocket and pulled out a crumpled white envelope. "He said this was the proposal." She snatched it out of my hand and began to open it just as our food arrived. "Hey," I protested lamely as she pulled out a headed piece of paper and scanned it. Her eyebrows rose a little and she handed it to me. I took it and trying to pretend indifference, I read it with some interest to see what they thought my songs were worth. I was somewhat pleasantly surprised. I finished reading it and looked up at Julie, "?10,000 for the rights to 5 songs," I stated. "That's probably a lot isn't it?" I asked her. She nodded, "I'd say so. But don't accept it - tell them you want 2% royalties also." I sighed, "I wasn't going to accept it at all Jools, you know..." She leaned forward and interrupted, "C'mon Nick. Think about it. You are a professional musician, as you like to think about it. What is a professional? Someone who makes money from what they do. You aren't sacrificing your artistic integrity or your goals by actually cashing in on your talent are you?" "I guess not," I murmured. I grimaced, "But it's the thought of someone else singing my songs." I paused, "It just seems like a violation or something." Before she could pester me about it any further, I figured I'd distract her with my minidisc. I wasn't quite sure why I was going to get her to listen it. Perhaps it was a hope that she would think it was a poor effort and that would do something to restore my wounded ego. Or rather perhaps it was the total opposite. I think somewhere deep down I was actually quite proud of the performances in a strange sort of way. I slid the minidisc across the table, "Have a listen to this." "What is it?" she asked suspiciously. I shrugged, "Just some songs a friend sang, I did the musical accompaniment." I wondered if she would realise who had really sung them. She grimaced, "Nick...you know I don't really like it when people try to get things past me by the back door. Get your friend to come see me up front." I sighed, "Look Jools, just have a listen and give me your honest opinion. That's all - no catches, no strings attached." Not half! She nodded, "Alright." She put on the headphones and started to listen. I drank my coffee and made a half- hearted attempt at my sandwich. I could just about make the sound out from across the table. The singing started and I could see her expression change from one of resigned reluctance to one of interest. She nodded a few times. After the first chorus, she slipped the headphones off, "Who is she? She's good!" I winced momentarily but shook my head, "Just listen, there's three songs. Listen to them all and then we can talk." She shrugged and replaced the headphones. As she listened to the second and third songs I could see she was enjoying them. When they finished she set the headphones down on the table and shook her head saying nothing for a moment. When she spoke it was one word, "Wow." Another pause. She leant forwards towards me, "Who on earth is she? What a voice! Good choice of songs, 3 of your favourites Nick, I presume you suggested them to her." I shrugged and shifted in my seat suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. "Yeah, something like that," I murmured. She would not be put off though. "Nick I want to know who she is. Does she have an agent?" I could see the wheels of her mind turning. "I really want to meet her." Seeing my disinterested expression she persisted, "C'mon Nick, she has a real future with a voice like that." I sighed. Julie had never waxed lyrical like this about my singing before...well that is until now. "Jools," I began and then hesitated, "There is no future for ' her' because...well I don't know how to say it except that it was me singing on the disc." I sat back and watched her eyebrows shoot upwards. She screwed her eyes up as she took that one in. "Huh? Did you get a new effects module or something? Electronically modify your voice?" I shook my head, and said quietly, "No, I just thought I'd try something a little different." "Why? How?" she seemed a bit overwhelmed. I shrugged and tried to explain the mood I had been in after the rejection and comments from Simon Andrews. I don't know if she understood but she seemed to take it in. "Nick, if that is you on the disc, which I still find hard to believe...well you sound amazing. I've never heard your voice like that, so strong." I grinned wryly, "I sounded like a girl singing and now I'm told that my voice is strong." I gave an ironic half-snort- cum-chuckle. "But if you don't really believe me, come on back over to my place and I'll give you a live demo." "OK," she said. I was a bit taken aback but regained my composure and replied, "OK. Well then, let's go." I made my usual pretence about wanting to pay, but as always she wouldn't hear of it and settled the bill herself. We didn't talk much on the journey back to my flat. Julie seemed preoccupied. When we got in, I suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable, "You don't really want to hear me sing like that, do you?" "I most certainly do," she said indignantly. Then with a sly smile, "I mean, I don't know if I really believe that was you singing." She always knew I couldn't resist a challenge. "Alright then," I retorted, "which song do you want me to sing?" "All of them." "OK" "Fine" "Right," I said turning on my equipment. When everything was set, I grabbed my guitar, started the backing track and stood up to the microphone. I got my mind ready for what I was doing and began to play. I closed my eyes and began to sing, I let my voice flow over the familiar words and let myself get immersed in the music and the emotion. Just like last night, I put everything into it, heart, mind and soul and when I finished 'show Me Heaven' I opened my eyes and saw Julie sitting on the arm of the sofa staring at me with her mouth slightly open. "What's wrong?" I asked. She shook her head as if snapping out of a trance. "Umm nothing, nothing. Go on, don't stop," she waved a hand at me to encourage me to continue. I turned back and started 'Torn'. Again, I let myself be absorbed into the performance and found it coming more naturally than it had last night. I reasoned it was probably just increased familiarity with singing this way. When it finished, I didn't even look at Julie, I just set the guitar down and started the final song, ' Unbreak My Heart'." I gave it the 'full welly' as a friend of mine used to say. I cupped the microphone between my hands and it was as if I was almost pouring myself into it. When the song finished I just stood there, eyes closed for about half a minute, before turning to face her. I shrugged, "There you go. Believe me now?" She just stared at me as if I was an alien or something. She shook her head. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears I don't think I would have believed that was possible. Being perfectly serious - that was absolutely amazing." I winced again and murmured, "Pity it's not really the real me singing and getting such praise." She looked at me thoughtfully and chewed her lower lip, "Perhaps, perhaps not." I didn't know what she meant and didn't feel inclined to ask her to elaborate. She jumped to her feet and said, "I'd better be going. Can I borrow that minidisc?" "Sure. What do you want it for?" She shrugged noncommittally, "I just want to listen to it again." She had that calculating look in her eyes, but I was too drained to push her any further so I gave it to her. She gave me a peck on the cheek and headed for the door. "I'll be in touch," she waved. "Bye, Jools," I said, "Oh, I'm heading up to see my folks tonight and won't be back 'til Monday afternoon so I'll talk to you sometime next week." -*- CHAPTER 2 It had been good to spend some time with my folks, but I was glad enough to be driving back down the M4 towards London on Monday afternoon. My parents now lived in Cardiff and had done so for the past 3 years or so. Dad was a solicitor and when I was growing up he had been based in the Pembroke office of the firm Roberts, Unwin & Jones. Pembroke had been home, Cardiff wasn't. On the coast of southwest Wales, Pembroke was a medium-sized town probably best known for its majestic castle. I had been born there, grew up there and went to school there. I missed it from time to time, but it was hardly the centre of the universe. Dad had been promoted to a senior partnership in the central office in Cardiff and was now winding down towards retirement. Mum had been a teacher but hadn't taught since my sister and I were born. Claire was 3 years older than me and was the 'success' of the children in my parent's eyes. Or so I perceived it. They would never say it in so many words. Claire was an accountant working in Bristol. Unmarried as yet, and closer to Cardiff, she visited Mum and Dad a lot more often than I did as Mum had reminded me the past day or two. I loved my folks dearly. We had never wanted for anything growing up and they had always encouraged my interest in music. I remember Mum putting me through my piano practice each week and telling me to do it over and over again until I got it right. I attributed my perfectionist tendencies to her. They had urged me to go to Music College after leaving school, to get a decent qualification. I declined; I had other ideas in mind. I think they hoped I'd grow out of my desire to be a successful singer/songwriter and would settle down, become a music teacher, get married and produce grandchildren for them. Yet in their favour they didn't spend their time rubbishing me or berating me. They tried to be encouraging, but I knew they were concerned that I was throwing my life away on a pipe dream. I had told them about the latest rejection and I think Mum knew how galling this one was. I could never really hide my feelings from her. Dad was always worried about my financial status and true to form offered me a helping hand again this time. I refused as always, but this time he wasn't backing down. Apparently he'd just got a bonus or something and he claimed he'd given Claire a gift as well and he wasn't going to treat us differently. So I accepted somewhat reluctantly. He gave me a cheque for ?2000 and ignored my protests. I was grateful really. I made scant enough money with the odd gig here or there and just about made ends meet each month. I was halfway down the M4 when my musings were interrupted by the ringing of my mobile phone on the seat beside me. I grabbed it and flicked it open, "Hello?" "Nick, where are you?" It was Jools. "Umm, about halfway between Bristol and London, on the way back from my folks. Remember?" "Oh yes," she said quickly. She sounded a little on edge and continued, "Listen, and tell me, do you think you could write songs for, well you know a girl to sing?" "Huh?" I had forgotten about all this the past day or two. She sighed sounding impatient, "Look the songs you sang the other night to me. Do you think you could write original songs to be sung like that?" "Jools, what is this about? Are you harping back on the songwriter thing again?" "Nick, just answer," she sounded ticked off now, "Do you think you can or not? I'll explain later, I'm sort of in the middle of something." I paused, "Umm, well I dunno. I guess so." "OK fine, give it a try would you? I'll be round tomorrow sometime. Bye." "Uh bye," I said, but she was already away. I shook my head and threw the phone on the seat beside me. She was up to something and I didn't have a good feeling about it, but that was Jools. I timed my journey perfectly to coincide approaching London with the evening rush hour and spent a frustrating 2 hours circumnavigating the M25 before making it back to my flat. I arrived in and checked my answer phone messages. Three. All Jools, getting more agitated with each one wanting to know where I was. Why she didn't phone my mobile after the first attempt was one of those things I'd never work out. Her messages reminded me of her strange question this afternoon. I dumped my bag on the floor and headed for my 'studio'. I switched on the keyboard and let my fingers roam, playing aimlessly for a while to relax and warm up. The process of writing a song is a strange one and if someone was to ask me how I do it I probably couldn't give a clear answer. Sometimes, I had a fragment running around in my head for days that forms the nucleus of a song. Sometimes it comes out of nothing. Usually I have a thought in my head as to what the lyric should roughly be about. I form the song and melody and then just sing and see what words come. Most times I have to step away from the keyboard and guitar and sit down to get the words finalised. Other times however it all just flows out and I just switch on the four-track to make sure I don't lose it or forget it. After 5 or 10 minutes of mind-clearing playing, I stopped. I sat and thought. Think like a girl? I grinned and mentally pictured myself extracting logic and reason from my mind. Chuckling to myself I knew I'd get a slap from Jools if I shared this with her. But more seriously, I sat and thought. I needed a spark of inspiration. My mind drifted back to my earlier reminiscences whilst driving and I cast my mind back to my childhood. Slowly an idea began to come to me and I let my mind run with it. I let my hands rest on the keys and considered what key to play in. 'D', I thought first. But then remembering this was for a female vocal I adjusted upwards to ' F'. Starting with high treble arpeggio-style chords, I began to search for the heart of this song. I let my hands seek out the right chord progression as I hummed the potential melody. The verse was a melancholic wispy style. I got stuck on the end of the verse and couldn't find the right chord. I tried again and again before I got it - A minor diminished 7th. Perfect. Now, into the chorus that was a bright, loud flood of nostalgic longing. After about an hour or so, I wasn't sure as time has little meaning in such a situation, I felt I had the music complete and began to tease out some of the lyrical phrases that had been floating around in my head. It was one of those times when it just flowed. Putting myself in the right mindset I sang the lines as a woman would and it clicked, it came together. It's hard to explain the feeling of anticipation as a song is being born. The excitement mixed with an apprehension that it might not turn out just as good as you know it could be. At last, I felt I had it. I scribbled down the lines on a piece of paper and, after a bit of scoring out here and there and making changes, it was done. I pulled the microphone down to within range and hit record on the four-track. It was a song about a young woman in the midst of the hassles of life, casting her mind back to the days when all she had to worry about was if the sun was shining or not. The title was the main line from the chorus, "9 Years Old Again." It was me yet the perspective was not quite mine. When finished, I paused for breath and then started the playback. It was good. Sometimes it was hard to appraise your own songs; sometimes it was easy. Sometimes after spending hours working on a song, when I played it back I would immediately realise that it hadn't lived up to its promise and with sadness I would there and then mentally bin it. Rarely would working on it further or changing it be good enough. This one however, I knew was good right from the first time. Reluctantly, I had to admit that it was helped by the rather strong and unfortunately undeniably female vocal that was carrying it. I knew the limits of my vocal range and that was the beauty of being a singer/songwriter: you could write the songs to showcase your own vocal breadth and depth. This song did that: from the verses that were soft and delicate with a high-pitched vocal line leading into a more melodic and powerful chorus. It was one of the reasons I was against just being a songwriter. If the songwriter writes the song for his or her own voice, surely the song will be diminished if sung by someone else. When it finished, I switched off all my equipment and headed to bed. There was nothing more to do, I had created and it was good. -*- Being rudely awakened from sleep was unfortunately becoming a familiar pattern. This time after swiping at the alarm clock and then ascertaining it was neither the clock nor the phone, I achieved enough consciousness to realise it was the door buzzer. I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled over to the door of my flat and picked up the intercom phone. "Yes?" I said wearily. "C'mon, let me in," said an all too bright voice. Jools. I sighed, "OK," and pressed the door release for the downstairs door. I opened my door and leant against the wall waiting for her arrival. She came bouncing up the stairs and strode into my flat with a grin on her face. Her face fell slightly at the less than enthusiastic expression on my face. She gave a little smile and held up the box in her hands. "I've got fresh coffee and croissants," she said enticingly. I tried not to, but couldn't help myself from smiling. There was something infectious about Jools when she was in this sort of mood. I closed the door and followed her over to the table and slumped into a chair. She grinned at me and gestured at me, "Nice of you to make an effort for me. Makes a girl feel real special." I gave her a mock-scowl and realised I must be quite a sight in my old T-shirt and shorts, sleep-filled eyes and wayward hair. I shrugged and reached for the coffee and a croissant eagerly, "What time is it Jools?" She checked her watch "Half past nine. The day is young and there is lots to do." I winced, "Half nine?" I gave the 'what the hell are you doing getting me up at this time' look. She ignored it and tucked into her own croissant. "So," she said, her eyes bright, "did you give what I suggested a try?" I carefully chewed my croissant thoroughly and then took a long mouthful of coffee to wash it down, keeping her on edge deliberately. After a pause, I replied simple, "Yes." She blinked a few times, "And?" she said expectantly. I shrugged diffidently, "Well, I guess it was OK." "Did you make a recording?" she pressed. I raised my eyebrows and blew out my cheeks, "Did I record it or not?" I mused. She sighed with exasperation, "Of course you did; you always do. Stop toying with me and let me hear it." She almost pouted. I grinned and, grabbing another mouthful of croissant, wandered over to the four-track and turned it on. I got it ready and hit play before coming back to the table. Just before it started I said, "It's called ' 9 Years Old Again'." I sat down and casually sipped my coffee as it started. Jools, on the other hand, looked like she was sitting on eggs. She tapped her foot, shifted position, nodded and smiled from time to time as the song played. When it was finished I casually strolled over and switched off the four-track and again made my way back to the table and drained the remains of my coffee. I looked up at her and saw she was looking at me strangely. "Are you happy with the song?" she asked me. I smiled and shrugged, "I guess it's ok." "OK?" she replied, "OK? C'mon Nick, seriously! Don't tell me you don't think that's the best song you have ever written." I couldn't help myself and smiled broadly and tilted back in my chair, "Well it is pretty good I think." "Pretty good?" she echoed, "It's flippin' amazing and you know it." My smile got wider, "Gee shucks, thanks. So what's got you all worked up? Been developing the master plan for me to sell out my integrity as a songwriter now?" She smiled and shook her head, "Not exactly." She hesitated. "C'mon Jools, what have you been up to and why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this." She thought for a moment before looking me in the eye and replying, "Look Nick, you've always wanted to be a singer/songwriter, a performer, a successful artist, right?" I nodded but she didn't need to wait for me to answer, she knew so she continued, "And ever since I've known you, that has been your one and only goal, it's been your driving ambition. You are determined to make it happen aren't you?" "Sure," I replied. "You know that." She nodded, "And if I know you right, which I think I do, you would almost do anything to fulfil that dream, no?" "Yeah, pretty much. Enough of the softening me up Jools, what are you scheming?" She took a long, slow breath, and hesitated again before going on, "Nick, I took that minidisc you gave me to a record company to let them hear it..." "You did what?" I said with incredulity. She held up her hands, "Hear me out. Yes I took it to a major label record company yesterday, demanded a meeting with one of their liaison agents and played it to him. Do you want to know what he thought?" "Erm, sure, and I want to know why you did this?" "All in good time. Well he got quite excited and wanted to know who this girl was. He was very impressed with her vocals to say the least and wanted to know if she was interested in the possibility of a recording contract. He wanted to know if she could write her own stuff and was so taken with the sound that he took the disc to one of the senior managers to let them hear it. That's when I phoned you and asked about writing songs for a woman. So eventually when he came back in, I told him that I could confirm that she was an excellent songwriter also. He had brought his manager with him and they both expressed great interest in meeting this girl and the definite possibilities of setting up a deal." I had so many questions but the first one that came out was, "And?" She grinned, "Well I arranged a meeting for just over a month's time, Monday 23rd December, as I said she was focussing on an intense period of song-writing at the moment. They agreed as long as I promised that I wouldn't be contacting any other labels in between times." I shook my head, "Jools, I mean..." Words failed me and I tried again, "What on earth is this about? I mean that is me singing. They aren't going to be too impressed when I show up with you. Sorry I know you were expecting a girl, but hey at least I can sing like one?" I shook my head again, "What's the point of this?" She nodded slowly and obviously choosing her words carefully replied, "Nick. You want to be a successful artist. You would do almost anything to achieve that. Well, I think this is your big chance. How far are you willing to go to take this opportunity?" She looked at me meaningfully. Then it clicked, "Oh God no, Jools. You aren't implying? You are. Urgh!" I groaned and buried my head in my hands. After a few moments I lifted it again, "You can't be serious?" She leant forward animatedly, "C'mon Nick, think about it. You and I both know that with a voice like your ' new voice', and writing songs like that one, you've got every chance to make it. This is it, this is the big one." I exhaled slowly, "Jools no. I mean there's no way it would work. We'd be a laughing stock. Me dressed up as a girl?" I shook my head, "No, it would be a fiasco." I looked down at the table. Jools reached out and grabbed my hand and squeezed it until I met her gaze again. She said emphatically, "Nick. Give me a chance to prove we can do this. Don't take this the wrong way, but I think we have every chance to make this work and to make it work well." She looked at me meaningfully. I got her drift. It was the same old, same old. Pretty boy all over again. I felt a hollow sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was going to protest again, but I looked at Jools and I recognised that determined look in her eyes. Did she really think it was possible? Would she have gone out on a limb like this if she didn't? Did I want it to be possible? I didn't really know the answers to any of these questions. After a few moments, I replied softly and somewhat reluctantly, "What did you have in mind to prove this?" I was fairly sure I didn't want to hear the answer. I saw her eyes light up, "OK, well get showered, dressed and we'll go to my place." "Jools," I demanded, "I'm not moving until you tell me what you have in mind." She sighed, "Look Nick, let's give it a dress rehearsal test, ok? I've got some things back at my place we can use. Let me try a new look on you. No pressure, let's just see how things pan out ok?" I grimaced but knew that she was like a dog with a bone until she got her own way, "Alright. I'll do this but as long as you understand this is it. Whenever you realise it isn't going to work, that's the end of it and you can sort out the mess you have got yourself into and have tried to get me into." "OK," she agreed, "fair enough. Now go get showered and dressed quick and let's go." I was a bit perturbed that she had agreed so easily but put the thought out of my mind as I went to comply with her instructions. -*- We arrived at Jools' place and I lifted my guitar out of her car. She had insisted that I bring it, but hadn't been overly forthcoming as to why. Jools had an apartment in Shepherd's Bush in West London. It was a nice area and properties didn't come cheap here. Apparently it was her parents' London apartment, but they rarely stayed there so, for all intensive purposes, it was hers. The apartment was on the second floor of a Georgian style terrace house. The ground floor was an office that Jools claimed she rented from her parents and used as her base for her work. I doubted the rent she was charged was too steep. More luxurious almost than the property in London terms was the fact that there was enough room to park two cars comfortably, three at a squeeze, in the yard behind the house. Once inside, I felt extreme butterflies in my stomach at what lay ahead. I didn't quite know what lay ahead and I think that was the main problem. I set the guitar down, took off my coat and looked at Jools. I think I must have looked terrified because she came over and gave me a hug. She murmured in my ear, "Look I know this is all a bit overwhelming, but just trust me and let's see what happens." I hugged her back. It felt nice. But not in the way it once had. Oh I loved her all right. But it was more like brother and sister with Jools and me now. "OK," she said in her business-like voice. "The first thing is to get your hair washed and sorted." "I could have washed it back at my place when I was showering," I complained. "Yes, but I want to do some styling," she explained as if to a small child. We went into the bathroom and she had me take off my shirt and lean my head over the bath. She proceeded to wash my hair and shampoo it. The steaming hot water erupting from the showerhead was soothing as were her hands massaging my scalp. I think she shampooed it twice with different shampoos and then I think it must have been conditioner that came next. My hair hadn't been as well cared for in a long time. When she was done, she had me sit in a chair and, after towelling it briefly, she combed diligently through my hair ignoring my protests when she worked through the tangled bits that I usually neglected. When it was all combed out straight and she was happy she explained, "OK now don't freak. I am going to put your hair in rollers now to give it some shape." I think she must have seen the expression on my face as she went on quickly, "I said, don't panic. It's not a perm, it's not permanent, and it will comb out completely after one wash...or two. Just trust me." I sighed and let my protests subside. For about the next half-hour she wound my hair onto a set of rollers she had already heated. Apart from the occasional "Ouch" from me when she tugged a bit hard at my hair, I let her work away unhindered. When every inch of my head it seemed was covered in rollers, she gently placed a hairnet over my head to keep them in place. "There," she smiled, "stage 1 complete. Not too bad?" She raised her eyebrows questioningly. I shrugged and forced a smile, "OK, I guess." "Right, next step is to try on some new clothes." "OK," I said less than enthusiastically but didn't protest. I knew this was coming and I had agreed to go along with her plan for today. We went into her bedroom and she suggested that I remove my trousers and pants. She gave me a pair of blank nylon panties and told me to put them on and give her a shout when I had done so. She stepped out of the room. I slowly slipped off my jeans and pants and picked up the black panties. I stood there for a moment feeling as if I was standing at an invisible threshold that something deep inside me was warning me against crossing. I shrugged mentally, if you can do that, and slipped the panties on. I didn't feel much different I had to admit. They felt comfortable and the sensation of nylon against my skin was not displeasing. There was a little bulge in the front of the panties. Little - that was another issue. I called Jools back in as I stood there embarrassedly. I knew she was trying to keep a straight face, but she was having difficulty. I sighed and rolled my eyes. "OK, go on and laugh. We both know you want to." She smirked and then sniggered, "I'm sorry Nick. It's just kind of amusing." I couldn't help but smile too, "Yeah well, laughing at me I think will be the theme of this afternoon." "Now, now," she chided, "don't be such a pessimist. Just wait 'til I am finished with you." "I can't wait," I said dryly. Jools held up a black garment, "Right, this is a corset. You know what that is don't you?" I nodded as she wrapped it around my torso and began to tighten the laces at the back. I felt my stomach getting more and more compressed. "It's a bit tight," I gasped. "That's the idea," she said through gritted teeth as she really pulled hard and tied it off." She took a measuring tape and measured my waist with the corset on, "25 inches - not bad at all. What is it normally?" "Umm, 30 inches," I replied. "It's as well you are a little slim thing." "Is that supposed to be a compliment, Jools?" I groaned. She ignored the question; I guess it was rhetorical anyway. She opened a plastic bag and pulled out two pieces of foam shaped like, well you know, shaped like breasts. "Alright darling, time to give you some curves," she said as she popped them into the cups in the corset. My face was flaming red and I didn't know where to look or what to say. She must have sensed my discomfort and she placed a hand on my arm, "Stick with it Nick. It's fine; it's only you and me." I nodded manfully - as manfully as one can do standing dressed in black panties, a corset and with a full, if false, cleavage on display. Worse was yet to come however as Julie picked up a pair of silky black stockings. She grinned at me, "Well, men always claim they like stockings." She winked and I rolled my eyes. "I hardly think this is what most men mean, Jools." She shrugged, "Don't judge before you try them. Here, sit down." I sat down on the edge of the bed and she slipped first one on then the next. She got me to stand up and attached them to the suspenders on the corset. It felt strange having my legs encased in this silky material. Not unpleasant, but I wasn't about to admit that. "Umm why couldn't I just wear pantyhose?" I asked. "I want you to enjoy the full experience," she replied with a wink. "Gee thanks," I said. She handed me a white satiny blouse and I slipped it on. It was when I came to try and button it up that I got into difficulties. Julie reminded me of the fact that women's clothing buttoned the other way and I eventually managed to button it all the way up. It was a V-neck blouse, but not too low cut. Then she gave me a somewhat rueful grin as she handed me a short, black skirt. I took it tentatively and with a bit of hesitation, stepped into it and pulled it up. I just about managed to zip it up in the back without having to ask for help. I adjusted it until it sat properly where my 'new' waist was. "Shoes," Julie said as she handed me a pair of black court shoes with not too much heel on them. I slipped my feet into them and they fit perfectly. "How did you know what size..." I began. "Now, do you expect me to do anything by halves?" she protested. I should have figured. Jools always had it all worked out. That scared me a little as I wondered would things work out as she was planning. I looked around the room; I was fully dressed and sort of curious to see how I looked. Julie had a big wardrobe with three floor-to-ceiling sliding doors, the middle one was a mirror but it was behind one of the other ones it seemed. "Oh no, you don't," Julie grinned. "I know what you are after and you will just have to wait for the finished product." I wrinkled my brow, "What else has to be done?" "Make up silly," and she led me to the dressing table, the mirror of which had been covered with a towel. "More humiliation," I murmured. "Don't think of it like that," she said in a voice that almost seemed pained. She looked a bit downcast and for some reason I felt bad. "Sorry," I said and forced a smile, "OK, do your worst then." She grinned and began to rub moisturiser cream into my face and neck. She massaged it in gently and tenderly and I closed my eyes quite enjoying the sensation. After several applications she told me that my skin was a lot softer now and that I really should moisturise on a regular basis. Next she took a sponge and began to carefully apply what she told me was a foundation cream over my face. She blended it in carefully at the edge of my face and neck and then lightly brushed some powder over it. Getting me to close my eyes she applied a few shades of eye shadow and then outlined my eyes with a pencil. Next came the mascara and it was a strange sensation having this thick black substance brushed onto my lashes and then the lashes teased out. She dabbed a hint of rouge onto my cheeks and then with a lip pencil, outlined my lips. After a coat of a darkish red lipstick, she got me to purse my lips and then she applied a coat of lip-gloss. I blotted my lips on the paper hankie she gave me and she stood back and nodded. She placed a gold chain around my neck, a bracelet on my wrist and a few rings on my fingers. Two hoop clip-on earrings were attached to my lobes and she sprayed me liberally with some perfume. I coughed a few times, "Is perfume really necessary?" I protested lamely. "Remember," she explained, "it's about the whole experience." I nodded, "Ok, ok." "We' re nearly done," she said cheerfully, "just have to get your hair brushed out." She removed the hairnet and began the tedious job of extracting each roller. Eventually the last one was removed and she began to vigorously brush out my hair. Although my scruffy hair was normally shoulder-length, with my new curls it came down to just above my shoulders. She brushed and coiffed and at last seemed satisfied. She stepped back and got me to stand up. "Now let me see the finished product," she said with anticipation. I stood up and although feeling slightly awkward to say the least, I struck a pose for her and made a little pout. She stood stock-still and went a little pale. I saw her swallow and she just stood and stared at me. "What is it?" I asked. I presumed she was disappointed that despite all her efforts, it was all for nothing. Gently I said, "Things didn't turn out the way you thought?" She shook her head briefly before saying in a strange voice, "I guess you could say that. Here, have a look for yourself." She slid the sliding mirror door out from behind one of the others and I turned to look at myself. My heart almost stopped and I froze rather like Julie had. My mouth went dry and I felt as if I had broken out in a cold sweat. I shivered. "My God," I whispered. "I know," Julie murmured, her expression equally as shocked as she came to stand beside me. The person standing beside Jools in the mirror was not me. Looking back at me was an extremely attractive woman with medium-length black curly hair. The face was exquisite - my face I had to remind myself. The whole look was scary. The clothes, my figure - it was all woman. I turned to look at Julie and tried to find words. "Jools...is this, I mean did yo