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I'm blessed, I think, with an optimistic outlook. I've never suffered from depression, nor has anyone else in my family. My father is renowned among family friends for his calm nature. My Grandfather lost an arm in the war and only counts himself lucky that it wasn't both of them. I guess that's why I'm lying here on my bed trying to figure out what to do, rather than looking for a secure place on the ceiling to hang a cord. There are only two ultimate goals in my life right now, and they are becoming Michael again and making Lucy pay. The latter is a simple exercise. Tomorrow in the morning I will go to the police and tell them my story. They will have to investigate it, and in the process they will prove my identity and Lucy will be taken down. The former goal will require signing on with a doctor and getting undone the things that can be undone. Both of these jobs would probably take time. The second would take money. I could probably get the second for free within the British medical system, but that would take a very long time. Probably two to five years. I kept coming back to the fact that I needed money. What could I do for money? I could look for help. My parents had a little saved away. My brother might also be able to help. I had some good friends, but only one or two that I could count on for financial support. I had a niggle though, and that was over my family and how they would support themselves now that my income was gone. What would Jan do for money? With money being a requirement for everything I needed to do, the second thing I needed to do would be to find a job. With no qualifications and no experience that I would be able to get references for, I would only be able to go for a very limited selection of positions. I had collected some papers and magazines whilst out, and began to flick through the employment pages. The story was exactly what I expected. I could pretty much go for any job that an Australian could go for, such as bar or kitchen work. Secretarial work was also an option, though I wasn't much of a secretary. There were many schemes that invited you to make thousands of pounds a week, as long as you worked eighty hour weeks selling mini remote control cars or something. I didn't cross all those out straight away, but I'm not a salesman. Or saleswoman. What was I going to do about those pronouns? Who knows? Who cares? Take it as it comes. Finally, of course, there was the other work. The highly paid, non regulated, varying degrees of legal sort of work. Advertised in the magazines I had were positions for phone line operators, hostesses, and escorts. There was even a photographer offering to pay for glamour models. My first thought was that this was all women's work, but the second was that there was a lot of money involved, and that was why I was looking through the ads in the first place. Because of the first thought I had all kinds of difficulties with the work. I wasn't a woman and I didn't want to show this body off, I wanted to hide it and change it. But the second was persuasive as there was no other way of fixing my money problems so quickly. Fixing my money problems quickly was a route to fixing my physical problems quickly, and I didn't want this body any longer than I had to have it. So it was sex work, but that didn't mean I had to have sex. So why was I thinking about it? Whilst lying in my bed I'd felt a growing desire for something, that was becoming an itching need. I put down the magazine, picked up my purse, and pulled out the dildo and a condom. I put the literature aside, undressed, and got into bed with the constructed and covered contraption. I lay back and spread my legs so that I could satisfy my insistent urges. With my left hand I took hold of the base of the dildo and slowly pushed it in and out of my vagina. With my right hand I decided to explore the region at the top of my labia, where I would expect to find a clitoris. The feelings I was getting from the dildo were smoothly satisfying, warming up my crotch and leading me to a strange lightness. The feelings I got from my finger were entirely different, focussed and intense, exactly like playing with yourself should be. And it was unstoppable. As I stroked my finger faster across the hard button that pumped up from my pelvic bone the sensations built up into a gasping climax. Eagerly I thrust the dildo inside me, and my hips up to grab it as I bucked with waves of pleasure. As I came down I still felt high, and I was fascinated by my hips moving under the control of my hands and not my brain. I kept stroking my finger and my body bucked, though the sensation was fading. As it did so my clitoris became more sensitive, almost unbearably, and I took my finger away as it protested. I left the dildo and lay back, feeling full and happy. I remember feeling guilty about masturbation once, but those feelings were gone. I was just happy. I woke in the middle of the night and found the sticky dildo in a wet patch between my legs. I was desperate to pee. I felt different, heavy and slightly down. I decided to take a shower to wash myself down. I felt better for the warmth and let the sleepiness slip back into my slowing body. I got back under the sheets and didn't think about sex. The police were disbelieving. I guess it was starting to sound unbelievable to me too. Some woman walks in off the street claiming that three months before she was a man. There's nothing about the woman that even resembles a man, so I guess people would overlook the little things, like the walk, or the accent, or whatever. I didn't even know myself whether I was doing stuff as I would have done it three months before. But no, you see a pretty face, big tits and a curvy tush, wrapped in tight clothes, and you see a woman. A sort of inversion to the duck thing. If it is a duck, it walks like a duck and talks like a duck. Everyone sees the big picture and fills in the details themselves, disregarding without prejudice anything incongruent. Did I say tight clothes? Well, I went right through both suitcases to find anything I could wear. Of course everything fit, but I barely had an item of clothing that could be called decent. There were jeans, one pair, skintight. There were a number of t-shirt like things, mostly skintight. There were tens of pairs of shoes, but all strappy, stripper stuff. The boots had high heels. Right now I was wearing the jeans, boots, and a white t-shirt with the Kappa logo stretched over my chest. I had a denim jacket that I didn't have a chance of closing. I needed to go shopping, and I should have done it before going to the police. I was just so geared up to get my story out. It took some guts to walk into the station and my appearance wasn't at the forefront of my mind. Hell, I only brushed my hair before leaving as that really was a mess. Brushed it and held it back with a clippy thing. No makeup, but I forgot that I just don't need it right now. Well, I do need it, to tone down the tattooed colours I have, so forgetting to put it on meant I was overdone. I probably got stared at in the street, but I didn't notice at the time. But I can imagine the policewoman who took my story. She left the room and probably found the next guy in the corridor. "Hey, Sarge, there's this whore in here claims she used to be a man!" What the police did do was promise to look into the disappearance of a man called Michael Saint. That meant cooperating with the Hong Kong Police, many of whom were still British, so that wasn't a problem, but it wasn't as easy as it used to be. These things take time. I got a reference number and a smile. I wasn't happy, but what could I do? I went shopping. First stop, of course, was anywhere that did jeans. I travelled the underground, and soon found myself on Oxford Street. First stop, because I often went shopping there with Jan, was Debenhams. They have everything. So I went in and hung around the jeans until someone asked me if I needed any help. Twenty minutes later I had two pairs of size twelve jeans, and a belt to bring them in as they were loose around the waist. My hips were thirty eight inches, but my waist was only a twenty six, so a belt was needed for the standard size twelves. Next stop was tops, but I really didn't have a clue. I was thinking t-shirts and maybe a few shirts, but it just doesn't work like that. So, on to the lingerie section, just to see if I could get something that fit well and wasn't just intended to look good when I was topless. This time I didn't wait for someone to ask whether I needed help. It was bad enough just to search around for the bra type I was looking for. I kept thinking that women were looking at me and wondering whether I was buying bras for myself. That didn't quite come out right. I felt exactly like I did when I wasn't buying bras for myself, but for someone else, and wondered if people wondered about me. I was embarrassed. I grabbed for two minimisers in thirty six E, and coughed my way through the transaction. Buying tops wasn't so hard. The hard thing was finding ones that fit. I needed a size eighteen or twenty, the eighteen being a little tight. Fashion concessions in department stores don't stock many of those. I found some plain, large t-shirts, a grey sweatshirt, and a red fleece. I was tired. I took my bags and went down to the cafe. I sat down with a cappuccino and resolved to start getting fit. The three months had taken a huge amount out of me, and I was determined to get it all back. I needed to get fit and I needed to get strong. The strength point was emphasised by the woman who dropped about twelve bags and a four year old child at the table next to me. I was finding two bags hard going. Then her shaven headed, body building husband dropped off the coffees and a ten year old girl. I caught his eye and he winked. I slammed my head back round and played with the froth on my coffee. A guy had just winked at me. And the strangest thing was, he wasn't gay. The whole event made me suddenly aware of every eye that was aimed at my body. It began to affect my confidence. I didn't mind being looked at, but the level of this was too much. I knew I was fully dressed, but I kept checking myself surreptitiously to make sure my fly was done up, and my tits not hanging out. Perhaps that was the main issue. It wouldn't have made much difference if they were, they were just too visible. I noticed that I was taller than most of the people on the street too, walking in heels. Though I couldn't see over the crowd, most people had to look up to me, and that made me stand out even more. I made it safely back to the hotel, but I was beginning to get the jitters. It was early afternoon, and I was just thinking about curling up in bed. I couldn't avoid thinking about playing with my dildo again. What had happened to me? This was becoming an obsession. I had a life to sort out and I couldn't just lie down with a comforter because I'd had a bad day. I needed to get out again and get a job. I opened up the jobs pages and very quickly spotted an escort agency that needed girls. Stay dressed, turn up at theatres and concerts, and get paid. What could be easier? I did figure that there was more to it, because I expected there to be a lot more to it, but I could always say no to that. Anyway, I was a man even in this body. I could handle myself. I got offered an interview the next evening. The woman on the other end of the phone was a little reluctant to offer me the interview at first, probably because I was a little vague over my background, and could not offer any relevant experience. She was quite taken with my description, though, and the fact that I could speak other languages. The interview was to be a sort of date. I needed to get to a restaurant in the West End by seven thirty. Dress for dinner, said the woman. Well, another shopping trip required, and some practise with the bags of makeup that I had been left with. The rest of the afternoon I tried calling around local clinics to see if they would take on a new patient. The intent was to get to a doctor and do something about the change back. I did get an appointment for a couple of days' time, just for the health check that precedes joining a practice. I gave the receptionist my National Health Service number and my last doctor. As the afternoon faded into evening I realised how hungry I was. I had a bit of an urge for Indian takeout, so I called to a restaurant I'd seen down the street. They reckoned they'd bring it round in about twenty minutes. I needed a shower, and then I figured that while I was getting undressed I might as well perform my dilation. It was another growing urge, so I satisfied it and myself. The shower following was a heavenly experience. The hotel reception called when the food arrived so I quickly dressed in the new jeans and a t-shirt. The minimiser did a wonderful job of toning my chest down, but felt like a gentle vice. Having nothing else I slipped on a pair of high-heeled sandals, grabbed my key and slowly stepped down the stairs. As I collected my food from reception the front door opened behind me. I turned to look and saw Jan walking toward me at the desk. She paused momentarily as I looked round at her, then continued to walk towards me. I arranged for the food bill to go to my account, luckily the reception were amenable to paying up front, and then I invited Jan upstairs. We didn't talk on the way up. I set the food down on my side table. Jan put a large package down on my dressing table and then sat in the chair next to it. I sat on the bed and waited expectantly for whatever she had to say. She looked at me, inspecting me, making me feel a little uncomfortable. "Tiffany," she said, quite directly and slightly distastefully to my ear. "Somebody obviously expected you to come to me. I'm confused as to what is going on here, but this package arrived at my house today. It's addressed to you, Tiffany Michaels." She pushed the box toward me along the dressing table. I stood to take it. "It's addressed to me there because that's my address too, Jan." I sat back on the bed, the package next to me. "God," she sighed, exasperated, "the stupid thing is I'm beginning to believe you!" She paused to collect herself. "Listen, if what you told me is true, then I don't know what I'm going to do, but things are changing so quickly. I tried to call Michael last night, only to find that there was no response from the room, and the front desk reckoned he'd checked out a couple of days ago, the day of the wedding. I checked the flight companies this morning only to find that Michael Saint didn't return on any flights from Hong Kong in the last week. So Michael's missing somewhere in Hong Kong. Your story has been bugging me since last night. You see, I saw Michael last night, not you, not Tiffany, and I couldn't shake it, that feeling. "I know it's you, Michael. That package arrived from Hong Kong, addressed to Sarafina Tiffany Michaels. S.T. Michaels. Saint Michaels, Michael Saint. Cosmic Joke? I'm not laughing. I can't prove it, but I know it. The thing is, the real stupid thing is, if I let it be true, I'm going to fall apart." And fall apart she did, right there, my wife starting to sob in front of me. I moved towards her and kneeled down next to the chair, putting my arms around her, and pulling her head in towards my shoulder. She leaned down slightly, and I put my hand into her hair and held her head close as she cried. I felt the tears welling up in me too, and realised that I loved this woman. I needed to protect her, and I needed to make everything feel better. I kissed the top of her head as she wept, and then lifted her chin so that her lips came closer to my own. Her eyes leapt open and she stood up from the chair, slipping away from me. "No!" she cried out. "No, no, no, no. Not that! I can't!" She grabbed her bag, not looking at me. "I can't do that. God, I'm sorry!" She muttered loudly as she headed straight out the door. I shrank back down to the floor, not knowing what to think, say or do as the door closed behind her. I stared at the door. Then, maybe a minute later, there was a knock. I got up slowly to open it. Jan was still there, still with tears in her eyes, but looking composed. Apart from the smeared mascara. I smiled and left the door open, grabbed for a tissue from the dressing table and handed it to her. "Thank you," she mouthed, and smiled. "Can I come back in?" She asked once she'd cleaned up a bit. "Of course," I replied, retreating to sit back down on the bed. She took a space opposite me. "That wasn't fair," she said. "I shouldn't have reacted like that." "I don't understand," I responded. "You're a woman, Tiffany. Michael! I mean Michael." She smiled weakly. "I don't think Michael really suits you now." I smiled back. "What I mean is that I think I believe your story. I want to believe your story, but part of me still sees a woman in front of me. That's the reality, Michael. You're a woman. I don't think that even some kind of DNA match or fingerprint or whatever would make me completely believe that you're Michael, because of the woman in front of me." "But, Jan," I pleaded, "I am Michael." "You are. But I can't kiss a woman, not that way, not the way you meant it. I don't know if I'll change my mind, perhaps, over time. If you're the same Michael underneath, perhaps I'll fall in love with you all over again. You know, I don't know how these things work." "Christ, Jan, neither do I, but I still feel exactly the same way about you as I always did. I love you!" "You know what, you don't quite have Michael's accent, or tone. I hear the same emotion though, the same meaning. I do know it's you Michael, but you're not you." As we sat there, I couldn't feel the gap between us, but Jan obviously could. Was I losing her, or had I already lost her? "I think it's only fair that we spend some time together, I realise that I have to give you that. After all, we are married. But you know that there're bigger issues to sort out here than us?" "Katy and Kim," I stated flatly. "And Richard," she added, "he's never stopped talking about you. And he knows something's up since you appeared at the house, though he doesn't have a clue what. I hope." "Jeez, me too! What the hell am I going to tell him, Jan?" "You're the one with the brain! I don't know, but you've got your parents to tell, too. And my parents. And then I guess our friends will have to know something. What are you going to say?" She stopped and went silent for a while. I let her think. Regardless of me supposedly being the one with the brain, when it came to dealing with people, she was usually the one with the answers. "The way I see it," she began slowly, "you have a couple of choices. The simple one is that Michael is gone and you're a new friend of mine. We can spend time together and I can reintroduce you to everyone." She watched me shake my head. "I didn't think you'd want that. I guess I don't either, though I thought it would be the simplest solution." "There's no way back from it, Jan. Kim and Katy are mine, but that way, I've lost them." "Kim and Katy would lose a father but gain an aunt. They have time in which to forget Michael. It's Richard that's the problem. He wants Michael back and won't forget him." "If I hide the truth, I've lost my whole family, including you." "So there's the second choice. The hard one. You tell everyone the truth. You were a man, and now you're a woman." "That's not so hard." "Isn't it? Don't you remember yesterday, the airport, telling me?" "You'll back me up. My family will believe me." "Oh, God, Michael." A tear rose again in Jan's eye. "It's not about belief, it's about destroying lives. It's about shattering dreams. Your parents had a son. My parents had a son-in-law, a man they saw looking after their daughter. Richard, my poor baby Richard. He never had a father until you came into his life. You were his role model that I could never be. A man to share his dreams with and believe in him." "I'm going to be a man again. I'm not staying like this!" I protested. "When? Another three months, six? Two years? Three? It's going to take a lot longer to go back to being half the man you were, Michael, and that's all you'll ever be, half the man." "I'm a man inside, Jan. I'm going to be a man outside again. I don't care if it's half a man, just so long as it's a man." "Don't you? You don't care? I do. I want a whole man, or I don't want a man. You can be frustrated by never quite being the man you once were, or you can be happy being the woman you've got promise to be." I sighed. She waited. I looked back at her and shrugged. "Jan, you're right in a very logical way. Which is strange because I'm the logical one. You're right, if I was a robot, or your therapy patient, or something. If it's not broke, don't fix it. You're looking at a whole, healthy woman. Physically. But you're caring about the wrong thing. Maybe you're still not seeing through this, believing, perhaps, but not seeing. I am Michael. I am a man in a woman's body. "It's like wearing the wrong clothes. If you wore a Barbour jacket and wellies, people would think you were a Sloane, upper class, and treat you like it, and you might be upset. If your dad wore a dress, you'd probably be shocked, but his mates would treat him differently, maybe never speak to him again. Would you tell him not to take the dress off? If it was glued to him, would you tell him not to rip it? I'm wearing the wrong body. It's uncomfortable, and embarrassing. "Care about me, Jan, and help me get my life back. All of my life." She fidgeted for a long time. Finally she got to her feet. I looked up at her. "I've got to get back. I've left the kids with Cath next door. Can we talk about this again?" "I need to go shopping tomorrow. Can you join me?" "I'm working. Later?" "I've got something on in the evening. I'm looking for a job." She smiled. "That's good." Then she frowned. "We might need the money soon." "I know." "Well, Saturday then. I'll come by here in the morning." "I'll look forward to it." "Good night, Michael." I could see she was uncertain, confused about how to leave gracefully. I got up and opened the door for her. "Good night, Jan." She stopped as she passed me, just momentarily. "I'm sorry, Michael." Then she rushed away. In the package were a number of unmarked boxes of condoms. Loads of condoms. I opened a box and they were the same type that I'd been sent home with. That was strange. Why would Lucy, and I'd already assumed it was Lucy before I opened the box, send me condoms? I knew what they were for, of course, but couldn't I get them here? The next major thing in the box was a bra. It had very large cups. Cartoon size cups. Pinned on to one of them was a letter. I unfolded it. It read "My ex-love, don't cross me, don't go to the police, don't try to escape my fate for you, or this bra will be fitting as a punishment." Wow! Well, I thought to myself, it's a bit late for that, as I've already visited the police. So what did I have to look forward to? I checked the label. Double I. Great. I had to avoid hospitals for a while then, just in case they checked me in for surgery against my will. I smiled at that. It was odd to me though, that Lucy somehow saw that as a threat. But then, to a woman, I suppose it might be. But not to someone who'd only spent the last few days with tits attached. Conscious of having them, anyway. Grossly large breasts would be much easier to have reduced or removed, with far fewer questions from doctors. Bring it on, Lucy. The last item in the box was an envelope. Inside were a letter and another envelope. The letter, from Lucy, simply stated "you'll be needing money soon. I've found you a job. Details are in the enclosed envelope." Well, the details were sketchy. The other envelope contained a glossy invitation to a club somewhere I didn't recognise. The invite was for Friday, 9pm, dress to impress. On the back of the invitation, handwritten but not by Lucy, was my name, Tiffany, some illegible name underneath it, and next to that a completely illegible signature. I could guess what the job was. The next morning I joined the local library. I told them the utility bills weren't addressed to me because I was in rented accommodation, so they accepted the package address label and my passport. Once in I was able to look up quite a few things online, including the contact details for a female detective who had her own, quite large agency. I chose a woman because I thought I might get more understanding of my story. Strange that. Anyway, I also joined the local branch of a national gym chain, and organised an induction for Sunday. I went shopping. No, not quite, I got someone to go shopping for me. I had no idea how to pick out an outfit for dinner. The cost of what I got was about equivalent to a couple of weeks in the hotel, but I figured the risk was worth it for getting a job. And I really had to take it when my personal shopper told me that it made me look 'devastating'. I instantly trusted him, certainly with clothes. He was possibly the campest man I'd ever met, and incredibly funny. He was the first man I'd felt comfortable with for days. Early evening I started to get ready. Twenty minutes in the shower, twenty minutes trying to blow dry my hair, twenty minutes at the dressing table putting on make-up. The last was quite easy. If I stopped to think about it, became conscious of it, so to speak, I felt uncomfortable wearing dry powders and sticky lipstick. If I didn't think about it, it was completely comfortable. I was obviously practised at putting on make-up as the movements seemed natural. I thought about the situation and how I would like to look and a picture of my face appeared in my mind's eye, sort of overlaid on my face in the mirror. I just had to make the face in the mirror match the mind's eye picture and my make-up was done! It was like painting by numbers. The result was actually quite comforting. Because I'd toned down all the tarty, permanent colours, my face looked much more subdued and natural. That actually helped me to be more comfortable with it as my face. It was good looking, stunning in make-up. I could be happy with a face like that. They were still my eyes, in the same place. My hair began in about the same place, my ears were still there if I pulled my hair back. The basic shape was still there. The nose was smaller, finer. The jaw was weaker, the chin narrower. My lips, well, it could have been the surroundings getting smaller, but they looked bigger. The top lip had been pulled slightly towards the nose or something, because I'd never had a cupid's bow before. I had a very slight pout, with a very slight hole at the centre of the lips. Underneath my lips my teeth had been perfected. I slid into my dress and suffered the discomfort of trying to zip myself up alone, finally being successful. Into heels, grabbed my purse, and headed down to hail a taxi. The Savoy Grill. I'd asked for an interview yesterday and somehow the woman whom I was meeting had arranged for a table at The Savoy Grill. That was more than impressive, that was astounding. I suddenly realised as the bellhop opened the door to the cab that I might just be landing on my feet. Any woman who could organise a table at a Michelin starred restaurant at a day's notice deserved respect and I would love to work with anyone I respected. I made my way around the lobby to the Grill entry and gave Mrs. Milner's name to the Maitre d'. He nodded and invited me to follow him to a table on the edge of the room, slightly enclosed, where an older woman, in her sixties perhaps, beautifully dressed in a black suit and blouse, sat reading through a notebook. She looked up as we came over, and thanked the Maitre d' before warmly inviting me to sit across from her. "Mademoiselle Saint," she began, crisply, "ca va?" "Merci," I responded, and we began brief introductions in French. Finally she leaned back and smiled warmly. "Good French," she complimented me, "a bit stilted but nothing that a couple of weeks in Paris wouldn't sort out. And you speak Cantonese?" "Yes, better than my French." "Very impressive. Any other languages?" "I have a passing familiarity with German and Spanish, but not conversational." "Good, all good. And your education, dear?" "I was an accountant." "You were?" "I was." I noticed that Mrs Milner was waiting expectantly. "I - I can't really go into detail. I was trained and worked as an accountant. I can't prove that." "Oh, I see. A woman of some mystery. I understood that from our brief chat on the phone. Well, perhaps I should open the bidding by being honest with you." She closed her notebook and took off her glasses. "You walk like a dancer, yet you don't have confidence in yourself. Your shoulders are back, your chest high, yet you let your hair hide your face and seem somewhat uncomfortable with it. You sit nervously, with your purse on your lap and your knees together, yet when you talk you seem to forget yourself, and I believe you can be a wonderful conversationalist. Your face itself is crafted. It's possible that you've had surgery. It is good looking, but somehow featureless, and apart from the sterility there's a hint, as with your bearing, of something unfeminine." She paused and looked at me questioningly. "You don't seem shocked at all!" I smiled slightly. "I was waiting for you to mention the breasts." "Oh," she laughed slightly, "oh, my dear girl, I think I might like you. No, your breasts are the most natural I've seen in months, though of course their size made me wonder. They do have a femininity of movement which the rest of you needs to work on. So, Miss Saint, are you going to trust me with your background and how you got to be such a mixed collection of virtues?" This woman knew something, obviously had something that got her where she was, and was extremely easy to get along with. Did I tell her everything? Would it help in any way? Was it going to be worth it? Would she be able to offer me anything if she couldn't trust me, but would my story help her to trust me or would she laugh me off. Jan hadn't recognised me, and was still unsure now, even though she had convinced herself that I was her husband, so how could anyone else be expected to believe such a far-fetched story? "I can see you're in some doubt, my dear," Mrs Milner interrupted my train of thought. "Why don't we move on to dinner and at the end you can decide if you wish me to consider you to be one of my girls. Whilst you consider, understand that I must do a full background check on you, and I will only accept you if I like what I see. So it pays to let me know in advance what I'm going to find." She put her glasses back on and opened up her notepad. "Let us begin. You are going to be entertaining a number of my favourite gentlemen this evening. Harry is sixty-five, a former soldier, keen golfer, and still manages a Scottish estate in his retirement. He is awaiting you for appetisers. I will collect you for the main course and escort you to Philip, American, fifty three years old and VP Marketing for a large chemicals corporation. He likes golf also, but prefers to spend his time buying classic cars and watching old movies. Finally, for dessert, you will entertain Lee, Chinese-American from San Francisco originally. He owns an IT company and enjoys movies and collecting comic books. He's thirty five years young. I'll take you over to Harry." Harry was superb company, and I didn't have to say a word once I got him telling stories about his days in Oman and the Yemen. He was coarse, but I was thrilled by his recounting and sad to leave him. I think the salmon en croute was good. Philip was big and slightly boorish, but my years of watching Top Gear made for some discussion over cars, and he truly came alive when I gave him my rendition of the wet cat soliloquy from Breakfast At Tiffany's. I thought he'd be more Errol Flynn than Audrey Hepburn but it turned out that I'd seen most of his favourites. I only got nervous once, when he grabbed my hands in an animated discussion on the demise of the Bristol car company, but I smiled and left them there. He thanked me for my company as Mrs Milner came to escort me away. The warm duck salad was excellent. Lee was difficult. He seemed uncomfortable the moment that Mrs Milner left. He had chosen Millefeuille for dessert, which appeared to be taking a long time coming. I found it very awkward to begin a conversation on comics, tough to get him talking on films as I hadn't seen any for a long time so didn't know what was out. Finally I asked him how his company was dealing with Sarbannes-Oxley and he began to talk. Luckily for me he didn't talk computing but talked finance, and I was in my element. He began questioning me on entry into Europe. My dessert arrived with his, and I'd gone for Lychees, enabling me to question him on Chinese food and his upbringing in San Francisco. When Mrs Milner arrived I didn't even realise that we were jabbering away in Chinese, but the smile in her eyes told me that I'd done well. She asked if I could wait for her back at her table, and came back herself a few minutes later. "Very interesting, Miss Saint," she began as she sat down. "All my gentlemen believe you to be, as I do, a great conversationalist, and combined with your looks that makes you wonderful company. Strangely, not one of them found you to be sexual in any way, Philip even commenting that you seemed uncomfortable with physical contact." I raised my eyebrows. "He knew?" "He's no simple American boor." She responded, echoing my earlier thoughts. "Philip has a Doctorate in Psychology. He's been a wonderful friend of mine for many years now, but will only give me a yes or no, never give me any breakdown of why he likes or dislikes a girl. I have given up performing background checks on girls he says no to. He's never been wrong." "Is Harry your security?" I asked. "Some of his contacts perform my background checks, and he keeps me supplied with the most wonderful Aberdeen Angus beef and superb Gravallax for when I'm entertaining. Lee is just a new friend who just happens to know his way round a spreadsheet and speak Cantonese. That he happened to be in the country when you called was serendipitous." "How did I do?" I asked, feeling rather like I had when waiting for my A level results. "Before I answer that, I must know what it is that brought you here. I need some things explained." She waited for my story. So I told it to her. In as much detail as I could recount, however leaving out my family. Mrs Milner seemed completely impassive throughout. "You were a man? You didn't want to be a woman?" "I don't want to be a woman," I clarified. "You want this job for the money to help you become a man again?" "Partly," I responded, "and partly because I need a job to support?myself." "We have a problem then, my dear. You see, if I were to ask you to join me, I would be asking you to be the best woman you could be. Graceful, conversational, elegant, flirtatious, demure, demanding, sensual, attentive, striking, confident, controlling. You don't want to be a woman. Tell me, what is it about being a woman that you so dislike?" I paused. That was a very difficult question. Some things were obvious, but were they truly associated with being a woman? "I don't like being weak. I don't like being looked at. I don't like the way I'm considered. Put together, they scare me." Mrs Milner smiled. "Every other woman in the world is in that position, but they don't all want to become men. Some lift weights and learn martial arts. Some hide their beauty. Some take on men at their own game, be it sport, or business. Some embrace the strengths that they have, the strengths that can make men go weak, and succeed." "But I was a man, and I've lost that!" "My dear, Tiffany, if you don't mind me calling you Tiffany?" I nodded. "You have gained something that you don't understand. I am willing to offer you a job, if you are willing to make a deal with me. Of course, the job is hard work, but the deal is that I will train you, if you promise me that you will accept one year of training. During that year of training, you must not make any attempt to return yourself to being a man. Following that year, and as long as you learn from the training, I can promise you that you will be wealthy enough to mutilate your beautiful body in any way you wish." "Mrs Milner, I'm not sure I can promise that." She stood up, and invited me to join her in leaving the restaurant. I gathered my purse. "Take a few weeks to think about it, my dear. I need to perform some background checks, you know." "So Philip said 'Yes'?" I gasped. She winked at me. "They all did. More importantly, so did I. You are actually the first interesting young woman I've spoken to in months. I knew you would be. I have your number and I'll be in touch. In the meantime, if you've no objection, I think I might have a chat to Philip about you." "I don't mind. It's a relief to be believed." "It all adds up," she replied. "Very interesting. Well, my dear, Goodbye!" We kissed, and I headed back out through the lobby to catch a cab home.