Trudy's Summer free porn video

Trudy's Summer. When summer term ended, I had five days at home before Vanessa picked me up as last year. This time as I had hoped, Stuart was not there. He had, as Vanessa had told me, gone to New Zealand to experience farming there. It was a great relief, for I suspected that he must have guessed that I had been behind framing him for possession of marijuana. This time Eleanor was in the car and Claire and I shared the back seat. Claire had grown up considerably. Gone was the slightly waspish little girl trying to establish herself. She was now a confident teenager, relaxed and happy. Elie at first seemed distant but as the journey went on she became more chatty. She was now working, using her degree, a researcher for BBC on fashion programmes. I wondered whether she would be expecting to share my bed as she had last year. I was excited by the prospect. Elie had been a good lover and after the rape by Stuart, I did not want any more experiences with men. I was in the same room as last year. It seemed almost like coming home. This time there was of course no Elie there to greet us, but the French neighbour who was paid to look after the house when it was not occupied had been busy in the kitchen, preparing a meal of country cooking, a lamb stew with brown pain de compagne , country bread, really tasty unlike the tasteless cotton wool we survived on in Britain. We washed it down with a hearty burgundy. We all went to bed early, tired after the journey. I slept alone and undisturbed. I awoke to hear the windows rattling and a low moan where wind was finding the crack that I had left by not fully closing the window. I leapt from bed, shivering in the draught and slammed the window shut. Ouside it seemed the whole world was on the move, whole trees moving in the wind, the sea in the distance a mass of white breakers and a few gulls soaring and diving in the gale. The sky was a broken grey with away on the horizon to the west across the bay, a line of intense sunlit blue. Here, a burst of rain shattered itself upon the glass, obscuring the view. A door banged within the house. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was nearly ten o'clock. My door opened and Elie entered fully dressed. "So sleepy head," she said, "not dressed. Come on, we are going to lunch with some friends of mine, a television producer and his wife who have a cottage a couple of miles away. I have something for you to wear." I returned from my shower to find my whole outfit set out on the bed, a retro dress, 1950s style with a full circle skirt in royal blue with penny sized white polka dots and a bouffant petticoat to go under it, a white suspender belt and seamed invisible nylons and my prettiest brassiere. A white cardigan completed the look. She had certainly thought of everything. "What are you wearing?" I asked. "I have a little 1940's number." "What's it like?" "Big shoulder pads and sequined detail on the lapels. Seemed stockings and four inch heels. It will be fun." "Are you sure?" "Oh don't be a spoil sport. It is not often you get an opportunity to wear a dress like yours. Geoffrey and Ann are fun, they will love it that we have taken the trouble." I agreed and she left. I knocked on Vanessa's door and entered. I asked her what I should wear and told her what Elie had suggested. "I don't see why not. Apparently these people like dressing up. Look this is my dress." She produced a 1920's style flapper dress with matching satin shoes. "But if you don't feel comfortable, then you can wear what you like." I dressed with my usual care and chose a bright red lipstick. I twisted my hair into some curls with my tongs. My shoes were more sixties than fifties, five inch stilettos, real winkle picker toes. I practised walking in them so that I did not put too much pressure on the toe which would crease the leather. I surveyed the effect. I looked like Doris Day or Kim Novak. I loved it. How could I be a boy and look as feminine. I practised my smile and coquettish sideways glances. I giggled at myself as Elie entered in her 1940s outfit, looking like Jean Harlow. "Wow," I said. "Wow yourself," she said, walking around my voluminous skirt. She hitched it up, looking at the petticoat. "I must take a photo of you. You really are a sexy woman. Last year you were just a girl, but now!" "So are you." I replied. "Oh I am just a lipstick lesbian. But you, you are a lady." She came forward until my skirts enveloped her legs. She put her arms around my waist and held me tightly. It's all right, I am not going to spoil your make-up, but you are irresistible. I would like to sleep with you tonight, every night." "OK," I said, suddenly feeling shy. "I'll be good. I don't want to hurt you. Say you like me too." "Of course I do. I wondered whether we would sleep together again. I need contact with another human being, someone to hold and to hold me. This school year has been difficult. I have friends, but have felt so alone." "Stuart told me something of what you were going through. What happened to him? He doesn't even smoke tobacco, let alone marijuana. It is completely foreign to him." "Yes, I know. I think someone else must have planted it to save themselves. Was he very upset?" "No, he was over the moon. Hated school didn't he. Now he is studying something he has an interest in with people that talk his language. No, he's fine." "Good. Shall we go down?" "Yes, wait till you see Claire. I dressed her like Mary Quant, her skirt is a pelmet, a little sheath dress and severe hair." Claire looked wonderful. Her long thin models legs were exactly right for the dress. She looked like Twiggy, the famous 60's model who still works fifty years later. Vanessa made her entrance. The dress was superb and she had crowned it with a cloche hat and a diamante cigarette holder with a fake electronic cigarette. "Spiffing," said Elie, using a 1920s word, and we all laughed. We got in the car, Elie cramming my petticoats in and I holding my frock down with my elbow length gloved hands. The storm had blown itself out. The sky was clearing and as we drove the sun burst through, painting the countryside with brightness. It was a short trip. The cottage turned out to be a huge maison de compagne, not a chateau, but a large country house. A peacock strutted the large front lawn. We drew up alongside five or six other cars. As we got out, a large woman in 1920's dress with feather boa and headdress approached. "Darlings," she almost screamed, "oh haven't you done us proud. And this must be Trudy," she said at last, having greeted all the rest by name. "Come along then girls and see what we have done with the men." Her husband Geoffrey was introduced. He wore plus fours in a loud check. A young man, Andy, looked as though he had just come from Ascot races, clad as he was in full morning dress complete with top hat. Two others were naval officers and a third with handlebar moustache was in second world war pilots uniform, complete with flying helmet. He took my hand saying "jolly good show." It was apparently Ann and Geoffrey's 30th wedding anniversary. The two naval officers, Harry and William and the pilot whose name I learnt was Robert were their unmarried sons. We had been gratefully invited to provide a female balance. Several local French, including the mayor arrived, some in period dress. Lunch was a buffet, a selection of meats and sausages with French bread and cheeses, salad and half a dozen dressings. There was red or white or rose wine and champagne. I loved the feel of my dress, the petticoat swirling around my legs and swishing every time I moved. I felt more femme than ever before. We had finished lunch and I sat alone for a moment. I sensed someone by my side, turned my head and raised my eyes to find a stranger there. I shielded my eyes against the light. "Pardon, mademoiselle, I move so you can see me." He moved around out of the brightness of the sunlit sky. I saw a man of about thirty five, just under six feet tall, slim, a thin not unhandsome face and dark hair slicked down. He wore riding britches and boots, a tweed hacking jacket and carried a riding crop. His accent was oh so charming French. "Have you lost your horse?" I asked. "Mais non, voila," he pointed to an animal tethered by its reins under a chestnut tree. "I beg your pardon, I was making a joke. I thought your outfit was fancy dress." "Oh I see. I came by horse," he smiled and his eyes sparkled. "I came to celebrate the anniversary and to meet you. You are Trudy Nash, oui?" "Yes I am Trudy. Why did you want to meet me?" "We have a mutual friend, Hugo, you remember, you met him last year. I was curious to meet you. He has told me of your history, no do not be embarrassed. Here in France and in our business, we understand these things." "You must live nearby then. Surely I am not worth a long ride?" "If you stand here by me, you can just see my house." I stood and followed his pointing arm. Through a gap in the forest and more than a mile or two away across fields I could see the turrets of a typical French chateau. "Oh," I said, "I don't know your name." "I am Simon de Beauvonne. I own among other things, the French fashion house Beauvonne." "And what made you want to ride over and meet me. Surely you would have come to this party whatever." He smiled his wonderful smile again. "Of course, but I wanted to see the young lady who had made such an impression on my friend Hugo. Tell me about yourself. Are you at school or university?" I told him briefly of school. "Are you happy with your new life?" "I am ecstatic. I have been living life at home as a girl for some years, but at school I had to be a boy, until last September. It has been difficult. There will always be those who will not accept me. But in spite of those problems, the euphoria I feel being a girl at last and having some lovely friends like Vanessa and her family, dispel all sorrows." "Ah sorrows, you should not have. I understand some of your problems. No, not like that. I am a man and I am very happy. Non, I am a Jew and still even after the holocaust there are those who hate us or will not mix with us." "So why did you want to meet me? Am I so fascinating?" "Do you not know how fascinating you are? You have an aura, magnetism. You are beautiful, elegant. So, what are you doing with your time in France?" "I don't know. Vanessa has not told me her plans." "We will ask her, her she is now." "The Marquis de Beauvonne, Simon, how are you?" Vanessa and Simon kissed. He made a fuss of her taking her hands and looking her in the face. "You have met my prot?g? Trudy. Isn't she beautiful?" "I was asking Trudy what she will be doing while in France and she does not know. I wonder, if you have no plans for tomorrow, why you do not all come to the chateau and ride my horses." "I don't ride." I say. "Non, well they can ride and I will show you the chateau." "That sounds a lovely idea Simon, thank you," said Vanessa, "does that suit you Trudy?" "Lovely." The rest of the day was very relaxed. We sat and chatted, and drank champagne. Dinner was wonderful, crab starter followed by magret de canard, duck breast in a wonderful sauce, then sorbet, followed by cr?me caramel and an enormous cheese board. Simon was my constant companion, explaining the dishes, telling me about French food and enquiring into my likes and dislikes. We left at just after 11.00, having had a wonderful day. I undressed and showered. When I emerged from the bathroom it was to find Elie already in my bed. She held out her arms as if welcoming a child and I willingly snuggled beneath the sheets and into her embrace. This time there was no attempt to play with my penis, which by now with the hormone treatment had become a small and flaccid thing. Instead, we kissed, she played with my breasts, commenting how they had grown, caressed my skin, floated fingers across my ribs and tickled my stomach with her tongue. I don't remember falling asleep, but I was still in her arms when I awoke. Elie was already awake. She gripped both my wrists and forced me down into the mattress, her mouth on mine, her tongue roving, her lips firm then soft, so gentle that I could hardly stand the tickling sensation. "So, my little femme lesbian lover," she said, her hand high on my inside thigh, "how are you today?" "I am fine Elie. How are you, you lipstick lesbian, my seducer?" "I am fine. I made a resolution before we came, to leave you alone. So, you see I am so very weak. I just find you so irresistible. Your breasts are so big now, and your little man no longer reacts. How soon before they cut that off? "I think next year, at the end of school, providing they find me sane and able to cope with my new circumstances." "Is that frightening? I mean, if they said next year they were going to make me a man, I would probably kill myself?" "Yes, but you do not have gender dysphoria. I thought you understood?" "Tell me." "In gender dysphoria, a boy child is born thinking they should be a girl, liking girly things or vice versa." "I thought you just liked dressing as a girl." "That is just part of it. People like me commit suicide because they feel they are born into the wrong sex." "Oh crikey." "Elie, how did you not know?" "Never thought about it. Too wrapped up with my own lesbian problems I suppose." "We better get up. Mustn't keep the Marquis waiting." " He is very taken with you. He has a reputation with young ladies, and it was rumoured, young men, though I never saw any evidence of that. He is very handsome." "You really are a scandalmonger." "Just trying to warn you. Anyway, I am a bit jealous that he is going to have you to himself most of the time, when he monopolised you yesterday. I want to spend more time with you......." "It is just one day, and you have me all night." "OK, but you are my Trudy, just try to remember." "No Elie, I am my Trudy, made by me, for me." I reached the shower and Elie disappeared to her own room. I felt exhausted by her and wondered at her ignorance, a girl who had been through university. At the chateau, the girls were soon kitted out with mounts and with a groom as a guide disappeared for a ride. Simon took my hand when they had disappeared and led me to the rear entrance to the chateau. I thrilled to his firm grip on my hand. The decor he explained was mostly restored French Empire. They had lost their lands in the Revolution, his ancestors having mostly lost their heads on the guillotine. His ancestor was a cousin of the then Marquis, who had been on a visit to London at the time. The family had regained the estate under the reign of Napoleon III, by making uniforms for his soldiers in their Paris factory. I found many of the rooms dull and depressing, over ornate with large furniture and paintings of grim looking ancestors watching me. Some rooms on the sunny side were bright and welcoming and I felt happier in them. We entered a locked room almost empty of furniture, filled with racks of gowns and coats. He explained that this was where they kept the originals of his designs. There were dresses of every colour, in every fabric. He asked me to feel the fabrics, and enquired as to which colours I liked? I told him that my favourite colour was blue but I also liked pink and red. "It would amuse me to see you then in green, or perhaps gold or certainly black. Every girl must have a little black dress, especially with your blonde hair and fair skin. He went along the row, pulled out a bottle green dress, then replaced it, then found another in a lighter green, with a V neck, cap sleeves and a pencil skirt. The fabric had a slight shot quality. "This dress was made for the Milan show fifteen years ago. Try it on for me, you can change behind that screen." Blushing I did as I was asked, leaving my skirt and blouse slung over the screen. I emerged to find him sitting with matching shoes at his feet. He motioned to me to put the shoes on. They were the exact same colour, with diamante detail and five inch heels. The shoes proved a little large, but he looked in a cabinet drawer and produced heel grips. "Parade for me." I did as I was told, awkwardly, shy at being his plaything, his dress up doll. "Non," he said, "I know you can do better than that. Hugo told me you have a natural grace." He rose from his chair and demonstrated perfectly a models strutting walk. "Head up, shoulders back, your posterior out." He pushed my body into shape and I remembered Vanessa's lesson from last year. I walked again, trying harder and this time he nodded . "It is better, you just need practice. Sit here," he motioned to the stool before the dressing table. He stood behind me, and used a brush and comb from the table to fashion my hair into a more sophisticated shape. Even this small alteration, made a difference. He took my handbag and opened it, taking out my lipstick, looking at the colour and throwing it back in disgust. "Cheap rubbish, you should use better cosmetics." He rummaged in another draw and produced cosmetics, I give you five minutes to do your face. Use this lipstick and these eye shadows which will compliment your skin and the dress." He left me to do my face anew. I was done by the time he returned. He looked at me in the mirror. "make your eyes more smoky." He watched as I obeyed. At last he seemed satisfied. "Now, do a twirl in the mirror. What do you see?" "I see a woman, a film star, someone out of Now or Hello magazine." "Yes, a woman. I know you are not yet complete, but soon, oui? Men will throw themselves at your feet. Remember, you have the power. Don't ever think that you are not worthy, that is what I perceived in you yesterday, that you thought yourself unworthy. You are not. Do you like the dress?" "I love the dress." "It is yours." "But it is a record of your work." "For what do I keep this museum, when I can gladden your heart. Here............." He went along the rows of hanging clothes, checking their labels and came back with an armful of dresses and coats. "For you, and I think some shoes I can find and bags. You are going to be my little princess. You have to promise to stay in touch." "I don't want to take al your clothes. This is not what I came here for. Yes the clothes are lovely and you are so generous, but why do you want me to have them.? "Because my brother was like you, but my parents and I did not understand. He committed suicide when he was nineteen. You give me a chance to make amends. Please, you will let me send them to your house, and promise that we will stay in touch." I stood, the dress rustling. We faced each other and I stood on tip toe, cradled his head in my hands and kissed his cheek. A tear rolled down his cheek, salty on my lips. He put his arm around me and kissed me fully on the lips, a lingering passionate kiss. "I see you in Paris with Vanessa. I have a little show next week. Would you like to model two dresses." "I am not good enough, I would let you down." "Nonsense. Vanessa will school you. Practise in this outfit and you will be fine. On the catwalk, you do not look at the people, just concentrate on showing the clothes. It will be fine. Now, I think you change out of your new dress and back into your skirt. I will have these things sent to your villa. We had better see whether the ladies have returned and have some lunch." I changed behind the screen and as I was zipping my skirt, his arms encircled my waist, his hands spread across my stomach. I felt faint, it was orgasmic. The power this sad serious man had over me was delightful. Michael had made me feel feminine, but Simon's touch and his thoughtful treatment was so much more arousing. I would then and there allowed him to do anything he wanted. I felt his hard penis against my bottom. I wanted him to take me, yet did not want it until I was whole. I turned in his arms, finding his lips with mine, while his hand found my left breast. "No, not now," he said holding me, "but perhaps when you are complete, I will be first in the long queue of your lovers." Down stairs we drank coffee. We watched as the girls galloped across the field towards us. We went out to the stable yard where they were dismounting. Their faces were alight with the adrenalin of the ride. The weather had returned, a north westerly wind blew us indoors and the Chateau staff had carried in the table from the terrace so that we ate in the main salon. This time the meal was very French, a starter of artichoke, peeling the leaves, dipping them in dressing and eating only the succulent white part. This was followed by lobster thermidor with a watercress garnish and a main course of filet mignon and Dauphine roast potatoes. The sweet was Berries gratin, red cherries and raspberries with an egg and sour cream topping. Vanessa sat on Simon's left and I on his right. He was very attentive still, explaining the dishes, talking about the fashion industry. It was a leisurely and entertaining meal, lasting three hours. Eventually we retired to the couches in the salon for coffee. Elie had become quite animated and told very funny stories of her career in the BBC, dishing out all the dirt on certain celebrities. She was very naughty and I sensed that Simon disapproved behind his tight smile. Elie must have sensed this too, for she suddenly changed her tack. "So what have you two been up to while we rode your fabulous horses?" she asked. "No mischief for your gossip Eleanor. I showed Trudy my museum of my creations and she modelled one for me. I am sending some to your villa for her and she has agreed to model two dresses in my little show next week, if that is convenient Vanessa. Of course, you are all to be my guests in Paris I hope. "Wonderful Simon, how kind of you. We accept don't we girls?" "Oh yes please," we said in unison. That night Elie came to my bed again. She pumped me to say something scandalous about Simon. "He was a perfect gentleman. Nothing occurred. He seems to want to educate me, about dresses, food, deportment and beauty. He showed me the paintings in the chateau, including his Picasso and a Toulouse Lautrec. He is a wonderful and caring man, rather sad because his brother took his own life, and I think that is why he wants to spoil me." "What about the boys?" "Elie, I would rather you did not repeat that story. I am sure it is entirely false. Simon is a wonderful man." "Good lord, you have fallen for him, haven't you." "I like him immensely. He has made me feel like a woman. He is cultured, gentle and generous. Why on earth would I not like him?" "OK. I am reprimanded. I will try to be good. I am still welcome in your bed then?" "Of course. I like sharing my bed with you. Does Vanessa know?" "Of course, I told her. She said that if it was OK with you, then it was alright." She kissed me. She was more brutal with me tonight. Eventually I turned away and she was content to cuddle into my back. We awoke at eight. Sunlight streamed into the room through a gap in the curtains. I slipped from the bed and flung them wide. The wind had gone. I could feel the warmth through the glass. At last it seemed that summer had come. I wondered what Simon was doing today and wished that I could be with him. There was a knock at the door and Claire entered without waiting for an answer. "Come on you two," she said, as though it was the most natural thing for us to be in the same room, "we are going on a picnic and mother says you have to help get it ready." "OK Claire. I am up and going to shower. Shake your lazy sister awake will you please?" When I emerged Elie had gone. I dressed in light slacks, a long sleeved T shirt and a jumper. With a minimum of makeup I was ready. Downstairs was all a bustle, French bread buttered, quiche cooked, sausage and chicken taken from the fridge. White wine put in the cooler and red wine and glasses in a hamper with coffee flasks and we were ready to go. We drove out west until we came to a small wood overlooking a sandy cove. This was said Vanessa, one of her favourite places. It was idyllic. The woodland gave shade but the beach was but a short climb down the cliff to a white sand bay. We spent the day lazing, in and out of the sun, reading and chattering. The hot weather continued for the next few days, and we would sometimes go to the same place or to one of the small resorts for a meal or a wander. Then came the day that we set off for Paris. We drove all the way into central Paris and a street off Boulevard Haussman, named after the Baron Haussman who had been so instrumental in redesigning Paris for Napoleon III between 1850 and 1870. We drove into a courtyard between two shops and found a shuttered villa with an underground garage. The door opened as we approached and we descended into the garage area to find a spare place beside two other cars. We lifted our bags and entered the lift. On the ground floor we were greeted by the housekeeper, who said Simon was out but she would show us to our rooms. My room was on the second floor, decorated in pale green and gold. The ancient bathroom en suite was quaint and spacious. The bed sheets felt like silk. I freshened up and put on a lovely day dress from those that Simon had sent over, silver grey with shoes to match, the slimmest stilettos I had ever seen with a half inch platform sole. I did my face as Simon had encouraged me too, making myself beautiful in a pale wanton way, a streak of rouge making my cheeks look sunken. I descended to the ground floor and the drawing room feeling like the princess Simon wanted me to be, head up, haughty, immaculate. I felt overdressed, but I need not have worried, Vanessa and Elie and even Claire were smartly dressed, Claire appearing to have grown up by three years since I saw her an hour ago. "Good we are all here. We have a car coming to take us to Beauvonne, Trudy has a rehearsal to do. We three will perhaps stay or go to another fashion house." Vanessa led us out to the waiting car. I was getting the jitters, wanting to be with the girls instead of face the catwalk and join the other models as a novice. When we arrived at Beauvonne, there was no sign of Simon. I felt suddenly weak with fright. Then as we made our way to the dressing room I spotted him with one of the dress makers, tucking a dress on a very tall black model, I seemed to have remembered from a magazine. Her name eluded me then flashed into my mind,.La Poulette, the chick. When Simon saw us he came over, kissing each of us, then excusing himself, took me by the hand and led me into the dressing room where the models were having final fittings. He took me to a rail where two dresses were labelled "Trudy'. I was even more afraid when I saw them. The first was a feather creation, just above knee length at the front but trailing the ground at the back, in white. The other was a day dress, green silk, but emerald green and the shoes looked seven inches high. Simon observed my worried, even shocked face. He shrugged, "You can do it. We get you dressed in the day dress and I will lead you down the catwalk first, then you do it on your own." I was soon dressed, marks were made on the dress for slight alterations then we set off down the catwalk. It seemed a long way. I tried to remember what Vanessa had taught me and after a few steps fell into the prancing hip turning step of the model. On the way back, Simon released me and I made it back. I twirled and made the trip again, posing at the end before I turned for home. The shoes were much better to wear than I had expected and although high, were easier to balance on than some of my four inch heels. "Again!" Simon commanded. I made it flawlessly, Simon standing at the end watching, demonstrating as I approached. He made me do the walk three more times until he was satisfied that it was safely in my mind. It was then time for the feather creation. "This is in the wedding collection," he explained. I was helped into the dress, taking extreme care not to tread on the fragile feathers. I stood in nothing but my support brief as they worked the dress up over my hips then zipped up the heavily boned bodice. Fingers lifted my breasts into the cups as though it was the most natural thing. For feathers, it was surprisingly heavy, but felt wonderful on. Simon and a dresser held my hands as I put on the white satin shoes. Simon whirled me around to look at myself in the mirror. "See how beautiful you are." And I was. How far I had come in a little over a year, from awkward sissy schoolboy to this vision before me. I smiled at myself and Simon laughed, "You feel good, non? Ah oui, c'est magnifique." Once again he escorted me. Then I made solo passes along the walkway. At last he was content. Other models were also practising. It was a constant babble of voices and a few gasps as certain dresses appeared, my wedding dress included. La Poulette touched my hand and said tres bon. Vanessa and the girls clapped. I returned to the dressing room and put on my own dress. "Tomorrow the show is at 14.00 hrs. You must be here for 12.00. The car will collect you all at 11.45. We will do your makeup, so you arrive here with clean skin, a little mascara if you must, but we do not want to have to clean your face and start again. Do not wear anything that will be tight and mark your skin, pants and brassiere and some loose clothing. OK, go enjoy yourselves and I will see you tonight at the restaurant. The car will collect you all at 19.30. Vanessa, you know what they should wear, off the shoulder and a stole, yes. I see you later." He turned tail to shout at a dresser wrestling with an evening dress. We arrived at the Hotel Champs Elysee Plaza, stepping out in our long dresses, feeling absolutely fantastic. We were shown to a private room where there were already about thirty people drinking cocktails or champagne. Then we went into a private dining room. Simon had again placed me beside him, on his left with Vanessa taking the other end of the table with Claire on her left and Elie was seated in the middle among strangers. My neighbour made polite conversation and I found out that she was a long standing customer of Maison Beauvonne. My opposite neighbour was the fashion editor for the premier fashion magazine. After the second course, she leaned towards me and spoke in French, so quickly that I could not understand. Simon answered for me, speaking at length, and a detailed conversation ensued. The woman extracted a small notebook from her bag and made some notes. In good English, she then addressed me. "Simon has told me that you are modelling two dresses tomorrow and that you are a novice but also his prot?g?. You are very brave to do so. Do you want to be a model?" "No madam, I am still at school. Simon is my Svengali, he has asked if I would like to do this for him and I have accepted the offer. He is a very kind man." "So is this a liaison romantique. It is time Simon took a lover." "No madam. I am his prot?g? while in France, because I remind him of his tragically dead brother." She turned to Simon, speaking in French again. She then seemed satisfied. It was 11.00 before we rose from the table and went our separate ways, Simon travelling with us to his home. I was soon in bed and alone for the first time in over a week. I awoke to find Simon holding a tray with orange juice, croissants and coffee. I hitched myself up quickly in the bed, leaning forward so that he could adjust my pillows and making sure that my nightdress was covering me. Silly, because yesterday my breasts had been bared for all to see in the dressing room at Maison Beauvonne. I didn't say how much I disliked croissants. He sat on the bed, nibbling a croissant, asking if I was still ready for the show. I nodded. He picked up the newspaper he had dropped on the floor. He showed me the front page. The headline read, "Beauvonne et Son Garcon. Even I knew that was Beauvonne and his boy. "Apparently that witch from dinner last night, found out your real identity and has made up a story that I am your lover. I have a press conference this morning at 10.30. It would assist me if you could be there. These assertions that I am a seducer of boys is very harmful." "Simon," I took his hand, "I am so sorry. Of course I will be there. I don't understand how she could have found my identity so easily. Someone must have talked, someone who knows me." "Who knows you in Paris?" "Well, last year, Hugo, Marco and Pierre. Simon, I slept with Pierre, do you think.....? "Perhaps. It was one of them or maybe Eleanor.....?" "Oh no, surely not..,not Elie." The penny dropped. I had seen Eleanor with the witch and knowing her liking for scandal, she had probably said something to be funny. "I need to speak to Eleanor. How should I be at the press conference, what should I wear? Will you help me Simon, please.?" "Of course and if you would rather not model, I will get another girl to double up." " No, I will not let you down, I want to do it. But I cannot face the press without my makeup." "Of course. Now you see Eleanor, I will select your clothes." Elie was up. I asked whether she had spoken to the witch. "I did, I think, she was very amusing, liked you and wanted to know all about you." "Oh Eleanor, what have you done. It's all over the newspapers this morning. They hint that Simon is having a homosexual affair. How could you?" "Oh it will all blow over." "It won't Eleanor. I am now in the press and they never forget. I cannot forgive you Eleanor." I turned on my heel and left. I dressed in the shift dress Simon had selected and did my makeup under Simons eye. Elie put her head in the door, hovered then went away. She had been crying by the look of her. Vanessa came in and told us both how sorry she was and that she had told Eleanor to go home to Brittany. There were nearly twenty reporters gathered in the salon. First Simon spoke in French then he motioned me to speak. "I met Simon de Beauvonne nine days ago," I said. "He was aware of my natal sex and was sympathetic because his little brother had suffered the same dysphoria but had unfortunately ended his life. The Marquis de Beauvonne, Simon, has been very kind to me, advising me on dress and teaching me about French etiquette, history and culture. I shall be eternally grateful to him and will treasure our friendship forever. However, it is a respectful friendship and not a liaison. There is nothing romantic between us, no sex. He has been my teacher and my friend and benefactor, no more." They then asked a few questions. I refuted any suggestions of a sexual motive, refused any questions about my past or whether I was pre or post operative transsexual. I said I hoped Simon would sue for libel. The press left. I went up and removed my makeup, then we two went to the Maison Beauvonne. It was a mad house of models in every state of undress, hairdressers and makeup artists and dressers and designers. There were some curious stares at me. La Poulette came over and kissed me on both cheeks, wishing me bon chance. My makeup was done by Adrienne. I found it quite arousing. Then my hair was given the full treatment, curled at the bottom, crimped as my mother would have said, like Jean Harlow. The show started at 2 pm as scheduled and I was dressed ready. I was tenth on the runway. When I appeared there was a burst of applause which I assumed was for the dress, but it reached a crescendo as I twirled and posed before exiting the stage. "They are sympathetic," said La Poulette, "that is why they applaud you." I was already having the dress stripped from me and was soon standing in my chemise and French knickers. A wig was placed on my head, a mass of blonde ringlets and my lipstick removed and replaced with a bright red one. Then off with the chemise and into the gown of white feathers. I was the last to show, the finale of the wedding section and the whole show. As I entered the runway there was a gasp, then applause, this time for the magnificent dress. We models then linked arms, three at a time and pranced the runway again. It was all over, except that a chant went up, Trudy, Trudy, Trudy. Simon and I went out on the runway again. He held my hand and twirled me round, stepped back and also offered his congratulations . It brought the house down. That night we ate at Simon's house. Eleanor was still there, rescued from banishment by Simon. Tomorrow we would all depart for Brittany, while Simon stayed in Paris to attend to the business of the salon. I would not see him before I left for Venice. In the morning I kissed him like a sister. "Thank you," he said, "out of the scandal has come great success." This show had been his most successful for five years. Two days later I was on my way to Venice. I arrived with my largest luggage at Santa Lucia Railway station on a fine day. I made my way to the Grand Canal and took the No 1 vaporetto to Piazza San Marco and then as instructed I had to take the LN to Punta Sabbioni. Venice lived up to all the photographs and paintings I had seen, old and shabby cheek by jowl with old and decorative. The water smelled like a drain. The vaporetto was amazingly quick, calling in frequently to pick up and deposit passengers, just like a city bus. People were on and off in a flash. I sat hugging my handbag trying to keep my large case out of the way of constantly moving passengers. A young business woman sat one side and a middle aged man the other. I began to feel cold in my summer frock and nervous of towing my bag ashore in my high heels. I suddenly felt very vulnerable. Chatter around me was all Italian and I could not understand a word. I wondered whether I would know when I arrived at San Marco. I need not have worried, their was no mistaking San Marco, the Doges Palace and the Campanile, the large red brick bell tower. I could see the prancing horses of the Cathedral San Marco as I disembarked, managing in spite of the crushing rushing ill mannered passengers to make it safely ashore. I stood a minute getting my bearings, walked dragging my case to the edge of San Marco, then back to the canal. There were several boat stops and I searched for a sign for LN or Sabbioni. I could not find it. I asked one man who could not understand me, then a young woman who did not even stop, then an old man who not only spoke English but took my case and wheeled it to the station. I had, he said, about ten minutes to wait. I thanked him and he took my hand patted and kissed it. I cheered up. Finally the vaporetto arrived. I asked someone to make sure and she nodded impatiently, then another person grabbed my bag and hauled it aboard for me. The boat was quite empty. We stopped at one island which I think was Lido de Venezia and then we were away over the broad expanse of the Venice Lagoon. I phoned Sam to say I was on the way. There was no mistaking arrival at Sabbioni. There was a large sign and Sam and surprisingly Michael, waving from the land. Tiredness dropped away as the excitement of seeing my friends there raised my spirits. I checked my face in my mirror as we waited to land, and ran a comb through my hair which had been windblown crossing the lagoon. I was soon ashore and in the arms of Sam and then surprisingly, Michael kissing me on the cheek three times in the continental manner. I blushed and Sam laughed at my embarrassment. She took my hand while Michael dragged my case. Their villa was a plain little northern Italian house stuccoed walls, red tiles and green shutters. Inside it was a comfortable home. The Kydds senior were so welcoming, I immediately felt at ease. I deposited my stuff in the twin room I would share with Sam, then showered and put on one of Simons dresses, a delightful retro nineties number in eau de nil silk, wide shoulders now back in and a plunging back to a wiggle skirt. I laughed at the result as I looked in the mirror. I was so happy being a girl, living exciting times with lovely and exciting people. When I descended to the living room, I sensed an atmosphere. Suddenly they were all too polite, trying too hard to please me. Was I hungry, was I tired? Would I like to go out? "Yes," said Mr Kydd, "why don't we go to San Marco and walk through to a little restaurant near the naval dockyard? There is a sunny courtyard and we can sit for as long as we like." So we went. As we strolled towards the dockyard, a stranger walked up to me. "Can I take your picture? It is Trudy isn't it, you know the model?" "Do I know you?" I asked. The man by her side produced a copy of the Star, England's most scurrilous rag of a newspaper. I was on the front, in the feather dress. I read the blurb, "Marquis de Beauvonne, dress designer and his transsexual lover'. I turned away and walked to where Michael was standing apart. He took my arm, his firm grip reassuring. "It's not true," I said, "we are not lovers. I am his prot?g?e. I merely modelled two dresses. He has been an absolute gentleman." "It's OK. But all the papers have the story, English transsexual schoolgirl and the French aristocrat dress designer, just made for the newspapers. We don't believe it, but that is why we wanted to get out of the house because dad's newspaper even had the story and it was on satellite news." We made our way to the restaurant without any further confrontation. I was worried, not so much for myself but for Simon. The Kydd's were lovely and Sam was so sweet and affectionate, taking my hand and saying I was her adopted sister. I began to feel better. We ate anti pasto, then pasta and various sauces finished by a fresh orange doused in some Italian spirit. We drank a lightly sparkling Prosecco, refreshing and not overpoweringly strong and a lot of Dolomiti bottled water. We regained our joie de vivre and almost forgot the storm clouds of the gutter press. After our leisurely lunch, we walked away from San Marco to the Giardini Pubblici where the Biennale, the bi-annual art extravaganza was taking place. We strolled the exhibits in the garden, then made our way to the indoor displays in the old naval dockyard. It was as we stood perplexed before an exhibit of sand pouring in a perpetually changing pattern that I was dazzled by the first flash bulb. This one exploded into twenty or so. My first instinct was to draw myself up and look proud as Simon had asked me to. I knew there was no use running. By this time a crowd had developed. I asked the paparazzi if there was anyone English here and a brawny looking individual in faded blue jeans and an incongruous black leather jacket came forward. He produced a card, announcing that he was Neil Adams from a well known news agency. I managed to take him aside. "Give me the name of that PR guru in London and his number, and I will see you get what you want." I told him. By this time we were in a corner of the old rope factory with our backs to the rest of the press, the Kydds doing their best to shield us from the baying journos. He made a phone call and came back with the number for Max ........ he phoned the number for me. I spoke to a secretary and then Max. He readily accepted the task of defending my image. I told him I wanted to make a short statement, now to the press surrounding me and we agreed over the next ten minutes what that should be. He said he would release the same statement in London and would threaten legal action for any allegations of a sexual involvement with Simon. I told the Kydds what I was doing and Michael took one arm and Sam the other and we went outside to a courtyard where the snapping started all over again. The Kydds faded into the background and I stood tall to make my statement. I merely said that Simon was a friend and that he had as a favour to me, allowed me to model two dresses. I said that the friendship was merely one of ing?nue and a benefactor, that I had met Simon through mutual friends and had no plans to see him in the near future. I stated that Max .... was handling my affairs and it was likely that a case of libel would result. The family and I then walked away, some paparazzi following in our wake. There was a vaparetto just leaving and we hopped on at the very last moment, leaving the last snappers behind. We left the boat at the next stop and Sam and I disappeared into a shop, while the Kydds and Michael went another way. I purchased a silk voile scarf which Sam and the sales girl arranged about my head. I felt like Sophia Loren from the 1960's. Now I knew what Diana Spencer had endured, every day for years of her too short life. We met back at the villa, having shaken off the paparazzi. There was of course a phone call from dad. When dad phoned I knew that I was in trouble and that mother felt I needed strong guidance. It was of course far from being the stern rebuke that mother felt I needed. He told me that I had been on national news, shown on the catwalk and both Simon and I seen together at the end of the show when he had stepped back and applauded me. I assured him that there was no truth in the rumours, that Simon was just a friend and it was red top paper madness. He wished me well and that was the end of it, he said. Mother then spoke to me, tearful and worried, but I managed to calm her down. Simon rang. I told him that Max was handling my affairs and he said he would put his French PR people in touch with him. All too soon our conversation ended. I looked back on my two days with him as a golden time in my life. He was the one person I had so far come near to loving. Now it looked as though the press had ended our friendship. I went to bed early and slept for twelve hours. We did all the sights of Venice in the next three days, but I wished I was back in France in rural surroundings or Paris. I found the Italians ill mannered, had my bottom pinched twice and found the constant trail of tourist groups an annoyance. Venice had a distinct character, but one really had to get away from the tourist sites to get the real flavour. We went to La Fenice, the Venice opera, saw the Barber of Seville, but I did not become a fan. It was a spectacle and the atmosphere was great, but I thought opera outdated and overblown, lots of horrible singing interspersed with a few short good tunes. I was quite pleased when after a week we went home, but a storm awaited my arrival.