The Awakening
by BobH
(c) 2011, 2013
Four years ago someone murdered me. I was determined to find out who,
and to make them pay.
1. The Party
It all began at the firm's annual party. To the casual viewer this was
an excuse for us to relax and for our spouses and significant others to
socialize. In reality it was more like the Roman arena, a killing
ground in which we associates warily circled each other, looking for
ways to curry favour with the partners and to do each other down.
British it might be but Kirby, Lieber and Kane was run and structured
like an American law firm. There were two of us with a realistic chance
of making partner this year when old man Lieber finally retired; me and
James Wheeler (who was always James, never Jim). There could be only
one, and I would do whatever it took to make sure that one was me. At
twenty-seven I was determined to be the youngest partner the firm had
ever had.
"So, do you think this years bonuses are going to exceed last years?"
asked Wheeler, coming up beside me and helping himself to canapes from
the table adjacent to where my wife and I were standing.
"The size doesn't matter," I replied. "All that counts is the
difference between them and what that tells us about our relative
positions within the firm. I want to know if I have the juice to take
you down."
I knew Wheeler was sometimes appalled by my ruthlessness, how single-
minded I could be when I was going after something I wanted, but you
don't get to be a rising star at a law firm like Kirby, Lieber, & Kane
by being timid. 'Small man syndrome' he had called it, but what I
lacked in height I more than made up for in every other area. Short I
might be but my American wife Jane was a former actress and to my eyes
easily the most beautiful woman in the room. I slid an arm around her
waist, smiling approvingly at the feel of her designer gown beneath my
fingers, at how glamorous she looked and how well that would reflect on
me. She smiled down at me, her imposing height made even more
impressive by the four-inch heels on her Jimmy Choo shoes. This sent a
double message: that I had the juice to attract a woman like Jane and,
in not insisting she wear flats as other short men might of their
wives, that I wasn't in the least insecure about my height. It gave me
a warm glow to see all the attention she was attracting. I smiled as
one of the partners, Andrew Kirby, walked over to us. He was in his
early-sixties, grey-haired and whippet-thin. If I didn't make partner
when Lieber retired it would be another ten years before Kirby followed
him, and I didn't want to wait that long.
"Do you mind if I steal the lovely Mrs Canning for a dance?" he asked.
"Not at all," I said, and Jane smiled and allowed herself to be led
onto the dancefloor. As the perfect corporate wife she knew how these
things worked. We were a team.
"I have to admit if there's one thing I envy you for it's Jane," said
Wheeler, watching her wistfully.
"Only Jane?" I laughed. I'd have thought you'd envy me for much more
than that!"
"No, not really," he said , gazing at me levelly. "I could never be as
driven as you, nor do I need a big house like yours. And while I might
still be single I also get on great with my parents and my brothers."
I scowled at him and walked away without saying anything else. I needed
to circulate more than I had, anyway.
Christina Kane, the firm's female partner, was there with her
girlfriend Kelly Price, a stunning blonde model whose photo spread in
Playboy last year I had greatly enjoyed. She was the only woman in the
room who might match Jane in the beauty stakes and the only one I would
like to screw. Not that I would dream of making a move on a partner's
woman. That would be career suicide. Where Christina was all business
in a tailored trouser-suit, Kelly was a vision of femininity in her
powder-blue chiffon mini-dress and matching three-inch heels. The two
of them were deep in conversation with John Callis and Sophie Manners,
the firm's other two associates. I was sure neither was in the running
for the partnership position but since it never hurt to keep an eye on
the opposition I sidled over to them.
Being both black and female, Sophie was a 'twofer', a two-for-one hire
who made the firm look good when it came to its diversity profile. It
didn't hurt that she was a pretty decent lawyer, either, though not in
the same league as me, of course. What counted against her was being a
single mother. Not for any moral reason but because there would be
times when she would have to put her daughter before the firm.
"John was just telling me you and he will be running in this year's
London Marathon, Simon," said Christina as I joined them.
John Callis was my squash partner and the two of us usually worked out
in the gym together, too. Where I was short he was kind of pudgy so we
balanced each other out. As well as lacking height I was also slightly
built so it was important that I had some muscle to offset this. Callis
was currently living with his twin sister following her recent divorce.
I'd never met her, but if her brother was anything to go by it's a safe
bet she wasn't a looker. Since Callis was not really any sort of
professional competition - hey, the loser lived with his sister - I was
happy to work out with him, but he wasn't actually my friend, though I
let him think otherwise. No-one at KLK was a friend. You couldn't let
rivals get too close to you if you wanted to get ahead.
"Have to be fit in body as well as in mind," I said to Christina, "plus
we're raising money for good causes by getting you all to sponsor us."
"Who will the money be going to?" she asked.
"A group that wants to promote greater public understanding and
acceptance of transsexuals," said Callis. I managed not to show any
surprise, but WTF? What made him choose *them*? I'd left the choice of
'good cause' up to Callis since the point of the fundraising was to
make me look good and I didn't really care who the money went to, but
I'd expected his choice to be a bit more mainstream and not as
potentially problematic.
"I approve," said Christina, looking directly at me.
"Yeah, well, we looked at various groups and we decided they were one
the money we raise could really help," I said, smoothly associating
myself with Callis's choice. Christina was easily the hardest to
impress of the partners so it was useful to be linked to anything she
approved of. In her late-thirties, tall, extremely bright, and
supremely self-confident, Christina Kane was a formidable woman. She
was striking rather than beautiful, and she carried herself with a
grace and confidence that always put me in mind of a lioness stalking
its prey.
"Really?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "Perhaps I've misjudged you,
then."
There was that piercing, slightly-amused gaze again, which always made
me feel like a child who'd just been caught doing something naughty.
"Can I steal my husband away from you for a dance?" said Jane, sweeping
in with her usual perfect timing.
"Of course," smiled Christina, running an appreciative eye over my
wife. "It's good to see you again, Jane."
"So did you learn anything from Kirby," I said as we took to the
dancefloor.
"Not as much as I'd hoped," replied Jane. "They're playing their cards
close to their chests on the partnership."
"I can't tell whether that's a good thing or a bad one," I frowned.
"I'd expected their thinking to have become clear by now, but nada!"
"Never mind," smiled Jane. "As soon as the bonuses are announced we
should wait the least amount of time it takes not to seem rude then
slip away. I'd much rather be making love than making small talk."
"Can't argue with that idea," I grinned.
And that's just what we did. Twenty minutes or so after the
announcement we left the party, but I couldn't stop fretting over what
the bonuses might signal.
"The same!" I exclaimed as I drove our BMW up the ramp from the parking
basement beneath the firm's offices and out into the night, "They gave
us the same bonus despite me bringing more money in last year! That
can't be good!"
"Calm down, darling," said Jane patting my arm, "it could mean nothing.
They might have awarded you both the same bonus so that You *wouldn't*
take it as indicating their choice for partner."
"Yeah, maybe, but I..."
"Look out!!!" screamed Jane.
There was a sickening thud as we slammed into the other vehicle, the
screech of tearing metal as we were thrown forward against our
seatbelts and into the airbags that exploded into life in front of us.
The car flipped on its side and slid a good fifty yards. Not that I
knew any of this at the time. I was already unconscious before it came
to rest.
*
2. The Hospital
"He's coming round!" said a female voice as I struggled to wake.
"Thank you, nurse," a male voice calmly replied. "Can you hear me,
Simon?"
"Whuh..." I said, trying to form words, the bright light hurting my
eyes as I forced them open, "whuh happen..?"
"You were in an accident, Simon," said the man, his features coming
into focus, "and you sustained a broken arm and a concussion, as well a
few cuts that needed stitches, and a lot of bruises and minor
abrasions. I'm Doctor Pincus, and you're in the Royal London Hospital
at Whitechapel."
I wasn't in any pain - presumably I was doped up - and a glance at my
left arm showed it to be in a plaster cast, but none of that concerned
me right then.
"Jane," I said, "is my wife alright?"
"I'm here, darling," said Jane, entering the room right on cue. She had
a band-aid over one eye and a couple of stitches in a small cut under
her chin but otherwise, miraculously, she seemed unharmed.
"Are you...?" I said.
"I'm fine, fine, don't worry about me."
"The other car," I said. "How's the driver?"
Jane and the nurse exchanged a quick, worried glance, but Doctor Pincus
stared me right in the eye.
"She's dead," he said. "We did a blood alcohol test and you were below
the limit, but the police will still want to question you."
"Yes, I suppose they will," I said, stunned by the fate of the other
driver, my brain on automatic, "I mean, fatal accident and all; they
have to follow the routine."
"I...I'm afraid it's a bit more than just routine," said Jane,
somberly. "You ran a red light. They're going to charge you with
driving without due care and attention."
Jane carried on talking but I'm afraid I didn't hear much after that. I
started to shake as what I had done sank in. I had driven through a red
light at speed and ploughed right into that woman. She never stood a
chance. I wasn't over the limit, but it didn't matter. I'd been so
wrapped up in my own problems that I hadn't been paying attention. I'd
run a red light and a woman had died. This would definitely damage my
chances of making partner at KLK but - and I could hardly believe I was
thinking this way - right now even that didn't matter. What mattered
was that I had killed a woman. I had killed her, she was dead, and she
wasn't coming back.
"Darling?" Jane had noticed I wasn't listening to her.
"Yes, um, sorry," I said, still feeling dazed.
I looked up to see Doctor Pincus studying me intensely. As I did so he
reached some sort of decision. Taking a wall phone handset off its
receiver he tapped in four numbers.
"Sue?" he said. "There's a patient down in casualty that I need you to
see."
He rattled off all the relevant details of my case then put the
receiver back in its cradle.
"That was Doctor Swift, one of our therapists. I've arranged for her to
give you trauma counselling. You're going to need it to enable you to
deal with what happened."
They wanted to keep me in for a couple of days - some concern about the
concussion and delayed shock - and that was fine with me. Anything
would've been fine with me at that point. Jane was allowed home, but
she came back and visited me, of course. No-one from KLK visited me,
not even my squash partner John Callis, but I did get a visit from
someone else on the second day.
"Simon Canning?"
I looked up from where I lay to see a stranger standing in the doorway
of my room. He was tall, dark-haired and a bit dishevelled, though he
looked to be someone who normally took some pride in his appearance.
"Do I know you?" I asked, puzzled.
"No," he said, "no, you don't. My name's Martin Lambton. Joanna Lambton
was my wife."
"Joanna Lambton? I'm afraid I don't..."
"She was the driver of the other car," he said, face distraught.
"Oh," I said. "They...they never told me her name. Words can't begin to
express how sorry I am about what happened."
I meant that sincerely, but my heart fell. This was going to be
excruciating. Why was he here? What did he want from me? Was he here to
exact revenge on me for killing his wife?
"What...?" I said, "why...?"
It was not the most coherent I've ever been.
"I accept it was an accident," he said, "that you didn't mean for it to
happen, but I need you to know who Joanna was, to understand what her
death means to me and to our daughter."
He pulled a chair up beside my bed and I couldn't help but notice the
large ring he wore on his right ring-finger. It was quite possibly the
ugliest piece of jewellery I'd ever seen. Sitting down, he reached
inside his jacket and pulled out a paper photo-wallet.
"Here," he said, "these are of her."
I took the wallet from him, took out the photos, and spread them out on
the bed in front of me. They showed the family in happier times. Joanna
was blonde, short and round-faced but quite pretty. Their daughter
looked to be about three years old, dark-haired, lively-eyed, and as
cute as a button. Why did there have to be a kid? Kids were my
kryptonite. I mean, everyone has a right to legal representation, but
I'd always made it clear to the firm that I would never defend a
paedophile because it was hard to mount a defence when you wanted to
take a baseball bat to your client.
"Her name is Annabel," said Lambton, "and Joanna is the second mother
she's lost."
"The second? I don't..."
"She was my sister's daughter," he said, tears beginning to form in his
eyes, "we adopted her when her parents were killed in a boating
accident."
"I'm sorry," I said, not knowing what else I could say.
"What are we going to do without Joanna?" he said, tears now running
down his face, "what are we going to do?"
I was right; this was excruciating. I wished with all my being the
accident had never happened, but I wasn't sorry that I was the one of
us who had survived. Yet I still found myself saying:
"If I could take her place I would."
And in that moment perhaps I even meant it, just a little.
"Thank you," said Lambton, grasping my wrist, and causing me to start a
little at how unnaturally cold the metal of his ring was against my
skin, "that means a lot. I really shouldn't have barged in on you like
this but I...are you alright, Mr Canning?"
I was feeling queasy, the room beginning to spin.
"Mus' be the concussion," I said, speech beginning to slur, "they tol'
me that I...that..."
Then all the lights went out.
*
3. The First Day
It felt like nothing more than snapping out of a momentary daydream,
one of those times you zone out for a few seconds and then pull
yourself back to the present with maybe a quick shake of the head. It
was an unremarkable, almost trivial start to the most terrifying
awakening of my life. One moment I was drifting off in my hospital bed
and then, in what seemed to me no more than a second or two later, I
had shaken myself awake and was now standing facing a woman who was
threading an earring hook through a pierced earlobe. It took a second
to register that I was looking into a mirror and the woman was me.
I gasped in shock, my gaze snapping down, staring in amazement at the
breasts outlined by the fabric of the cream silk blouse I was wearing.
I grabbed them with my hands, noting my long painted nails as my senses
confirmed the reality of those breasts, feeling their weight on my
chest and the cups and straps of the bra that held them in place. In a
panic, I grabbed at my crotch, finding only an absence where my dick
should be.
"No, no, no!" I whispered, beginning to hyperventilate, staring again
at my reflection, at my long blonde hair (blonde?), my knee length
skirt, dark pantihose, and at my painted face. (Make-up, I was wearing
make-up!) The face was different - smaller nose and chin, smoother
brow-line - but it was still recognisably my own. Somehow it had been
transformed into that of a girl and - I realized with that small part
of my brain that wasn't panicking - she was disturbingly pretty.
Looking around me wildly, I quickly took in the small, unfamiliar
bedroom I was in, the double bed, the wardrobe full of skirts and
dresses and high heeled shoes, the dressing table with its array of
cosmetics, and its two framed photographs.
I walked over to the dressing table and stared at the pictures. One
showed a bride and groom on their wedding day. I was the bride, and I
looked radiantly happy. The groom was Martin Lambton. How was this
possible? How could I suddenly be a woman and married to a man I had
only just met? It was the second picture that gave me a clue. It showed
me and him, and his daughter Annabel in a happy, smiling family photo.
But this was not the three year old I had seen photos of what seemed
only minutes ago to me. No, in this photo she was at least twice that
age.
Feeling suddenly faint, I went over to the bed and sat down heavily on
it, only then realizing I was wearing three-inch heels. I had walked
across the room without even noticing. The man I had been had never
worn heels in his life and so would surely have stumbled in them, but
the person I was now had the 'muscle memory' to walk in them without
thinking about it. This and my altered face were proof this wasn't some
elaborate hoax, that years had indeed somehow passed for me. I took
several slow, deep breaths knowing these would have a calming effect on
me, keeping me from trembing uncontrollably. Only then did I feel up to
doing what needed to be done, to finding out what had happened and my
current situation.
The first thing I did was determine where I was. A quick search of the
place revealed it to be a three-bedroom, ground floor flat with a small
but servicable kitchen, living room, and bathroom/toilet. The largest
bedroom was clearly the one I shared with Martin (shudder), the middle-
sized one was obviously Annabel's, and the smallest had been turned
into an office, complete with computer, filing cabinets, and an easel.
Someone in the family was an artist. An opened letter on the desk from
the local council to 'Mr & Mrs Lambton' revealed the flat was in
Chiswick, West London. It was a big step down from the large house Jane
and I had in Surrey, but a lot more convenient for Kirby Lieber & Kane.
Jane! What had happened to Jane? And KLK! Did I even still work for
them? This whole situation was terrifying and I felt totally lost. It
was only concentrating on the task at hand, on figuring this stuff out,
that was keeping me from losing it completely. I looked at the letter
again. Under the Gender Recognition Act of 2004 someone who had
undergone gender reassignment surgery could be both legally female and
married to a man which, somehow, I now was.
On the kitchen table was a small handbag - presumably mine - and a
newspaper. The date on the newspaper hit me like a blow to the stomach.
Four years. I had lost over four years.
In the handbag I found one of those Oyster card things (what? I
travelled on the London Underground now?), a hairbrush, various items
of make-up, some money, credit cards, and a security pass. The credit
cards were in the name of 'Simone Lambton', as was the security pass
which, I was relieved to see, was for KLK. I was listed as an associate
on it, so I guess I didn't make partner after all. In light of
everything else I was dealing with, this was the least of my worries.
Which is not to say I stopped picking up on small details. In the
process of examining the contents of my handbag I noticed that my long
fingernails were artificial. They were acrylic, and stuck over my
normal length real nails. I wondered briefly why I used these rather
than grow out my own nails before turning my attention to more
important things.
In the bathroom, I opened the medicine cabinet and found what I had
expected to: a bottle of female hormone tablets with my name on the
label. So sometime in the past four years I had undergone gender-
reassignment surgery, had had a sex-change, but why? I had always been
happy as a man had never once felt I was a woman trapped in a man's
body, so why had I done this? Or had I? Could someone have coerced me
into doing this, maybe hypnotised me, I wondered darkly? Examining my
face carefully in the medicine cabinet mirror I found a thin, faint
scar just above my hairline and another under my chin. As well as the
obvious nose job I had clearly also had bonework done on my chin and
browline to 'feminise' my face. The surgeon had done a good job. If I
still had the equipment, I'd have fucked me.
The equipment.
I lifted my skirt, lowered my pantihose and panties and gingerly probed
my genitalia, careful not to catch anything sensitive with my long
nails. Yes, no doubt about it; I now had a vagina. I felt like I was
going to be sick.
And that was when I heard the door to the flat open.
"Hi honey, I'm back!" called a male voice. "I dropped Annabel off at
her friend Rachel's house so we're good to go."
Then he appeared in the doorway of the bathroom and smiled at me.
Shorter haired, better-dressed, and more toned, but it was still him:
Martin Lambton.
"What have you done to me, you bastard!!" I yelled.
"What!?" he said, looking stunned. "Simone?"
He moved forward, arms coming up to hug me, but I stopped him with a
single withering look.
"You turned me into a a woman!" I yelled. "Why did you do this to me?"
"What? No! I didn't do anything! This is you...you wanted, needed to be
a woman. I don't understand - you're my wife. I love you, Simone!"
There was shock and horror on his face, but pleading in his voice.
"What happened to the past four years?!" I shouted, "How did you make
me forget them?!"
He staggered back against the doorframe, aghast.
"Oh God!" he said, "Oh my God! You don't remember?"
"No I don't," I said, beginning to calm down as I realised this was
almost as big a shock to him as it was to me. "Prior to half an hour
ago the last thing I remember is meeting you for the first time in
hospital. Now I'm a woman and suddenly we're happily married!"
"We are," he said, looking stricken, "very happily."
The way he said it, something in his voice... I let out a sigh and sat
down on the edge of the bath, feeling deflated. He reached out a hand
to comfort me, then thought better of it.
"So," I said, "tell me everything that happened after our first
meeting."
"I buried Joanna, and Annabel and I tried to get on with our lives," he
said, swallowing hard. "About eighteen months later, out of the blue, I
got a phone call from you."
"So we had no contact at all between then?"
"No, none. I heard you'd received a hefty fine and had your driving
licence revoked for five years, of course but, no, we had no contact.
So you can imagine how surprised I was to hear from you. You said you
were going through some changes and you needed to see me. From the way
you sounded on the phone, from how your voice had changed, I knew what
those changes probably were."
"You did? How?"
"Because Joanna was also transsexual. That's actually why you contacted
me. You'd been finding out all you could about her, and on discovering
she was a transwoman you decided I was someone you could talk to about
your own situation."
"Back up a bit. When we met in the hospital I was still a man and I
thought I was happy that way. What happened in between?"
"From what you told me, the concussion you had was worse than the
doctors had thought so they ended up keeping you in hospital under
observation for almost two weeks. The day after I visited you you got a
roomate. Her name was Cindy and she was transsexual and, from the way
you described her, pretty obviously so. She wasn't easily able to
'pass' like you and Joanna. You were a bit wary of Cindy at first, but
she was intelligent and fun and you soon loosened up towards her. With
just the two of you in that room together and only each other to talk
to outside of visiting times you soon became fast friends. And
somewhere in those almost two weeks you had an epiphany. You started to
wonder what it might be like to be a woman, started to feel like maybe
meeting Cindy was a sign."
"Oh, come on! A sign? I decided to get my dick chopped off because of a
sign?"
"Well, no, I don't believe that bit either, but Cindy did awaken
something inside you, something deep and buried that you'd never
examined before. And they don't cut your penis off when they do a
vaginaplasty. Yeah, they discard the testicles, but most of the rest
they..."
"OK, OK," I said, cutting him off as I started to feel queasy. "I'm
still struggling with the fact it was done to me at all. I don't need
the gory details. Where's Cindy now?"
"I'm afraid she's dead. She had cancer and she didn't survive."
I wish I could say a felt a sense of loss, but I didn't. She had
apparently been my friend and hugely important in changing the
direction of my entire life, but I had no memory of her whatsoever.
"So how did you and I end up together?"
"The way two people usually do. We spent a lot of time together while I
was helping you deal with transitioning, and gradually we fell in love.
After your divorce was finalised, we got married. Your father gave you
away, and your sister Jennifer was your Chief Bridesmaid."
That revelation was almost as shocking as my transformation.
"My...family?" I said. "But I haven't spoken to them in years!"
"You hadn't, no, but with the huge changes you were making in your
life, the transition and everything, you were feeling vulnerable and
uncertain and you decided to reach out to them. And they've been
wonderful. They embraced you, and your relationship with your sister is
better than it's ever been. You're not just sisters now, you're also
really good friends. You were so relieved and grateful at how well your
reunion turned out that you got quite teary and emotional about it with
me afterwards. You told me the problems between you had all been your
fault and that - and these are your words - maybe it took losing your
dick to stop being a dick."
It was a good line, but I couldn't ever imagine myself saying it. No,
if I'd got "teary and emotional" then getting a pussy had turned me
into a pussy. Still, I mustn't do anything hasty yet. I still needed to
gather all the facts I could, bring myself up to speed on where I
stood, and decide how to proceed from there.
"The firm," I said, "tell me about it."
"What do you want to know?"
"I assume James Wheeler made partner?"
"Yes, though they voted to keep the name. Out of respect for old man
Lieber the firm won't become Kirby, Wheeler, and Kane until after his
eventual death."
"And me? What's my position in the firm?"
"You're an associate working under Christina Kane and alongside Sophie
Manners. Your division basically deals with cases involving race,
gender, sexual orientation and other causes dear to Ms Kane."
"Oh great! So rather than the juicy corporate stuff I was working on
before I've been shunted off into Bleeding Heart Lane. This just keeps
getting better and better."
"Some of them are your causes, too, Simone," said Martin. "You're now
the media liaison and main spokeswoman for the London Trans Alliance."
"I'm *what*? Why would I take a post like that?"
"Because you're a transwoman. Any prejudice or discrimination aimed at
transsexuals is also aimed at you. After transitioning yourself you got
pissed off at some of the stuff you discovered was happening and
decided to get involved. You always stand up for yourself, and that's
what this was."
OK, that sounded like me, the first thing I'd heard so far that really
did.
"You said 'media liaison', so does that mean.....?"
"TV, radio, newspapers - the works. There are recordings of all of your
TV spots shelved next to the TV. You're pretty much the go-to person
for the media these days when they need a comment on a trans-related
story."
Interesting. Not a role I'd have chosen for myself but that sort of
profile might be useful for my career in the future. It always helped
to look as if you cared about other people.
The future.
For a moment there I'd discounted what had happened to me and was
thinking about the future and how to leverage the situation. But then
that was me. The only way I could deal with this stuff was to ignore my
feelings about it and to concentrate on what it meant for my career. If
I let myself feel anything about my predicament I was afraid I might
lose it, and that's something I would never do in front of someone
else. Showing weakness was not an option. And, realistically, it was
the best way to proceed. Everyone now knew me as Simone, a woman, and
apparently accepted me that way. I could tell them a horrible mistake
had been made and I wanted to be a guy again - and if I could wave a
magic wand and make it so none of this had ever happened then I would,
damn straight I would - but it *had* happened. Someone had killed Simon
Canning as surely as if they had put a gun to his head. He was gone,
and he wasn't coming back. Suddenly announcing I now wanted to change
back would mark me as unstable, which would do my career no good
whatsover. Plus, it wasn't as if they could give me back my dick,
anyway. No, what had happened had happened and I needed to find a way
to live with it and turn it to my advantage. I'd always claimed I could
come out on top in any situation. I guess now was the time to prove it.
I started to ask Martin what had happened to Jane then thought better
of it. We'd divorced, for fairly obvious reasons, and I was sure she
would be feeling bitter towards me. She had sacrificed her own
ambitions to help achieve mine, so finding out I wasn't the man she
thought I was must have seemed a huge betrayal. I really needed to see
her, but not before I was ready. Maybe I'd look her up when I was more
sure of where I stood with everyone else, but for now I had something
else on my mind.
"The skirt I'm wearing," I said.
"What about it?" said Martin, looking puzzled.
"It's part of a suit; the matching jacket is on a hanger hooked over
the door of my wardrobe. I was putting in earrings and had obviously
just finished doing my make-up. All of which means I was getting ready
to go out. Where was I going?"
"With me, to the launch of an the exhibition of my paintings at the
Chapford Gallery in Bethnal Green."
There was an awkward silence while I digested this.
"I'll give your apologies," said Martin, "tell everyone you couldn't
attend because you're unwell."
"No, don't do that, I said, reaching a decision,"I'll come with you.
I'll grab my jacket and then we'll go."
I wanted to hide myself away and curl up into a ball, but though it
would be easy, so very easy to go down that path I couldn't let myself
succumb to self-pity. That wasn't who I was and I wasn't going to let
this turn me into that person. No, I had to keep moving. At some point
I would deal with the enormity of what had happened to me, but not now.
I needed to distract myself with action, to get used to moving through
the world like this as fast as I possibly could. Today was Saturday. On
Monday I fully intended to return to work and not give anyone reason to
believe that anything was wrong. However, my firm resolve weakened a
bit when we reached the street and I grabbed Martin's arm.
"I understand," he said patting my hand and giving me a smile of
encouragement. "Even though it's not, this feels like your first time
out in public dressed as a woman."
He was right, and I was annoyed with myself. But I still kept hold of
his arm all the way to the local Underground station. People looked at
me, of course, but none of them were looks of disgust. The women looked
me up and down, as if judging me and awarding points for presentation,
while from the men I got looks of outright appreciation, often
accompanied by smiles. I had to keep reminding myself of my own initial
assessment of my appearance. I was now an attractive woman, dammit, so
of course I was going to be looked at in that light. At one point I
stumbled and Martin quickly caught me, preventing me from tumbling to
the pavement.
"Thanks," I said. Embarrassed, I felt the need to explain myself. "I
made the mistake of thinking about how I was walking in high heels
instead of just, y'know, *walking* so of course I stumbled. You'd do
the same if you tried watching your feet while running downstairs."
"I'm sure I would," he said. "Hmmm, I've just noticed something -
you're speaking in your female register."
"So?" I said, not grasping his point.
"So that's a learned skill," he said. "I mean yes, it's good that you
are, but with the memory loss I'd have expected you to have gone back
to your male voice, yet you haven't. I wonder why."
"Muscle memory?" I suggested. "Like how I can easily walk in heels as
long as I don't think about it?"
"I suppose," he said, not sounding entirely convinced.
That ten minute walk was one of the most nerve-wracking things I'd ever
done. It would get easier, though. It had to.
As usual the Underground train journey was too noisy to hold much of a
conversation, but it was long enough for me to start to feel
uncomfortable with the looks I was attracting from the male passengers.
Anyone who'd grown up as a pretty girl would be used to such attention,
but having only just become one myself I wasn't yet able to casually
ignore it.
The closest stop to the gallery was Shoreditch High Street on the new
Overground, a line that had not even existed four years ago. From here
we walked up to Columbia Road where the Chapford Gallery sat amid a
long row of small old shops that were now galleries, boutiques, arty
bric-a-brac emporia, health food shops and the like. I hated it.
Things improved considerably when we entered the gallery itself.
Displayed on the walls were the original cover paintings of a score or
more fantasy and science fiction books, many of which I recognised. I
turned to Martin in amazement.
"You painted these?!" I said. He nodded.
"But I'm a big fan of fantasy and SF!"
"I know," he said, grinning. "It was one of the things that drew us
together."
One painting in particular grabbed my attention. It was for an edition
of Edgar Rice Burroughs' 'A Princess of Mars' and featured a bare-
breasted Dejah Thoris displayed seductively in the foreground with John
Carter striking a heroic pose behind her. The reason the painting drew
my attention is because I instantly recognized who had been Martin's
model for Dejah Thoris.
It was me.
I'd only been a woman a few hours (from my perspective) and already I
was in a room that would shortly be full of strangers all of whom would
be ogling my naked breasts at some point. Could things get any weirder?
When reading books I'd always identified with the hero, with John
Carter rather than Dejah Thoris. Did being female mean I'd now start
identifying with the girlfriend? God, I hoped not!
"They made a movie of 'A Princess of Mars' last year," said Martin,
"though they called it 'John Carter'.
"Really? Was it any good?"
"I loved it, so did lots of people in the sci fi community, but
unfortunately it bombed at the box office. I'm pretty sure it was
deliberately sabotaged."
"Why would it be sabotaged?"
"Some bullshit studio politics, probably, with new guys coming in and
wanting to make the previous guys who greenlit it look bad, hence the
uninformative name and awful publicity campaign. But what really proves
it was sabotaged is the merchandising."
"What was wrong with the merchandising?"
"There wasn't any. This was a Disney movie. It cost over two hundred
million to make. When a Disney movie costs that much and is supposed to
be the first in a franchise, the merchandising has been manufactured
months in advance and is in the shops before the movie even opens. Not
this time. There should've been Tars Tarkas action figures everywhere,
but...nothing."
If true, it certainly sounded like someone had it in for the film.
Still, based on Martin's reccomendation I was looking forward to seeing
it for myself eventually.
We were among the first to arrive for the showing, but over the next
hour the gallery filled up. I didn't know most of those present but
they all seemed to know me and they greeted us warmly. This was just
one more strange experience in a day overburdened with them. Something
that did please me was not feeling short anymore. I was five-five -
short for a man - but in my three inch heels I was not particularly
short among the women. I liked those few inches of extra height so much
I seriously considered never wearing flats again.
Many of these people might have been strangers to me but one late
arrival I did recognise, though Martin saw him first.
"John!" he called out across the room, and I turned to see John Callis
heading towards us. He looked trimmer, sharper and more confident than
when I'd last seen him before the accident. Making his way purposefully
through the clumps of people Callis took Martin's hand and shook it
vigorously. Then he turned and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the
cheek.
"Simone, I don't know how you do it but I swear you look lovelier every
day!"
"Thanks," I said, not really knowing what else to say.
"How's my best man?" said Martin, giving him a thump on the shoulder.
Best man? Callis was best man at our wedding? Say what?
"Oh, you know, doing OK," he replied. "Up to my ears in a big corporate
merger at the moment, but still managing to fit in a few games of
squash here and there."
Callis was now doing the sort of corporate business that was my domain
while I was stuck with social work? Great, just great.
A little later, when Callis left us to circulate among the other
guests, I pulled Martin aside.
"I don't get it," I said. "Callis was my colleague so why would you
choose him to be your best man? Isn't that a role you usually give to
your best friend?"
"John *is* my best friend. He was the person you were closest to at
your firm and he stood beside you and gave you his full support when
you announced you were transitioning. Which is how I met him. Over time
our friendship grew. When you and I decided to get married I could
think of no one better to be my best man."
So Callis had believed he and I were friends after all, and he had
stood by me. Remembering how I'd thought of him back then I actually
felt a little ashamed, something I didn't often feel and didn't much
like. Shame, like guilt, was something that belonged to the weak. I
thought I'd rid myself of both but apparently I still had work to do.
The rest of the evening was more meeting and greeting and small talk,
and as it passed I found myself relaxing more and my confidence
growing. Despite knowing otherwise, I'd left the flat feeling like a
man venturing onto the streets in drag for the first time but no one
here or on the street had responded to me as anything other than the
woman I appeared to be, the woman I now was. Which meant that I too had
now accepted it and I was sure I could appear alone in public with
confidence from here on out. I still let Martin take my hand when we
left the exhibition and walked back to the tube station, however, both
as a little reward for him and because it was something I was going to
eventually have to get used to.
Back in Chiswick we first called in at her friend Rachel's house to
pick up Annabel. I got an unexpected shock when Rachel's mother opened
the front door. It was my colleague Sophie Manners.
"Hi," she said, smiling, "come on through to the lounge. The girls have
just finished watching 'Mulan' so your timing is perfect."
As we followed her through to the lounge I shook my head, annoyed with
myself. At the time of my accident Sophie's daughter was three years
old and I had no idea what her name was. I'm sure she had mentioned it
many times but it wasn't something I had bothered to remember. That was
a mistake. Any piece of data however trivial could prove to be useful
at some point.
"Mummy! Daddy!" said Annabel on seeing us. She leapt up from the sofa
and threw her arms around my waist, clearly delighted to see me. I
patted her head uncertainly, not knowing what else to do.
"Thanks for looking after her for us, Sophie," said Martin.
"Hey, it was my pleasure. Rachel's less trouble when her best friend is
over."
"Yeah, well we'd better be getting her home," said Martin. "We're back
later than planned and it's past her bedtime."
We walked back to our flat with Annabel between us, holding our hands
and skipping along. She was in high spirits and chatted non-stop about
anything and everything that popped into her head.
"Alright button," said Martin when we arrived back at the flat, "brush
your teeth then straight to bed, OK?"
"OK, Daddy," she said.
When she'd left us I looked at Martin in wonder.
"She really loves me," I said.
"We both do..." he replied.
"Please don't," I said, cutting him off. "I accept that you do, and all
the physical evidence, the photos and the like, confirms it. But I
don't remember any of that stuff. You seem like a nice guy but I don't
know you. To me you're a virtual stranger I met for the first time just
a few hours ago. It feels like I've fallen through the looking glass
and ended up in a world that's not my own. Even my body has been
changed in ways that strike at my very identity and sense of self. That
I'm not a gibbering wreck right now is a testament to my strength of
will, but don't think for a minute that I'm finding this easy."
Martin reached out to touch my shoulder, then thought better of it.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I don't want your sympathy!" I snapped. "I'm not a victim. I don't do
victimhood. Only the weak and stupid allow themselves to be victims.
This is something that happened to me, that I will deal with. I was
telling you where I was in that process. It's early days, but I promise
you I *will* deal with this. I'll then put it behind me and move on.
That's what I do. That's who I am."
"I understand. Please don't take this as in any way doubting your
ability to do so, but if you need help at any time I'm there for you,
unconditionally. I will always be there for you."
I gave a small nod, and searched his face intensely. He certainly
seemed to be sincere. My examination was interrupted by Annabel yelling
from her bedroom.
"Mummy I need you to brush my hair!"
"You brush her hair every night - thirty strokes," said Martin. "You
always say it's one of your favourite parts of the day, but I'll do it
if you don't want to."
"No, that's OK," I said. "I don't want to upset her by disrupting her
routine."
When I entered her bedroom Annabel was already in her nightdress and
sitting on her bed, holding a hairbrush. When she saw me her face lit
up in a huge smile. I don't remember anyone ever being so pleased to
see me before. I sat down next to her on the bed and slowly brushed her
hair. Thirty strokes. It was an oddly soothing task and I was almost
sorry when I made the final stroke. As I finished, Annabel turned and
hugged me.
"I love you, Mummy," she said.
"I love you too, sweetie," I replied, kissing her on the top of the
head.
"Now go to sleep, okay?"
"OK, Mummy."
Leaving her bedroom I closed the door behind me and sighed. I didn't
love her - I didn't even know her - but I knew I very easily could.
There's something about the innocent, totally unconditional love of a
child than can pierce almost anyone's defences, even mine.
"I'm going online for a bit before bed," I said to Martin. "You'll be
sleeping on the sofa."
"Of course," he said, looking disappointed but resigned.
Sitting at the computer I googled my type of amnesia. I had to try a
few different word combinations but eventually I found what I was
looking for. It was the story of a woman who around 1970 suffered a
memory loss in which the previous eight years of her life vanished and
she woke up believing it was still 1962. This was a huge shock to her
particularly since she was now older, fatter, and married to someone
else. I could relate. And she didn't believe what had happened to the
US in those eight years either, particularly that men had gone to the
moon. I felt real sympathy for her. The America of 1970 was a radically
different country to the America of 1962. Her culture shock must have
been immense. A more recent case was that of a man who suffered a
severe reaction to a bee sting and woke convinced it was still the
1980s, poor sod. So my condition, while rare, was not unknown.
Interesting.
Next, I checked the browser's history bar and found a link for the
London Trans Alliance. I clicked on this and was taken straight to a
private discussion list - since no password had been requested I was
obviously still logged in from my last visit. I read the various
threads with interest, getting a feel for the things and issues I would
be expected to know something about. One of the more heated discussions
concerned the word 'tranny', which American posters thought was
offensive. No surprise there - the Yanks were always falling over
themselves to declare words offensive. They thought it as offensive as
the 'F-word' ("faggot", apparently) and the 'N-word'. On this side of
the Atlantic a faggot was a large meatball, as a simple google image
search would reveal, so that wasn't perhaps the best comparison to
make, but the Americans seemed to have the support of some of the
younger British trans activists. Arguing the other side were some of
their older counterparts, one of whom wrote that: "'tranny' is not our
'N-word', it's our 'Q-word'." This is something I would obviously be
expected to have an opinion on, but I couldn't locate a post where I
had come down on one side or the other so I guess I'd just have to play
it by ear until I could figure this out from what others said to me. I
noted the next meeting of the LTA was Monday evening. This would mean
meeting another group of people I didn't know despite them knowing me,
but I would be there. I checked out a few news sites to get a feel for
the current situation in the UK and beyond then decided to turn in.
The day had taken a lot out of me and I was really tired but not so
tired that I didn't study my make-up very carefully before removing it
with cold cream. I was going to have to reapply it in the days to come
so I needed to memorise the end result I'd be aiming for. There were
some instructional DVDs and books on cosmetics on the shelf above the
computer which I hoped would set me on the right path, but I would
still need to practice applying it over the weekend. With my make-up
removed I was surprised by how much younger I looked. I was 31 years
old yet I had the face of a teenager. I'd always looked younger than my
years but not this much younger. Obviously a side-effect of the facial
feminization surgery. Clearly, I was going to have to be careful not to
be seen without make-up on by anyone important if I wanted to be taken
seriously.
Rising from the dressing table, I went and stood in front of the full-
length mirrored doors of the closet. It was time to undress, to take
the first proper look at my altered body, and I was nervous as hell
about it. Not wanting to prolong things I quickly stripped off all my
clothes and only then turned to face myself in the mirror. When I did I
was....impressed? Relieved? Shocked? All of those things actually. The
thing was, I looked just like someone who had been born female - a
'ciswoman' as they were referred to on the LTA website. The
redistribution of the fat on my slight frame resulting from the hormone
pills I was taking had made me look entirely natural. The inviting
cleavage of my ripe young breasts, my narrow waist, and the firm, round
buttocks of my shapely bottom, all added up to an enviable set of
female curves. I'm sure most little girls would be delighted if they
grew up to look like me. Unfortunately I'd started out as a little boy
and to look like this had never been on my wish list. Still, if I had
to be female then better to be a fox than a dog.
There were a number of very feminine nighties in my closet but I
decided to sleep in the buff, at least for tonight. A nightdress would
have been one new strangeness too many to have to deal with. I climbed
beneath the sheets and lay awake for longer than I should have. I was
used to having Jane in bed beside me and had never liked sleeping alone
anyway. Sleep eventually came, but I had a restless night disturbed by
troubling dreams.
*
4. The Second Day
I was awoken the next morning by someone jumping onto the bed next to
me. I opened a bleary eye to be greeted by a smiling young face beaming
down at me. It took a second or two for me to recognise that face and
for memories of yesterday to come flooding back.
"'Morning, Annabel," I said.
"Good morning, Mummy!" she squealed.
"Let Mummy wake up properly and get dressed, sweetie," said Martin,
entering the bedroom. He was carrying a cup of coffee.
"OK, Daddy!" said Annabel, leaping from the bed and zooming out of the
room.
Martin placed the coffee on the bedside table as I raised myself to a
sitting position, pulling the sheet around my naked breasts. He leaned
in and kissed my forehead, which I decided to let pass. This time.
"What's this?" I said.
"You're always up and away before me during the week but on the weekend
I'm usually awake first so I bring you a coffee in bed. It's a little
ritual we have.
"Okay...," I said slowly. "What other 'rituals' do we have for a
Sunday?"
"We get up, have breakfast together, potter about for a couple of hours
reading newspapers or surfing the web, then we go for a walk in the
park. Then, after a lunchtime meal in the local pub - the only time we
eat out most weeks - you head over to Christina Kane's house. She has
you over most Sunday afternoons to go through the cases you're working
on and so be prepped and ready on Monday morning. She always sends a
car to pick you up, and to bring you back in the evening."
"Then I guess that's our schedule for the day. Now leave me so I can
shower and get dressed."
Downing the coffee, I put on my bathrobe and padded through to the
bathroom. After a quick shower I returned to the bedroom. Examining the
contents of my closet it was immediately apparent which were my work
and non-work clothes. The former consisted mainly of tailored skirt-
suits with knee-length hemlines, while the latter were made up of more
colourful skirts and dresses with much shorter hemlines. Clearly, I
liked showing off my legs which, I had to admit, looked pretty
spectacular in a skirt and heels. I had hoped for some jeans or slacks
but the only trousers I appeared to own were a pair of skimpy silver
shorts. Silver? I couldn't imagine when I would ever wear such a thing,
but there they were. Wanting something that would do for the three
distinct parts of the day Martin had described I opted for a fairly
casual if conservative look, but with heels - I really liked those
extra inches in height.
In the kitchen I found Martin serving up bacon and eggs for Annabel and
himself. On the table in front of my chair was a bowl of grapefruit
slices, a crispbread, and a fresh cup of coffee. I let out a rueful
sigh. So this was the sort of breakfast I had to look forward to now.
We ate in comparative silence, with me studying the others
thoughtfully. The man across the table from me was my husband. However
much I rolled that idea round in my mind it was still beyond weird. He
and Annabel were my family, and everyone accepted us as such. From what
I could tell, we'd been very happy as a family, too. I accepted this,
but I was a long way from embracing it.
After breakfast we sat round reading the Sunday papers, while Annabel
played on the computer. This was useful in helping to bring me up to
speed on current events, but I still found myself frequently peering
over the top of my paper and watching Martin. He caught me a couple of
times, but just smiled and returned to reading his own paper. I excused
myself after a bit and went into the bedroom. Sitting at my dressing
table, I pulled out my cosmetics and spent a couple of hours carefully
practicing putting on and taking off my make-up. I was hardly super-
proficient at the end of that time but I had at least managed to do a
job I considered just about passable. With practice I would get better.
A walk in the park with Annabel between us, holding our hands, was
followed by a meal in the local pub, just as Martin had said. All in
all it had been a very pleasant and relaxing morning, something I had
needed more than I realised.
The pub served Thai food, and since he currently knew more about my
diet than I did I let Martin order for me. Our post-meal conversation
was about the science-fiction and fantasy books we both enjoyed. I
needed to know more about this stranger I was married to but for now I
deliberately shied away from anything too personal. There would be time
for that in the days and weeks to come.
There was something formal and polite about our interactions, an
awkwardness it would take time to overcome so, as pleasant as the day
had been to date I was relieved when it was time for me to go over to
Christina Kane's. Yet as I was getting ready a strange thought occured
to me: could it be magic that had made me want a sex-change? Did such a
thing even exist? I remembered that weird ring Martin had been wearing
when we first met, how strange it felt against my skin. I said that I'd
gladly take the place of his dead wife and the next thing I knew I had,
in every particular. Was it possible?
"Martin," I said, "do you still have that ring you were wearing when
you visited me in hospital?"
"That old thing? Yeah, it's in the top left drawer of the desk, I
think. I haven't worn it in years. Why on Earth would you be interested
in that?"
"No particular reason," I said, going to the desk and retrieving it. It
was every bit as ugly as I remembered.
"Do you remember where you got it?" I asked.
"Yeah, Joanna found it on a stall at a craft fair we visited once. She
bought it for me so I felt like I had to wear it even though I never
really liked it."
Was this the truth, or a lie to put me off the scent? Was I being crazy
for even entertaining the idea that magic might be real?
A car horn played Colonel Bogey - illegally - in the street outside.
"That'll be the car for you," said Martin.
I gathered up my handbag, slipped the ring inside, and headed out.
"See you later," I said, not looking back.
The car, a mini, was parked a little way up from our building and so
out of sight of the windows. The passenger door opened as I approached
it and I climbed in. To my surprise the driver was Christina Kane's
girlfriend Kelly Price, and she was dressed as a schoolgirl, but there
was a bigger surprise in store for me.
"Hello, gorgeous!" she said, leaning over. She pulled me towards her
and started kissing me.
I've always had the ability to respond instantly to almost any
situation and so immediately started kissing her back. Surprised I may
have been, but Kelly would have noticed no hesitation on my part
because there was none. I didn't know what the kissing meant, but as
surprises go they didn't get much better than this. All too soon, Kelly
broke our lip-lock and started the car up. Then, after squeezing my
thigh and giving me a dazzling smile, she pulled out into traffic.
"What's with the schoolgirl outfit?" I said. "I mean it looks amazing
on you but...."
"St. Trinians," she replied. "Cate Hunter, a new model at my agency
who's also a really good actress, had a role in the new movie and the
rest of us got to be non-speaking schoolgirl extras. They took
publicity shots yesterday at the end of the shoot and then afterwards
there was a party at Cate's flat for her nineteenth birthday. Since we
don't have to return the uniforms 'til tomorrow we all wore them to the
party."
"Hmm, and you're still wearing yours today," I said. "It looks like
someone got lucky last night and hasn't had a chance yet to go home and
change."
Kelly both blushed and grinned.
"It was a *very* good party," she said. "So you like the uniform?"
"I do. Very much."
"Oh good, because we're stopping off at Cate's on the way to pick up
one for you. She has one that should fit you so we can give Christina a
surprise."
"That sounds like fun," I said, but my mind was racing. Clearly, Kelly
and Christina had an open relationship, and judging by that kiss Kelly
and I were more than just acquaintances. Also, if we were dressing as
schoolgirls to surprise Christina I somehow doubted I was heading to a
work-related briefing. No, I was pretty sure I was on my way to a
threesome with her and Kelly. Which I have to admit was an idea that
excited me. Since Martin believed this was a work-related visit, it
looked like I was cheating on him. I can't say I felt any guilt. He
might be my husband but from my point of view we'd only met for the
first time yesterday and I barely knew the man. So screw him,
basically.
It turned out that Cate Hunter lived little more than ten minutes away
from me in a large, somewhat shabby old Victorian house that had been
converted into flats at some point, as so many in London had. There was
a silver BMW already parked in front of it and no space for another
car, so Kelly parked on a street which ran down one side of the house.
As we got out of the mini she announced:
"And that's Cate."
I looked about me in confusion, seeing no one on the street who looked
like they could be a top model.
"Where?" I said.
Kelly grinned, then indicated high up on the other side of the street
with her eyes. I followed her gaze upwards to the billboard on the end
wall of the terrace opposite. Advertising Godiva Cosmetics and pouting
down from it was possibly the most beautiful girl I'd ever laid eyes
on.
"Wow." I said.
"Yeah, she's something special, isn't she?" said Kelly. "C'mon, let's
go meet her."
We walked around to the front of the house where a tall, good looking
young guy about twenty years old was depositing black plastic sacks
full of rubbish in the house's wheelie-bins. He was about six-three and
wearing jeans and a T-shirt that stretched over a mighty torso and
displayed seriously muscular arms. This was someone who worked out. A
lot.
"Hi, Mike!" said Kelly, as we approached.
"Oh, hi, Kelly," he replied looking up and favouring us with a grin. He
looked way too self-satisfied and pleased with himself for my taste,
the sort of guy who thinks he's God's gift to women.
"I'm heading off to the bottle bank now with a pile of empties from
last night," he said, "but Cate is expecting you so go right on in. You
know the way."
We walked up the path to the front door and I happened to glance up and
see a small, elderly woman watching us from an upstairs window. When
she saw I'd seen her she let her net curtains close. Just another nosey
old lady who liked to keep track of everyone else's business. They were
everywhere. As we reached the door it opened and we were confronted by
a tall, dark-haired young beauty in heels, tight jeans and a leather
jacket. She looked more Latina than English rose and was stunning
enough to give Cate Hunter a run for her money. Behind her was a much
shorter, somewhat portly middle-aged woman in a tailored skirt-suit
that did the best that could be done to flatter her overweight figure.
"Hello, Jade," said Kelly. "Back already?"
"Hi Kelly," chuckled the young woman. "You looked like you were
enjoying yourself last night, and you're still wearing your St.
Trinian's uniform, I see?"
She raised an eyebrow and Kelly blushed, then they both burst out
laughing.
"Yeah, I had a *really* good time last night!" she agreed. She then
turned to me and said, "This is my friend Simone."
"Pleased to meet you," said Jade, shaking my hand, "This is my mother."
More handshakes all round, then Jade said:
"I wish I could stay and chat, but I promised Mum I'd give her a lift
to an appointment and we're running late. It was good seeing you again,
Kelly."
"Yeah, you too. See you."
Jade and her mother then headed out to the silver BMW.
"Who was *that*?" I asked Kelly. "She's gorgeous."
"Yeah, she is. Jade Hart, one of our agency's top models and a designer
of really wonderful, top-end lingerie. These days she mostly models her
own creations and only rarely does the occasional show. She's married
and has a son. A shame she's monogamous. Her wife is a lucky woman."
In the house we climbed some stairs to a landing off which were two
flats. Kelly rang one of the doorbells, and the door was opened by the
woman whose face we had seen outside on the billboard. She was even
more beautiful in person.
"Kelly!" she squealed, and the two of them hugged and exchanged air-
kisses.
"And this is my friend Simone," said Kelly, introducing me for the
second time in as many minutes.
"I recognise you from TV," said Cate Hunter. "though you're much
prettier in the flesh. I'm a great admirer of your work on trans
issues. I'm really pleased to meet you."
She gave me a quick hug and air-kiss too. I was pleased by the
attention from someone so drop-dead gorgeous, but being told how pretty
I was still felt odd.
"So," she said to Kelly as she ushered us inside, "you spent most of
the party sitting on Lorna Cheung's lap and snogging while she fondled
you. Since you're still wearing the schoolgirl uniform I'm guessing she
took you back to her place."
"I cannot tell a lie," said Kelly, a big grin on her face. "What with
the party and then Lorna that was one amazing night."
"And we still have wine left over from it," said Cate. "Can I interest
you both in a glass?"
"Okay," I said, the first word I had spoken since we had arrived. I'm
not usually struck dumb by someone's beauty but Cate Hunter was
something special. We were three blondes (not natural in my case), all
of us attractive, and Cate stunningly so. At nineteen she was over a
decade younger than me, still a kid really, yet she had a poise and
confidence impressive in one so young. Being models, she and Kelly were
both taller than me and I ruefully reflected that despite being among
women I was still the shortest person in the room.
We sat down on the sofa while Cate went into the kitchen, returning
with a bottle of white that had obviously been opened the previous
night then re-corked. She poured us each a glass, then settled back in
an armchair and lit a cigarette.
"Your elderly neighbour seems very interested in everyone's coming and
goings," I said. "She watched Kelly and me walk up to the front door."
"Oh that's Mrs Ellaby, our landlady," said Cate. "She's nosey in that
way women her age can be but she's a friendly old dear, bless her, and
she fusses over us like a mother hen. She was pretty lonely after her
partner died last year, but just recently she started dating our
downstairs neighbour Colonel Pottingham. They're such a sweet old
couple and are just totally adorable together. Watching their romance
develop has been a joy."
Cate was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. She went out into the
small hallway to answer the door and spent a couple of minutes talking
to someone we couldn't see. When she returned she was grinning broadly.
"Well, well, well," she said, "talk about synchronicity. That was the
Colonel. He wanted to ask me about the Internet - he called it "that
damn interweb thingy" - and how you go about ordering stuff online. By
the way he was blushing I could see he was embarrassed. That's w