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MIRANDA It started one Sunday in August. I'd been lazy about keeping up with the laundry recently, but on that day I decided to get a grip and sort out a couple of loads of washing. I decided to separate out whites and coloureds, and started sorting through the basket of dirty clothes I kept in the bathroom. But after a while, something stopped me. I came across a bundle of a half a dozen or so pairs of my tights. Now, it was summer, and I'd gone bare-legged or worn trousers for most of the last few days. It was perhaps a couple of weeks since I'd done any washing, but I was pretty sure that I'd not worn tights more than a couple of times since then. For a second or two I was puzzled. But then ideas and suspicions that had been hovering at the back of my mind for a while started to crystallise. There was something here to think about, something to investigate, and so I set in hand the sequence of events that I'm about to describe. ++++++ We started living together almost accidentally. Martin had been thrown out by his previous partner and had nowhere to live. I had bought a house that was too large for me on my own (I'd seen it as an investment), and I had a couple of spare rooms. A mutual friend put us in touch, and I agreed to let Martin stay for a few weeks while he sorted himself out. He was an exemplary lodger: he paid his rent in advance; he was clean and tidy and contributed more than his fair share to the housework; he didn't hog the bathroom; he cooked for me sometimes; and he was an engaging companion. We discovered quickly that we had interests in common - film, music, walking, partying with friends - and we started spending some of our leisure time together. At first acquaintances, we became friends and then, after a night out when we both drank too much, lovers. He was good company, and my friends liked him. Physically, he was taller than me, very slim but with a wiry, athletic body. He had surprisingly lustrous, pale-ginger hair - almost blonde - worn very long, and an elfin face, with a thin straight nose, expressive lips, and finely sculpted eyebrows. His eyes themselves were a startling blue, emphasized by eyelashes that were somehow blonder than his hair. His skin was soft and smooth: he shaved only occasionally, and had no body hair at all. He always smelt clean and fragrant. He must, I thought, cleanse and moisturise daily. I adored his supple body and his silky, pleasantly perfumed skin. The sex was good, and he was attentive and considerate in many small ways. It was a few weeks before I acknowledged to myself that I was in a relationship, but even then I had no thoughts of permanence. Boyfriends had come and gone over the last few years, and although this was a little different because Martin was living with me, I was not ready to contemplate long-term coupledom. In any case, I had started noticing one or two things which gave me pause. His body really was completely hairless, and this, I thought could be achieved only by regular depilating. When I asked him, Martin confirmed that this was so. "It's to help me when I exercise," he said. Something to do with drag and friction. Did I mention he was a cyclist? And then there were his elegant, carefully manicured hands. He filed his nails rather than clipped them, and kept them rather longer than is usual for a man. And surely his eyebrows must be plucked? None of this worried me that much in itself, but after about three months, I started to wonder about my wardrobe. Martin worked from home a couple of days a week (we had converted the small bedroom into an office), but my job was half an hour's drive away in Leicester. Often on the days when Martin was at home and I was in Leicester, I would return home to find dresses hung in the wrong place; there was once a skimpy skirt with an unexpected pull in a seam; and a couple of my stretchy tops became baggy and shapeless. And occasionally my make-up tray was untidy and disordered. I suppose I was a bit slow on the uptake. Surely, he couldn't be trying on my clothes? Could he? He was at least a size - perhaps two - larger than me, and my clothes certainly wouldn't fit him. I put these thoughts - I wouldn't describe them as worries - aside at first. But then came the occasion when the wash basket seemed to contain more pairs of tights and pants than I'd used recently. I decided I had to investigate (or perhaps it would be truer to say that my curiosity was piqued). I looked in his wardrobe and drawers, but there were no clues there. But then I found a suitcase under the bed in the spare bedroom, which had been his before he started sharing my bed. It was locked, and not very heavy. There was a clumping sound from inside it when I shook it. Shoes? I was surely putting two and two together and making five. But something stopped me from confronting Martin directly. I thought a blunt question might upset him - he was quite shy, and in company a little inhibited. I tried to approach the subject obliquely, asking Martin whether he had been in my wardrobe because some of the clothes seemed to have moved about a bit. He blushed, perhaps revealingly, but didn't take the bait. "I'd run out of hangers Jenny, so I looked for one in your wardrobe. I think I knocked a skirt off its hanger when I was trying to find one. Your wardrobe's packed with stuff. It's difficult to get anything out of it." That, at least, was true. The clothes I'd formerly kept in the spare bedroom had had to be shifted into mine when Martin moved in. But this sort of thing had kept on happening, and my curiosity mounted. I wasn't repelled by the idea of Martin trying on my clothes, although the thought of having a boyfriend who liked to wear my dresses was distinctly odd. I wondered how it might affect our relationship if my suspicions were confirmed. Best, perhaps, to leave sleeping dogs lying. But then, when I thought more about it, I decided that I had to know. Although I'd avoided thinking about Martin's place in my future, if that became an issue, I'd need to know what I was taking on. Somehow, I had to find out. The question was how? ++++++ Over the next few weeks, I tried several times to find ways of getting Martin to open up. Oblique discussions about cabaret acts on TV programmes, and about style columns in newspapers and magazines produced nothing (although Martin started reading Vogue openly rather than surreptitiously). And then, to my surprise, Martin's job provided an opportunity for me. Martin worked for a software and electronics company. Haraldsby, the east midlands town we lived in was not large - it was really an overgrown village - and had few major employers. One of them was the company that Martin worked for. It had begun its existence as a start- up a few years before, but had expanded rapidly into the defence and avionics sectors. It had recently successfully bid for a contract to support a Swedish aircraft development programme. Martin was one of the project's chief engineer-designers, and had thrown himself enthusiastically into the work. I was pleased for him. One evening when we were at home together, his mobile phone bleeped. Without thinking, I picked it up and looked at the message on the screen. "Arrangements now finalized for Stockholm trip and hotel booked. Daniella." "You're going to Stockholm?" I said. "With Daniella?" I had known that Martin's project would require him to go to Stockholm from time to time, but I wasn't at all sure I was happy with the prospect of him going with Daniella. Daniella - the legal adviser to the team who was responsible for contract negotiations - was a rather stunning young woman with a mane of raven-black hair and a flamboyant sense of style. She was a short, attractive girl with a lively face, full lips, a straight nose, and a finely sculpted jaw. She had a habit of tossing her head and shaking her mass of dark curls, while looking at you in a way that made you feel the centre of attention. Men liked that. Added to which, her provocative style of dress - tight, shiny clothes, high heels, an abundance of jewellery, and assertive make-up - and her heady perfume suggested a perpetual interest in attracting the opposite sex. She had a reputation for drifting in and out of men's arms. That might be undeserved, but I'd met her a couple of times at office get-togethers, and been struck by her flirtatious and tactile manner. I thought for a moment, examining my fingernails. "Is the project director going too?" Martin shook his head. "So it's just the two of you." I looked up. Martin nodded, avoiding my eyes. "I don't think I'm too happy about that," I said testily. "It's the project director's decision," Martin said uneasily. "There's nothing I can do about it." He squirmed in his seat, alive to my concern and having the grace to be embarrassed about the situation. "There's really nothing I can do," he repeated. "Nothing will happen. I promise." Well, that was that, I supposed. I decided let the matter drop. I wasn't really sure, to be honest, whether I was jealous or not: I thought I trusted Martin, and even if I didn't, there wasn't much to be done. But after brooding for a couple of hours, clattering round the house trying to concentrate on clearing up after dinner, I returned to the subject. An idea had occurred to me. "I've been thinking about Stockholm, and how I can be sure that you and Daniella behave yourselves." (Severe voice, frown.) Surprised, Martin cocked an enquiring eyebrow at me, so I told him. He stared, horrified, half rising from his seat. "You want me to wear lingerie under my clothes!" "Mm. That way you'll keep away from her, and if you do let your guard down and she ensnares you, well then, the ensnaring won't last all that long once she gets underneath your shirt and trousers." "But I'll be a laughing stock." He started pacing nervously round the living room. "Not," I said, "if you keep your jacket buttoned and your trousers zipped up." More protest followed. But somehow I could tell that his heart wasn't in it. And then there was the tell-tale sign of an erection beneath his jeans. For all his protests, the idea of wearing lingerie for three days was turning him on. I smiled inwardly: I was on the way to opening up his secrets. We went shopping the following weekend. "I'm not having you wearing my things," I said. So we bought a couple of suspender belts, some stockings ("No, you can't wear tights"), a few pairs of briefs, and three camisoles. I insisted he start wearing them immediately. ("You need to get used to them, or you might accidentally give yourself away.") His protests were perfunctory and short-lived. His erection was not. That night, he dragged me to bed early... ++++++ I helped pack Martin's suitcase to ensure that he made no sneaky efforts to smuggle in boxer shorts or the like, and he flew off to Stockholm one rainy Wednesday. He promised to keep in touch, but I had no word for him on Wednesday evening, and by Thursday I lost patience and Skyped him at around 9 pm (which is 10 pm Swedish time). Slightly to my surprise he answered. The picture quality was poor, but he looked tired and a little depressed. I sat myself down in front of the screen, straightened myself, and looked at him closely. There was nothing to show whether or not he was obeying orders, but I started by asking him how his work was going. "They're working us like hamsters on a wheel," he said. "Every line of our draft bid document's been scrutinized and discussed with us. Daniella's had three two-hour meetings with their lawyer to talk about contract terms, and I've spent six hours on the trot with their technical people. You may have to call in a resuscitation team when I get back." I grinned. "So you haven't had to fight her off then?" "I don't think she's got the energy to fight, let alone engage in rampant sexual activity. And neither have I." I thought for a moment. "Unbutton your shirt. I want to see what you're wearing underneath." He rolled his eyes, but obediently undid a couple of buttons. I could clearly see the pearl-grey lace of his camisole beneath. I couldn't prevent myself from smiling. "Glad to see you're enjoying yourself," I dared to say. He gave me a baleful look that didn't quite convince. Had he realised that I knew he found wearing lingerie a turn-on? His sexual performance over the past few days had made that evident to me, but maybe he hadn't made the mental connection himself. But seriously, I thought when I turned this idea over in my mind, that couldn't possibly be the case. I paused, so that he felt he had to say something. "It's been a riot," he said. I had to admire the skill with which he avoided the issue. We talked a bit more before hanging up, and at the end of the conversation I was pretty well convinced that he was being honest about how busy he was, and that there was no hint of an unwelcome encounter with Daniella. Not that that was necessarily my main concern: my jealousy was to some extent feigned; my main objective was to test his boundaries. And on this at least I was satisfied. He was following my instructions about his underwear. He could, of course, have bought substitute male underwear in one of the airport shops, and disposed of it before coming home. But in a way, and despite his reticence about his presumed habit and the reluctance he felt he had to display about indulging it, I felt he was too honest to do that. And in any case it would have deprived him of a lot of furtive pleasure. ++++++ His return home the following day was uneventful, but I surprised him the following morning when he discovered that I had cleared his drawers of boxer shorts and T-shirts. "I think," I said, "that it would be a good thing if you wore your sexy lingerie all the time from now on. I'm glad that the Stockholm trip went well, but you see Daniella every time that you go into the office, and God knows what goes on behind the filing cabinets. So you need to get used to the idea of wearing it as a matter of routine," I gestured towards the bedroom chair where he had discarded his clothes the previous evening, "so that it becomes normal for you and there's no risk of your giving yourself away, and so that I can be sure that there's nothing going on at work." He gave me an evil look, but he couldn't stop his features from morphing into a sly smile. He did make a perfunctory protest, but I could tell that his heart wasn't in it, and I'm pretty sure he could sense that I could tell. I stood looking at him for a moment, arms folded, and eventually he looked away. "Oh, what the hell. Whatever you want," he concluded. ++++++ He became very sexy in his lingerie even, after a few weeks, when he was used to it and wearing it had become routine. When we went to bed, I'd strip him down to his camisole and stockings, and make sure I was wearing the same sort of thing, and he'd be on me like a goat on heat. Previously gentle and considerate in bed, he'd be unable to restrain himself. I used to caress him through his camisole, and the sound and feel of our suspenders clicking and rubbing together seemed to rouse him to a frenzy. He'd come quickly and violently and collapse moaning beside me. But then, almost as if he felt guilty for failing to meet any of my needs, he'd begin a slow and careful exploration of my erogenous zones, taking care to tantalise and stimulate me, and by doing so, gradually and progressively bringing me to the edge of a climax. Sometimes he'd leave me there and disengage for a while, and I'd be quivering with unfulfilled expectations, and then he'd start again, so that when eventually I did cross the edge, I'd cry out at the longed-for release and bury my head in his long hair. And then we'd start again. I think it was this innate sexiness that led me to decide to take matters further. Although I'd wanted to know about his fantasies, I'd planned to take stock and stop once my suspicions were confirmed. I could stand back a little and decide about our relationship, and perhaps talk openly to him about his addiction. Maybe, I thought, I could find a way of giving him permission to explore it in private, avoiding getting further involved myself. Or perhaps I'd decide that our paths had to part: God knows, I'd never foreseen getting involved in this sort of erotic play-acting before. But now I was intrigued. I wanted to see how far I could encourage him to go. And I wanted to do it without him realising that I was leading him on. I'd have to be careful about how I approached the matter. What should my next step be? +++++ We'd booked an autumn break in the south of France. As the time for our departure approached, I made clear to Martin that I expected him to continue to wear lingerie beneath his clothes. And I went shopping with the idea of deepening and broadening his experience. I thought of buying him a bra but discarded the idea for now, instead buying some aggressively pretty stockings and tights (up until now he had been wearing quite plain hosiery), and a selection of thongs and pants in a variety of colours and styles. I went beyond the cream and pearl grey colours I'd selected so far, and started exploring black and red and pink and different pastel shades. I added to his collection of camisoles, and also bought him a couple of boned corsets to clinch in his waist. I sensed that this would add to his erotic pleasure, but I didn't finish there. I did not, at this stage, envisage him dressing as a woman in public - or even in private with me. But I bought some outfits which might best be described as androgynous. In particular, a couple of pairs of tight pedal pushers - one white, the second a glossy, stretchy pink - and two tops in the same colours, with v-necks and capped sleeves. The idea was that he would wear the pink top with the white pedal pushers and vice versa. I also bought a braided leather belt and some bangles. Finally, I purchased two pairs of espadrilles - the first had a perceptible, but relatively low, wedge heel. The second had a much more pronounced wedge and a narrower heel. We were staying in Var, in a farmhouse in the Massif des Maures, a few miles from the coast. But we were quite close to St Tropez, and we'd hired a car and spent a fair time there, particularly in the evenings, when we'd drink cocktails (non-alcoholic for me on the nights when I was driving), eat in one of the harbourside restaurants, and perhaps go to a club. We'd watch the exotic rich pass by - the sleek, paunchy men in hawaiian shirts, with gold chains or silk scarves knotted about their necks; the impossibly skinny women in mountainous heels, flowing dresses, or bathing costumes and floaty gilets. After a couple of nights, I persuaded Martin that his pedal pushers would not be out of place. And once I had overcome his resistance, he seemed only too willing to wear his low-heeled espadrilles. I suggested he wear drop earrings in place of the studs he usually sported ("We're on holiday; lots of men wear earrings here; no-one at home need know"), and I bought a heavy, coral necklace which he agreed to let me drape around his neck. After the first week, I swapped his low-heeled espadrilles for the higher ones, and either he didn't notice, or he was enjoying himself so much that he was beyond caring. Tentatively, I proposed that he wear some neutral coloured lip-gloss, using the argument that it would protect his lips against the sun. His resistance was brief and half- hearted, and I had no difficulty in detecting the suppressed excitement that lay beneath his feigned reluctance. After a day or two, I added mascara, which excited him, and eyeliner, against which he protested half-heartedly. We browsed the local shops together. I did, of course, buy clothes and jewellery for myself, but I was always on the lookout for items that would add to Martin's emerging look. Towards the end of the holiday, I bought him a flimsy white nylon jacket with a hood, hip length, gathered at the waist, which he wore with his pedal pushers and espadrilles. As the end of the holiday approached, I could detect a certain edginess in him, arising I think because of the knowledge that once we returned home he'd have to abandon this look to which he seemed to have become addicted. So it wasn't a complete surprise to me when he leaped at my suggestion that he should wear one of his holiday outfits on the journey home. He sailed through the airport, ignoring any attention he attracted from the more buttoned-up type of British tourist queueing at the check-in for the same flight as us, and the staff at the check-in and passport desks, who had no doubt seen it all before, waved us through without comment, looking bored and uninterested even in the wedges Martin temporarily discarded at the security barrier. He attracted rather more attention at Heathrow - his outfit was hardly suitable for a rainy October afternoon - but we passed through the airport without incident, picked up my car from the long-stay carpark, and drove up the motorway back to the East Midlands. And when we got home to Haraldsby and I said we needed to go to the supermarket to stock up on food, he didn't protest or demand that he change his clothes or even his shoes before we went out. He was, I was certain, postponing the moment when he'd have to return to wearing more conventional masculine clothes. And if other shoppers avoided his eyes or giggled behind their hands when we went round the aisles together, he moved confidently among them as if his choice of outfit was the most natural thing in the world. ++++++ There are of course many places where Martin's look would nowadays attract scant attention, but Haraldsby is not London or Manchester. The holiday had confirmed my instinct that Martin could be persuaded to go a lot further - at any rate in my company - but at this stage, I did not want him parading around town regularly in his holiday clothes. I definitely foresaw the time when he would want to go out in public, but for his sake as well as my own, I hoped to develop a sense of style which would enable him to pass confidently without attracting attention or inviting ridicule. The questions I was faced with were what would that style amount to, and how could I gently push him towards it. So although the holiday had been revealing, it was also something of a dead end, not least because the sort of outfits he'd been wearing in the south of France were hardly suited to an English autumn. I'd have to think of other ways to pander to his interests. And my next trick, I thought, was exceptionally neat. "My friend at work has given me two tickets to Cassandra's, in London," I announced one evening. "She was going to go next weekend, but her mother's ill, and she has to stay here to look after her." Cassandra's is a burlesque club in Soho, which proclaims on its website that it is "a polysexual venue for people of all genders and none". Needless to say, I'd bought the tickets on-line myself, after having carefully researched possible places to take him. I wanted to find a venue where he'd meet some fellow-travellers, so that he could become more relaxed about his urges. I dared to hope - or was it fear - that this would help him overcome his shyness and his inhibitions. "You'll have to look the part," I said, fiddling a little with my hair. Martin shot me an apprehensive look. He'd obviously heard of the club, and my words had evidently triggered some of his familiar nervousness. He'd been prepared to push the boundaries on holiday, and even briefly on our return to the UK. But displaying himself in public? Perhaps that was still a step too far for him. How best to overcome that reticence? "I don't mean that you'll have to dress like a drag queen," I said, "but you can't exactly wear a suit and tie. And the clothes we bought for you on holiday won't be right either." I looked at him thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would be fun if we wore the same sort of thing." He looked at me wide-eyed. "I thought I'd wear my black jeans with boots and my leather jacket. I think it would be in the spirit of the place if you wore the same outfit." I had a rather beautiful pair of jeans made from a light canvass material. The fabric had been treated with something that gave it a dull, silky sheen. The pants were tight and slightly stretchy. I often wore high heeled boots over them, and matched them with a beautiful, soft leather jacket, biker style, quite short, with lots of zips. "I'm not sure I'm up for that," said Martin. "How am I going to walk through London wearing heels?" Well, I thought, lots of people did, and not just women either. But I suggested a compromise: we'd buy a pair of knee-length boots with flat heels for him, but our trousers, tops, and jackets would be the same. "And," I said, "in that place, we can sex up the look with a little discreet make-up. In fact, you'd look less conspicuous than if you were wearing no make-up at all." He gave me a sceptical look, but as before I could tell that he was aroused, as he proved later that evening when we went to bed. And he agreed, readily enough, to come into Leicester the following afternoon after work so that we could do some shopping. We were well on the way to the next stage of our journey. +++++ We travelled into London on the Saturday morning, and checked into our hotel, which was at the bottom of Regent Street. The club was, I estimated, about ten minutes' walk away, so we had time to do some shopping before we went out in the evening. I spent a happy afternoon the shops, and bought myself a few much-needed items for my own wardrobe, which had been neglected in recent weeks. I didn't try to get Martin to buy anything, but I led him into a succession of boutiques, drawing his attention to styles, looks, and colours, and inviting his opinion on a succession of dresses, skirts, and jumpsuits that I took off the rails. We had not been on a shopping trip together before, and I sensed Martin's excitement as we combed the stores thoroughly. "A beautiful dress, isn't it," I said, holding up a skimpy little number in fuscia pink: short skirt, sleeveless, tailored bodice, scooped neckline. Martin nodded and smiled. He was trying and failing to conceal how much he was enjoying himself. I found a full-length mirror and held the dress up in front of me. "Mm. Not really my colour. Clashes with my hair." Did I mention that I had rich, copper-auburn hair that I sometimes enriched with henna? The juxtaposition with the pink dress was jarring. "It's more your colour," I said. "Pink and blonde. Hmm." I jokingly held the dress in front of him so he could see the effect, and he obediently smoothed the fabric in front of him with a nervously-shaking hand. He shuddered a little with what I took to be excitement, while at the same time looking warily around him for spectators, the tips of his ears turning pink. I didn't try to persuade Martin to buy anything, and he didn't suggest doing so. But we returned to the hotel in the late afternoon with my own trophies, and I saw that Martin had a spring in his step that I hadn't seen before. We would, I thought, have to work off some of that excitement in bed before going out on the town. So we made love, and showered, and dressed. Martin pulled on his clothes slowly, revelling in the sensuous feel of his smooth trousers over the slinky stockings he was wearing; and pulling the silver-grey top I'd selected for him over his slippery camisole. He zipped up his boots slowly and carefully, flexing his ankle to feel the tight leather around his ankles and calves. Afterwards, when I had also dressed, I attended to my own make-up, and then to his. Against his mild protests, I applied foundation, a little neutral coloured lip-gloss, and then more daringly some quite assertive mascara and eyeliner. Applying colour to his eyelids would, I thought, be a step too far at this stage, so I left them undecorated, but I did persuade him to let me file his nails and apply some clear, shiny nail polish. He didn't quite know how much enthusiasm to show while I was doing this: he affected a kind of amused tolerance, but I could see the erection beneath his pants, and I could detect the suppressed excitement in him. Heels apart, I was wearing an identical outfit, and I thought this consonance between our appearances made us a striking couple. I patted Martin's shoulder to reassure him, and led him from our room. We walked through the brightly lit hotel lobby and into the street. We certainly attracted glances from passers-by, but this being the West End, we were not the most conspicuously our outrageously dressed couple by any means. As we walked through the Soho streets, I saw Martin surreptitiously looking at - admiring - his reflection in the plate-glass windows of the shops we passed. We walked along Old Compton Street and ducked into a side alley where a brightly-lit sign identified the club. We descended the steps, paying the entrance fee to a pretty young attendant in a peacock blue cheongsam, and then passing a wall of photographs of performers and punters, most of whom were notable for the flamboyance of their dress or the extravagance of their pose. Martin looked at the pictures nervously wondering, no doubt, whether his outfit was right for the occasion. The basement space was large, discreetly lit, and tastefully decorated in what I suppose the designer thought of as fin de si?cle style. There were a couple of dozen round tables facing a small stage, and behind the tables there was standing space and a bar. We found an empty table about half way between the stage and the bar, and having installed ourselves I went to the bar and ordered Black Russians for both of us. The club was quiet at first but gradually filled with an eclectic crowd that more than fulfilled the promise of the club's publicity. There was a raucus group of elegant young roughecks, men apparently from a sports club out to have a good time in surroundings which seemed unfamiliar to them. There were several T-girls, some alone, some in groups. Some were skinny and elegant - beautiful even - exquisitely dressed, with improbably long legs, and lithe of movement. There were others who went for looks that could best be described as "over the top", presenting themselves as obvious men who happened to enjoy dressing in women's clothes. There were androgynes of various shades and textures; women in men's suits and ties; muscular women in denim and Doc Martins; ordinary- looking couples out for a night on the town. Next to us, on Martin's left, was a figure wearing a grey suit with a Prince of Wales check, a sober tie, and (improbably) a trilby hat. His face was adorned by a neat moustache, which I gradually realised was false, and it occurred to me that this was, in fact, a woman. His companion was a blonde, wearing a tiny cocktail dress, enveloped in a cloud of musky perfume. For the life of me I could not decide on her true gender. On my right were two rather beautiful T-girls, who nodded to us and smiled as we sat down. The buzz of conversation grew louder as the club filled up. Behind me at the bar, a large mixed group of girls and T-girls - already seemingly a little drunk when they arrived - giggled and gossiped. All around, people greeted each other as old friends or introduced themselves archly to new ones: kisses were exchanged, hugs given and received, hands lingeringly held. After half an hour or so the cabaret started. There were three separate acts. The first was an elegant brunette in a short blue dress - rather beautiful in an androgynous way - who sang or mimed to a succession of torch anthems. The atmosphere was upbeat, exuberant, and the audience was enthusiastic. The second act, which followed after a short interval, was the weakest of the three. It was a stand-up act delivered by an over-the-top drag queen, consisting of a series of stale anecdotes featuring trannies discovered by their wives or mothers-in-law and forced to endure various humiliating punishments. Girls were chatted up in bars by men who had no idea of their true gender, their breasts fondled ("It didn't do much for me: they were cotton wool, darlings"), and then taken away to seedy hotel rooms in where they used various improbable strategies to avoid discovery. The attempts at humour fell flat, the embarrassing stories stuttered to progressively more unconvincing conclusions, and the audience became bored and restive. A long interval followed - evidently designed to give the entire audience sufficient time to buy more drinks - before the third act appeared. This turned out to be a tall, slim creature with coffee coloured skin, wearing a glittery green dress, glossy tights, and peep- toed shoes with an improbable heel. She appeared on the bill as Debbie Delight. The act consisted of a mixture of cover versions of current hits and cleverly-told anecdotes. Her voice was rich but not deep - a kind of androgynous mid-Atlantic drawl. The slimness of her hands was emphasized by long, dark red fingernails, and her gestures were expressive and suggestive. The whole effect - posture, walk, gestures, voice - was calculated to be enticing, and it succeeded in this. As to the act itself, the spirit of the material was, perhaps, rather similar to the second act, but it was better-constructed and much more confidently delivered, and gradually the audience relaxed and warmed to it. Much of the success of the stories was down to nuance, tone of voice, and gesture, which it is impossible to reproduce in writing. But the gist of two clever stories sticks in my mind. The first concerned a T-girl going out dressed in public in daylight for the first time. She nervously walks through the city centre and before starting to comb the department stores, where she feels the bustle of the crowds lends her a certain anonymity. Drawn to the fashion department of one of the stores, she sorts through racks of skirts and dresses and, greatly daring, decides to try on several outfits. The changing room, which is guarded by a dragon of a woman, turns out to be a single communal space, and she realises that she will have to struggle to avoid drawing attention to her breast forms and the foundation garments which conceal her penis. There are several encounters and conversations with other women about the clothes she is trying, the tale cleverly constructed to avoid saying directly whether they guess her true nature or not. She has to deflect apparent advances from a short- haired, muscular woman trying on a blue serge boiler suit, and help another rather tactile woman who is obviously eyeing her up struggle into a rather tight dress. Eventually, she decides to buy two dresses, but as she queues at the line of tills, she realises that she knows one of the check-out girls by sight as a near-neighbour. Inevitably, it is she who serves her. The girl gives her an odd look, taking a close interest in the clothes she is buying ("what a great outfit for clubbing") and looking carefully at the labels. Eventually, she slinks from the store, sure she has been found out. Then, one evening a couple of days later, while dressed in prosaic male garments, there is a knock on her front door. She opens it to see the check-out girl, who is carrying a gift-wrapped parcel. This, it is not difficult to guess, will turn out to contain a rather beautiful dress, which her visitor insists she tries on. The look and feel of the garment is impressive, and her visitor insists the two of them go out to a local bar. It is not difficult to predict how the story eventually concludes. The second story was even more improbable and even better told. It concerned a man whose girlfriend has unexpectedly moved in with him following an argument with her parents. When she discovers his cache of skirts and dresses, he claims that they belong to his late mother, and that he keeps them for sentimental reasons. His girlfriend accepts this story, but inevitably discovers him wearing one of the dresses a few days later. He then claims that he likes to wear his mother's clothes on her birthday, on mother's day, and on certain other anniversaries of events in their lives together, to remind him of her. His girlfriend is at first shocked by this obviously outrageous story, but gradually she becomes intrigued by and then complicit in the charade. He sometimes wears a dress when they go out together, and she treats him respectfully, pretending, if they are drawn into conversation with strangers, that he is her mother-in-law. The excuses for dressing up become more and more improbable ("My mother often took me to the cinema, and it almost brings her alive again if I wear one of her dresses while I'm watching a film"), but their sex life, which - it is hinted - has always been rather stale becomes more adventurous and exciting. The bubble appears to burst when his mother appears unannounced on his doorstep one day. It turns out that she is not dead, but has separated from his father and has been living in Australia for the last year. She is now paying a short visit to the UK for business reasons. (We are not told why he does not know about this in advance.) Inevitably, he is wearing a dress when she calls, but she is unfazed by the fact, and greets his girlfriend warmly. His mother compliments him on his new partner. ("I'm so glad that you've finally found someone who supports you in your fantasies.") The three of them go out together, and in a hilarious passage, various events in his childhood are revealed (I am sure you can guess their nature). Eventually, his mother departs, we assume to return to Australia. His girlfriend adopts a severe tone and tells him that as a punishment for deceiving her he will have to spend the next month dressed full time as a woman. ("But we know, don't we darlings, that that was a punishment for neither of them.") The end is left hanging, but the overall impression is of the prospect of joyful and vibrant happiness. The act ended with an exuberant, life-affirming anthem about self- discovery and fulfilment. Much of the audience was obviously familiar with the song, and joined in the chorus ("Have faith in yourself: you can do anything that you want") and the end of the music was drowned in a burst of cheering, whooping, and applause. The singer curtsied gracefully, and then - roving microphone in hand - descended from the stage, moving amongst the tables greeting old friends and inviting members of the audience to talk about themselves - more particularly - their outfits. I half-expected that she would spot us, and she did so quite quickly. Martin squirmed back into his chair, as if he wanted to avoid having to speak, but Debbie was having none of this. "My my, what have we here?" she asked. Martin smiled weakly at her; I winked and she grinned impishly. "Your first time here?" Martin acknowledged that it was so. "Well, we always like to encourage newbies. Hmm." She took a step back and scrutinized him. "Not bad for a first-timer, but I think we can do better." She looked at me, snapping her fingers. "Your lipstick." It was an instruction, not a question. My lips and nails were a deep, rich cherry. I handed over my lipstick, and - sitting on Martin's knee - she assertively reddened his lips. She snapped a finger once more evidently intending to go further, and I handed over the rest of the small make-up palette I carried with me. She worked quickly on his face, adding colour to his eyelids, and heightening the contours of his features with darker shades of foundation. A little blusher on his cheekbones. "Now," she said, "you do her nails while I go talk to some other people. And then I'll come back and we'll see the result." Debbie left us to work the rest of the audience while I worked on Martin's nails. While I was doing this, I half listened to Debbie's steadily more outrageous conversations with the audience - some of them occasional visitors, some regulars, some of whom were evidently her friends. A smattering of laughter followed her round the room, as she gently teased the customers, most of whom responded with good humour: some of the regular customers - used to the routine - gave back as good as they got. After ten minutes or so, she sashayed back to our table, pulled an embarrassed Martin to his feet, and surveyed him carefully. "Well, I think we're gradually getting there." Martin smiled nervously in response, making an inarticulate sound as he did so, and flapping he fingers of his free hand in the air to dry his nails. It occurred to me as he did so - not for the first time - that he had done this before. "Now, what's your name?" she asked. When Martin told her, she gave an indignant squeal: "What sort of name is that for a Cassandra girl. Mm." She scrutinized him again, holding his left hand and carefully examining his face and figure from different angles. "Girls, boys, and any others I might have forgotten," she proclaimed to the audience in general, with an expansive gesture, "I give you Miranda!" There was a burst of applause across the theatre and Martin - Miranda - blushed. "Now," she said, "we expect to see you here again?" It was part statement, part question. She looked pointedly at the still-blushing Martin until, seeing that he had to give some kind of answer, he nervously nodded his head. Looking at me through half-closed eyes, she asked, "And will you come too." "Of course," I said with a soft smile. "I'll make sure both of us are here next time you're performing." I'd seen from the programme that the next performance was on 8 December, some three weeks hence. "You take the decisions, right?" she asked, and feeling that I had to agree, I nodded, smiling. "Well, I rely on you to make sure that Miranda looks the part." She looked at Martin. "For god's sake, wear heels next time." She hesitated, before adding archly, "And a dress, if you dare." Martin looked at her, looked away, looked back at her, and opened his mouth to say something, but evidently couldn't find the words. I replied for him. "I guarantee that we'll be here - and that Miranda will be a worthy member of your audience." And with that, Debbie floated away, mounted the stage once more, breathed a throaty good night to the audience, and curtsied in response to the tsunami of applause that followed. ++++++ We walked back to our hotel thoughtfully. I quashed Martin's suggestion that he should wipe off his make-up before we set out, and we passed through the crowded Soho streets without incident. Martin's initial nervousness gradually subsided as his confidence grew, and by the time we reached the hotel, he was positively preening as he once more scrutinized his reflection in shop windows. There were some other guests in the brightly-lit lobby, but they paid no attention to us; nor did the bored-looking desk clerk, who sat behind her counter reading a magazine. Debbie had given me an opening. The following morning, I dressed Martin in his clubbing outfit, boots and all (but no make-up), and we checked out of the hotel, leaving our bags with reception. I led us up Regent Street and along Oxford Street to Selfridges, where we took the escalator to the floor devoted to women's shoes. Martin seemed nervous, perhaps anticipating what was to come. We looked through the racks of shoes and boots. I found some bright red ankle boots with a heel which would, I decided, go well with some of my more striking outfits. And then we sorted through a rack of longer boots. I found a black pair with a shallow platform and a very high heel, with a full-length zip, which would I thought go well over jeans or leggings. I attracted the attention of an assistant and handed her the boots. "Do you have these in a size 39," I said, giving her the red ankle boot. "And these in a 41?" I added. She gave me a surprised look, looked at Martin and raised her eyebrows, but she did not question my request, and disappeared into the stockroom. Eventually, she reappeared carrying two boxes of differing sizes, which she handed to me, raising a questioning eyebrow as she again looked curiously at a blushing Martin, who looked as though he wanted to make a bolt for the exit. But she made no comment, and left us in order to deal with another customer. I carried the boxes to one of those upholstered leather benches that seem to be de rigueur in shoe shops, choosing a spot where we were facing an anonymous wall. The other customers were behind us, examining shoes or boots in the multiple racks in the centre of the floor. "If you're going to wear heels next time we go to Cassandra's, you need to get some practice," I hissed. "Here, try these on." Martin gave me a rabbit-in-the-headlights look, darting alarmed glances around the store to see who might be watching, but then obediently removed his own boots and zipped himself hurriedly into the heeled ones. "Stand up and try walking in them." Perhaps unsurprisingly, Martin walked competently in his heels. Obviously not a first-timer. He walked over to a full length mirror and, his embarrassment apparently evaporating, posed in front of it, twisting first one foot and then the other to get a side view of the heels. I saw the assistant casting a thoughtful glance at him as he did this, but Martin either did not notice or did not care: instead of rushing back to the bench and removing the boots as quickly as possible, he remained in front of the mirror for quite a while, glancing at them intently. One or two customers noticed him and either looked away hurriedly, or stared at him with startled expressions. "They fit," he said. "They're very comfortable; they're beautiful," he admitted. "You like them?" Martin nodded with an expression which suggested a mixture of illicit excitement and guilt. Eventually, he sat down again and unzipped the boots, which he put back into the box. While he did so, I tried on the ankle boots I'd selected, and, satisfied with them, I told the assistant, who had returned to us with an expectant expression on her face, that we'd take both pairs. Only afterwards did I realise I'd used the word "we" rather than "I", but since the boots differed in size, and the assistant had in any case seen Martin trying the longer pair, I guessed that she had taken in her stride the fact that one of them was for him and not for me. There is not much more to tell about this trip to London. We returned to the hotel, picked up our cases, and took the tube to St Pancras, where we caught the train to Leicester. There we picked up my car and drove to Haraldsby. It was striking, though, that the first thing Martin did when we arrived home was, unprompted, to don his new boots. He wore them all evening, gazing down at them repeatedly, with a beatific expression on his face. I speculated to myself that this was another night when I'd get little sleep. ++++++ I did nothing more for a few days, wondering whether Martin would take the initiative now. But although he wore his lingerie each day, and regularly sported his new boots at home, he did not suggest taking things further. I think by now he had subliminally got into habit of letting me lead him on. Or perhaps he was just reluctant to take act on his own account out of an obscure worry that he might upset me. Whatever the cause, I was mildly irritated. 'Had we but world enough and time...' You might ask again why did I not stop at this point. God knows, I thought about it enough myself. But I had become hooked on the journey we were taking together. First, there was the sex. It had been good enough before, but now it was more varied, more enthusiastic, more tender; I was discovering new things about myself as well as about Martin. Second, I had become intrigued. As I said before, this was a new world for me, and the changes and development in Martin's personality (not to mention his appearance) were fascinating to watch. Third, there was - already - a new edge to our social life. I could foresee that this would grow and intensify itself if and when we moved to the next stage. There would be a delicious, terrifying excitement about going out with someone who was pretending to be something he was not: the constant fear of discovery; the worry that there might be a scene of some sort (or worse); the speculation about what other people were thinking about us; the quizzical looks from waiters and hotel receptionists as we swept into their establishments. And finally, there was the undeniable fact that I was very fond of Martin. I desperately wanted him to be happy, and I sensed that in the past his happiness had been constrained by a reticence about pursuing his fantasies. If anything, discovering this new and quirky side of his character had made me more - rather than less - anxious to please him. What all this might mean for our relationship in the longer term, I put on hold for the time being. A few days after our adventure at Cassandra's, we were having dinner with Tessa, a colleague of mine, and her husband, who lived in a country house about half way between Haraldsby and Leicester. Tessa was in her late thirties, a slim brunette with startling green eyes in a pleasing, smooth-skinned face. She was funny, engaging, and lively, and I enjoyed working with her. She lived life to the full, riding at weekends, with frequent visits to London and other large cities in the UK and Europe, where she toured the galleries and attended concerts, plays and the opera. She was a serious traveller, holidaying all over the world, her tastes extending from luxury city breaks to trekking in the outback. Her husband, Tony, was a much colder fish. He was I think in his fifties, and earned a lot of money working for a banking group. He was austere, with a slim, lined face, which was decorated by a small, light brown toothbrush moustache. His hair was thinning on top, and white at the temples, with white threads curling untidily around his ears. I never saw him out of a jacket and tie, and that evening, he was wearing a brown jacket with a pattern of houndstooth checks, a white shirt, and an incongruous MCC tie, with its diagonal mustard and paprika stripes. He sported a pair of grey flannels of a type hardly seen nowadays, and all in all gave the impression of being a refugee from the 1950s. Tessa was an accomplished cook, and we lingered over the meal well into the late evening. I was drinking mineral water (I was the driver for the evening), but Tessa served a different wine with each course, and by about ten o'clock, everyone but me was mellow and talkative. Tessa and I had dominated the conversation for most of the evening, with Martin joining in, and Tony, who had a dry sense of humour, contributing the occasional sardonic remark. I can't now remember how our visit to Cassandra's came up, but it surfaced at some point late in the evening. Tessa, who knew London well, had heard of the club, and was intrigued and a little amused that we had gone there. I didn't try to repeat the story that someone at work had given me the tickets - Tessa would know that that was not the case. I simply said that we had seized an opportunity to go there during a visit to the capital. Martin looked at me sharply but said nothing. "Did you enjoy it?" asked Tessa. "It was great fun," I said, and told her something of our encounter with Debbie Delight. "She said you must come again?" "Yes," I said, "but we need to be appropriately dressed!" "Meaning?" Martin answered hoarsely, "Meaning I should wear heels and a dress next time." Tessa's eyes were bright; Tony looked as if he had swallowed a guinea pig. "And will you? Go again, I mean?" "Probably. If Martin's up for it." Tessa looked at him. "What do you think Martin. Do you want to go again?" Martin hesitated, not sure of what to say, and the silence lengthened. Tessa raised an enquiring eyebrow, and Martin eventually realised that he had to say something. "I guess so," he muttered, adding in an undertone, "It was great fun last time." "And will you dress to look the part?" Martin paused again, but eventually said, in a hoarse whisper, "If Debbie's there again, it would probably be more embarrassing not to look the part than to dress up for the occasion." Debbie sat back triumphant, although she shot me an enquiring, amused glance. "As I said, if Martin's up for it," I said. Debbie grinned. "It sounds amazing. I only wish I could be with you. Do you think we could go, darling?" This to Tony. Strait-laced Tony, who had been looking steadily more horrified as the conversation developed, muttered something unintelligible, and his head quivered in apparent denial. Tessa looked at me, still smiling, and raised a sardonic eyebrow. I never did quite know what had brought Tessa and Tony together: Tony sometimes seemed there solely for the purpose of getting in the way of Tessa's fun. But she seemed genuinely fond of him, and no relationship is ever fully intelligible to an outsider. "But I insist on photographs," said Tessa. Martin flinched. So we had finally reached the point where Martin had admitted to me that he wanted to go to Cassandra's again (I had taken what he'd said to Debbie with a pinch of salt), but we had still not directly discussed what he would wear. The hints and elisions in the conversation with Tessa did not take us very far. I needed to work out how to bring all this to a head. ++++++ Later in the week, I had to go to London for a series of business meetings. I'd be away for a night, returning early on Friday evening. On Wednesday evening, I engineered things so that Martin would find me in our bedroom fiddling with a green dress that I'd bought. I sighed theatrically. "What's up?" "It's this dress. I bought it on-line, and it's supposed to be my size, but when I tried it on, it was at least a size too large. And, stupidly, I cut off the labels before I tried it, so I can't now return it." "Can't you have it taken in?" asked Martin. "I suppose so, but it would probably ruin the hang of the dress." This was rubbish of course, but Martin wasn't to know that. I held the dress up in front of me before the full-length mirror. "See," I said. "It would look silly on me, even if I gathered the waist in with a belt." I held it at arms' length, looking at it through narrowed eyes. "You know," I said slowly, "it's more your size than mine." And so saying, I motioned him towards me and held the dress, on its hanger, against him. Martin shrugged. "What exactly are you suggesting?" "Well," I began, "there's always Cassandra's to think about. And it's your colour." But I didn't press the point. I hung the dress on a hook behind the bedroom door, so that it would remain in plain sight. "Let's think about it when I get back from London." And then I dropped the subject. I was pretty sure I had planted a seed in Martin's mind. The following evening in London, returning late to my hotel after a frenetic day, I called Martin on Skype. When he answered, I saw without much surprise, that he had not enabled the video camera at his end. "Hello you," I said. "Hi." No more. Could I detect nervousness in his voice from a single shaky syllable? "I can't see you." "Oh - really? I don't know why that should be." A definite tremor. I plunged straight in. "What are you wearing?" "Oh, er...," his voice trailed off. "Is it the green dress?" I made my voice deliberately severe. "Well, you mentioned Cassandra's," he said with a note of defiance, "and I thought..." "Switch the video camera on," I ordered. There was silence for a moment. "Switch it on," I repeated. After a few seconds, a picture flickered on to the screen of my laptop. The picture was pixilated and the quality was not good, but I could see a patently anxious Martin sitting at his desk, wearing - as I suspected and as I had planned - the dress, fully made up, nervously tapping a bright red fingernail on the polished wood. The dress fitted well, and he had accessorised it with the coral necklace I had bought him on holiday (the contrast between the green of the dress and the deep pink of the coral worked well) and a pair of my drop earrings. So far as I could see the make-up had been applied with a degree of skill, and the palette he had selected seemed to go well with his outfit. I was quite impressed. "Very good," I said. "Stand up and let me see you walk around." Martin stood up and took a few paces around the room. He seemed to be walking well enough, although to my hyper sensitive eye, perhaps in a rather masculine way. But I reserved judgment: understandably enough he found it difficult to stay on camera so my view of him was patchy and intermittent. I assumed he was wearing heels, but to my frustration, I couldn't see his feet. I told him so. "I'm home tomorrow at about seven. I want you to be wearing the dress when I arrive. I?ll take a proper look at your outfit, and advise you on walking and sitting and so on.? Martin sat down again and thought about this. ?Perhaps leave it until the weekend?? he said. ?It?ll be a hard day for you and a long journey. You might feel better doing it when you?re fresh.? But I detected a note of nervousness in his voice: he really needed to be braver than this if we were to take this seriously. Debbie Delight would not be impressed by a frightened rabbit. I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. ?No, it might take a while to be sure you can do this. And we might decide there are more things we need to buy. The sooner we start the better.? Martin looked sceptically at me, but eventually nodded. ?In any case,? I said, ?well done you for taking the plunge. I?m sure we can pull this off together with a bit of effort.? A half smile from Martin. I changed the subject and we chatted inconsequentially for a few minutes, before saying our goodbyes and hanging up. I sat back, feeling a little smug about the way I?d engineered the situation, and pleased about how things had turned out. I had begun to think about all this as my project; and although Martin was obviously at the centre of it ? my customer, if you like ? it was mine to design and deliver. The work showed growing promise. ++++++ I returned home the following evening, following a long day and a tiring journey, arriving at around 7 o?clock. The lights were on downstairs, and the living room curtains drawn. As I let myself in and hauled my suitcase over the threshold, I heard some hurried movement from inside. As well as a sofa and coffee table, there were a couple of hard-backed chairs, and the sounds I heard seemed to be of Martin arranging himself decorously on one of these. We had a wooden floor, and I felt sure I heard a clatter of heels and the scrape of a chair leg. I peered round the door to find Martin sitting down on one of these chairs, his legs carelessly crossed, trying to look natural. He half rose to his feet nervously, as I walked across the floor to him and kissed him. I took both of his hands in mine and stepped back to survey what I saw. He was, as instructed, wearing the green dress, which he had teamed with dark, seamed stockings. He was wearing a pair of shiny, patent court shoes which were certainly not mine, and he seemed to have acquired some new curves while I was away. He had made himself up carefully and competently, and looked, in fact, quite convincing. I prodded one of his breasts, which from the feel and general heaviness I guessed to be professional breast forms. ?Where did you get those?? I asked, ?And those?? pointing at his shoes. He hesitated. ?You?re not the only one who can order things online.? This was unconvincing to say the least. I had told him to wear this outfit only yesterday, and I doubted that he could have arranged delivery of shoes and breast forms in the time available. I remembered the suitcase under the bed, but decided not to press the point. ?Walk for me.? He took a few nervous steps around the room, but his movements were rather stilted and unnatural. He needed to relax, I told him, and to take shorter steps. ?It?s a pity to put so much effort into your outfit, and then to spoil it by walking like a man.? I spent the next half hour or so, with the help of a full length mirror, giving him a tutorial on how to walk, how to sit, and on deportment generally, and as his confidence improved, his movements became more natural. Once I was satisfied that his actions, as well as his look, were sufficiently convincing, I gave him his next shock. ?I need some champagne,? I said, ?and there?s none in the fridge. Let?s go to Josephine?s for a quick drink.? Josephine?s was a French-themed wine bar about five minutes? walk from my house, and we?d been there often. It was named after Napoleon?s first consort, and it was decorated with portraits of her, and of the great Emperor himself, with pride of place given to a reproduction of the famous David portrait of Napoleon in his imperial robes. The walls were also hung with maps and prints of battle scenes, the furniture was Empire-style pastiche, with bare floorboards and potted palms creating a vaguely tropical look and feel, presumably intended to remind us that Josephine had been born in Martinique. Martin nodded. ?I?ll just go and change,? he said, edging towards the stairs. ?No,? no I said, ?don?t do that. We?ll go as we are.? He gave me a look of frantic and unadulterated horror. I stared levelly at him. ?If we?re going to Cassandra?s again ? and I can see very clearly that you want to ? you?d better start getting used to going out dressed in public. And you definitely need more by way of rehearsal before we go there ? remember how convincing and assured the girls were when we went there a couple of weeks ago ? and you?ve not got that much time to practise.? ?But what if somebody we know sees me?? he stuttered. I shrugged. ?What if they do? What?s the worst thing that could happen? And in any case, if you?re going to take this seriously, you?ll have to be prepared to be open about it some time, at least with close friends. We?ve already,? I reminded him, ?talked about it to Tessa and Tony.? Martin swallowed, and looked wildly about him, as if some escape route would present itself and allow him to avoid his coming ordeal. But I was adamant, and eventually ? reluctantly, nervously ? he accepted the inevitable. I persuaded him to change into his boots, and he pulled on his leather jacket and we left the house together. He clattered nervously along the slightly damp pavements, gripping my arm, ostentatiously looking in the opposite direction whenever somebody came close to us, and flinching if he couldn?t avoid making eye contact. But after a while, as he avoided attracting attention, he came to accept that Haraldsby did not exclusively consist of people whose sole purpose was to ridicule or attack him. His gait became more confident and natural, and when we arrived at Josephine?s he entered without demur. He had become Miranda once more. The bar was busy without being crowded. A few couples were seated at tables enjoying an evening drink. Three young men sat together poring over a laptop. Business? Social media? An interactive computer game? It was impossible to say. A gaggle of youngish women were gathered by the bar, talking loudly and drinking with enthusiasm. Perhaps, I thought, an after-work drink at the end of the week. I sat Miranda down at a corner table with an unimpeded view of the whole room, and went to the bar and ordered a bottle of Ruinart. I recognised the barmaid slightly ?