How It All Started - Part IV - Marie free porn video

HOW IT ALL STARTED Part IV Marie It is the first day of the new school year. I've recently turned 18, and am in Year 13 - the year when I apply for college, take some pretty serious exams, and start my adult life. It is a year of promise and opportunity; but on this day, it also seems likely to be a year when I will have to navigate through a pretty difficult phase of my personal development. I've recently exposed my alter ego Katie to the world during the eighteenth birthday party of my friend Suzi - my closest companion during the years of Katie's development into a fashionable teenager, a girl who I treasure above all others, but who will very shortly go up to Oxford to start her studies at university. None of my other friends have known about Katie until now, and I will be meeting them today for the first time since Katie's first public outing, less than a week ago. At the time, I felt that the party had gone well. But I have been worrying about people's reactions ever since, and today will be my first opportunity to gauge them. At first, the day is occupied by practical matters: students are registered and assigned to tutor groups; lockers are allocated; and timetables distributed. There is neither time nor inclination to discuss personal matters during this hectic period, and I do not really talk to my friends until the mid-morning break. We are gathered in the large common room in which Year 12 and Year 13 students gather when they are not in lessons or seminars. We are seated around a low table, our bags and papers in front of us. At first our conversation focuses on the events of the morning. Kathryn is complaining that she has been assigned to a tutor group with people she doesn't get on with; and Gopa is worried that her locker is in an out of the way alcove that is too far from the seminar room she will mostly be using. Barbara is quietly reviewing her timetable and making some notes on it and Jane, as usual, is complaining about life in general, and in particular the fact that her timetable doesn't enable her to spend enough time with the man she currently has in her sights. My mind is elsewhere, and I play little part in this discussion. Ten minutes or so into the break we're joined by Marie, who has, it seems, been unsuccessfully trying to persuade Mrs.Simmonds to let her drop one of her subjects. She is, as usual, dressed in black jeans and a well-worn black cotton shirt. Over these garments, she is rather oddly (since we are indoors and it is in any case a warm September day) wearing a slightly shabby black suede coat with a leather-trimmed collar. She flops down with an annoyed-sounding grunt, her strong features conveying an expression of irritation. She spends a couple of minutes sounding off about Mrs.Simmonds, making it sound as if it is somehow our fault that she is so pig-headed, but then, visibly collecting herself, she fixes her gaze on me, and frowns. "I've been hearing some very odd rumours about you." "Rumours?" I say. My heart jolts, as I sense what's coming. "Well not so much rumours as reports. About Suzi's party. And what you were wearing there." I attempt a careless laugh, which doesn't quite come off. Jane snorts: she is still sore that she wasn't invited. Gopa giggles. "So is it true, then?" Marie persists. I hesitate, trying to think how to reply, and it is Kathryn who breaks the silence. "We were all there. Yes, if you've heard what I think you've heard, it's true." "It was Suzi's idea," I say a little sheepishly. I'm used to Marie's cutting humour, and I'm furiously thinking of ways to close the conversation down, before she can make some biting comment. "Mm. But I didn't get the impression she'd had to try too hard to persuade you. And you looked as though you were enjoying yourself." Kathryn says this with wry amusement. "Actually, it was fun." Gopa joins the conversation. "Katie looked wonderful." "Katie?" asks Marie. "Katie is what he calls himself when he wears a dress," says Barbara, always keen to get the facts straight. We sit in silence for a moment. The five girls look at me, expecting me to say something about the evening, but I'm still struggling to decide how I can express what I feel about the experience. Part of me wants to say how outrageously enjoyable it was; another part of me toys with the idea of suggesting that I was dragooned into wearing a dress against my will - or at least against my better judgment. (There is a germ of truth in that: before the party I was quite fearful of the reactions Katie's presence would provoke. And of course, I'm still worried about that.) "Are there photos?" asks Marie, before I can say anything. "Oh yes," says Kathryn with a low chuckle. And she takes out her phone, opening her photo gallery. Marie flicks through half a dozen screens. There is a picture of me talking to Suzi, a triumphant, cautious smile on my face; another of me dancing with somebody; a photo of me queueing at the bar looking nervously behind me; and a group photo of me with Kathryn, Barbara, and Gopa, which was taken by Suzi towards the end of the evening. "It was a beautiful dress," says Gopa, who was also resplendently dressed in a glittering sari. "Have you still got it?" asks Barbara. I explain that I'd borrowed it from Suzi and it's now been returned to her. "A shame." "But," says Kathryn, "Katie must have some other outfits. I said at the time that I didn't believe that was the only dress she'd ever worn." I find myself blushing. "I think," says Gopa, mischief glittering in her eyes, "that we should all have a girls' night out, and you can show us a bit more of your - I mean Katie's - wardrobe." I flinch. But the suggestion is greeted with enthusiastic expressions of approval from the others. Kathryn says, "Are you in?" I think at first that this question is directed at me, but in fact it is aimed at Marie, who is a rare participant in our social outings. She generally treats her classmates with amused disdain, and avoids their company outside school. Her social life is rumoured to be vibrant, but it is a mystery to us. But for once she is keen. "Oh, you couldn't keep me away," she says. This is all going too quickly for me, and I want to ask where we will go and what Gopa has in mind. I don't want to commit myself before I know what I'm letting myself in for. But the others take it for granted that I will be there, and somehow, the moment for me to demur passes. By the end of the break, I have come to accept the expedition as a fait accompli. ++++++ I spend quite a lot of the next two days brooding on the planned evening out. I express some of my worries to my mother, who tends to brush them aside. "You've introduced Katie to your friends once: what harm can there be about meeting with them a second time?" I try to explain that the place we shall be meeting is open to anybody, and not just my friends. And what could happen? Embarrassment, ridicule, even physical violence are the unsettling visions that come to mind. But when I give voice to these fears, my mother dismisses them. Indeed, she eggs me on. Lisa, my mother's flamboyant partner, is also excited by the idea of Katie taking part in a girls' night out. Over the years, she has been Katie's most enthusiastic supporter, and she misses few opportunities to encourage her to take a more prominent public role. So my reticence crumbles in the face of her and my mother's encouragement. Gopa tells me that she wants us to meet in the Friar Tuck, a modern bar nestled in the centre of a shopping precinct. The d?cor consists of tubular steel chairs, tables with polished black tops, concealed LED lighting in a variety of shifting colours, and a modern bar counter. The floor is tiled, and the absence of carpets and soft furnishings means that there is nothing to mute the already too-loud sound system. The walls carry posters advertising concerts, gigs, and blockbuster films, and the bar staff are universally young, with an over-effusive US-style approach to customer service. It's not my favourite place by a long chalk, but the reason for its choice is simple. The management makes very little effort to prevent under-18s buying drinks unless their appearance is very obviously under age, and so the place is popular with the town's youth. I think quite hard about my outfit. Anything too restrained will look out of place, and I try a couple of smart-casual outfits, but neither of them seems quite right for the evening. In the end, thinking perhaps of Marie, I decide on an all-black ensemble: a short leather skirt (an eighteenth birthday present from Lisa, which I'm wearing for the first time), a tailored black blouse in a flimsy, glossy fabric, black tights, and boots with an elegant high heel. With this I wear some silver jewellery and a black padded jacket. My eye shadow and mascara are also dark, although there's a hint of colour provided by my vermilion lips and nails. I'm picked up by Barbara and Gopa, who both live quite close to me, and we walk to the pub. Kathryn, Jane, and Marie are to meet us there. Barbara is wearing close-fitting white denim jeans, a cashmere pullover, plum-coloured with an extravagant cowl neck and, for her, rather high heels. Gopa has on a long skirt in floaty fabric compressed into tiny pleats. The abstract pattern is surprisingly harmonious despite the palette of purple, umber, and green. She also wears a short, stiff- looking cotton top with a round neck and three quarter sleeves, fastened by a dozen pearl buttons from collar bone to belly button. The deep aubergine colour of this garment harmonizes well with the skirt. When we arrive at the bar, Kathryn and Jane are already there. Kathryn looks attractive enough in a short dark skirt and an attractive blue and yellow striped top, but it is Jane's outfit that attracts our attention. She is wearing a skimpy dress in a metallic gold-coloured fabric, ankle boots with a very high heel, seamed tights, and, to my mind (and I don't much go for restraint in this area myself), far too much make-up. She has glitter on her cheeks and in her hair, and on the whole, I think, her look would be more suited to a West End club than a tawdry bar in the centre of a small market town. I go to the bar, heart pounding, and order drinks - wine for Barbara and I, and an orange juice for Gopa. Kathryn and Jane already have drinks: gin and tonic for Kathryn, and a cocktail with vibrant colours and lots of crushed ice for Jane, which she is sipping through a straw. Our conversation starts slowly. There is a tacit understanding that we don't make a big thing out of Katie's experience, and there is therefore little said about my outfit. At one point, however, Gopa comments on my smooth skin and clear complexion. "I always thought it was a too perfect for a boy," she smiles. Jane leans over to her and says in a stage whisper, "I always told you he wasn't good boyfriend material." She looks at me, a mischievous glint in her eye. I'm startled at this. Several months ago at a party, Gopa and I found ourselves dancing with one another, and slow track found our bodies closed together. The combination of slow, rhythmic music, dim lighting, the proximity of Gopa's gentle curves, and perhaps (on my part) alcohol prompted an unexpected arousal in us both. As our bodies swayed against each other, we found ourselves drawn into a more intimate embrace, which was after a while accompanied by some tender kisses. In the following days, this episode led - surprisingly, to me at least - to an on-off, difficult-to-manage teenage relationship, during which, on a couple of occasions we found ourselves in bed together. But Gopa was always terrified that this furtive coupling would be discovered by her conservative, rather authoritarian parents, and the relationship petered out quite quickly. She was - understandably - tense and upset during this period, and it doesn't surprise me to learn that she sought advice from a friend. But mercurial, abrasive Jane? Surely she would have gone to stolid, sensible Barbara or perceptive, empathetic Kathryn first? Perhaps she sees Jane as an expert on relationships, although given Jane's many unsuccessful attempts at ensnaring boys she has fixed her eyes on, that seems unlikely to me. I decide that the most likely explanation is that one day, when it all became too much for her, she found the nearest shoulder to cry on, which happened to be Jane's at the time. Gopa has the grace to look embarrassed by Jane's remark, and doesn't respond to it, and the conversation drifts on. We discuss the music being played a bit, and pick up one or two anecdotes from the first week in school, but we are at first rather subdued. Then Gopa blurts out that she is resisting pressure from her parents who want to fix up an arranged marriage for her, and after we have expressed outrage at that, Kathryn talks about some difficulties she is having with her boyfriend Peter, and there is then a girly conversation about boyfriends generally in which I take little part. After a while, a couple of boys from school come in and drift over to our table, and I'm introduced to them as Katie; and although they clearly know who I am, this episode passes without incident. After five minutes or so they leave us to join a group at the bar. Marie joins us after a while, unsurprisingly over half an hour late. "Hi Mebs," says Kathryn (Mebs is a nickname Marie affects, which is derived from the acronym of her three forenames - Marie Emily Bernadette). Jane chooses this moment to announce she has to leave: "Places to go, people to see." I guess that she is on her way to a more promising venue where there might be eligible (or at least available) men. "Snap," says Marie, gesturing at my outfit as she sits down. Marie is indeed all in black like me: leather skirt, a zipped jacket also in leather - the fabric is heavy but smooth and supple, so that the patina of garment suggests regular and repeated wear - with black opaque tights, and boots. The knee-length boots, unlike mine, are flat heeled with a thick crepe sole, and decorated with multiple straps and buckles on the outside of the leg, and silver-coloured metal toe caps. Marie's short nails are painted black and she also wears very deep red - almost black - lipstick. The eyelids are smoky, the eyes outlined by extravagant eyeliner and thickly-applied mascara. The palette is unmistakably and unashamedly goth. We are at a corner table, and Marie is sitting on the upholstered fixed seating next to me, at right angles. She smiles, and - uncharacteristically - blows me a kiss, emphasizing the contrast between her dark lipstick and her even white teeth. She unzips her jacket, revealing a black bustier which exposes a lot of her flat, muscular stomach, leans back in her chair, and asks if anybody needs a refill. I've been drinking slowly and cautiously - I don't want to end the evening drunk - as has Barbara. Kathryn asks for another gin, but Gopa shakes her head, although her glass is now empty. I suppose there is a limit to the amount of pub orange juice you can drink. Marie goes to the bar bringing Kathryn's gin and a shot of vodka for herself, which she downs with a single gulp. She scrutinises me appraisingly for a few seconds. "Was it worth the trip, Marie?" It is of course insightful Kathryn who asks this pointed question. "Oh yes," says Marie. "I thought I'd just come for a quick look but, you know, I think I might just stay here for the evening, and get a better idea of what's what." She gets up, goes to the bar, and buys another shot of vodka. This time she sips her drink more slowly. It occurs to me, as she does so, that she is not yet eighteen, although - tall and muscular as she is - she could easily pass for an older girl in her early twenties (and has apparently done so this evening). She turns to look at me again, and once more I'm conscious of her careful, appraising scrutiny. "So tell me," she says at last, "How did you get into this life? And how long has it been going on?" I take a sip of wine, wondering how to reply to this question, but then I find myself talking about my mother's dressmaking habit, and how I sometimes had to model clothes for her as she was making them, and how I'd got to enjoy doing that. And then I tell them a little about Lisa and how she had come to know about Katie, and how that had sparked a relationship between her and my mother, after which Lisa and my mother had encouraged me to experiment with my look and to go out as Katie in public. I find myself opening up in a way I had never done before (even with Suzi), and as this happens I feel almost relieved - a sense of liberation at unburdening myself of a secret: not a guilty secret, exactly, but an unsettling side of me I've been uneasy about, and kept hidden as a consequence. "And you kept all this hidden from your friends," said Kathryn, before asking pointedly, "So what led you to go public now?" Marie nods, and looks at me again through those deep-set, hooded eyes of hers. So I talk a little (not too much) about my friendship with Suzi and how she has encouraged Katie's development, and her insistence that Katie and not David was to be her guest at her eighteenth birthday party. The four girls listened intently in silence as they absorbed the story. "And what happens to Katie next?" Barbara, who has so far not contributed to the conversation, asks this question quietly. I sit back and think for a moment. "I'm not sure, to be honest." I think for a while, swirling the wine around my half-empty glass. I'm pleased that Katie's introduction to the world at Suzi's party went better than I could possibly have expected, and I'm pleased that my closest friends seem to have taken events in their stride. But it's early days yet. I wonder how Charles will feel when he has had time to digest the situation. And I still wonder whether I am likely to be the recipient of disdain, ridicule, or even hostility from my fellow students and other friends. And I know that while I want to be comfortable and to feel that I can go abroad without fear as Katie, I still don't feel quite comfortable about doing that. And I worry that there will be quite a lot of places where Katie will feel unwelcome or unwelcomed. So I can't really say how often or how widely Katie will be seen in the future. I try to explain some of this to my friends. Kathryn seems sympathetic, and Barbara looks thoughtful. Gopa simply looks puzzled, as if she can't understand my reticence. It is Marie who breaks the silence. "I know places where you can go and where you can be sure of feeling welcome. Let me introduce you to them." I'm startled by this: Marie, so widely known for her reticence with her peers, seems actually to be offering to be helpful and supportive. I don't remember this happening before, and I see surprised expressions on the faces of the others sitting around the table. I half smile at Marie and, although I'm still not sure whether or not she's being wholly serious, I say tentatively after a few seconds, "Yes please. I'd like that." There is a palpable release of tension around the table. Marie takes this as a pretext to get up and go to the bar and buy a round of drinks, and Kathryn leans over the table to me and whispers, "What have you done to Marie? I've never seen her behave like that before." The question seems not to require a response, and in any case there is nothing much I can offer by way of reply, but it does set me thinking. Marie - difficult, mercurial Marie, whose unusual looks I have always found strangely striking, Marie the mysterious, the enigmatic: is she finally softening? She returns to the table with a tray, and we take our drinks. Conversation turns to less sensitive subjects, as we talk about school and about people we know, and our social lives. Marie reverts to type, sitting back and taking little part in the conversation, other than to make the odd cutting remark, but I find myself looking at her, judging, assessing, wondering what is going on in her mind. The pub is growing more crowded, and people I recognise start to appear. A group of rugby players, including both Peter and Charles (without girlfriend this evening), appear. I see Peter drawing attention to our group (Kathryn has told me that she is going home with him at the end of the evening), and Charles sees and clearly recognises me once more, but does not approach. To my surprise, Jane reappears with a group of rather rowdy youths, none of whom I have seen before, and stands at the bar with them talking loudly and flirting rather too obviously with a tall, brown-haired guy wearing bright red cords and a mustard-coloured shirt. She doesn't acknowledge us or come to talk to us. Other people I know less well wander in. As the hum of conversation increases, the bar staff turn up the volume of music, making it difficult to hear what is said, and as closing time approaches, we decide by mutual agreement to leave. Kathryn drifts over to join Peter. Marie offers to walk Gopa and I to our respective homes, which is again unexpectedly kind of her, as she lives on the other side of town. But I'm grateful because otherwise either Gopa or I would have to walk the last part of the journey alone, which I certainly do not relish at this time of the evening and neither, I suspect, would Gopa. As we walk, Marie says little, apparently lost in thought. Our route takes us first to Gopa's house, and then Marie and I walk on to mine. We pause awkwardly at the gate for a moment or two, until I say, "I'm glad you came." Marie leans towards me (she is equal to me in height, even though I am wearing heels and she is wearing flats) and to my surprise kisses me on the cheek. "So am I," she says. She looks at me thoughtfully for a few seconds. "I meant what I said earlier. You and I must do this again. Soon." And then, as if embarrassed by her own suggestion (and embarrassment is not an emotion I have ever associated with Marie), she turns before I can reply and leaves me to make my way into the house. ++++++ When I go in, my mother and Lisa are there, and immediately start quizzing me about the evening. I respond - truthfully - that the evening has gone well, and I enjoyed it, but not satisfied by this the two of them start a more ruthless interrogation. I tell them something about the conversations we've had, and the people we saw, but I avoid mentioning Marie's invitation directly. I want to brood on it and work out exactly what it might mean. But I can't avoid Lisa's next question. "So what next for Katie? Do you think you'll be going out with your friends again?" I find myself blushing and avoid her eyes, and I recall my earlier doubts about how my wider circle of acquaintances will react once they realise that Katie is a regular part of my life. But I say, "Yes, I think so. I think it will be expected of me, and I don't think it will be easy to say no." I take a deep breath. "And, actually, I want to." Mum releases a sigh. "In that case," she says, "there's no longer any reason for you not to come out with us." My mother and Lisa have been trying to persuade me to go out as Katie for some time now. It's something I've done and enjoyed - revelled in, indeed - on holiday, but never in my home town. But now they are both exultant in the belief that all constraints have finally been removed, and, seizing the moment, decide that we should go out together for lunch the following day, which we do. I wear a simple peach-coloured dress with quite a full skirt, tan lace-ups with a modest heel, and a cream, double-breasted jacket. My mother has booked a mid-market Italian restaurant, and we have a convivial lunch together. Champagne is ordered so that we can drink a toast to Katie, and all seems to be going well until, as we rise to depart, I spot a familiar face at a table on the other side of the room. Mrs.Simmonds, my school's deputy head, is having lunch with a man (presumably her husband) and has her eyes fixed on me. When she sees that I have noticed her, she gives a nod and a knowing smile, and suddenly I feel a little awkward. Mrs.Simmonds has met Katie once, and has voiced her suspicion that Katie and David are one and the same person which, in several previous conversations with her, I have flatly denied. I have realised, of course, that now that circumstances have changed, I will have to acknowledge that that was an untruth, and I have been puzzling over how best to do that. But I had hoped to do it on my own terms, and not to have my cover blown by a chance encounter. No words are exchanged (my mother fails to spot Mrs.Simmonds), but I am suddenly self-conscious about my elbows and knees, and I stumble as I approach the door. If I hoped to impress Mrs.Simmonds with the grace of my deportment as a girl, I think to myself grimly, I have failed. ++++++ The interview with Mrs.Simmonds takes place the following week at school. It is, I think, embarrassing for us both. Mrs.Simmonds takes pains to tell me she is not angry with me for lying to her, but her manner is reproachful. She repeats an offer she has already made on a number of occasions for the school to support me in resolving what she describes as my "identity issues". For my part, I assert that this is something that I want to handle myself, and that I have no intention of presenting myself as a girl at school (even though the whole school must by now have heard about Katie's recent outings). We part without rancour, but I somehow feel that I have failed to resolve an important issue, although I don't quite know what it is. My unease is strengthened, however, the following day when Mrs.Simmonds gives a talk in senior assembly about diversity and the importance of respecting difference. She does not mention me, but she quotes sexual identity as an example of difference, and I can't help feeling that the whole of Year 12 and Year 13 know exactly what - or who - she is talking about. I sense many pairs of eyes on me as she speaks. Later, Charles seeks me out at break time. "That was some assembly," he says. "How do you feel?" It is obvious that he has also come to the conclusion that Mrs.Simmonds's talk was about me, and I smile ruefully. "A bit on edge, to be honest," I admit. "What are other people saying? Is there lots of talk about me?" "Er, yes," says Charles, surprised that the question even has to be asked. "What do you think?" I'm holding a cup of coffee from the vending machine in the common room, and I take a sip from the paper cup while I choose my words. "I'm not sure really. I suppose I just want to know what people are saying, and whether anybody's going to make trouble for me." And then, "What, actually, do you think yourself?" Charles sits back, looking out of the window, collecting his thoughts. "I'm not totally surprised, actually. You've always been a bit, well... Let's just say you've had your own distinct style." He shrugs. "It's not really an issue for me." He hesitates again, and then says, "But Gabriella's being a bit odd about it." Gabriella is Charles's current girlfriend. "She seems to think, after she saw us dancing together at Suzi's party, that I fancy you." I can't help laughing at this notion. Any notion of Charles being attracted to someone he knows to be a boy seems to me to be ridiculous and I say so. But Charles persists. "Gabriella thinks that you're far too sexy as a girl, and that my head has been turned." "Well," I say, feeling slightly irritated that we seem to have been deflected from my question about what other people are saying, "how do you feel?" "Um," says Charles, "well, you certainly make for an attractive-looking girl. But, you know, I'm into actual girls, not wannabes. Sorry." He does seem genuinely sorry, which amuses me. "Hey," I say, "No need to apologise. As I told you at the party, I'm not gay. I just like to feel sexy. I've not had sex that many times, but it's always been with a woman." "Ah. The problem for you is," says Charles, getting back to my question, "that's not what some people think - and I'm not just talking about Gabriella." This sobers me a little. Whilst, so far as I'm concerned, people can think what they want within reason, I'm worried that there will be people - boys - who want to assert their own masculinity, and who think that a good way of doing so is by attacking people who don't fit into their own vision of it. I say as much to Charles. "Well, you encounter problems from anybody, that person will have me to deal with." Of course, Charles has always watched my back when people have been malicious about my androgynous tastes and appearance. But where, if he is too vocal in my defence now, will that leave his relationship with Gabriella? Whilst I think I might really need Charles's help, I certainly don't want him to undermine his relationship. But when I say this to Charles, he is dismissive. "That's my problem to handle," he says. We talk around the issue for a while, but we don't really get any further. At length we decide to leave it and see how things develop. And in the end, I'm grateful to know that Charles is still there for me. I'm just uneasy about the consequences for him. As time passes, patterns of behaviour amongst the school community become pretty clear. Most girls are intrigued and friendly, although a small number - like Jane - feel they have to be scornful and dismissive. Kathryn tells me that this is because they think I'm more attractive than they are, but I suspect that it's deeper than that. There are some, for example, who have homophobic boyfriends, and who feel that they need to mirror their attitudes. And it is - perhaps unsurprisingly - amongst boys that deeper divisions emerge. Of the 70 or so boys in Years 12 and 13, perhaps a dozen are suspicious or openly hostile, making no secret of their dislike of my dressing as Katie. I hear snide comments made behind my back, and there is some blunt, direct rudeness when I encounter one or other of them in the corridors. I hear through others that both Charles and Marie have told them to back off on more than one occasion, and gradually the open hostility fades, but an undercurrent of disdain remains for a long time, notwithstanding Mrs.Simmonds's often-repeated exhortations about diversity. A larger group chooses simply to ignore the situation, and pretend that Katie doesn't exist. This group consists mostly of people I don't count as friends and therefore don't meet with socially, and of course when I run into them at school I am always dressed in conventional male attire. Most people I talk to regularly (members of my tutor groups, people I play tennis with, and so on) are quietly friendly, and some make an exaggerated attempt to convey how glad they are (or how glad they say they are, which may not be the same thing) that I have felt able to share my inner demons with them. And then there is a very small group - perhaps three or four - whom I have not previously much mixed with, who seem fascinated by Katie and seem to want to make friends with her. These are people, I decide, who are conflicted about their own sexuality and see Katie as a kindred spirit, and at least one of them hints that he would like to go out with Katie, which suggests to me that he is after some kind of physical relationship, which I don't want. I navigate through these groups cautiously, avoiding confronting people with Katie's existence unless they are close friends or known to be understanding and sympathetic. I decide to confine my trips out as Katie to my mother, to Kathryn and her group, and perhaps in time to some other close friends such as Charles, if he signposts that he is willing to meet socially. But I am soon obliged to think very carefully about how close I want to be to one particular acquaintance. ++++++ Kathryn and Gopa talk excitedly about arranging another evening out with Katie, but in the hectic first weeks of term, it proves more difficult than expected to find a suitable evening when we are all available, and it is with Marie alone that I have my next encounter as Katie. This follows and exchange of text messages which occurs early in the morning on the Saturday two weeks after the evening in the Friar Tuck: **Are you free this morning?** +Yes, I suppose. Why?+ **I thought we might go into town together. I have some shopping to do** +Don't you have to work?+ (I know that Marie has a weekend job as a waitress in the caf? of the local arts centre.) **I'm on the 12.30 to 6.30 shift today.** +??Well, I'm free but...+ **Well if you're free you can come with me, can't you? Wear the outfit you wore at the Friar Tuck** +WTF? Walking around the shops? During the day?+ **You'll be with me. No need to worry.** I don't reply to this text, and five minutes later my phone beeps again: **AND - I might buy you a present.** +I'm not sure...+ **Just do it. It'll be fun. I'll be at yours to pick you up at ten.** **And btw, I hope you're free this evening as well because there's somewhere I want to take you.** I don't reply to these last two texts, but Marie evidently has the bit between her teeth. Her proposal is preposterous. And yet, as I start to get up, the old, tempting excitement starts to grip me. Marie will be here in a scant couple of hours. And I cannot help myself but open my wardrobe and pull out and lay the clothes she has specified on my bed and gaze at them, thinking all the time that I do not want to do this. But of course I do. So I bathe, don a (between ourselves deliciously feminine) silk robe, make myself some coffee and return to my room. I begin a lengthy grooming ritual, eventually applying a striking palette of make-up, telling myself all the while that I do not need or want to follow Marie's beguiling instruction and then, inevitably, start to slither into the clothes that I have arrayed all too temptingly on the bed: leather skirt, slinky black blouse, glossy tights, boots with a heel. And then fully and gloriously dressed I go downstairs, admiring myself in the full-length mirror in the hall, and await my fate for what seems like an agonising age. My heart lurches when the doorbell eventually rings, and it is with dreamlike detachment that I drift out of the living room, and open the front door. Marie is standing, wearing what is for her a rather restrained all black outfit (slim-fitting trousers, tailored cotton shirt, Doc Martins-style boots, her black suede coat) with, as she sees me, a nakedly pleased and self-satisfied expression on her face. I find myself pulling on my padded jacket, but saying anxiously, "Are you sure this is a good idea?" In response Marie says nothing, but with a grunt, takes me by the hand and leads me unresisting from the house, and only then do I finally realise that I'm committed. My mother, who has done nothing either to encourage or warn me against this venture ("You must do what you decide you really want, darling") watches us walk away from behind the living room curtain. As I look behind me to sketch a tentative farewell, there is an unreadable smile on her face as she returns my wave. ++++++ Groups of Saturday morning shoppers are already starting to build up in the town centre when we arrive there. I'm walking tentatively, trying not to be too conspicuous, so that if we see people we know, I might avoid being picked out and recognised. But my outfit, while not outrageous, is certainly noticeable, and Marie struts confidently, almost brazenly through the growing crowds. And inevitably we do run across people from school and other acquaintances and Marie, far from averting her gaze, gestures a greeting to some of them, who in turn look at us and wave or mutter a greeting. And although we do not stop to engage in conversation, I'm pretty sure from their curious expressions that some of them know full well who I am. So this is yet another stage in Katie's increasingly public exposure, and I wonder apprehensively what people are going to make of it, and whether there will be any repercussions, disturbing or otherwise. At first, Marie seems to have no particular aim in mind. We go into a department store and she wanders around the clothes concessions, pulling out black garments and holding them against her, but neither trying nor buying anything. She lingers by a make-up counter, and eventually makes a couple of purchases, which will seemingly increase her stock of crepuscular lip gloss and dramatic eye make-up. We visit a couple of smaller boutiques, and Marie sorts through racks of clothes with a detached, rather dissatisfied expression on her face, as if she is looking for something but can't quite find it. And then we find ourselves, as if by accident, outside Pelle Italiana, the window of which is decorated with mannequins wearing outfits consisting of varying colours of leather. "Ah," says Marie, as if the idea has just occurred to her, "You need the jacket to go with that beautiful skirt." I try to demur, but Marie hustles me into the shop, and I'm assailed by the heady odour of new leather. For a moment I stand bewildered, and then temporise by starting to sort through a rack of jackets. The soft Italian leather is luxurious and unashamedly sensual to the touch. "I can't possibly afford these prices," I say, glancing at the labels. But Marie has already gestured the solitary sales assistant - a girl with striking aquamarine hair wearing a khaki-coloured jumpsuit - and said that we were looking for a jacket for me. And then, items are pulled from racks and displayed before me, and under Marie's uncompromising gaze, I agree to try some on. I'm directed to a long mirror, while the assistant brings over the clothes Marie has selected. The first is a soft, sumptuous biker-style jacket which goes well with the skirt and boots I am wearing, and I pirouette before the mirror transfixed by the reflection I see before me. I would (if I had the money) have plumped for it immediately, but Marie insists that I try other styles. I reject a boxy blazer-style jacket which I think does nothing for me, and a blouson which is nice enough but (I think) a little too old for me. And then the assistant pulls out a waist-length double-breasted jacket, a little like a military mess-jacket. The tooled leather is raised in the space between the two rows of leather- covered buttons, giving a frogging-like appearance to the front. The shoulders are decorated with epaulettes. I pull on the jacket and fumble with the buttons. Fastening only the bottom four buttons and leaving the remainder open allows two wide lapels, but I fasten all eight of the buttons, pinning the right lapel in front of my left collarbone, and pull up the collar. The overall effect is quite dramatic, and I turn to see Marie's reaction. It is emphatic. "That's the one. We'll take it." "But..." I've looked at the eye-watering price, and there is no way we can afford this, I think. But Marie is already walking to the till, drawing a credit card from her purse. "Marie," I say. "You can't possibly buy me this for me. Haven't you seen the price?" But she hands the card to the assistant who is already ringing up the sale, and turns to me with an enigmatic grin. "You just watch me," she says. Shit, I think to myself. What can I possibly offer in return for this outrageous gift? What can Marie be expecting from me because, it seems to me as I reflect feverishly on this impossible turn of events, that this is not the kind of gift which comes without strings? "Can you cut the labels off?" This from Marie to the assistant. "She'll keep it on." I feel that I ought to have some say in this, but can't quite bring myself to voice an objection. And before I know it, my padded jacket is shuffled into a large carrier and, dazed, I follow Marie out of the store. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Marie's expression is one of wry amusement. I exhale: I realise as I do so that I have been holding my breath for what seems like quite a while. "God, Marie, what were you thinking of? Why did you..." But I never complete the sentence. Marie leans towards me, places a finger on my lips, and then kisses me softly. "Just enjoy it," she says. "Get used to your new look. You'll be wearing the jacket tonight." I try to organise my confused thoughts, but Marie is shepherding me onwards. For just a moment, before other matters grab my attention, I find myself wondering where she got the rather large amount of money to pay for the jacket. ++++++ It's close to noon, and Marie's shift at the Arts Centre starts soon. She suggests we round off the morning by having a coffee there before she has to start work, and my powers of resistance having disappeared, I allow myself to be led there. The Arts Centre consists of a small cinema, a theatre, a more intimate space for chamber concerts and poetry recitals, a library and reading room, and - by far the most used and popular attraction - a smart, modern caf? which has become a popular place for the upwardly mobile to have lunch. The space is light and airy, with modern furnishings and a picture window looking out over an ornamental garden. As we wait to be seated, I can't help noticing that the waiting staff are all dressed in black, in outfits rather like Marie's, and I start to understand why she is at home in this job. Eventually, we are shepherded to a table in the corner of the room and handed menus. Since we are both having coffee and nothing more, I spend little time studying the menu, and glance around the room, which is busy but not crowded. I look anxiously around, hoping not to see people I recognise, but the customers are all older than us, and there seems to be no-one I know. Until, that is, I see a black-clad figure with wiry, dark, shoulder length hair and large-lensed glasses with heavy black frames. It takes me a few seconds to place this person, who is walking towards our table with a notepad and pen, until I realise with a jolt that it is Nigel, whom I met briefly at Suzi's party three weeks before. Of course: Suzi is to read English at Oxford, and she has been a regular visitor to the Arts Centre, where Nigel, like Marie, evidently works as a waiter. As he reaches us, Nigel smiles at Marie, and then looks at me. It takes him a second or two to recognise me, but then he says, in a startled voice, "You!" Marie looks at me and then at Nigel. "Do you two know each other?" I explain about Suzi's party, but don't mention Nigel's fascination with the outfit I wore on that fateful evening, or his plea to me to help him, too, to be confident enough to appear in public wearing a dress. Nigel, however, says, "I thought we were going to meet to talk about... You know..." "Well," I say, "you have my phone number." Marie darts a more questioning look at me, and then raises an eyebrow, glancing meaningfully, as she does so, at Nigel, who blushes. I wonder for a moment how closely the two of them work together, and how much Marie knows, or has guessed, about Nigel's lifestyle aspirations. I can imagine her interrogating him later, when she is on-shift. But for the moment, no further comment or explanation is forthcoming, and our order is taken, before Nigel, evidently rather flustered, retreats from our table. As soon as he is out of earshot, Marie leans over to me, and says fiercely, "I need to know what that was all about." I'm conflicted. On the one hand, it seems wrong to betray Nigel's confidence; on the other, Marie has just bought me a very expensive gift. I'm puzzled what that might mean, and I start, rather late in the day, wondering what payback might be expected from me. I also begin to worry that the friendlier face Marie has been showing me recently will dissipate if I'm not honest with her. So in the end I decide that the least bad choice at the moment is to explain straightforwardly what was passed between Nigel and I that evening. So I tell her about the dance we had together, and about his request for help in dressing. "You're not planning to fuck him then?" Again, a blunt, rather hostile- sounding question. "Good God, no." I must have looked sufficiently shocked to allay any suspicions Marie might have about that, although I'm more than a little puzzled at the violence of her reaction to my exchange with Nigel, and the bluntness of the questions she has asked. Marie sits back in her seat and takes a sip of coffee. She is quiet for a moment, and I think she is making a deliberate effort to calm herself. Eventually she looks at me over the rim of her coffee cup. "I'm glad," she says, "that I bought you that jacket. It suits you. Just the right combination of sexiness and elegance." She pauses for a moment and then says firmly, "Wear it tonight when we go out. I'll be picking you up at 8.30." It occurs to me that I haven't actually said that I'm free to - or want to - go out this evening, but then it also occurs to me that now it is a little late to object, particularly given what has happened over the last hour or so. So I nod and smile, and Marie relaxes a little and returns my smile, and our conversation turns to more banal, less threatening subjects until, shortly before 12.30, Marie announces that her shift is about to start. "Will you be OK walking home by yourself?" It is, I think, a little late to be thinking about that, but the day is a fine one, the streets are busy, and I don't expect to encounter any open hostility in our quiet town. My biggest worry is being seen by somebody I know, although since Suzi's party, my habits must be quite well known amongst my friends and acquaintances. So I stand and pick up the bag containing the jacket I came out with. Marie stands, and I notice that her smile extends to her eyes. Whatever worry she had about my conversation with Nigel seems to have been allayed, although I do wonder what might pass between Marie and Nigel over the course of the afternoon, assuming Nigel is still on-shift. But she leans towards me and kisses me on the cheek with what seems to be good humour - perhaps even affection - and I leave feeling a little calmer. I turn out of the Arts Centre into the shopping mall, my heels clattering on the marble-effect floor. It's a ten minute walk home, and after I've walked past the shops, the streets are quieter. I do, in fact, pass two or three people I know from school. One of them is a teacher, although I've never been in a class or group she's taught, and she walks past me without apparently recognising me. But a couple of girls coming from the opposite direction evidently realise who I am and wave at me, smiling. They giggle as they pass, but it seems a friendly giggle and I feel strangely buoyed by the encounter. When I arrive home, I see Lisa's bike in the drive and realise she must have arrived for the weekend. When I walk through the front door, I hear the noise of a shower from upstairs. Lisa is standing in the hallway so I assume it is mum in the shower. Lisa looks at me, opens her mouth, and closes it, and I realise that she is startled by the outfit I'm wearing. I grin and pirouette in front of her to give her the full picture. "Go girl. Looking good," she says, walking towards me. She gives me a hug, and I embrace her and make to kiss, pulling her close, but she pushes me away laughing. "Hey. Not so fast." She pauses, amused. "If I were younger and more promiscuous than I am, then well... But your life's complicated enough as it is, without flirting with your mother's partner." The exchange is a friendly one. Her deliberate misreading of my intentions is cute rather than aggressive, and I return her smile. Relations between Lisa and I have always been good: she is a firm friend. Now that she is spending more time with us she seems like - not a second mother exactly, but perhaps a close older sister. I don't know: it's difficult to describe. But as these thoughts go through my head, Lisa steps back, once more scrutinising my outfit, an enquiring expression on her face. "So, you think the new jacket suits me? It's a present from Marie." I answer Lisa's implied question. "Good God." This from my mother, who has appeared at the top of the stairs clad in a dark-coloured bathrobe. "How much did it cost?" I tell her. "Where on earth did she get that kind of money? And I thought Marie didn't like you." Both reasonable questions. "Well, yes. So did I." I thought for a moment. "I really don't know quite what's going on. But she seems to have..." Again, I hesitate, not quite sure whether there is a credible explanation for Marie's behaviour. "Anyway, she's asked me out this evening." "You mean she's asked Katie? And you've said yes." It wasn't a question. "Where are you going?" And I have to admit that I don't know, and mum looks worried. "Make sure you take your phone and keep in touch. And watch how you behave, and what you wear." She wants me to behave and look like a nun? I shake my head. But Lisa says, "I'm sure Katie can look after herself by now. And I'm absolutely certain that Marie will be watching her back." Mum continues to look sceptical, but Lisa continues, "And if everything I've heard of about Marie is true, she's well capable of keeping Katie out of trouble." +++++ I suppose Lisa's words are meant to be soothing, and there's no way I'm going to pull out of the evening now. But as eight thirty approaches I'm feeling nervous. I've dressed as Marie has requested, and hover by the living room window looking out for her, wondering if my make-up is quite right, and whether I'll make a fool of myself in my high heels and short skirt. At eight thirty sharp, a taxi pulls up outside the house and sounds its horn. Marie is sitting in the back seat, no doubt wandering whether to get out and ring the doorbell. I wave, hoping she sees me, and then exit the living room and go into the hall, mind in a whirl, and find Lisa there smiling broadly and giving me a thumbs-up sign. Mother is nowhere to be seen. Feeling as though I'm walking through treacle, I open the door. Marie beckons me - is it me, or does she seem irritated at my slowness - and I open the car door and slither onto the seat beside her. I'm committed. It's not dark yet, but the weather is cloudy and the evening a gloomy one. The taxi accelerates away smoothly, and we glide through crowded Saturday evening streets, through the shopping centre and on to the other side of town. The taxi eventually halts outside a pub - the Dark Heart - and we get out. I've heard of the pub, but never been there. It's known as a live music venue, much frequented by goths and fans of heavy rock, and often subject to police drugs raids. First impressions are not promising. The bar space is cavernous but low-ceilinged, with obviously fake mock-Tudor beams on the ceiling, and a sticky carpet, out of which a half-moon shape has been cut to reveal polished floorboards which, I suppose, constitute an impromptu stage, currently occupied by a drum kit and three microphones. A long bar occupies the opposite wall. French doors open into a walled courtyard, in which gaggles of people are chatting and smoking. The room itself is quite crowded, with all the tables occupied. Marie steers me towards the bar counter, and indicates a vacant bar-stool - tall with a low back and arms - on to which I struggle, trying not to let my leather skirt ride up too much. A barman, who evidently knows Marie, appears and takes our order - a glass of wine for me, a pint of beer and a vodka shot for Marie. As the drinks are poured, I sit back and take stock of my surroundings. First of all Marie: she's wearing leather leggings tucked into unlaced Doc Martens, a biker jacket, and a black, sequinned boob tube exposing a fair amount of midriff. She has glitter in her hair and assertive make- up: dark lips and dramatic eyes; short, black nails. Chunky silver jewellery completes the look. She blends in with the crowd - a collection of heavy rock types, goths, bikers, emos, and steampunks. They are, I decide, mostly a few years older than us, although as I've remarked before Marie seems a good deal older than her seventeen years. She is evidently well-known here - several people nod or wave at her, and look speculatively at me as Marie drains her shot, and places a proprietorial hand on my stockinged thigh, evidently for the benefit of the watching audience: keep away, she's mine. Again, I'm struck by Marie's affectionate behaviour towards me which is most definitely out of character. What can it mean? And is it just a passing novelty for her - a reaction to discovering the hitherto unsuspected existence of Katie - or will this new interest in me become something more lasting? And if so what? A guy wearing an ankle-length black velvet coat beckons at Marie, and I'm about to ask who it is when the band announces its presence on stage with an impossibly loud chord. The anthem which follows seems to be shouted rather than sung, and the band - drums, bass guitar, double bass, tenor saxophone - is more enthusiastic than tuneful. The audience, however, greets them with enthusiastic whoops and yelps, and I guess they must be a well-known local act. Marie, having vigorously joined in the cheers, says something I don't catch and then drifts away leaving me alone and unsure whether I'm meant to follow here or not. I take a sip of wine, and decide to pretend to listen to the music. I see Marie drifting round the floor, engaged in a series of brief conversations with other punters, including the guy in the long velvet coat . Money seems to be changing hands. She can't surely, I think to myself, be dealing. A guy lurches towards me. He is tall with a beer belly, and wears a check shirt and dirty-looking cord trousers. I don't catch what he says, but his intentions are clear as he drapes an arm around the back of my seat. The barman's eye is caught and he listens as beer belly says - or rather shouts - something at him, and shortly afterwards a fresh glass of wine appears in front of me (I have hardly started the first glass), and a pint of fizzy-looking beer is placed on the bar counter. Beer belly grabs it, downs most of it in a single gulp, and says something to me which, again, I don't catch. He leans before me, and opens his mouth, presumably to repeat what he's just said. His breath is warm, moist, stale. I turn away. "Fuck off, Jack. This is my property." Marie has stormed to the rescue: I turn and smile gratefully at her, even as I bristle at the words 'my property'. "In any case, she's well out of your league." One thing about Marie: when she's annoyed, you're never in any doubt about it. Beer belly - Jack - makes a placatory gesture, palms outwards, and backs off. Marie looks at me, concern and apology in her eyes, and then, presumably to assuage any doubt on the part of possible onlookers, kisses me as if to confirm possession. In other circumstances, I'd be irritated, but now I'm simply grateful. I return the kiss, finding Marie's parted lips, and with growing enthusiasm - I decide I'm definitely aroused by her raw physical energy - draw out the moment for the benefit of the audience. And when I surface and look around, I see with satisfaction that there are indeed onlookers, and they have clocked the significance of what has happened. Marie unbends from the kiss, surveying me with a fondness in her eyes which I might have found unsettling a while ago - any time before this morning, in fact - but nowI find myself revelling in the moment. I sense obscurely that an undefinable bond is developing between us, that the affection Marie has shown me this evening is not feigned but genuine. And as these thoughts go through my head, I start to reassess my friendship with her. But caution is necessary here, I tell myself. Don't become too emotionally committed before you're sure of your ground. Still, no harm in enjoying the evening while it lasts. I search for Marie's hand and squeeze it gratefully, and in reply she winks at me and smiles. She looks as the two more or less full glasses of wine in front of me and shakes her head, raising an eyebrow, but then orders another drink for herself which, again, she downs quite quickly. I'm impressed by her capacity for alcohol, and wonder how she's managed to acquire it so young. Either the noise of the music has reduced, or I'm just becoming used to the ambient noise, because conversation seems to have become possible again. We chat for a while about nothing in particular. Punters come and go to and from the bar, ordering drinks, and quite a few exchange words with Marie, who is evidently well-known here. A few linger for a while. There is Richard, a flamboyant personality I guess to be about thirty, although he's trying to pass himself off as younger. He wears a red needlecord suit and a black silk shirt, the top three buttons undone, and a pair of lime-green patent shoes with black laces and black crepe soles. (This outfit seems out of place amongst the goths and steampunks who make up most of the Dark Heart's clientele.) He's planning to go clubbing later, and tries unsuccessfully to persuade Marie to accompany him. ("You always used to be up for it. The phrase 'you're no fun any more' could have been invented for you.") Marie smiles politely but firmly but sticks to her guns. "He's been trying to get inside my pants for months," she whispers to me. Then there's John and Julian, who turn out to be a couple. They're wearing identical lumberjack shirts and cargo pants held up by wide braces. But while John is plump and sleek, Julian is slim, worried- looking, with a face that seems more weatherbeaten than is right for a man of his age. It emerges that John works in IT and Julian is an antiques dealer who does business with Marie's father from time to time. The two of them live together in a large town house that they have renovated after having bought it derelict a few years ago. John asks whether Marie's love life is still on hold, and she rolls her eyes at me. "For the moment, darling," she says, "But I've the most delicious feeling that it's about to take off again." She looks at me meaningfully, and John, noticing me for the first time, blushes. Marie chuckles darkly, in a most un-Marie-like way. While this conversation is going on, we are approached by a tall, skinny guy dressed in black (well-worn leather jacket, denim jeans, T-shirt) with a lined face, dark stubble, and lank, longish hair. I notice one of his front teeth is missing, making his smile rather sinister. I sense, rather than hear, Marie groan. She introduces him as Billy, and whispers in my ear, "Ex-boyfriend", and I startle in surprise: he's not her type at all. But he must have something, as he's accompanied by a much younger woman - slim, vivacious, attractive. She's wearing a copper-coloured metallic dress, very short, teamed with bright red heels and opaque white tights. She hangs on to Billy's arm, her scarlet lips parted in a deliberate, provocative pout. She's Billy's latest conquest (I subsequently learn) and he's determined to display her to all and sundry: Marie smiles indulgently, wishing them well in a drawl which manages to sound sincere, although the eyebrow she raises at me suggests she is sceptical about the chances of the relationship lasting. While we're talking to Billy, an exotic figure approaches wearing a frogged, maroon velvet smoking jacket with black lapels, cream jodhpurs, riding boots, and a wing-collared shirt with a bow tie. He also sports a top hat, on which he's placed a pair of spectacles with protruding lenses, a little like miniature binoculars. This aesthete introduces himself to me as Benjamin (he evidently knows both Marie and Billy). His striking costume, which shouts steampunk, seems rather oddly to blend in with the darker, grungier clothes around us. Like Richard, he invites us to a party - with, as he puts it, an exposition - not this evening, but in a week's time in the museum's exhibition centre. Marie smiles indulgently, and says she'll try to come and, satisfied, Benjamin retreats to - I see now - a group of similarly-clad friends. Our longest conversation is with Angela, a writer, who is a regular reader at the Arts Centre in which Marie works. She is a tall, slim, exotic creature with a high, lilting voice which sounds at first otherworldly, until you realise that her observations (on life, love, and the people around us) are perceptive, direct, and pointed. She wears a calf-length dress with long sleeves, in violet velvet which clings closely to her lithe body. This is partnered with dark green boots, a colour combination which works surprisingly well. Nails and eyelids are painted in a lighter, near-fluorescent green (the eyeshadow sets off her pale blue eyes unexpectedly well, the slightly startling colour contrast calling attention to one of her best features), and her lips are a deep, rich red which - almost purple in its shade - blends with the dress she's wearing. She clocks me straight away as Marie's companion and makes a point of involving me in the conversation, as the two of them talk about mutual acquaintances and forthcoming events at the centre. I'm asked if I'm a regular at the centre, and I cautiously admit to having seen plays and films there from time to time, and get drawn into a discussion of an Italian art film I've seen recently (about the tribulations of a couple drawn into a torrid lesbian affair in the seething masculinity of Naples). Angela is also the bearer of our third invitation of the evening. "Talking of future events, darling," this to Marie, "I'm hiring a house in Herefordshire for the New Year. Both of you must come. It sleeps twelve so we'll be quite a party." Marie looks at Angela and then at me. "Can we let you know nearer to Christmas?" she laughs, placing a proprietorial hand once more on my thigh. I realise I'm becoming aroused and shift a little uncomfortably in my rather precarious seat. But two of Marie's friends have bought me drinks while these conversations have been going on, and, part-way through my fourth large glass of wine, notwithstanding my arousal, I'm beginning to flag. Marie notices my stifled yawn, and takes out her phone to call a taxi. Having done so, she places a finger under my chin, gently pushing it up until our eyes meet. Her pupils, I notice, are dilated. "Come back with me." It's a hoarse, needy whisper which tells of wanting and just possibly an unwonted vulnerability. Marie is now making no effort to hide this previously unseen side of her character, her former disdain for me and my kind discarded. As for me, I think of my mother and her worries which will hardly be soothed by my staying away for a night at zero notice, and I wonder if I ought to refuse. But really, that's not going to happen. I take out my own phone and send her a text. ++++++ Marie's home is a large, rambling old house with a disused stables attached, on the very edge of town on the opposite side from where I live. Marie lives alone there with her father, who is a blacksmith. In practice, that means he makes wrought iron gates and garden furniture, although there is, I suppose, still the odd horse to be shod. He has a side-line in repairing and maintaining motorcycles (he is an enthusiastic biker, and I know that Marie has also passed her test, although I've never seen her on a bike), and - rather unexpectedly - I learn from Marie as we chat in the taxi, he's also a talented amateur sculptor. This last activity is, she tells me, by far the most profitable item in his career portfolio. He casts bronze portrait busts for people's mantelpieces, and more abstract works for gardens. He's also recently been commissioned to cast a bronze stag - the town's emblem - to be placed in the square in front of the town hall, and some of his works are exhibited for sale in a private London gallery. I'm impressed. Marie leads me inside through a high-ceilinged entrance hall into a substantial living room, with comfortable if slightly dilapidated chairs, and a real log fire. Her father is there, sitting at a table, working on a drawing - perhaps, I think, the design for a new sculpture. He is a pinched, worried-looking man, with thinning pale brown hair (quite unlike Marie's luxurious mane) brushed back from his forehead. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and he's wearing a pair of cream-coloured knee-length shorts, with flip-flops on his feet. He looks me over as Marie introduces me. I can see the mental gears turning as he decides I'm a kindred spirit, dressed as I am in clothes which, if not quite a carbon-copy of Marie's, are close to one. "Anything to drink?" Marie evidently feels we need a nightcap. "Freezer," says her father economically. I follow Marie into a huge kitchen containing a dining table, a range cooker and, in the centre of the room, a large, brushed pine table. A large fridge freezer occupies one corner of the room, and Marie opens it and brings out a bottle of vodka, and pours herself a shot - freezing has rendered it a jelly-like consistency - and offers the bottle to me, which I refuse. Deciding that she can't drink alone, Marie opens the fridge and pulls out a stoppered bottle of champagne and pours me a small glass, which I sip. Marie knocks back the viscous vodka in one gulp. Nothing is said during this brief interval, but then Marie takes me - grips me - by the hand and pulls me out of the kitchen towards the stairs. We are, I realise, going to her bedroom. The bedroom is at the top of the house under the eaves, with a sloping roof broken by a dormer window. The walls are dark, the window covered by blood-red velvet curtains. The floor consists of bare boards, painted black, with a couple of thin rugs softening the uncompromising colour scheme. But the bedclothes are black and slippery. I wonder if they are as cold as they look. Marie instructs me to undress, and pads out of the bedroom into a bathroom across the narrow landing. As I remove my clothes - bra and breast forms apart - I hear the sound of a shower, followed by the whine of an electric toothbrush. I stand uncertainly next to the bed, wondering whether to lie down, but as I dither, Marie re-enters the room. She's naked apart from her leather jacket - I guess she must have left the rest of her outfit in the bathroom - and she stands and surveys me, which I find unsettling. And then she walks over to the chair where I have left my clothes, and picks up my jacket and, wordlessly, holds it out to me. It's not too difficult to work out what she wants, so I slip on the jacket, and then Marie walks up close to me - our bodies are almost touching - and does up the buttons from waist to collar bone, steps back, surveys me again, and nods with what might be satisfaction. I open my mouth to ask a question, but before any words come, Marie has kissed me fiercely on the lips, and then manoeuvred me - pushed me - down on to the bed. She sits astride me, pinioning my wrists to the pillow, and kisses me again hard. She shifts position so that I'm able to enter her - the cues are pretty obvious - which I do, finding her moist and eager and receptive; and then, as her powerful muscles clench around me, I cease to think and lose myself in sensation. Sex with Marie is quite unlike the easy, languorous undulations of Suzi. Marie is fierce, her movements abrupt and uncompromising. She pants and squirms aggressively, satisfying her own needs. Whilst I am excited and climax myself quite quickly, there is nothing mutual about this. Marie comes with a fierce, animal cry, once more grinding down on to me, kissing and biting as she does so. Afterwards, she shudders down beside me, holding me hard and close, caressing my torso through the fabric of my jacket. I stroke her sleeve, wondering whether to say anything and if so what, but words seem superfluous, and I stay silent, waiting for Marie to take the initiative. And after a while she does. But it is not with words. She turns me again on to my back, and once more kneels astride me, and I find myself unexpectedly aroused by this silent, selfish performance, as we repeat our exertions a second time. When, after this, she eventually speaks, asking me whether it has been good for me, I find myself, surprisingly, saying yes, saying that it has. Because I have been excited by this unexpected, unwonted side of Marie, and I hold her against me, unable to conceal my need for her, but careful to avoid any excessive display of affection or sentiment which might turn her off. And Marie, perhaps understanding the reasons behind my reticence, presses her hard, muscular body against mine. I feel her heart beating, and synchronise my breathing with hers. And, inevitably, after a while we are both aroused again. And so the night goes on. Sleep comes only in the small hours, and we are roused by an alarm at what seems to me to be an unnecessarily early hour. Marie, it transpires, is working the early shift at the Arts Centre and needs to get up. She's making breakfast as I descend to the kitchen, clad in a silky black dressing gown I've found hanging in Marie's wardrobe. I glance at my phone, and see that there's a text from my mother asking anxiously if I need a lift home. I accept the offer and, realising that I don't know Marie's address, ask her for it. A reply from my mother informs me that I'll be picked up at ten. There's an hour or so to go once we have finished breakfast. I want to appear happy and confident when my mother sees me, so I take great care over my grooming and my clothes. My make-up must be perfect, and so I apply the sticky, sweet lipstick carefully and colour my eyelids assertively. Eyeliner and mascara seem to create an evening rather than a day-time look, but it seems to work, which is all that matters to me. When the doorbell rings it is Lisa, not my mother, on the threshold. Mum, she tells me, is reading a bunch of papers to prepare for a meeting first thing on Monday, so Lisa has volunteered to collect me. I wonder whether that is the whole story: surely my mother could have taken half an hour off her work. Perhaps Lisa wants to take a look at the mysterious girl who has bought me an expensive jacket, taken control of my look, and then whisked me out the previous evening. Lisa is wearing leather trousers, heels, and a leather jacket she's left unzipped, and she and Marie eye each other up warily. It occurs to me that Lisa will have made some assumptions about Marie's tastes and perhaps she's trying to make some kind of statement to Marie with her own selection of outfit, although I'm not sure what it could be. Nonetheless, I sense something pass between the two of them as they appraise each other. Marie is dressed for work - black jeans, black shirt - but her manner and bearing speak of confidence and control, and a certain smugness which may be to do with the night she and I have just spent together. Lisa has come in mother's sporty little car, and I slither into the passenger seat, smoothing my leather skirt to stop it riding up too much. Lisa blows a kiss at Marie - what would mum make of that, I wonder - and then accelerates smoothly into the traffic. She glances at me and smiles. I return the smile, although I'm still a little uneasy. I'm certain that my mother's relationship with Lisa is rock solid, but Lisa is undoubtedly a lively, flirtatious woman; I know from overheard remarks and half-observed glances that people of both sexes find her attractive; and I sense some kinship of spirit between Lisa and Marie. I think - no, I'm sure - that it won't lead to anything, but I can't help feeling a little disturbed. Lisa is not exactly a stepmother- figure, but she's an important part of my life, a loyal enthusiast for Katie, and I'd hate anything to disturb the stable domestic setting at home. Lisa's mind is evidently following a different track. "No longer a virgin, then?" she asks. I'm slightly taken aback by this direct and abrupt question, and wonder why she's sufficiently interested in my sex life to ask it. "Um," I say. "I've not been a virgin for some time, actually." Lisa and my mother may have made some assumptions about my friendship with Suzi - not to mention Gopa - but I've been careful to reveal nothing definite. Suzi of course has her relationship with her boyfriend Jason to protect, and I don't want to risk my mother making some incautious remark which might imperil it. So although Lisa looks at me as if expecting me to add to my statement, I hesitate for a moment before continuing. "But if I had been a virgin last night, I'd no longer be one now." I look away, out of the passenger window, indicating that I'm not going to add to what I've said. But I realise I'm blushing. Lisa nods, satisfied, as if this reply was both expected and perhaps welcome, and I wonder what she and my mother have been saying to each other about me - because I'm certain that a conversation would have taken place last night, when I messaged them to say that I wouldn't be coming home - and what further questions might be put to me when I get home. But although mother and Lisa have a hurried, whispered conversation when we arrive, nothing more is said as I ascend the stairs to my room to change into an outfit from Katie's wardrobe more suited to a quiet Sunday at home. ++++++ The following week is quiet. The rhythm of work has picked up at school, and I'm fully occupied with seminars and essays. I have an evening out with Kathryn and Barbara on Friday - we go to see a film and pick up a pizza on the way home - and I have few dealings with Marie. I spend the week hoping that she will suggest another evening out, but although she is pleasant to me when we meet - and this, remember, is in itself a new thing - no invitation is forthcoming. And when my phone does ring on Saturday morning, it is not Marie but Nigel on the other end of the call. Nigel sounds nervous and uncertain - as if he has had to psych himself up to make the call (which perhaps he has) - but after what seems to me an unnecessarily lengthy exchange of pleasantries, he comes to the point. He wants to take me up on my offer to help him increase his self-confidence when dressed (did I really make such an offer at Suzi's party?) and he suggests calling on me at home for this purpose. I try to temporize, but Nigel is persistent - almost desperate in his pleading - and I give way eventually, and suggest he calls the following Tuesday, when I know my mother will be at an evening class, and Lisa will be staying at The House, where she works during the week. Once I've dealt with Nigel I decide to call Barbara and we agree to meet for a drink that evening. I wear a closely fitting indigo dress with dark tights and boots, with my black padded jacket - not too smart, not too casual - and we meet in a wine bar on the edge of the town centre at 8 pm. Barbara has invited Kathryn to join us, and Kathryn arrives half an hour later, with her boyfriend Peter in tow. Peter has evidently not decided how to behave in Katie's presence, and there is some awkwardness there, but the evening passes pleasantly enough. We do see some people we know, and I'm evidently recognised by quite a few of them, but I find I'm no longer so apprehensive about people's reactions. Katie is getting used to being seen in public, and people are getting used to see her. I have the same feeling of normality the following day when Katie is taken out for lunch by my mother and Lisa, and we follow this with a canal-side walk. I decide that I'm in good shape to start work on Nigel. When the following Tuesday arrives, Nigel comes to my house dressed as himself carrying a large zip-up bag containing clothes and make-up. He's nervous. I've decided to put him at ease by avoiding wearing anything too striking: my outfit consists of a dark skirt, not too short, a pale rust-coloured blouse, and ankle boots with a kitten heel. I make coffee for us both and we go upstairs to my room, and chat for a while about mundane things like the weather and things we've done recently, and I have to make an effort to steer the conversation on to the matter in hand, by talking about Katie's various recent outings. Nigel visibly steels himself, and then says he will change, and suggests that I leave the room while he does. I'm slightly taken aback by this - aren't I supposed to be helping him? - but do as he asks. Nigel's transformation takes around half an hour, but then he calls me back, and he rather self-consciously poses for me, so that I can assess what I see. My first impression is that he is surprisingly well-equipped and competent. He evidently has professional breast forms, and the kind of lingerie that simulates a curvy physique. The outfit is quite striking - a short, clingy dress with a pattern of broad horizontal stripes, in alternate colours of fuscia pink and dark blue. He wears dark blue tights, matching the stripes of his dress, and a pair of pink heels, which are a slightly lighter shade than the fuscia stripes of his dress. The palette of his make-up also aims to mimic the colours of the dress - pink lips and nails, blue eyelids. The blues match, the pinks don't. The effect is quite convincing - Nigel has covered his rather coarse complexion quite well - but the overall look is of one who has tried too hard and not quite succeeded. The glasses, with their heavy black frames, don't look quite right, and I decide that if he is to fully achieve the natural look he strives for, he'll need to find something a little more feminine. I don't mention any of these reservations at the time, however, as I don't want to undermine his confidence. Nigel has come equipped to go out - he has a hip-length jacket with a hood made from an off-white fabric of plasticised or perhaps rubberised cotton. The overall look, when he dons this garment, is oddly maritime in character. He examines himself rather critically in a mirror, hands in the pockets of his jacket, swinging round to gauge the effect, and asks for my opinion. "Not bad at all," I say with more enthusiasm than I feel. "I think you're ready to go out." And this is true. The look, while not perfect, is good enough, and the casual passer-by is unlikely to see anything amiss, still less to guess his true gender. But now that he is fully dressed, he is uncertain about appearing in public. He prevaricates - he has other outfits that suit him better; he's not sure about walking in these heels; he might be recognised; someone might tell his parents. I remember that his real anxiety at Suzi's party was that his parents might find out about his habit and inclinations and that they would be anything but sympathetic. But although it is not many weeks since I was myself fearful to be seen in public, I am not willing to let him get away with this. "If you think that me helping you consists of you coming over to my house and changing and then spending the evening at home drinking coffee, you've got another think coming," I say. This might seem harsh, but I know from my own experience that there's no perfect time to take the plunge, and that if you wait for one, it might never arrive. And just occasionally, you need a little push to bring you to do the thing you've always wanted to do - the sort of push that Suzi gave me, in fact. And so, after a few more minutes of toing and froing, we walk out on to the street, and I guide Nigel - he has, rather unimaginatively, asked me to call him Nigella - to a quiet local caf?, where we order coffee and cake. I've decided that going to the town centre and visiting anywhere more crowded, like a pub, is too ambitious for a first excursion, as it's evident that Nigella's confidence needs bolstering gradually. She, for her part, makes a visible effort to steel herself and struts out with feigned confidence, and I admire her for that. We do not, in fact, see anybody we know while we're out, and the evening is rather a dull one for me. Nigella is not a great conversationalist - or perhaps she's suffering from nerves, which would be forgivable. We go back home after an hour, and Nigella becomes Nigel again, and leaves hurriedly without thanking me (although he makes clear that he will want to do the same again soon). The evening has had only one awkward moment, when I say to Nigella, "You'll have to tell your mum and dad sooner or later you know." The look of annoyance - of horror, of refusing to accept the facts - that he gives me would freeze the Amazon. Still, I suppose I have a warm feeling having helped Nigella, and I sense that I will be able to help her develop her self-confidence, and her sense of style. But it will be dry work. On the other hand, perhaps - if I can draw her out of herself - Nigella will perhaps become a kindred spirit, a friend who is like me in the most important of ways. I shake my head even as this thought goes through it: at the moment, the last thing I can foresee is the two of us becoming good friends, still less developing a close emotional bond. Time will tell. ++++++ I have forgotten that the following Saturday is to be the day of the Steampunk "exposition". Marie reminds me about it on Thursday and tells me she's already bought me a dress. So there's no choice about not going, then. I've never had any steampunk friends, but I recognise the clothing and know something about the genre. It's no surprise to me, therefore, that the happening will be in the local exhibition centre, where there's an exhibition of steam-powered transport and agricultural machinery from the early part of the last century. I'm not sure it's really my thing, and nor does it seem like Marie's, but she's obviously keen to go, and to be frank, I'm quite interested to see what's in store. Or at least I am until I see the dress that Marie has bought for me. It is a black latex ankle-length dress. The bodice is tight with a square neckline and three-quarter length sleeves trimmed with black lace. The skirt is huge and hooped, and although I can walk in it, I can't quite imagine having to sit in it for any length of time. Still, with the help of an abundance of talcum powder I struggle into it and examine myself in the full-length mirror in Marie's bedroom. It's certainly striking, and it deserves striking make-up, so from Marie's make-up tray, I select black lipstick and black nail varnish, and make my eyes as dark as possible, copying Marie's extravagant use of eyeliner. I have to apply all this standing up. Marie for her part is dressed in a black tailcoat made (inevitably) of beautiful, fine leather. With this she sports black satin knee breeches and stockings, and a frilled shirt, also black, seemingly made of silk. Her shiny shoes have large, highly-polished brass buckles and (unusual for Marie) a very high stacked heel, which makes her taller than me. We are, I think to myself, definitely creatures of the night. We take a taxi to the exhibition centre. As predicted, I have considerable difficulty manoeuvring myself - or rather, my dress - into it. But in the end I succeed and manage to extract myself without mishap either to me or to the dress. Marie makes a more elegant exit, putting on a top hat, and tapping the ground with an ebony cane, encouraging me to move on towards the hall. This is a nineteenth century building - a huge oblong space with a vaulted ceiling and a balcony around the walls at mezzanine level. The exhibition is on the ground floor - I see steam cars, coaches, tractors, steamrollers, and odd agricultural-looking machines with blades and nozzles and hoppers which might, for all I know, be for ploughing or threshing corn, or one of a dozen farmyard tasks about which (as a town boy) I know nothing. The steampunks have, Marie tells me, hired the hall for the evening, and have curtained off one side of the balcony where there is a bar and what Marie calls a social hub. Outside the curtained area, there are tables where people are sitting eating and drinking. The costumes display much variety and imagination. I see stiff leather corsets worn over Victorian crinolines, Amazon-style outfits with straps and buckles, high collars and vicious-looking boots, florid dresses with plackets, and frothy petticoats combined with starched military tunics. The men wear tails or velvet jackets or military-looking uniforms or old-style riding clothes with stocks and pink coats and boots. Some of the guests carry polished brass cameras, telescopes, or, in the case of the women, fans or parasols. Men sport pocket watches on brass chains or heavy timepieces on ribbons around their necks. There are lorgnettes, monocles, and those odd-looking spectacles with protruding, binocular-like lenses. We circulate for a while, pretending to be interested in the exhibits, and Marie exchanges a few words with other guests, until we find Benjamin. He is wearing a blazer with stripes in the MCC colours, a pair of cream trousers with turn-ups, and a tie knotted through the belt loops. His shirt is, however, a deep violet colour and as extravagantly frilled as Marie's. He is with a companion he introduces as Judy. She is a lissom red-haired girl wearing a glossy black leotard, with long boots and very long leather gloves extending almost to her shoulders. She has a red silk square knotted around her waist, an extravagantly wide-brimmed hat with an ostrich feather (dyed red), and she carries a fan which she opens and shuts at intervals with a clatter, which seems to have no purpose other than decoration. Not everyone, I think to myself, is in ersatz Victorian dress. Benjamin engages Marie in a lengthy conversation about the exhibition (or "exposition" as he continues to call it), explaining in exhaustive detail the history of some of the machines and the purposes to which they were put. Marie listens politely, but I can tell she's bored by all this, and I wonder for a moment why we're here. My own attention wanders, and I find myself examining the costumes and accessories, struck by the way that people display themselves. There is, undoubtedly, an element of sexuality in the displays, and I'm not sure whether I'm turned on or nervous. "Come on then." Marie's voice is abrupt, as if she's spoken to me before, and I rouse myself from my reverie and try to recall the recent course of the conversation. Benjamin has, I realise on picking through my distracted memory, suggested that the four of us might go to the "viewing room", and Marie is tugging me insistently towards a staircase. I wonder for a moment what a viewing room might be, but I allow myself to be drawn upstairs, and we find ourselves on a balcony, situated along one of the long sides of the oblong building, which Benjamin tells us contains the bar. The balcony is long and broad, so I am expecting to be drawn into a spacious room, but in fact the effect is claustrophobic. The room is divided by heavy, embroidered curtains into alcoves and snugs, some of which are themselves curtained off from the rest of the space. The furniture consists of low tables and upholstered divans, the short, curved legs of which are painted gold. I wonder whether the steampunks have constructed this space, or whether it is part of the exhibition. When I ask, it emerges that it has been set up especially for the evening. The bar is at the far end and we slink towards it. Benjamin orders a bottle of champagne and pours a glass for each of us. I can see Marie eyeing the bottles at the back of the bar: perhaps she is looking for her customary vodka. But we sip the champagne thoughtfully for a few minutes, looking at the other inhabitants of the room, and saying little. I find myself taken aback by what I see and hear. The visible part of the room is sparsely populated, but I hear sounds from behind the curtained-off areas - panting and groans and other sounds which are unmistakably sexual, and I start to speculate what sort of party this might be and what I might be asked to participate in. It is not, though, too difficult to guess. The few people in the viewing room are at best partially dressed, and before we have finished our drinks, Benjamin leaves us for a few moments and returns with notably fewer clothes (although he has retained his purple shirt, which is unbuttoned, and he has also acquired a bowler hat from somewhere). Marie looks at him and the two exchange nods, as if agreeing on something. And then they both look at me. I find myself avoiding their eyes. "We should go to the dressing room." Marie is matter-of-fact, and I ask myself whether she had foreseen this aspect of the party, but it seems that she has. She steers me into a space with coat-racks, wooden benches, and crates for shoes, and I see that many of the hooks have discarded garments hanging from them. Marie undresses completely, and then slips back into her tail coat and shuffles her bare feet into her shoes. She then turns to me, and starts to unfasten my dress. I know I should protest, but I am overwhelmed by the oddity of the occasion and the matter-of-fact way that the other guests are behaving. I'm also wary of crossing Marie, and so I don't protest as she peels the latex sheath from my torso, so that I can step out of the voluminous skirt. Underneath the dress, I have been wearing a boned corset with suspenders, seamed stockings, and side-buttoned ankle boots with a kitten heel. Marie scrutinises me for a moment and decides that I will keep these garments on, although she instructs me to pull off my flimsy silk panties, exposing my penis. It becomes clear that she wants to display me - a virile, aroused she- male, brazenly wearing lingerie at the same time as I flaunt my maleness. Unfortunately, I don't rise to the occasion. Perhaps it's the enormity of the unexpected situation, the meretricious nature of what I'm being asked to do - or maybe it's the fact that the hall is a degree or two too cold to render this an entirely comfortable experience (I'm getting goose-bumps) - but my penis remains stubbornly un-erect and, indeed, notably shrivelled. We walk through the bar space, and Marie places a hand, in apparent reassurance, in the small of my back as she steers me past people we don't know, but I sense her growing irritation. We do find Benjamin and his partner (the glorious Judy remains clad in her clingy leotard, but she hardly has to remove this garment to display her sexuality in full), but as we exchange nods of acknowledgement, I see Benjamin looking furtively at my groin area. Marie lapses into moody silence. We prowl around for a while. Marie steers me past an empty alcove. "I had thought..." she begins. I shrug. Marie's meaning is plain enough, but it's obviously not going to happen, and I shiver slightly from a combination of the cold and a looming sense of failure. Marie keeps us going for a little longer, but eventually decides we are calling it a day, and taking her phone from the pocket of her tail coat, summons a taxi. We retreat to the changing room, and reclaim our clothes. The task of pulling on the latex dress is notably more difficult without the aid of talcum powder. In the taxi, Marie is silent, brooding. I sit thinking about the evening and why it has been arranged as it was, and indeed how. The room on the mezzanine must have been set up after the museum closed at four o'clock, and presumably it will need to be cleared away by the time it reopens at eleven a.m. the following day. Who is doing all the work? And who has paid for it all? Benjamin seems affluent enough, but the gathering must have cost thousands, and while I know the tickets weren't free, I strongly doubt if the takings would be sufficient to cover the cost. These questions are easier to pose than to answer, and we arrive at Marie's house with me still pondering. Marie, still visibly annoyed by the way the evening has turned out, drags me upstairs without speaking, and we stumble into her bedroom. She undresses wordlessly, and stamps out of the bedroom in the direction of the bathroom. I hear the sound of the shower. For the second time this evening, I struggle out of my clammy dress, which persists in trying to cleave to my torso, and open Marie's wardrobe to look for a hanger. The dress having been put away, I stand back and survey the rail of clothes. The heavy wardrobe is a large one, but the racks are full - indeed, so full that it is difficult to remove or replace items. Fascinated, I fumble through the hangers - a preponderance of black, but with some violets and maroons as well; a lot of leather, some PVC and velvet, an extravagant skirt made of gauzy fabric, and some more conventional jeans and tops, and, of course, Marie's well-worn black suede coat. I shuffle through the clothes, enthralled and excited by what I see. There is a tough sexiness about most of the styles there, and I pull a few hangers out and hold a few items in front of me while reviewing the look they produce in the mirror. At last, I discover the biker jacket I've seen Marie wear a few times - heavy, smooth, well-worn leather with the shiny patina of regular use. Aroused, I find myself pulling it on over the boned corset I'm still wearing. It's a size too large for me, and the sleeves reach beyond my knuckles, but as I survey my appearance in the mirror, I'm struck by the dramatic look. I slither over to Marie's make-up table and find some dark lipstick and eyeliner, which when applied add to the striking nature of the look. The noise of the shower has stopped, and I hear the bathroom door open. Hastily, I position myself behind the bedroom door, and as it opens, I grasp Marie by the wrist and pull her towards the bed. She gives me a startled look, as I push her down on to her back and kneel astride her. I lean forward, pinning her wrists to the pillow in imitation of the manoeuvres Marie has used in our previous encounter a scant fortnight before, and kiss her hard and long. And as she responds, slowly at first but then with more urgency, I fumble to find her sex with my fingers. But Marie is suddenly, fiercely engaged in this game and raises her hips towards me more or less imploring me to enter her, which I do. The congress is swift, almost angry, and over quite quickly, but we both come more or less simultaneously, Marie flailing back on to the pillow as she does so, panting with exertion - or is it a kind of rough, pleasurable excitement? I lie down beside her, and she holds me tight, almost angrily. Kisses follow, and then she gets off the bed, stands, and wanders round the room uncertainly for a moment, as if unsure of what to do next. Then she retrieves her tailcoat hanging behind the bedroom door, retrieves it, and pulls it on, returns to the bed and turns me so that I'm prone. Lying on my stomach, I can't quite see what she's doing, but I hear her fumbling in the drawer of a bedside table, and then an odd sound, like the rattling of metal. I sense her leaning over me - she has to kneel on the edge of the bed to do so - gripping me, gently but firmly, by the left hand, which she raises above my head. And then I feel cold metal around my wrist and hear a click, and I realise that she has manacled my wrist to the metal bed frame. Moving swiftly she does the same with my right wrist, which is nearer to her, and then pulls two pillows from the far side of the bed and tucks them under my hips, so my bottom is raised in the air. I turn my head sideways, and see her stand back and look at me appraisingly, and then she turns to her wooden chest of drawers and opens the bottom-most drawer with a loud clatter. I see her fiddling with something at her hips, and then she walks back towards me carrying a studded leather belt - quite narrow - in her right hand. With fascinated horror, I see that she is wearing a strap-on. "Your safe word is 'Hide'." She is standing beside me, and when I say nothing, she continues, "You know what a safe word is?" I nod. My adolescent research into sex has extended to BDSM although, hitherto, I've never felt tempted by that particular cult. Marie smiles. "Well, then," she says. She flicks the belt across my buttocks, hard enough to sting, although not yet hard enough to cause real pain. But she repeats the action, and continues to repeat it for a while. I don't count the strokes, but they increase in intensity as time goes by, and I find myself whimpering. I don't, however, use my safe word. If Marie has decided that I deserve to be punished for my performance at the museum, then I won't provoke her with a refusal to cooperate. And, I reluctantly admit to myself, I'm finding the experience oddly stimulating. Marie, the powerful Amazon, is an unimpeachably exotic figure and her athletic movements serve to emphasise her striking, elegant muscle structure, as the leather coat slithers and slides around her hard body. After a shortish while, Marie desists from striking me, and clambers on to the bread. I swallow anxiously because I think I know what's coming. And sure enough, Marie enters me from behind with a force that I find uncomfortable, although not entirely unpleasant. And as she thrusts into me, supporting herself on the bed with her left arm, she caresses herself with the fingers of her right hand. Again, she comes quite quickly and rather noisily. She lies down beside me, breathing heavily for a few moments, before releasing my right hand, and turning me on to my back. And then she kneels astride me, and this time it is I who manoeuvre my hips so that I can enter her, a manoeuvre she collaborates in, apparently pleased with my response. And then there is a fierce, brief congress which ends with us both coming, more or less simultaneously. Marie lies down next to me, caressing me through the leather of the jacket I'm wearing, and I murmur something. I think I ask if I'm forgiven. But Marie just smiles enigmatically, kisses me quite gently, and puts a finger over my lips, signalling that I'm not to ask questions. Because then she turns me over again and the whole performance - the wielding of the improvised whip, the performance with the dildo, and then the second bout of sex - is repeated. And only then does Marie release my other wrist and let me embrace her and lie facing her so that our bodies are almost touching. Kisses are exchanged, and I draw her towards me, and I find myself quite quickly becoming aroused once more. I sense Marie responding to my caresses, and soon we find ourselves locked together in a more meltingly intimate lovemaking. I count this as my fourth orgasm, which means, unless she has been faking it, that it must be Marie's sixth. Well, we are both still teenagers, of course. And so we lie together, both of us spent, in the golden afterglow. "I'm sorry I disappointed you at the exposition," I say, with a kiss, which is gently returned. "Well," she says, "you have more than made up for it now." She smiles with genuine warmth. I hesitate. "I might have done better with a bit of advance warning." "Oh." Marie props herself up on an elbow, looking genuinely surprised. "Well," she says, "I'll try not to spring something like that on you again." "Promise?" I say. "Promise." She strokes my cheek, and kisses me again. Was I na?ve to take her at her word? ++++++ We fast forward to Christmas. I am lying in bed with Suzi, who has returned from university. Marie seems to know about my past liaisons with Suzi, which surprises me as I've always tried to be discreet. But through chance remarks and asides, it's pretty clear that Marie has drawn conclusions from the fact that it was Suzi who first persuaded me to appear as Katie in public. Marie has also made a point of saying, when I let slip that I was looking forward to seeing Suzi again during her vacation, that she is not the possessive type. I didn't know whether to believe her when she said it, or quite what to make of it, and still don't. I am, however, unable to resist Suzi's pretty naked invitation - well, to be naked with her, and so here we are. I do feel a modicum of guilt at my infidelity, but try hard to suppress it, in which I mostly succeed. My relationship with Marie has become closer since the night at the museum - in fact, more like a genuine relationship than the purely sexual transaction it seemed at first. We go out together frequently - most often to the Dark Heart, but we spend time with our mutual friends too - and Marie's influence on my wardrobe grows steadily. I like to think I have changed her too. She seems to have mellowed, not just with me but also with school acquaintances. And perhaps for this reason, the fact of our relationship has become fairly widely known, although we have taken care to avoid public displays of affection. This has had an interesting effect on the way people behave towards me. Those mostly male acquaintances who disdained me after Suzi's party begin to speak to me again, sometimes almost with respect. Indeed, there is a kind of admiration in the fact that I have (as one of them put it) "tamed" Marie. If only they knew! Charles is unmitigatedly delighted that I have finally acquired a girlfriend (even though it is Katie, rather than David, who is the recipient of Marie's attention). And Peter, Kathryn's partner, who has never been one of my closest friends, becomes more likely to join our group when we go out together. Only fragile, mercurial Jane stands aloof, calling us "both a pair of weirdos". We are, certainly, not a conventional couple, but we are, I think, more at ease with the world than she is. Marie has celebrated her eighteenth birthday at the beginning of December, and hosted drinks at the Dark Heart. I turn up in a pair of very long over-the-knee boots I've saved up for, a pair of leather shorts I've borrowed from Lisa, and a biker-style jacket in beautiful soft leather that I've nagged my mother to buy for me. This outfit is greeted with great and predictable enthusiasm, and an unexpectedly public display of affection from Marie. Interestingly, though, my mother and Lisa have differing attitudes to my evolving wardrobe. Lisa is definitely an enthusiast, but mother laments the fact that she can't make the kind of clothes I'm increasingly wearing. "I can't work in leather," she says. I reassure her that my new style is not exclusive, and that I'll be wearing the kind of clothes she's made for me in the past when I go out with her and Lisa, which I'm now doing increasingly frequently. Indeed, my forays in public now involve a variety of companions - Marie, Kathryn and her friends, Charles and his girlfriend from time to time, and my mother and Lisa quite often at weekends for lunch in town or on trips further afield. And then there is Nigel/Nigella. It has not been without effort and persistence, but over the weeks, I have gradually managed to instil a little more confidence into Nigella when she goes out in public. I have taken her to caf?s, bars, even on a couple of occasions to see a film; we have gone shopping together, and I am pleased to be able to tell myself that Marie is not the only one who can influence somebody's style. Nigella has developed a careless elegance, quite unlike the edgy look I find myself adopting, that suits her well. I have even persuaded her to buy a less intrusively ugly pair of spectacles. The one remaining difficulty is with his parents. He remains determined to conceal Nigella's existence from him, and in this he has the support of his sister, Norma. (He has arranged for me to meet Norma on a couple of occasions, and I rather like this mischievous, lively redhead.) And however much I try to persuade him that it is better to be open, he is adamant that, so far as his parents are concerned, he cannot be. I do now have a new card to play. Suzi has organised a Christmas party at her house, and I am trying to persuade Nigella to come along. She can tell her parents that it is a fancy-dress do, and that she has decided to attend as a Hollywood star (I'm thinking Julia Roberts). She might even be able to change at her own home. This, I think, will introduce her parents gently to the idea of Nigel presenting as a female, and perhaps that can lead in due course to a more open discussion with them. "Do you think she'll come," asks Suzi. I've discussed this with her several times, and she's agreed to play her part by sending a suitable, personalised invitation to Nigel (by which I mean one worded in such a way as to encourage guests to dress as outrageously as possible). "I don't know. I hope so," I say. I'm stepping into my dress - long- sleeved, high collar, silky, green - as I do so. "I'll call him - I mean her - again this evening." "Good luck," says Suzi. "I'd like to help Nigel. He's a sweet boy." ++++++ I've been successful in my efforts to persuade Nigella to come to Suzi's party, and (to my surprise) she channels Julia Roberts's role in Pretty Woman (short tight skirt, long shiny boots, skimpy pink top). She's dropped off by her mother, who glances uneasily from their car as Nigella makes her way up the path to Suzi's front door. I observe this from the living room window, and go to meet Nigella as he comes in. He shuts the door behind him, leans against it, and releases a held-in breath in what might be relief. I sense that justifying his choice of costume has not been easy. Nigella latches on to me: we collect drinks from the kitchen and circulate for a while. It's not a crushingly crowded party - perhaps 30 or so people in Suzi's large house - so it's a friendly rather than a frenetic gathering. Few of them know Nigel - Suzi knows him mainly from meeting him at the Arts Centre - despite the fact that he attended Suzi's birthday party. But the other guests are welcoming and interested in Nigella's story, and indeed more sympathetic than I might have expected. Marie has chosen not to attend what she refers to slightingly as a "schoolgirl bash", and so my own outfit doesn't reflect her gothic tastes. I've worn a blue velvet dress made by my mother which I think contrasts pleasingly with my pale complexion and light blonde hair. At some point in the evening, I escape Nigella's company and go in search of Suzi, but her boyfriend Jason is there, enjoying her company after a term apart, so our conversation is hardly intimate. In fact, Nigella's presence aside, I find the party rather dull. She, for her part, has become lively and excited by the evening, finding the task of mingling with Suzi's friends easier and more enjoyable than she thought, until just before midnight when there is a ring at the front door. I happen to be next to it, chatting to a couple of tennis-playing friends, and open it to see Nigella's mother who has evidently come to collect her. Nigella is nowhere to be seen, and I go off in search of her, eventually tracking her down to the kitchen. Meanwhile, her mother has stepped over the threshold and is looking around with puzzled interest. It takes me a while to work out why, but then it dawns on me that although she's seeing a group of young people enjoying themselves, she's not seeing much in the way of fancy dress. There is, it is true, an eclectic range of clothes, but most of the boys are wearing nothing more exotic than cargo pants and sweatshirts, and whilst the girls are perhaps a little dressier, they are wearing conventional, if sometimes rather sexy clothes. So (me apart) nobody other than Nigella is in anything that could not be described as normal for an 18 year-old boy or girl. The expression on Nigella's mother's face shows she has registered this; the horrified expression on Nigella's face shows that she knows what her mother is thinking. A few minutes ago, she was preening and strutting amongst the party guests. Now she almost furtively slinks in the direction of her mother. I bid her a cheerful goodbye, hoping this suggests an atmosphere of normality to Nigella's mum, but I sense that this falls on deaf ears. As the two of them push past me to leave the house, Nigella's mother says, "We need to have a serious talk." And then, "You weren't telling the truth when you said this was going to be a fancy-dress party." I keep the door ajar as the two of them walk down the front path, and hear Nigella's attempted protest against this accusation: "I genuinely thought it was fancy dress, mum. You saw the invitation I got. It's just that nobody else decided to..." Sensibly, Nigella doesn't mention me. I don't hear the rest of the exchange, but I'm pretty sure that her mother's next question would be, "If nobody else decided to wear fancy dress, why did you?" Perhaps the evening's revelations will be the beginning of a sensible conversation between Nigel and his parents about his inclinations, but on the evidence of the last few minutes, I rather doubt it. ++++++ Marie and I are bumping towards Hereford in her father's battered white van. Marie drives, as you might expect, efficiently but rather faster than I feel justified by the state of the country roads along which we're travelling. We are on our way to Angela's New Year gathering, and I'm trying to pump Marie on the sort of occasion this will be. "I've only been to a couple of Angela's parties before," she says. "They're always interesting." But when I try to worm more information out of her she's reticent. "I don't know exactly what she's got in mind this time." Christmas has been a family affair. My presents have consisted mainly of clothing. Mum made me a couple of colourful dresses, and also bought me an elegant long dress from a small designer boutique in town: it is pale turquoise, sleeveless, with a pattern of silver stars. I've packed it, in case Angela's party requires me to dress formally. The clothes Lisa gave me have a definite goth feel to them, and I've packed some of those too. Katie combed the Boxing Day sales, and made a few purchases which I thought would appeal to Marie (and such has been Marie's influence on my style, they certainly appeal to me too), and I've packed those as well. So my suitcase is rather a large one for a four-day stay. Marie has brought a smaller suitcase and a zip-up bag which rattles as she packs it into the van. The house, is a large, stone-built structure with a slate roof with mansard windows. We arrive in mid-afternoon, before the rest of the guests, and Angela shows us around. On the ground floor there's a large living room with chintzy furniture and curtains, sumptuous oriental rugs, low coffee tables, and a real fire. Off the living room, there's a games room and a smaller room with a home cinema, and on the other side of the substantial entrance hall there's an enormous kitchen and a separate utility room. The kitchen has a flagged stone floor, an aga, a central island work surface, two large fridges, one of which has a glass door revealing that it contains only bottles of wine, and a scrubbed pine table. The table will comfortably seat twelve, and probably more. On the first floor, there are four double bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms; and in the attic, there are two more bedrooms, one of which is allocated to Marie and I. It has a picture of a raven on the door. The room is long and narrow, with two mansard windows interrupting the sloping ceiling. At one end are an en suite bathroom and a walk-in wardrobe. The bed is set against the opposite wall. There is an easy chair and a kidney-shaped dressing table with a mirrored top. The furniture is as chintzy as that in the living room; the floor consists of polished pine boards, and there are a couple of sheepskin rugs. We set to unpacking our clothes. Marie looks appreciatively at what I have brought with me - by the time we have both finished, the wardrobe is hung with an substantial collection of black garments, with boots and shoes arrayed below. Marie has tossed her zip-up bag, unpacked, on to the wardrobe floor. The other guests arrive in dribs and drabs during the afternoon. To my surprise, two of them are Suzi and her boyfriend Jason. I guess that Angela must know Suzi through the Arts Centre (quite likely - Suzi has I know attended some creative writing seminars there) or through Marie (probably less likely). Then there are Mark, a commodities broker (dark well-groomed hair, sleek complexion, power suit, open necked shirt, chunky gold ring) and his trophy wife Tracy; Igor, a young pianist of apparently growing reputation, and his partner Emilia, an out of work actor; James, a civil servant occupying a senior position in the Department of Culture, and his wife Jenny, who is also a civil servant. Igor and Emilia are dressed quite casually. James, who has tried too hard to dress for the country, wears a three-piece tweed suit with tan brogues, and his wife is all floaty cheesecloth. Angela's husband, Stanley, completes the party. Stanley is a theatre manager - he runs three theatres in the West End - and I'm struck by the fact that all the other couples have connections with the arts. (Even Mark, who is apparently a sponsor of Stanley's theatres.) Marie and I are the odd ones out, having met Angela only in the Dark Heart, and I can't help feeling that Angela's interest in heavy rock is somehow out of kilter with the seemingly more classical tastes of the other guests. Angela, incidentally, now has cherry-red hair, and she is dressed in a sleek black jumpsuit - rather different from the green and purple palette I've been used to seeing her in. There is a round of meet-and-greet, where we cautiously introduce ourselves and ask questions of our fellow guests to find out a little more about them. At about 6 o'clock, pre-dinner drinks appear and are swooped on with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I'm wondering what sort of occasion this is going to be. Four days cooped up with this arty bunch feels a bit heavy to me. Angela has mentioned country walks and riding, and I'm conscious that the collection of tight skirts and stilettos I've brought with me hardly conduce to this sort of activity. Angela announces that dinner will be at 8.30 (it's being brought in by caterers). She says something about the seating plan and after dinner activities that I don't quite catch, and I shoot an enquiring glance at Marie, but she just shrugs her shoulders. At one point, I find myself in conversation with Emilia the actress, who asks me if I've been to one of Angela's happenings (as she calls them) before. I shake my head. "Took me two weeks to recover from the last one," she says. I ask her if there had been lots of energetic outdoor activities. "Well, yes," she replies. "But I think it was more the indoor activities that tired me out." Puzzled, I ask what sort of indoor activities had taken up so much energy. "Don't you know?" she asks, sounding startled. I shake my head again. She thinks for a moment, and seems about to say something when we're joined by Suzi and Jason, and the moment passes. A gaggle of people has gathered around Angela, who is, I'm told, deciding on the seating plan for dinner. This seems unnecessarily formal to me, but when I say so, Jason says, "Don't you care who you'll be sitting next to at dinner time?" "I assume it'll be Marie," I say. I glance over at Angela and see that Marie is talking to her at this very moment. "Maybe. Maybe not." This from Suzi. "Depends on what you want. Angela thinks it's dull to sit next to your partner for the whole week, and in any case other people will have their own ideas. I expect there'll be some sort of rota." I decide I need to understand this cryptic remark, and wander over to where Angela is scribbling on a bit of paper. But when I ask her about the seating plan, she says only, "You'll be sitting next to me, darling. And Tracy will be on your other side. But don't worry about her - she'll be fully occupied with Igor." "Fully occupied" seems to me to be another strange choice of words, but before I can ask what she means, Angela is buttonholed by Jason who is checking that he is sitting next to Suzi at dinner as requested. And then Stanley suggests that we might like to change for dinner, and people drain their glasses and start to trek upstairs. When Marie and I are in the bedroom, I find myself distracted by the proximity of Marie's body as we both strip and shower and select our clothes for the evening. I decide to wear the sexiest dress I've bought with me. Pelle Italiana is one of the shops I visited for the Boxing Day sales, and I have bought a short, close-fitting black biker-style dress decorated with multiple zips and metallic studs at the collar. My over-the-knee boots complete the outfit. I sit at the dressing table, and select a suitably flamboyant palette for my lips and eyes, which I find difficult to apply because Marie's embraces keep constricting my arms and her kisses keep smudging my lip gloss. For her part, Marie is wearing a blazer-style jacket with narrow lapels and sharp shoulders (shoulder pads are very much in style this year), and a pair of soft leather leggings. This is some way from the goth look she adopts when we're out and about at home, but it is I think suited to the company. Eventually, I untangle myself from Marie's embraces, finish applying my make-up, and we descend to the dining room, where the other guests are assembling. Angela, who is directing proceedings, has changed into a shot-silk dress in midnight blue - sleeveless, short, elegant-verging- on-indecent. Her husband is wearing a tuxedo with a brightly-coloured butterfly-bow with a paisley pattern. Igor is also wearing a dinner jacket, but with a conventional musician's black tie. Emilia wears the kind of dress you might wear to an Oscar's ceremony - long, silky, shimmering, close-fitting, revealing more than it conceals. Mark arrives, followed by his slightly breathless trophy wife (have they had an argument? I wonder to myself). Mark wears a cream suit with a burgundy-coloured shirt with a frilled front. The trophy wife is dressed - well, as a trophy wife. The civil servant is still wearing a rather staid three-piece suit, but Mrs.Civil Servant is wearing a rather nice fuscia-coloured suit with a short skirt, a black silk blouse, and black tights. I revise my first impressions: she is quite sexy, in an understated way. Jason and Suzi have not yet appeared. More drinks are poured, and sunk rapidly. I linger over my own: everybody else seems to have a much greater capacity than I do, and top- ups are accepted with enthusiasm. Eventually, Suzi and Jason appear, looking rather flustered, and we filter into the kitchen and sit down at our allotted places. I look round the table. Angela is on my left unfolding a napkin. She smiles at me, takes a napkin from my own plate, unfolds it, and lays it proprietorially on my knee. For some reason I'm unsettled. Marie, I notice, is trapped between Mark, who seems to be paying her a lot of attention and James. On James's other side sits Emilia, and then Stanley and Jenny, who seem to be deep in conversation. I'm struck by the fact that the only couple sitting next to each other are Jason and Suzi. The table is surrounded by low settles, and some of the place settings seem to have been arranged in such a way as to bring people very close together. I'm virtually on top of Angela, but further away from Tracy. And Marie, I see, is closest to Mark, whose hands I can't see because they are below the table. I'm suddenly aware of the proximity of Angela's body, and fancy I can feel the pressure of her thigh against mine. And there is - yes - a definite rubbing together of calves as I feel her raise a foot, her high heel acting as a fulcrum, and pressing her toe against my boot. I find myself swallowing, not knowing whether to say anything, and if so what. She smiles. I blush. There is an intentness about the way that people are conversing with their neighbours. Stanley is whispering something into Jenny's ears and she smiles a reply. They turn to face each other: their warm smiles reach their eyes and I'm almost sure I see parted lips, as if poised for a kiss. Igor is leaning in Tracy's direction, touching her shoulder while he says something which makes her laugh. I glance at Marie but she is by now deep in conversation with Mark, whose hands are still concealed beneath the table. I'm startled to feel a hand on my thigh, but Angela is doing no more than asking me whether I want red or white wine (one of the caterers is hovering behind me holding a bottle of each). Nonetheless, I'm unsettled. There is a dynamic around the table, from which I feel detached, creating an otherworldly atmosphere which I don't quite understand. And then the caterers bring our starters to the table, and Angela disengages, and I wonder whether I'm reading too much into what's going on. The caterers are hovering, pouring more wine and putting out bottles of fizzy water. I take a hefty swig from my glass. There is a buzz of conversation. Stanley starts talking about the productions planned for his theatres. Emilia asks some detailed questions, observing that she's always wanted to play Desdemona. Mark asks about press coverage and whether there's going to be a gala night for one of the plays. Stanley nods, and Mark leans over to Marie and whispers something, and she laughs. Suzi and Jason, I notice, are wrapped up in their own conversation. As the main courses arrive, Angela asks me how I met Marie and seems surprised when I say that I met her at school. I ask how long she and Marie have known each other, and she says since Billy brought her along to one of her parties a couple of years ago. She frowns, as if puzzling over something, but then is distracted by a question from Emilia, sitting opposite, about what we'll be doing tomorrow. I'm only half listening to her, as I look again at Mark whispering something into Marie's ear. Marie smiles and nods, and I wonder again what they're saying to each other. I remember that Marie has told me that she's not the jealous type, and I find myself wondering whether I can live up to her example. The volume of conversation rises as the meal progresses. There's no longer any attempt to sustain a single conversation around the table - people speak to their neighbour or to the person sitting opposite them, so several discussions are in train at once. Some of them are lively and loud, but I lose track of a lot of what is said and take little active part myself, although I listen politely as Angela tells me a little about her work. It is now quite obvious that a lot of flirting is taking place between neighbours. I wonder a little about how people will react when couples are in the privacy of their own bedrooms. And I wonder how I will react myself when Marie and I are together again, since Mark is by now pretty full on and Marie's not doing much to deflect him. The meal eventually comes to a close and we filter back into the living room for coffee, leaving the caterers to clear up the mess. I'm expecting to reclaim Marie, but she's still chattering and giggling with Mark as the coffee pot circulates, and in frustration I throw myself into an armchair and glower at them. For a second I catch Marie's eye, and she makes an odd gesture with her hands, palms down, which I interpret as meaning, "Don't worry. It's all right." A smile, which I return uncertainly. I'm still considering what to make of this when Angela floats over, and lowers herself on to my knee. She curls up on top of me, stroking my neck with a languid hand, and then brushes my long blonde hair behind an ear, and plants a soft kiss on the skin she's uncovered. Startled, I say, "Marie," casting a glance in her direction. Angela makes a sound, which might be intended to placate. "She's occupied with Mark, at the moment, don't you think." Her fingers continue to stroke my neck, and I'm increasingly distracted. I've not hitherto been aroused by her proximity, despite the game of footsie at dinner, or even thought of her as particularly attractive. But dressed as she is in clingy, slippery silk, surrounded by a cloud of musky animal scent, I find myself responding. Almost without thinking, I lay a hand on her hip, and let it glide upwards, so that the material of her dress wrinkles and moves, exposing even more flesh. "People are..." I find myself looking into those slate-blue eyes. I start to say something, but she places a finger on my lips. "Have you not noticed that everyone is still with the person they were sitting next to at dinner." Including us, I suppose. Yes, I had noticed that, and found it a little disturbing. "Well, that's how it generally goes at one of these parties." I look around again. Stanley, fingers gently entwined with those of Jenny, is leaving the room with an undoubtedly libidinous air. And James seems to be preparing himself to do the same with Emilia. I swallow. "Are they going...?" But Angela once more places a finger on my lips. "Yes..." She hesitates for just a moment. "I'm going to my room in a few moments. It's the one with the picture of the lion." She shuffles upwards, and whispers in my ear, her voice a mellow purr. "I'd like it if you followed me." "Marie..." She touches an earlobe with the tip of her tongue: it's seems unbelievably erotic. "Marie will be here for you tomorrow." I find myself looking into Angela's eyes and she raises an enquiring eyebrow. Will I follow her or not? And suddenly the dynamic seems impossible to resist, as I realise what is happening. And I realise that short of making an impossible scene, it's going to be unrealistic to attempt to detach Marie from Mark. And I turn my attention back to Angela and nod. Satisfied, Angela stands up and saunters from the room. She looks back over her should as she walks through the door. I find myself nodding again. I stand up and walk past Marie, who is momentarily alone. Mark, I think, must have left to go to the bathroom. Marie opens her mouth as I pass. "Angela," she whispers. "Yes," I say. "Mark?" "Yes." I'm sufficiently enmeshed in the way the evening is turning out, that I do not feel the anger or jealousy I might have felt at this exchange if had taken place half an hour before. But I say, "I thought after the steampunk evening, we'd agreed there'd be no more surprises." Marie has the grace to look embarrassed. "Oh." Genuine surprise. "I thought you'd know... My bad." "I wore this dress for you, you know." A flash of guilt crosses Marie's face. And then, "Sorry. I'll make amends tomorrow." She leans forward, kisses me, and strokes my leather- clad arm with the back of her fingers. I'm pleasantly startled by the sensation, and shiver for a moment. And then I find myself nodding, accepting her assurance, her partial explanation - and suddenly this situation which has turned my expectations upside down seems oddly normal. With a final glance at Marie, I start my journey upstairs towards Angela's room. ++++++ I knock gently on Angela's door, and she opens it and pulls me into the room. In the moments I have been talking to Marie, she has undressed and her slim, smooth-skinned body stands before me completely naked. She steps towards me and kisses me on the mouth, and then she takes one of the lapels of my dress in her left hand, and with her right she unfastens the long front zip. There are no words and no preliminaries: she is gentle but abrupt and to the point, and I find myself collaborating with her deft, precise movements as one by one my undergarments are removed. Scant moments later, I too am naked, apart from my silky black bra. My penis, released from its confinement, springs to life. Angela is an imaginative and softly energetic lover, and seems intent on exploiting the potential of the room to the full. The room, incidentally, is rather larger than the room that Marie and I are occupying, but the d?cor is similar: cream walls, floral curtains and silky bed coverings, polished pine floor with sheepskin rugs, a couple of comfortable easy chairs, coffee table, make-up table, as well as the large, soft bed. Angela pulls me downwards so that we make love first on one of the sheepskin rugs (a fairly conventional coupling) before we then move on to one of the armchairs (Angela squatting astride me) and towards the bed (where she kneels beside it, rump in the air, inviting me to enter her from the rear). She teaches me to bring her to orgasm using lips and tongue, and then uses her lips and tongue on me. At one point, she pulls a miniature bottle of some sticky, bright red, liqueur from a drawer in the side table, dribbles the liquid on to my tummy, and then licks it off, squirming her tongue into my navel. I think we continue well into the small hours before, exhausted, I drift into sleep; but I'm prodded awake at about 6 am by Angela, who is looking at a text message on her phone. "Marie says she's alone in her room." I look at Angela, not quite sure what's expected of me. But another thought strikes me. "What happens tonight?" I ask. "Not much," says Angela. "At least..." She hesitates. "It's New Year's Eve and I expect most people will be up until after midnight. I don't expect that many people will be up for sex after the amount of alcohol that's likely to be drunk." Well, I can see that. But, "What about the following nights. Do people go with the same partners?" I feel slightly foolish asking the question, but I need to understand what's expected of me. "Ah." She chooses her words carefully. "It's considered bad form to go with the same person more than once. At least on consecutive nights. People might start to think you're getting too attached to each other. So it won't be me. You could go with Marie, if she's up for it: you're allowed one night with your own partner. Or you could choose someone else." 'Allowed?' I think to myself. Is there a contract which binds me to this merry-go-round? I'm still peeved that I haven't had advance warning about all this. I think for a moment. Although Angela has hired the house for a week, Marie and I will be there for only three more nights because Marie had to get back to work the following weekend. So assuming New Year's Eve is considered a night off (whatever might actually happen) and Marie and I spend one other night together, then I only have to choose one more partner. "How about Suzi?" I ask. "Mm." Angela's face darkens a little. "I'm not sure that would be such a good idea. Marie tells me you and Suzi have a history, and I wouldn't want to think that Jason - he's a lovely boy but a bit impulsive - would start to get ideas." I think about other possibilities. Jenny is not really my type, and I'm rather intimidated by Tracy. "How about Emilia," I say. "I'll ask her." Angela props herself up on an elbow and looks at me. "You're sure you don't want to go for Tracy. It might appeal to her to be with the youngest person in the house." "Well, that wouldn't be me then. Marie only turned eighteen earlier this month." Angela's mouth jerks open. "Fuck!" She's genuinely shocked. "I'd put her well into her twenties." I explain that people often take Marie for a lot older than she really is. Angela nods absently, but she's clearly taken aback. "She can only just have turned sixteen when she first came here," she says faintly. I nod in agreement, startled myself at the realisation of how young Marie would have been when Billy first introduced her to Angela's circle. "Well, however young and innocent she might be, it's time for you to get back to her." Innocent? It's an odd choice of words, but I realise that she's right. Unspoken is the thought that Stanley will at some point be back here to reclaim his place. Angela lends me a long, silky robe, and I leave the room carrying my clothes and boots, and climb the stairs leading to the attic rooms. I enter the bedroom, which smells of alcohol and sex, and find Marie, half asleep, curled under the duvet. I ease myself into bed beside her, and stirring she clasps me to her and - rather surprisingly, when I think about it later - I return her embrace with a kiss, and comfortably snuggling into her flesh, fall once more into a comfortable asleep. ++++++ We sleep until mid-day, when noises and conversation from the stairs alert us to the fact that others are stirring. We descend to the kitchen where an informal brunch is laid out on the table. There is a pleasing aroma of strong coffee, and jugs of juice and bottles of fizzy water are also available to drink. The guests start to gather - some lively, some bleary-eyed after the long evening. It is apparent that various activities are planned - Angela and Igor are all in riding clothes; Emilia, James, and Jenny are dressed for a country walk (cords, wellingtons, padded jackets). Mark and Stanley are dressed in tweeds and flat caps, and both are carrying shotguns. I know that there is a stables a mile or so away, but was unaware that there is a shooting estate in the vicinity. I'm conscious that neither Marie nor I are dressed for country pursuits (I'm wearing heels and a short, tight skirt), and I ask Marie what we might be doing after lunch. "Well," she says, "Jason and Suzi will be in the games room." I roll my eyes. "I suppose we could watch a film, but..." I look at her expectantly. "...I rather thought we might go to bed." She gives me a smile, which some might characterise as wicked. When I look back at this moment later, I'm struck by the fact that I didn't find it odd that, although we have both been in congress with other people scant hours before, we climb the stairs after lunch with eager enthusiasm. In the bedroom, we undress feverishly. Marie is wearing a leather basque beneath her clothes, which she keeps on; for my part, having undressed, I search for my soft leather jacket and boots, which I feel are more or less expected nowadays when we make love. Marie is fumbling with her zip-up bag, and is, I realise, pulling from it some of the paraphernalia I recognise from the steampunk night - narrow leather belt, metal cuffs - as well as some items I haven't seen before. There is a full-face mask, or perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a hood, which she fastens on. The rather sinister appearance of this garment unsettles me, and nervously I find myself saying, "I don't see why I have to be punished. Not today." And Marie looks at me (I can't, of course, see the expression she's wearing), and says, in an amused tone, "We switch." I look at her, slow to grasp her meaning, and she continues, "I think, don't you, after last night, that it's almost certainly my turn to be punished." She zips up the mouth of her mask, and then, after a long moment, in a muffled voice, adds, "My safe word is pelt." Another word which might be a noun and which might be a verb, and which carries more than one meaning. But I'm nervous at first. "I'm not sure that I can..." "Oh yes you can." Marie's tone is dark. "Remember what you felt when you saw Mark flirting with me last night. I could quite clearly see your expresion across the table." And I do remember. And then suddenly I'm in role, pressing Marie against the wall, so that she's standing, legs apart, leaning forwards and supporting herself with her palms. I pick up the studded belt, and wield it quite vigorously, causing Marie to call out, more in surprise than pain, I think: she's quite shocked at the change in my manner. After a few strokes (I don't really keep count) I desist. Marie is breathing in fast, thick pants as I search in her bag, where I find a metal item which, I correctly guess, is a butt-plug, which I manage to work out how to insert. Marie shifts in what I take to be pleasurable discomfort. There are broad metal cuffs with D-rings which fit Marie's wrists and ankles, and I fasten these on to her. Then I find some lengths of chain and padlocks. The bed has a pine frame, rather than a metal one, but the bed-head is formed from slats, and I wind a length of chain around one and, manoeuvring Marie on to the bed, fasten the ends of the chain to her wrists. Using more chain, I attach her ankles to the short posts at the foot of the bed, so that her legs are held apart. And then I clamber on to the bed, and ask her if she's sufficiently contrite yet. Receiving only a grunt in reply, I continue to torment her - I pinch, bite, and scratch (I've allowed my nails to grow quite long for Christmas, and have filed them more or less to a point). Marie squirms in what I take to be exquisite anguish and pleads tearfully for me to stop, but she doesn't use her safe word. And as I squeeze hard at the flesh on the inside of her muscular thighs, she thrusts her groin, which is moist and eager, towards my fingers. I stop, propping myself up on an elbow, and unzip the mouth of her mask, and plant a kiss on her lips, which she returns, almost desperately. I shift position so that I can enter her and, as is quite often the case, when I do so she comes pretty quickly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I want you. I want you. Come back to me." I unfasten her ankles, so that she can grip me with her long, muscular legs, and then her wrists. The metal cuffs themselves I leave attached as (I think) a sort of reminder, while we resume. A lengthy, tender afternoon stretches before us. ++++++ In fact, we do not rejoin the others until quite late in the evening. A buffet supper has been promised, and Angela has told us to expect music, fireworks, and champagne. The evening is cold but clear, and we troop into the garden at around 10 pm for a firework display which is impressive, and smacks of having been laid out by professionals. I wonder to myself how much Angela and Stanley have spent on this week - no contribution, so far as I know, has been sought from the guests. Most of the guests are dressed in less formal clothes than the previous evening, but there's a party feel to the group. Angela is wearing a sparkly little dress in bright green, and has festooned her neck and shoulders with gold tinsel; Tracy is wearing an unfeasible amount of jewellery; and Jenny wears a startling pair of gold lame leggings with a black sparkly top. Even James has made something of an effort, although I'm not sure that the patterned Christmas jumper strikes quite the right note. For our part Marie and I... Well, I'm sure I don't need to tell you what sort of thing we're wearing. Angela has said that there is no obligation to pair off, which I'm relieved about, but it is evident that Angela and Stanley both have their own plans for the evening. As time passes, I see Angela in close conversation with James. She is tactile, animated, and James is unsurprisingly receptive to her charms. Stanley, meanwhile, has cornered Tracy. It occurs to me - perhaps I am a cynic - that it is in Stanley's interests to cultivate James, and also Mark, both of whose goodwill will help his business. Keeping their respective partners happy won't do any harm, and it I sense that Angela's flirting (for that is what it is) with James is also part of that strategy. No doubt Mark also forms part of her plans for later in the holiday. After the fireworks, I'm approached by Emilia. "I hear we're paired off for tomorrow evening," she says. Angela has evidently worked quickly. "Are we? " She nods. "I'm just wondering..." she gestures at my leather outfit, which is at once aggressive and gloriously feminine, "I'm just wondering what sort of... That is to say, how exactly you..." She tails off, looking at me uncertainly, and my mind whirls as I try to work out precisely what it is she's asking me. She must know my true gender, of course; even if she hasn't guessed from the start (unlikely, it seems to me), Angela will have told her. And if she's worried about the way I perform in bed - well, she has had an opportunity to ask Angela to set her mind at risk. Still, there's an expression of appeal on her face, an undefinable worry. How to respond? "I think," I say slowly, struggling to choose the right words, "that you'll find my...approach...quite easy to deal with. Unless you've any special requirements yourself, of course. But my clothes... They don't necessarily read across into my behaviour in bed." I'm more than conscious that my words are clumsy, but then I don't exactly know what question I'm being asked. Is it my gender that's the cause of uncertainty, or is Emilia worried that I'm going to tie her up and beat her? I'm puzzled: I'd have thought a professional actress would be pretty worldly in these matters. I take a step forward towards her, and take her hand, gently holding it in mine for a few seconds. "I'm really quite house-trained, you know. I don't bite," I say, ignoring for a moment the events of the afternoon. Emilia bites her lip and nods, and the conversation moves on to less threatening matters and, after a while, we both circulate and mingle with other guests. But from time to time, I see Emilia looking at me doubtfully, and for once - for the first time since I've met Marie - I find myself wondering whether the extreme nature of the outfit I've chosen is quite right for the occasion. I find Angela and recount the conversation I've just had with Emilia. She looks concerned. "I don't think she likes aggressive-looking..." she hesitates, "sexual partners. Maybe she's had an abusive relationship in the past. I'll have a word. I'll maybe get Suzi to speak to her too." She looks at me darkly. "She's had more dealings with you than I have." I'm a little unsettled by the idea that my sexual history is being bandied around between these three woman, and wonder what other talk there has been about me behind my back. Given my (and Marie's) appearance, it wouldn't be surprising if we were the subject of speculation and gossip, and I don't quite know whether to revel in the thought, or be annoyed by it. In the end I decide that it is what it is, and that if other people want to talk about me, then I can hardly stop them. Suzi does, however, make a point of connecting with me later on. She has, it transpires, had a conversation with Emilia in which she has reassured her of my basic decency and told her that I'm a civilised and cultivated person (her words). I roll my eyes in mock disgust, and Suzi giggles. "In any case," I say, when she has reiterated that Emilia is now happy to, as she puts it, take me on, "I'd rather it was you." "So would I," says Suzi with every appearance of sincerity. "But Angela's right, you know. I don't want Jason to put two and two together and make four - or five or six." "Shame." "Yes, shame." Then she brightens, and punches me lightly on the arm. "But there'll be other opportunities." And I have to be satisfied with that. Midnight approaches, and we gather in the home cinema room to watch the countdown on television. The bells chime, fireworks are shown on screen, and we join in with a not very tuneful rendition of Auld Lang Syne. More champagne is opened, and then, not very much later, the group starts to disperse. I notice again that Angela and James are together, as are Stanley and Jenny. The other guests slink upstairs with their usual partners. Marie grabs me by an arm and half drags me after her. She has drunk a fair amount more than I have and is a little unsteady on her feet, and when we have removed the dark carapace of our costumes, we find ourselves sliding into bed in the mood for sleep rather than sex. There is a limit to the stamina which even a teenager - even one so besotted as I - can summon, and that limit has been reached after two days of vigorous congress and an alcohol-soaked evening. ++++++ The next two days are - not an anti-climax, exactly, but a rather prosaic repetition of the kind of thing that has happened before. The day-time activities continue, the only change being that Angela finds some spare outdoor clothing in a cloakroom, including wellingtons in my and Marie's sizes, so we join the country walkers. I find myself wondering whether leather leggings and green wellingtons go together, and speculating about whether people will think they're an even more fetishistic combination than the all-leather look I have been pursuing so far. There is more excellent food and drink in the evening, and Angela's pairings this time include Mark for herself, as I predicted to myself, and Marie for Jason, which irritates me. (If I can't have Suzi, why can Marie have Jason?) It occurs to me that if New Year's Eve didn't really form part of the merry-go-round, Stanley might decide to have a second crack at Tracy, but he has seemingly been paired with Suzi. Tracy is with Igor, leaving James and Jenny to themselves for the evening. Emilia turns out to be a lively, eager lover, full of laughter, quite inventive, beautifully gentle: quite unlike Marie's energetic approach, or indeed Suzi's sensuous languor. She is intrigued by, and I think attracted to my slim, hairless body, the sight of which seems to overcome any lingering anxiety she might have had about me. The sex is undemanding but satisfying, and when the time comes for me to leave, she blows me a kiss of what I sense to be genuine affection as I edge out of the door. The following day - the last we are there - Marie makes an effort to find some riding clothes (as the daughter of a blacksmith, it's perhaps not a surprise that she rides, although it's something she's never talked about before), but there is nothing suitable. So we spend the day walking and socialising again. Marie is more than happy to be paired with me in the evening, so after another caterer-provided meal we retired for what turns out to be a pretty energetic night (although this time without the edgier role-play of that first afternoon). And then, in the morning, we're gone. ++++++ It's been an enjoyable break, but perhaps a little too long. For me, the most enjoyable part has been the first two days - and that is not intended as disrespect to Emilia, of whom I have fond memories. Indeed, I suppose the significance of the break for me has been the realisation that it might be possible to find worldly women from all kinds of backgrounds prepared - perhaps eager - to enter into relationships with me. Hitherto, I'd tended to think of both Suzi and Marie as, in their different ways, one-offs: my liaisons with them have been vigorous, certainly, mutually enjoyable, I think. But in the future, how easy will it be to find a female partner who will share and support my tastes? I can't say that my mind has been put entirely at ease by the experience of the past four days, but I now begin to feel that new possibilities might be open to me in the future. And as I settle back into home life after our break (that does make it sound as if I've been away for weeks, doesn't it: but although our time in Herefordshire has been brief, it has had a significant impact on my state of mind) I start to navigate myself through the labyrinth of circumstances I'm faced with in a mood of greater confidence. The biggest event of the next few months is the wedding of Lisa and my mother. It is one of the first gay marriages, a small civil ceremony, and a joyful day for us all. I'm jokingly referred to as a bridesmaid: I'm wearing a simple dress (made, of course, by my mother) in pale violet, with patent court shoes. Marie is one of the guests, dressed in her usual style. As the ceremony comes to an end, my mother and Lisa kiss, and there are embraces and hugs all round. I notice that Marie kisses Lisa with more affection than might be expected, and that the affection seems to be returned. Mother seems not to mind. There are, perhaps, a dozen people at the reception, which is held in our house: some work colleagues of my mother; Lisa's friends from The House; Marie, of course; and my aunt Jean and cousin Jill. My aunt Jacky and the twins have most definitely not been invited, and are known to be upset by the fact. There is a cake, made in the shape of a motorcycle, which Lisa and my mother cut gracefully. I have not seen Jill for quite some time. She has grown into a tall, rather beautiful girl - Jean remarks that she and I look quite alike, at which I feel quite flattered. I take the opportunity to catch up with her, and introduce Marie to her as my girlfriend (a term Marie heartily dislikes, but which on this occasion she accepts with good grace). Jill looks at my partner with - what? Disbelief, amazement, shock? Obviously taken aback by this tall, athletic girl dressed aggressively in black, she takes a few moments to collect herself, which amuses Marie. The three of us retreat into the kitchen for a natter. "I'm glad," says Jill, "that you sorted yourself out in the end." "It took a while," I say. "Marie helped a lot." I don't complicate things by talking about Suzi. Marie is pleased by the remark and squeezes my hand, and then says, unexpectedly, "Katie has helped me too." Jill looks at me and then at Marie, eyebrows raised, but there is nothing really for us to add. I'm absurdly pleased by Marie's remark - whilst I know that Marie has changed since the start of our relationship, it's the first time she's acknowledged any debt to me and, notwithstanding Jill's presence, we exchange an affectionate kiss. The whole conversation with Jill is a little odd, since I've seen her a few times since Suzi reintroduced Katie to the world. I suppose she can only be referring to the fact that Katie now has a regular partner. I feel that I want to talk to her about this a bit more, but feel inhibited about doing so in front of Marie. Perhaps we'll find a time to speak alone. You will have gathered that I'm dressing as Katie more frequently now. But I don't feel any desire to be Katie all the time. My moments as Katie are special - occasions when I want to dress up, to enjoy the sensual feel of the clothes, to revel in my look. They need to be different - better, more exciting - than what I still think of as my normal everyday life. It's impossible to feel permanently sexy, and I ration the hours I spend as Katie, to enjoy them all the more. Nevertheless, there are times when I become Katie for extended periods. The days in Hereford were one such time. Later in the year, Katie will go on holiday with my mother and Lisa, for a week in Germany. And Marie and I spend several weekends in London, trawling the West End stores, going to gigs and clubbing, and taking in the odd show. And spending a fair amount of time in bed, into the bargain. Meanwhile, at home, I'm still involved with Nigel. His mother has come to accept (if not to like) the fact that Nigel sometimes wants to be Nigella, and Nigel having told her about Katie, she agrees that the two of us can meet and go out together from time to time, usually at a time when Nigel's father is out of town on business. (At Nigel's mother's insistence, he has not been told about Nigella.) This involves me once more meeting Nigel's sister Norma, who turns out to be his identical twin (I think I had failed to spot this on our early meetings, misled by her carefully styled hair which was dyed an unlikely shade of cherry red). From bits of gossips and asides, I gather that Nigella's existence came about as a result of a dressing up game the two of them used to play in secret, and that it was Norma who was the initiator of this, and that she particularly revelled in getting Nigel into her dresses. I wonder a little about this, and what she makes of me. Her look is elegant but quite restrained, and I sense that she might not be wholly comfortable with Katie's edgier look. Still, she is attractive and lively: one can only speculate... To be blunt, I get a bit bored with Nigel. His conversation with me tends to go no further than inviting me to comment on his clothes, and he sulks if I suggest that his look needs improvement. He has at least bought some less clunky spectacles, and Norma and I do manage to persuade him to buy clothes for Nigella more suited to her dark colouring. Surprisingly, it's Gopa who comes to my rescue. Nigella and I meet her one day in town when we are out shopping. She greets me, and then asks, "And who is this?" I introduce Nigella as a friend. Gopa, I find out later, immediately realises the true gender of the figure before her, even though Nigella is wearing a short, bottle-green skirt and a pink blouse. Nigella does carry herself off quite well, but I rather smugly sense that she's not as convincing as Katie. Still, Gopa seems to be quite intrigued by Nigella. "Why don't we go for a coffee?" she asks. The three of us troop into the coffee bar of the local department store, and gossip as we linger over our drinks. Gopa, seemingly genuinely interested in Nigella, compliments her on her appearance, and asks questions about her tastes in clothes. "There is," she says, "a sale on the second floor. Why don't we go and have a look?" When we get there, she gets Nigella to try on and then buy a pale green dress with a pattern of pink rose buds. It's quite a summery dress, and not something I would wear myself, but Nigella enthuses over it. "You've got real taste, Gopa." "Have I? I'm more comfortable in saris myself." (This afternoon, she is wearing a pair of faded jeans and a Pink Floyd T-shirt.) And then, "Have you ever worn a sari, Nigella?" "Er, no." "You should try. I could help you. Why don't you come to visit me and try on one of mine?" Nigel is dark-skinned, but not particularly Asian in appearance, but I can tell he's intrigued by the idea. And before much longer, he and Gopa are exchanging phone numbers and arranging a meeting. The visit to Gopa's (I'm not invited, fortunately) takes place a few days later, and marks the beginning of a surprisingly firm friendship. Given the socially conservative views of both Nigel's and Gopa's parents, I'm not quite sure how they manage it, but the two of them are seen quite often after this, in town together, both of them dressed as Asian girls. I realise from chance remarks and asides that the friendship has blossomed into a (necessarily furtive) relationship, which is good for both of them. It is also good for me, as Nigella's demands on my time, and her insistent calls on me for advice on style, diminish as she spends more and more time with Gopa. Meanwhile, I wear Katie's clothes to school on only one occasion. Just before Easter, the school holds a mufti day to raise money for a charity which supports migrants and refugees. The Year 7-11 students come to school without uniform, and the Year 12 and 13 students, who are not required to wear uniform, are invited to dress in something they would not normally wear to school. A fair number of people choose to come in fancy dress - as superheroes (a Marvel blockbuster has just been released), or as Hollywood stars or other celebrities. I also spot an astronaut, a witch (it's not Halloween, is it?), and a gorilla costume. Marie, predictably enough, comes in the clothes she wears to the Dark Heart. Equally predictably, Gopa wears a sari. I dress relatively conservatively - a maroon suede skirt, boots, a short-sleeved plain top in black cotton which is fastened by a zip at the rear. The reactions to Katie's appearance at school are matter of fact, which I find pleasing. In September, many students - particularly boys - had been wary, diffident, sometimes even scornful. I encountered little open hostility (I was, after all, invariably dressed as David when at school), but I was conscious that people often preferred to keep a distance from me. But now, people are notably calmer and friendlier, accepting Katie's existence as an unremarkable fact. There is only one unpleasant incident, which occurs a few weeks later. A picture is placed on a noticeboard showing Katie (she is unmistakable because a head and shoulders photograph - which seems to have been taken by somebody at Suzi's Christmas party - has been glued on to a crude drawing of the torso of a leggy girl wearing an indecently short dress) and she stands facing a caricature of a black-clad figure who can only be Marie. A speech bubble from my head says "Help! I've lost my penis." And one from Marie's head says, "I'll help you to look for it. Do you need me to teach you how to use it when we find it?" The poster is quickly removed, and the following day Mrs.Simmonds gives a ferocious talk in assembly about the need to respect diversity, and the unacceptability of harassment or bullying of people who may be different from ourselves. Mrs.Simmonds, incidentally, doesn't miss the opportunity to buttonhole me afterwards and to reiterate the suggestion that I should come to school as Katie, if that's what I'd like. I smile and shake my head, making the point that there are many other opportunities to be Katie which I'm happy to take advantage of. The two terms between Christmas and the summer vacation are, I think, the period of my adolescence when I have been most at ease with the world. There will be bumps in the road ahead: I know that I will have to take stock of how I want to manage my life when I leave home and go to college. But for the moment, I am in a little bubble of happiness. ++++++ And now it is time to fast forward to the school prom, which is the right and proper end of this story, although it is not the end of my entanglement with Marie. This event - the idea has been imported to Britain from the UK - is an end of year dance for Year 13 students, to mark their departure from school life. My school has run one for the last few years, and although attendance is not compulsory, it is almost universal. It is a chance to dress up and be seen, dance, flirt, perhaps start a new relationship, and sometimes, sadly, time to end an old one. There is a live band and a buffet with soft drinks. The usually rather austere hall used for the occasion is decorated with banners and glitter balls, and the students often arrive in hired stretch limousines. In other words it is a piece of fantasy as well as a rite of passage. It has taken some effort to persuade Marie to attend. As well as her usual disdain for school events, she is unwilling to accept my proposed dress code. This night, I have decided, is not a night for Marie's (and my own) usual crepuscular style, but for a more up-market, glamorous look. I drag Marie, protesting, around the shops the week before the prom. Almost everything I suggest she rejects - all shades of pink are out; floaty, loose-fitting fabrics are out; pink lipstick is out. It takes all morning, but eventually I persuade her to buy a long, black, glossy sheath of a dress, low-cut, sleeveless, and beautifully tailored. The slippery material slips and slides perfectly around her powerful, athletic figure, and the mere act of walking will be enough to stir the hormones of even the shyest and least confident of youths. On the night, she pairs the dress with heels (another departure from normal which makes her a good few inches taller than me), long gloves, and quite dramatic make-up (more in line with her usual tastes): dark red lips, smoky eyes, carefully emphasized cheek bones. There is also a musky perfume which floats before her into the hall as a sort of signature. For my part I am wearing a creation of my mother's: a rather fuller, long dress in sparkly gold fabric decorated with tiny sparkly beads, with a rather higher neckline than Marie's dress. The skirts swirl provocatively around my legs as I walk. I've worn my long hair up; my lipstick is bright red; and my eyelids are pale green flecked with gold. The combination of black and gold is, I think, arresting. We arrive by taxi, and as we cross the threshold, Marie takes my arm with a theatrical gesture, and we walk in, consciously posing as if we were the guests of honour. And indeed, the room falls silent as we enter. I would like to think that it is the celestial radiance of my own appearance that attracts attention, but in fact I am sure it is Marie. Whilst those who move with our own small circle of friends have seen Marie dressed up for a night out, she has invariably adopted, on such occasions, her usual edgy, aggressive wardrobe. And the larger number of students, those outside our immediate group, have seen Marie only in the grungy clothes she wears to school - dark jeans and shapeless tops, her black suede coat which has seen better days, usually with Doc Martins lace-ups on her feet. Other students are, of course, dressed up too, and it would be wrong to say that Marie is the only one who is riding an out-of-character wave of glamour, but the contrast between the disdainful, more or less bohemian Marie the students have met before, and the glorious queen of the night they see before them now is something special. We arrive, by chance, as the music begins, and I drag Marie, unwillingly at first, on the dance floor. The first number is a slow, lyrical piece, and we move close together, almost into an embrace, as we gently sway into the rhythm of the tune. By tacit consent, no one else joins us on the dance floor at first: six dozen pairs of eyes are transfixed by this ethereal couple. And when the tune stops there is a spontaneous round of applause - tentative at first from just part of the audience, until the whole party joins in a crescendo of enthusiasm. Marie smiles, almost shyly, in response; and I too am revelling in the moment. Because, I think to myself once more, here is a real contrast to my reception at Suzi's eighteenth birthday party. My first appearance before my fellow students in a dress was greeted mostly by uncertainty and embarrassment. Few people outside my close circle of friends spoke to me, and my own efforts to interact with people were rebuffed. And if there was no open hostility, there was little in the way of empathy. My close friends, once they got over their shock, had, it is true, been kind; but it was at first a tentative, uncertain kindness. And they had suggested our first night out together, I felt in retrospect, out of curiosity rather than a desire for a true friendship with Katie. It was, I sensed, only when I became involved with Marie that they started to feel genuine enthusiasm for my new persona. Others now start to join us on the dance floor. And then, over the course of the evening, I'm asked to dance by several girls and a few boys. The girls (that is, the ones I don't already know well) mostly want to ask me about my dress and interrogate me about how it feels to wear it (translation: as a boy, why do you like wearing dresses?). The boys are harder to read: do they fancy Katie as a girl? Or are some of them conflicted about their own sexuality? These things are impossible to know, and I don't attempt to overthink the situation. Whatever their feelings might be, they will have to work through them by themselves. Meanwhile, Marie is, if anything, even more popular than I am. Tonight's vision of her is so at odds with what people have come to know, that a desperate eagerness grows amongst the male guests. At first, she is thrown by all the attention, but she dances with one boy after another; there are clumsy attempts at embraces, and fumbled kisses, which Marie deflects with wry good humour. And now, I can see Marie revelling in all the attention. I am not worried by this: I know that when the evening is over, it is Katie, and the style that Marie has encouraged her to adopt (the style that I have come to delight in), that is important to her; I sense no real rivals here tonight. My friend Barbara comes over. "How did you manage it?" "Manage what?" I ask. "How did you manage to bring about such a transformation in Marie?" "Well," I shrug, "Maybe it wasn't me. Maybe she just felt it was time for her to move on from where she was. And anyway, she's changed me too." "For the better, do you think?" That is an impossible question to answer. Again I shrug. "It's been a good year." And then, "But you've changed as well." That is true. Barbara has transformed from duckling to swan. More self-confident, more assured in her look, more relaxed generally, she has acquired her first serious boyfriend. Perhaps, then, it's an age thing: perhaps it has been the year in which all of us have changed. Peter and Kathryn are planning to move in together; Gopa, preparing to go to college is, perhaps gaining confidence from her relationship with Nigella, beginning to cast off the stifling restrictions imposed on her by her conservative parents; and Nigella, benefitting in turn from Gopa's support, has been spreading her wings more widely, which has not improved her mother's state of mind as she continues with the increasingly difficult task of keeping Nigella's existence from her father. I sense that my life will go through more changes soon, as I go to university. I'm to read Entrepreneurship and Computer Science at a vibrant university in South-West London. Marie has decided to study mechanical engineering, and will enrol in a college in the West Midlands, so we will see less of each other in future. Perhaps that's a good thing. I suppose I have always sensed that my involvement with Marie was not destined to be a lasting relationship, and going to college will be a natural break-point. And there is no need to be too hasty: this is by no means the end of our friendship. There is the summer vacation to come, and we will see each other again between university terms. But I think we both sense that we will need to move on, and understanding that will help ease the transition. We will avoid the trials of some of our friends who have not made that mental leap become stressed and depressed as the girlfriends and boyfriends they have acquired in the school years decide they prefer the partners they meet later at college. But Marie has quite definitely moulded my tastes - my style, my sexuality, my whole attitude to life. Marie's middle name, you will remember, is Emily. And in the future, I will exult in that, because when I first encounter you - my other Emily, the Emily I will meet in a tawdry sales conference in the Midlands, the Emily with whom I will spend exuberant weeks in Edinburgh and Paris, the Emily who moves from Scotland to London to live with me - I am struck by the similarities between the two of you in style, sexual tastes, and habits. You are to bring me so much joy, and the two of us might never have seen the potential for such joy if Marie had not had such a striking and permanent influence on me. Like Brideshead's Sebastian Flyte, Marie was the forerunner.