Neuron Transfer
A Novelette
By Maryanne Peters

For my 100th story posted on Big Closet, here is a novelette. Please read my blog "One Hundred"

When I died I was John Pierpont Morgan Backhouse. I was a successful businessman, although not as successful as my namesake. I was a father, but not a good one. I was a husband – definitely a bad one. In short, I was an asshole.

The name was a gift from my father in anticipation of a stellar career on Wall Street. He worked for a large broking house, in a senior position that in his day could be attained and held. After a brief apprenticeship I needed to start my own investment banking firm. – Backhouse & Weiss. It was moderately successful, and I became wealthy - more wealthy than my father.

I married the attractive and stylish Dianna who did her best to spend my money. We had two children, Bartholomew and Isabella (pretentious names – my wife chose them) now grown into spoilt adulthood. They also enjoyed my money.

I was also a man of appetites. I had sex with numerous women other than my wife (although we remained steadfastly married for 30 years), and I ate and drank to excess. I had always had a problem with weight and it got worse with age and the accretion of excess food and drink. I became diabetic. I had one then two heart attacks. Paradoxically it was a car accident that finally terminated my body. But I never lost an extremely active, acquisitive and fertile mind.

That mind refused to die.

That is my explanation for why I awoke. I could see that I was in an operating theatre. There were people about me as if I had been woken in the middle of an operation. That is exactly what had happened. I needed to be sedated with gas as I was already thrashing about. Doctor Metz needed to close the wound in my head.

He told me after I was removed to the recovery ward, that he was surprised at the speed of my reaction to the introduction of active cells to my brain. He did his best to explain but what he was saying made no sense to me. He was talking about messing with my brain when I knew that the problem was my heart. Or my heart, my liver, my lungs, my gut. They were all diseased. My brain was the only healthy organ I possessed.

Dr Metz explained that he was (and is) a neurologist at the frontier of research. He had pioneered surgical intervention into the depths of the brain. He had been responsible for the use of stem cells to promote regrowth of damaged brain cells. He was the first to perform active neuron transplant – the transplantation of active brain cells from a compatible donor to the apparently healthy but inactive brain of a comatose patient. The ideal donor was a person with brain cells highly active even while the body was dead. They had found such a donor.

He could only be talking about me. If that was true then, was I in another body? That seemed way too far-fetched. The stuff of science fiction.

But it only then occurred to me to look. I raised my hand. It was not my hand. It was a child’s hand, or so it seemed to me. Soft and smooth but with long dainty fingers. It was not the pudgy liver spotted hands, backed with black hair, that ended the arms of JPM Backhouse.

I said nothing. I just looked at the hand. Rotating it. Working the fingers. I could see no other part of me. The covers were up to my neck.

“I know this is a lot to take in, Virginia,” he said.

Virginia? Who is he talking to?

“Your mother will be here soon,” he continued. “I am sure that she will be thrilled to see you conscious.”

My mother is long dead. It was starting to become science fiction made real.

The Doctor examined the top of my head and then said: “You will be pleased that we only had to shave a small part of your hair for the craniotomy. We have put the skull plug back and it will fuse, and stitched up so that your hair is almost untouched. You make like to wear it up and over these stitches.”

I still had no idea what he was talking about, but I suddenly realized that I was happy to hear that my head had not been shaved. That was odd, because I was substantially bald and really regarded what hair I had left as a nuisance.

Then, I recognised the woman who entered my room immediately. It was my mother: Donna Delevan. I found that I was smiling at her and reaching out. I needed to touch my mother and feel her warmth.

And yet, if this was my mother, who was Margaret Backhouse? Cultured, elegant, distant Margaret Backhouse? It was only when Donna smiled and I remembered laughing with her only just yesterday, or so it seemed. We had gone together to Maisie’s Cut and Curl Salon to have our hair done. I was going out that night, with my boyfriend Shiloh. These memories were coming back. The party. Then blackness.

These were the memories of somebody else. These were the memories of the body I now occupied. Virginia Delevan. I looked at my hand again. I looked down the bed and I could see that the body beneath the sheets was slim. The total opposite of the corpulent JPM Backhouse.

It seemed so unbelievable that the only explanation that I could think of was that it was a dream. A complex and very vivid dream, but at least that would mean that I was alive.

“Are you OK now, sweetie,” she said to me, looking at me with moist eyes. I knew that, even though she was a stupid slut whom I had never been able to communicate with, I loved her in my own way. That would be Virginia’s way. Open-hearted and non-judgmental simplicity.

I dug back into these memories to remember who this body belonged to. My name is Virginia. I am a woman. Barely one – still just a girl. I have two sisters. The eldest is Montana, not heard from for several years. The second of my sisters is Florida, pregnant at 15 and now married to Eddie with two more kids at only 21. As the youngest that makes me 19.

My mother Donna has remarried and we live in a shithole apartment in New Jersey. Her new husband is at sea on a container ship. I do not like him, but I have been staying with her while she was away. When he was home I spent more time with my boyfriend Shiloh Mackie. Shiloh and I did drugs together. That was Virginia’s last memory.

And yet JPM’s memories were there too. It seemed all of them were, even though at that point I had not fully tested them. I was checking through them, almost as if it were a filing cabinet. Memories of my life of wealth, and privilege, and excess.

“How long have I been unconscious?” It was a voice coming out of me, but not mine. It was her voice.

“A few weeks,” said Dr Metz. “We have maintained physiotherapy so your muscles should still be OK, but you may be unsteady, so don’t try to jump out of bed.”

“How many cells were put in my brain, Doctor?” I asked. I could see that he was surprised by the question. My mother was surprised too.

“Well, a little more than we had planned, in fact,” said the Doctor. “About 100 grams or about 10% of your total brain mass. We were going to use only 10 grams just to ‘kick start’ your mind as it were, but we used more in the end. It seems to have worked. I have to say that before we did this, you were basically given up for dead. You really are very lucky.”

A nurse gave me water, so that I could ask: “Who was the donor, Doctor?” I could see that Donna was now very puzzled. It was another strange question coming from the mouth of her daughter, someone that I now understood to be of limited intellect.

“Well, that shouldn’t concern you at this time. You can reach out to the donor’s family to thank them for the gift of tissue, and to send condolences as the donor is dead. Let’s say at this time somebody whose body was totally destroyed but whose brain remained active enough to rekindle yours. Can you understand that?”

“Completely”, I said. And with that very JPM-like phrase, it was clear that Donna could detect that something was different in her daughter.

100 grams, say 3½ ounces of brain tissue is surely not so much. How could so much of JPM have survived in this girl’s head? I had been plumbing the depths of my memory. To me it seemed all there, but of course how could I remember things that were no longer in my memory. What was clear is that whenever I followed a train of thought there were no obvious gaps.

What was clear was that my memory was rich in the experience of JPM Backhouse. These cells were not just a kick start, they had invaded Virginia’s barren brain.

From the day after I came to, I was to be subjected to psychometric evaluation. Basically Virginia was asked a series of questions. I understood what it was all about. Checking memory and brain function.

I had to make a decision about how much I could say. Should I tell everybody that the brain of JPM Backhouse is alive and living in this girl’s body? What would be their reaction? Surely disbelief – I did not believe it myself. And even if I could prove it (which I probably could) can I become him? Can I walk back into his life and demand his business and his home? It could never happen. He was dead and buried. And of course his family would probably be happy that he was. They would be picking over the estate at that very moment.

Better to stay silent and assess the situation.

But first I needed to look at myself.

The physiotherapist arrived to help me get back on my feet. She pulled away the covers and I could see that there were the mounds of two breasts under my hospital gown. There was a catheter running into the crotch to a bag hanging from the bed, which she drew out. I could feel the tube pass out from urethra. A woman’s crotch. It was anatomy that was foreign to me, but it was mine.

She helped me to my feet. She had a walking frame should I need it, but I waved it away even though my legs were weak. I wanted to walk to the bathroom. I wanted to look in a mirror.

Virginia was pretty. Blond hair down to the shoulders, a little shapeless from an extended period in bed, large green eyes, a small but full mouth, nice little nose. Visible beneath the robe good sized breasts, hips not too wide, a round but not oversized bottom. The skin was a little pallid, as would be expected from someone coming out of a coma.

JPM would have looked upon such a creature with lust. But of course, it was me. This was going to be strange.

Equally strange was the first time sitting to pee. What could be more natural than for that flow to come from me, but what it made clear was that this body was totally alien to me. But I knew what to do – I wiped with a tissue. But then I needed to examine myself. I needed to understand this body.

I parted my labia with two fingers and probed. I smelt my juices. I tickled my clitoris and felt the electricity. I put two fingers in as far as they would go and felt inside myself. It was, in a word, weird.

Somebody in my position can appreciate that penises are not pretty. Scrotums even less so. And JPM had an annoyingly itchy scrotum. That was now gone. There was something wonderfully snug about my new groin. Smooth lines with no protuberances. I should have missed the organ that every man defines himself by, but strangely this seemed so much tidier.

The rest of my body too. How pleasing it looked. How unblemished. How healthy. And a flat stomach. Fleshy but flat. After a lifetime of carrying around a pot belly I had a flat stomach. Could I keep it? I made a promise then and there that this body would be respected and cared for.

I had been given a new lease on life – a second chance.

But there was also the feeling that I had stolen this girl’s life. I did not know then that her life was shit and barely worth having, because her view of her own life was from her eyes, not so bad. At that time, I may have actually felt a little guilty. I have to say that this was not a feeling that I was comfortable with. Perhaps some emotions were Virginia’s rather than JPM’s. How much of her was there in the new me?

Could this girl be a fundamentally good person? I was not that kind of person. How could I even recognize these thoughts?

The other thing that I had to consider was how was I going to live this second life. Was I now a man in a woman’s body? Should I shave off my hair and call myself Virgil? Or should I just run with this? That seemed the better option. I seemed to be equipped. My mannerisms were not masculine. The body seemed to run itself as a woman. She could handle the motor functions so long as I had the brain.

I gave some thought to Dianna, Bart and Bella – what were they doing now. Fighting over my fortune, with barely a thought for me, still warm in the grave. I knew them. They were like me. I should have smiled at that thought, but now that did not seem at all amusing.

I had some time to work on my recovery – to build some strength.

Dr Metz came back to check progress after a few days.

“How is all this being paid for?” I asked him.

“This is an experimental procedure,” he replied. “Your mother consented on the basis that your operation and all post-op care comes out of the research budget. You pay for nothing.”

“Can you tell me about the donor?” I asked Dr Metz on one of his rounds.

“Well we can advise the family of your interest in learning more but we do not give information without their consent,” he explained. And I wondered whether I really needed to know.

“Can I ask you, doctor – could I have absorbed the donor’s memories?”

“Well, we do not fully understand the functions of the human brain, my dear.” JPM would have been furious to have been talked down to in that fashion, but I found it curiously comforting somehow. “What we have done is to introduce active tissue that, if I can put it simply for you, is charged with the electricity that makes a brain function. I think it very unlikely that any memories would have passed across. Is there something that you can refer me to?”

“I have recollection of a lady’s face and the name Dianna”, - I deliberately understated things to draw a reaction.

“Oh indeed, this is most interesting”’ he said, clearly a little taken aback. “This name is relevant to the donor. We shall need to run some tests.”

This was not the result I was looking for. I did not want to be the object of further study. I wanted out of that hospital. I had to wave away a photo of my wife and invent a friend of the same name from Virginia’s past to throw him off. I decided that the best course was to keep these memories to myself and to use them to my advantage.

How many times has it been said “If only I could start my life again knowing what I know now”. It occurred to me that this was the position that I was in. I needed to get out and live that life.

On the day of discharge Donna came in to help me get ready. She brushed my hair up and pinned it in a high bun which concealed the stubbly patch of my craniotomy. She gave me what had been my makeup bag. I knew exactly what to do – I expertly applied color, mascara and lipstick. It was a case of letting Virginia do what she could do. But then I stopped – it occurred to me that Virginia would have gone on to add eye shadow and lip liner to render the slutty look that she had worn in the past. JPM had modified Virginia, just a little. JPM’s idea of how a woman should look was ... well, a little more refined.

Donna had brought me some underwear from Virginia’s drawers. It was a bra and panties in black lace, but cheap. From a chain store. I recognised them as her favourites. Dianna would not have been seen dead in them. I also noticed that they did not match. JPM may have been too fat to be in style but he never went out with socks that did not match. The lace pattern was close, but it was not a match. Even before I put it on, I was uncomfortable with that fact. But when I put the bra on the discomfort was real. Virginia favored it because it pushed the breasts up and together, but even I could see that it did this by not fitting properly.

“Ma, I need to get some new underwear”.

“Hon, we’re not made of money. It has cost heaps coming to the hospital every day and with all of the time off we are almost broke. You have heaps of stuff and you will have to make do. I am not pushing you out to work but when there is more money coming in, we can look at things.”

The floral dress was also a little worn, but it was clean and comfortable and really a good choice – thinking about what I recalled of Virginia’s wardrobe it was a good call. But then Donna held up boots and sandals – neither to my newly refined taste.

“You choose”, Donna said.

I knew that Virginia would often wear the clunky boots with this otherwise wonderfully feminine dress, and that Donna knew that.

“Mom, I would wear the boots, but I feel that the sandals would go best with the flash updo you’ve done on me.” She laughed, but again I could see that she knew that I was somehow different.

The sandals had high 4 inch heels, but I found that I walked in them easily. As I stepped out into the sun with my heels clicking on the stone tiles and my dress swishing, I said to my mother, “I really need to shave my legs.”

We took the train home.

In Virginia’s memory home had seemed not a bad place – it was warm and full of familiar things. It was refuge from violent men and mean women. It was as if her memories of this place were rose tinted.

All that I as JPM could see, was the filth and the poverty. The truth is that JPM had never seen how the poor lived. The kitchen was a mess - disgusting with dirty pots and a fridge full of half eaten morsels of bad food, some weeks old.

One thing that I had decided was that I would not eat Virginia into a ball of fat. I knew what good food was and I was keen to eat some, but I was going to do it right this time. When Donna offered me some fried chicken I politely declined.

“After weeks in a hospital I think I must have picked up a clean bug, Mom. You get on to work tonight and I’ll clean up”, I told her. I put on a frilly apron that made me feel orderly already, and I surveyed the scene.

JPM Backhouse had always prided himself as a man who could roll his sleeves up and get on with things. The truth is that this meant that he could go on site, direct people, delegate, blame others and generally be his usual overbearing self. The new me had the streak of fastidiousness but now no resources to satisfy the need. It had to be me now. I found myself with rubber gloves on, scrubbing – something neither JPM (nor Virginia for that matter) had ever done. At the end of it the only thing I could think of was how could I explain it to Donna. It was out of character for Virginia. The kitchen and living room were tidy and clean.

I decided to move on to the bathroom, including a warm bath – a chance to do those legs.

I was getting out of the bath when there was a knock on the door. I called out to wait and threw a towel around me. I pulled the door open but kept the chain on. It was Shiloh.

I knew this man. He was the man who had killed me. He had put me on drugs. He had abused me, mentally and physically. Then he had killed me by giving me too much or too rich a mixture. There was no other word for it that killing. For Virginia was nothing more than the shell I lived in, now clean of drugs from the time I had spent in hospital.

“Hey baby. I heard you were out.,” he slimed. “Wow, you look great. I can’t wait to hold you close.”

I let him in. Am I crazy? Why would I do that? Virginia let him in. I let my guard down and she gave in. Maybe she was still alive – stupid cow! Again, it was time to take control.

He put his arms around me and I looked up at him. His breath smelt of cigarettes. It reminded me that I had smoked, JPM and Virginia both, but now I didn’t. I was clean of that too. It had destroyed JPM’s lungs. I would never do that again.

And I would certainly not let this man back into her life. I was determined to hate him but as I looked in his eyes a very strange feeling came over me. It was a feeling in my … not quite in my groin but not in my guts either. It was unmistakably sexual. I wanted this man.

This established one thing very clearly, whatever JPM might think, this body was driven by female urges. I would take a man inside me, right up to the hilt. It was just that this man was the wrong man. The girl’s standards would need to be lifted, considerably.

He lowered his face to kiss me, but I turned away. He breathed in my ear and the feeling came back. It would need more concentration to deal with this.

“Things have changed Shiloh,” I said – oh how true was that!

He was shocked, and then annoyed.

“What’s up with you …?” Maybe he was going to say “bitch” but he held himself back. “OK girl. You is just out of hospital. It can wait. I’ll be back tomorrow night. I got shit to do tonight any case.”

As he left, I resolved that I would see this man suffer or die, or both. He was scum. Not the business scum that JPM was used to dealing with, but physical low life scum.

As I slept in Virginias pink frilled bed that night, I contemplated how JPM Backhouse could return.

The following day I opened the morning paper and, checking over my shoulder that I was not being watched, I turned straight to the business pages. Nordstrom Electronics was still at 83 cents. If only … I needed some money. I needed some of my money.

There was the safe deposit box at the First City Bank that nobody knew about. It was supposed to hold the grab bag. I told myself that it was ransom money - $300,000 in cash for any of my family kidnapped. Or a $300,000 if I needed to leave town in a hurry. But the truth of it is that the banker in me could not see so much cash sit without earning. Still, there was some cash and a few other items of interest. The key was marked with a label “Workshop” and in the top draw of my desk. Nobody would connect it with the box. There was a box number and a security number committed to memory – I wrote them down on the newspaper, just below the cryptic crossword that I had just completed. I tore them both off the paper – both were inexplicable to Donna.

I needed to get into the office of Backhouse & Weiss, to get that key.

My purse was in my dresser. $17.60. An ID card. A cash card – no money in that account as I recall. Some receipts. A photo of Virginia and Shiloh. Two condoms. Nothing of any use. I threw in a lipstick and mascara, and a little bottle of Anais Anais perfume, which I knew to be the only scent of any class on the dressing table.

What about a letter of introduction from JPM. Could that get me in the front door? There seemed to be no writing paper in this house. That would make sense – Donna was barely literate. And then when I did write on blank spaces on old bills, I found that my hand did a loopy feminine scrawl. I needed to carefully reconstruct JPM’s handwriting. Yes, I could do it, and his signature too. With a little effort - perfectly.

There was a mobile phone on the dresser. I knew the number. No credit left but it could receive calls. No battery – put it on charge.

The wardrobe was full of rubbish. I knew what a woman needed to wear to get into the offices of Backhouse & Weiss. God, I basically set the dress code! I knew taste when I saw it, and there was none in this house. One pair of shoes had potential, but they were silver and would need to be re-coloured black. I found some shoe colour under the sink and did that. I could get away with cheap underwear.

I showered and washed my hair. I let her do that. She knew her way around hair care, the styling brush and the blow drier. I then took some time putting it back up, this time in a simple but sleek French twist. I also found some nail polish and applied it, being careful to ensure that my nails were even, although they were not that long. I was good at all of this. She knew what she was doing.

“Ma, I’m going out for a walk. To stretch these muscles a bit more,” I called out. I wore jeans and a button top (I did not want to pull it off over my carefully constructed hairdo) with sneakers. I carried the newly blackened shoes and my purse (also black and tolerably presentable with a little of the shoe color applied in places) in a backpack. I needed to act immediately.

I caught the subway into the city ($6.00) and went first to the offices of my attorneys Chatsworth and Faye. “I’m just waiting for my dad to come out of a meeting” I explained to the receptionist. On the counter were cards from some of the senior attorneys and I took 4 cards from the stack for “Miranda Cooper, Senior Counsel”. I also asked for a piece of note paper and a good pen.

I carefully composed my letter, firstly checking the words in handwriting on the back of the newspaper, and then transferring the completed draft onto the good paper. It would have been preferable to have my own private monogram but the Chatsworth and Faye logo in the top corner gave it moment. I asked to use the toilet and found a shredder to destroy the newspaper.

“I can’t wait any longer”, I waved to the receptionist as I exited.

Next stop was the Montmartre Boutique, a place that I knew was frequented by my wife although it was a little too young for her. I also knew that Miranda Cooper, who was decided plain and dowdy, would never set foot in the place. I bustled in with a despairing look on my face.

“I’m desperate!” I shrieked under my breath to the manageress. “Dianna Backhouse has recommended you to me – Miranda Cooper, attorney. Take my card. As you can see I was shifting files today but I need to attend an important client meeting in 15 minutes. I must have something to wear. What can you do for me?”

There was rushing around, and I found myself with the unexpected problem of not being able to decide. Before I came in, I was just going to choose whatever they showed me first, but that other person seemed to emerge and ponder. In fact, the choice boiled down to two tops, conservative or sexy, and two suits classic or cutting edge. I went for sexy and edgy, but still in dark colors and fitting the dress code.

When I was approached for payment I said: “Only shoes in my bag I’m afraid, but I will drop down with my card straight after the meeting – max 3 hours.” The manageress shook her head, but I knew that pleading was not the answer. “Look, you have my card, I’m just around the corner, you came highly recommended and I love your stuff. I can assure you, do me this favour and you’ll have plenty of business from me and my clients. I’m running out of time. I know I’m putting you out and I don’t mind paying a premium, but my meeting starts in 1 minute and I have 5 minutes run in heels.”

I was released and made a point of putting my shoes on while running out the door – “I have left my trainers and backpack in the change room. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

I slowed to collect myself as soon as I was round the block. I straightened myself out and checked myself in a reflecting window. Smart asymmetrical suit, top beneath showing my assets, hair perfect. Behind me there was a wolf whistle, but I did not turn. I smiled and walked on, my heels clicking on the pavement and the skirt of my suit moving freely against my bare shaven legs. I need pantyhose, I thought.

No time. I had reached the Centurion Building which housed the offices of Backhouse and Weiss. I used the Ladies room on the first floor to reapply my lipstick and mascara, and to check everything over one last time. Then I took the elevator to the 16th floor.

“My name is Virginia Delevan and I would like to speak with Jane Stepney”, I explained to Suzy, the pretty but rather stupid girl that I had hired for reception. Without being asked I said: “It concerns the personal affairs of the late Mr Backhouse and I will discuss these details only with Miss Stepney at first instance.”

As she buzzed through, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflecting panel nearby. My God I looked stunning and so totally in control. My words were delivered with just the right city accent without the poor white trash Jersey twang that this throat had been used to. I was a new Virginia Delevan – intelligent, well dressed, sophisticated. It occurred to me that I had all the tools. Thank God my mother had not named me Montana or Nevada.

Jane appeared. I had also selected her. She had been my PA but was now office manager at Backhouse & Weiss. She was blond and slim and had been more attractive when she started with me, but now was a little washed out and tired looking. But she was organised and hard working.

I introduced myself again and shook her hand firmly – almost a man’s handshake. I could see her sizing me up, and not being able to. She understood that I was serious and therefore ushered me into her office and closed the door.

I handed her the letter and gave her time to read it. She looked up at me. I leaned forward a little with my hands clasped in my lap. I was glad of the nail polish. It felt somehow empowering. Jane looked back down and read the letter again.

“And you can prove that you are this Virginia Delevan?” I handed her my photo ID from my purse and she examined it closely.

“I have worked for this firm for many years and I have never heard Mr Backhouse speak of you,” said Jane.

“Well, I have you at a disadvantage there,” I observed, “because I know all about you. I selected the personal item that JPM gave you for your birthday this year. I could only do that with sufficient knowledge of your likes and dislikes. But JPM valued you above everybody here”.

Jane blushed and I knew I had hit the mark.

“I am not here to cause any trouble”, I explained. “All I want is a couple of personal items from JPM’s office, and the job interview that he promised me. Clearly, and unfortunately for me, he will not be interviewing me, but I will stand or fall on my CV and my ability.”

“His family have been through his office,” said Jane. “If you can tell me what you are looking for it would help.”

“Only a few items. There are some cards I sent. There is a maglite I sent him in a black box. He has my CV and a folder with all of the original documents that he copied for me. And there is the key to my apartment – marked ‘workshop’.”

“Come with me if you like”. She led me to my office. Curiously the door was locked. When we entered, I remember thinking that it was so much bigger, or was it that I was smaller? Some paintings had gone from the walls - something I commented on to Jane.

“Bart took them”.

“That little ass wipe”, I spat. I knew that Jane hated my son and we could bond upon this also.

But Jane was still checking. “I have found the maglite”, she said. “There is an engraving - what does it say?” she asked. She was still checking on me.

“To find your way back when you have lost your way. A gift from me to him”.

She seemed satisfied and handed it over. Of course, it was a gift from old mistress, only recently received. But I knew that there were no initials or any indication where it came from.

“Here is the key, but I cannot find the papers”. I dropped the key in my purse without interest but looked concerned about the missing cards and CV (which of course, did not exist). “Come and have look if you like”.

“He put them here with his personal papers”, I said. “Now there is nothing here at all! They were all the original documents supporting my CV.” She was believing my mock distress.

“You’re right. This drawer was locked and full of private stuff. His family came in and shredded it all. His wife looked at some of it. She was not happy I can tell you.” Jane was warming to me.

“He treated her pretty badly I guess”, I said, although I really didn’t believe that. She had her own liaisons and had been cold towards me for years. A man needs the attentions of a woman. “Tell me Jane ... can I call you Jane? ... what did you really think of JPM Backhouse?”

“I thought he was an arrogant shit”, she said to my surprise. But then to my delight she added “but I liked him. He lived life to the max. He walked over a lot of people, me included, but I could not dislike him.”

That was why I had ensured that Virginia should talk to her. The best JPM Backhouse could find was one person in that office who did not hate him. I was right about her, and that was pleasing. Less so the “arrogant shit” remark. But that was forgivable. It was probably accurate.

“Jane, I think we are going to be friends”. I smiled at her and she smiled back. I knew then that my smile could work on women as well as it could on men.

“Why would you want to work here?” she asked, without expecting an answer.

When I was out of the office, I took the key from my bag and clenched a fist around it. Now I was back on track. I was about to flag a cab to head for the First City Bank, but I realised that I still had no money – or rather $11.60 only. For the first time in my life I caught a bus - $2.75. I sat opposite a man who ogled and leered at me for the whole five blocks. A most unpleasant experience but better than covering the distance in heels.

I used another one of Miranda’s business cards and waved the key. I was not sure if the attendant would check to see whether the box was registered in the name of JPM Backhouse (deceased) and I am not sure that he did when he had me sign the book. I was led to the box and once extracted I was given a private space to check the contents.

There was cash, mostly dollars but also some foreign currency, too much to fit in my purse. I would need a bag.

There was a pair of diamond studs bought for some woman and never given – perfect for me. But the holes in my ears had closed while I slept (there had been many holes) – I would need to have them re-pierced, but in one spot only, on each ear.

There was an address book and a small book of photos of some other woman once loved – into the bin. A man’s memories no longer relevant to this woman. This woman in the suit with diamond jewellery and a wad of cash had no time for such sentimentality. She was on the way up.

At the bottom of the box was the black purse folder with a further treasure - a collection of documents – all the dirt on anybody I could dig the dirt on. Dirt on my partner Adam Weiss, dirt on my competitors, my bank manager Sidney Curlew (Bentley Bros not First City), my lawyer (Carson McGill not Miranda), even my son, and my late father (no use now). The folder was large enough to put most of the cash in, and the rest slipped in to my purse. It would do for now.

On the way out I smiled at the attendant and could see that it meant more to him that a $20 tip. I caught a cab back to Montmartre and paid for the suit in cash. I also bought another couple of items for a more casual look. I spent over $2,000 and it felt good. The assistants fussed over me and called out for my return business on the way out. I had retrieved the backpack and trainers and threw them in the first trashcan on the street.

I stopped at the Prada shop to buy a lady’s briefcase to better carry my riches, and I also bought a much better pair of shoes, but decided to keep what I had on. Prada was not far from a brokerage firm that I was familiar with and I called in to open a cash account.

The receptionist was on a call, but as I waited a good-looking young man made a move in my direction: “Mark Davis.” He held out his hand. “Perhaps I could be of assistance?” The look in his eye was more flirtatious than lecherous, and I decided to take up the offer.

“Are you a sharebroker?” I asked. “I have some money that I would like to invest on the sharemarket. I have been studying things for a while and I feel I am ready to invest.”

“It’s a good thing to study things first”, he said, steering me to an interview room. “How much were you planning on investing”.

I pulled one bundle from my briefcase: “$20,000.00”, I said, watching his eyes widen.

“Well that is certainly a large sum. I feel that I should counsel you that the sharemarket is highly speculative and a lot of skill is needed to manage a portfolio”.

“Oh no”, I said, “I’m only buying one stock – Nordstrom Electronics. I’m hoping that there will be a good profit when their new miniwave technology comes on.”

I could see him wondering if I was an insider – or if not, how I had come into this information. He was smart, and somehow that made him suddenly attractive to me. “I feel I should ask whether you are investing this money for somebody else”, he said.

“I got this money from a rich uncle who advised me to invest it in the sharemarket if I could invest it wisely. That’s what I am doing”. I was true to this extent: For me JPM Backhouse was my rich uncle, somehow not part of me but looking over me. It was his idea but my choice. “Do you think Nordstrom is a good investment”, I quizzed him with my head tilted girlishly.

He went to the computer screen nearby. “Well it looks like the price has fallen since closing yesterday – 80 cents. Yes, there is reference to the “miniwave” technology – an announcement some weeks ago. But I am not sure what that is. It looks very technical.”

He called in an accounts person to collect the cash and opened an account. I had to give Donna’s address – my address. I could see that he was surprised, and a little disappointed – I had dropped a few classes. “I’m staying with relatives”, I explained, “just until I find an apartment in the city.”

“Perhaps I can help you with that,” he said. “Perhaps we could meet after work?”

I looked at him and could sense the desire, but it felt clean and good. There was no lust as there had been with that pig Shiloh. How could body chemistry be so wrong! “Sure”, I said. “I can come back here around 6 o’clock.”

I waited until he had placed the order and then asked whether I could use the telephone. “I want to make a call to San Francisco”, I said, “it will be very short. Less than a minute.” He agreed (I was now a customer) and gave me privacy.

I called TRB Electronics and asked to speak with the head development engineer whose name I had memorised. I simply referred him to the Nordstrom announcement. He had never heard of Nordstrom. They would soon figure large.

I called at the office of Bentley Bros to open an account.

“Madam , I am not sure that we can help you”, said the man at the front desk, “you see we are a private client bank and don’t offer retail services.” I was beginning to get used to be treated this way. No matter how professional (and attractive) I looked there was no escaping that I was a very young woman and was likely to look out of place here.

“My uncle had an account here and he was sure you could help”. And in response to the following question: “JPM Backhouse. The late JPM Backhouse. Just mention to Mr Curlew that I am here and I am from East Gate Finance”. I knew the trigger word.

Sidney Curlew came bustling out of his office with a look of concern. He stopped when he saw me - disarmed by the appearance of an attractive young woman. But his eyes narrowed again when he realised the threat.

“So pleased to meet you”. He was a consummate slime-ball but did it so well. He hustled me into his office and closed the door. In hushed tones across the table he snarled: “What is this about?”

“Perhaps you thought JPM’s death would put an end to this”, I said. “You are lucky that I have the papers. If I didn’t, they would certainly have fallen into the wrong hands. But do not worry. The same arrangement will apply to me. There will be no extortion. Just open an account. I will deposit the money. The credit line will be approved and references available on request.”

Sidney fell back in his chair in relief. But the concern reappeared: “That arrangement has always been acceptable when I was dealing with JPM, but I don’t know you. I don’t know whether I can trust you to keep your end of the bargain.”

I gave him a little girl smile that I had seen in the mirror a few times: “Mr Curlew” (I had always called him Sid and talked down to him, but things were different now) “I don’t know you either, but you seem like a very nice man” (he was not) “in a very respectable business” (it was). “I have no desire to upset things for you. I am new to business and this was just JPM’s way of helping me to get started. I understand that he said he would never give the papers back. I’m not saying that. In fact, I would like to give them back to you. Once I’m on my feet I will. Does that help things?” little girl smile again.

Sid moved forward: “May I call you Virginia?”

“I’d be upset if you didn’t”.

“I will help you, Virginia, but I would prefer to think of it as a gesture of friendship and mentoring as you start out, rather than blackmail. If we could do it on that basis you could give me the letters now.”

“Can I think about this Mr Curlew? Let’s open the account and collect a deposit certificate and reference. As I have said I would like to hand these things over. They don’t sit well with me. But I don’t want you to think that I am just a silly girl. I know they are valuable.”

I could see the frustration on his face, but he surprised me by bursting out laughing. I do not think I had ever seen him laugh before.

“Virginia”, he said, “being obliged to you is going to be so much nicer than being obliged to JPM Backhouse! Why don’t you call me Sid?”

I thought that Sidney Curlew was not as bad as JPM had thought. Or was this the impressionable girl coming out. Anyway, I resolved that my relationship with Mr Curlew would be a very different one. It occurred to me that I had the chance to relate to people where JPM had failed before. Maybe he was just too tough? Another second chance? I should accept it.

I banked a $20,000 bundle and placed all the clean bundles in a sealed bag for safe deposit. I kept in my briefcase the broken bundle (about $18,000) and the dossier.

I called into the cash card bank and put $12,000 onto my card. I put $1,000 on my cell phone. As I considered my next move, on a whim I called in to a beauty shop and called up and facial and a new hairdo.

JPM had only rarely set foot in a women’s hairdresser before but it all seemed very familiar to Virginia. She took over to some extent, and I let her, as I relaxed with ladies’ magazines between sequences. When I walked out only moments before 6:00 pm my face felt fresh, my eye makeup looked great, and the shiny updo with curls dropping down looked stunning. I even had my ears re-pierced and some classy drop earrings inserted. I would keep the diamond studs for later.

I was fashionably late when I arrived at Mark’s office. He was in reception waiting (for me I assumed) and was saying goodbye to some of his colleagues. His mouth dropped open when he saw me smiling at him.

He introduced me to a couple of other guys as “a new client”. I found myself surrounded by young, handsome and successful men received admiring looks and generally being the centre of attention. It felt good.

I was also aware that the two women employees had a very different view of me – a little hard to track but clearly not positive. I looked at them and shrugged my shoulders. “How can you work with guys like this?” I smiled at them. It seemed that this warmed them to me, or a least a little.

It was not long before it was agreed that we all go to the fashionable “Iron Bar” nearby. If Mark was expecting a date it was hijacked. I spent the next three hours being subjected to the most unashamed chat up lines from Mark and his male colleagues.

Occasionally I would wink at the female colleagues and twice during the evening we visited the ladies room together. This was also a new experience for me but one I learned to understand. It was a chance to talk about just how silly men are in a women-only environment. I had quickly come to realise that men are silly, and JPM Backhouse too, had shown all the traits that we now giggled about while fixing our makeup. I was feeling relaxed and very feminine in this company. I took a stall and I pulled down my new panties and peed in my new fashion. It felt good.

I drank champagne and it suddenly occurred to me that after only a few glasses I was feeling more than a little tipsy. Of course, my body mass was much smaller and the ability to cope with alcohol much reduced. I wanted to continue to be seen to enjoy things, but I knew that I could not let myself down. For the first time I started to think of myself as a lady – a lady of refinement. JPM might be able to get drunk in the best of company, Virginia never could.

We ate a little at the bar. I was not that hungry but wanted to eat to measure the alcohol. The food was “sophisticated snack” and it was good. Things like prawn and ginger won tons, liver with truffle wafer, olive pastries, food that Virginia would never recognise but that JPM’s advanced palette could appreciate.

It was clear that I moved well in this company, but with the added spice of youth. These people were young, hungry for life, and perhaps just that little bit stupid with it. JPM Backhouse would have put them down, but I was young too, in fact younger than all of them. I was not like that middle-aged man. These people were like me. For the first time I began to think that I disliked this man whose brain was in mine.

But I needed to take my leave. I did not want to say where I lived so I avoided all offers of escort. But I made a point of thanking Mark for a wonderful evening and kissing him on the cheek. I could see that I had him in my palm, but I had no intention of using him. It was more important for me to learn of my new abilities.

Donna did not look around when I came in, as she was glued to the TV screen. But when she did see me her mouth fell wide open.

“Honey, what are you wearing? What is with that hair? Where did you get those shoes?”. She was in a state of shock.

“Don’t fuss Ma”, I said, reverting to the New Jersey accent that Donna expected. “Dr Metz has arranged for me to apply for a job in the city, so I just borrowed some stuff to look good. I can keep it for the interview in two days’ time.”

“What kinda job? Whereabouts in the city? You got no skills darling. What are you supposed to do?”

“Ma, working reception is easy. I just have to look good and talk nice. I’m working on that. Be happy for me.”

“You’ve changed”, she said. She suddenly looked very worried and even scared. I sat down on the sofa beside her and kicked off my shoes. I leaned against her put my head of perfumed hair against her shoulder.

“It’s like I’ve woken up and everything is different”, I said to her. “It’s like I’ve been given another chance at life and I don’t want to blow it this time. I know that I’ve not been a good daughter, but I should be. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

I wondered for a moment how much of this was me covering my tracks or the real feelings of Virginia coming out. It was strangely difficult to tell. But clearly it moved Donna, whose arms softly cradled me.

“If there’s any blame for your life so far, it’s on me, baby girl. And maybe some on that man of yours Shiloh. He came around earlier and said he would come back.”

“I’ll stay dressed for him but I’m not going out with him Ma. It’s all over with him.”

She stroked my back and we sat on the sofa closely together watching TV until the door bell sounded.

I put my shoes and stood behind the door as I opened it with the chain still on.

“Hey baby, where you been? I came over two hours ago. Where were you? Who was you with?”

“Go away Shiloh”, I called from behind the door. “It’s late and I’m tired. We’re just going to bed.”

“Babe, let me in girl,” he whined.

“It’s over Shiloh. I’ve decided. It’s over.”

“Let me in bitch or I will break this door down.” Well, that was a sudden change of tone. It left me cold with fear. I knew what fear was, but this seemed fear with a harder edge that JPM was used to. I was small and weak, and the door was not that strong, and only my mother was there.

“Ma. Call the police,” I shouted as I pushed the door against Shiloh’s bulk stopping me from closing it.

“Fuck you!” he said.

“Never again,” I responded. “You’ll never fuck me again.” I kicked the door and it finally closed. He shouted further abuse for a while and then he left.

“I’m scared Ma,” I said. “I dunno whether I can stay here.” I was a little afraid, but I was more keen to get a place in the city. I could afford that now. Somewhere inside me I knew that there was love for this woman, my mother, but I would need to cover that later. In the morning I went to find a city apartment.

I had cash and a reference from a private bank. I was able to secure a small 1-bedroom apartment without difficulty. I telephoned my mother to tell her that I was staying with a friend for a while, but that I would be back when Shiloh was gone from my life.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” she said. “Only a bullet is gonna shake off that boy.”

But now I had time and space to go through my research, and I could make the calls I needed to make.

I was then able to turn up to my interview with Backhouse and Weiss. I was dressed to kill in a power outfit – tailored and with a flash of red. I sat in the waiting room on the 16th floor of the Centurion Building until well past the allotted time, until Jane Stepney came to collect me.

“I am sorry for the delay,” she said.

“If it was meant to unsettle me, it has not,” I said. She smiled knowingly.

There across the table was my oleaginous partner Adam Weiss, and my vain and conceited son, Bartholomew Backhouse. Adam rose to shake my hand, but Bart remained seated and looked at some papers. He muttered: “I’m not sure why we are interviewing anybody at the moment.”

It was only after that was said that he looked at me. He straightened in his seat. I recognised that look now. His balls were doing his thinking. He was looking at my tits. I knew he would, so I had dressed to allow him to view just enough flesh.

“I understand from Jane that we have lost your CV,” said Adam. “I am not sure how we are supposed to consider you for a position with our firm without supporting paperwork.”

“Well, I hope that the material will turn up, but in the meantime I propose to prove my worth by performance,” I said. “I have been analysing a stock lately, with one call from you Mr Weiss, I think that the value could double or better, before close of business.”

I knew that this would push his buttons. Adam’s problem has always been that he could not resist a tip, even from a shoeshine boy. I could see him twitching with anticipation. But there was more to this plan.

“You cannot be an insider so you will need to buy the stocks now. I will underwrite your purchase personally. I can prove that I have capacity to do that. Then after you have bought you make a call that will trigger a takeover. If you double your money, I get a job in your deal room. What do you say?”

“That would have to be subject to your CV turning up,” said Jane. It was a fair requirement.

“No,” I said. “The deal is today. But if when my CV turns up there is a significant shortcoming, or a basis to refuse to hire me then I will resign or be removed. But I want the job if I pull off the deal.”

“What do you say, Bart,” asked Adam.

“Huh?” he was still trying to undress me. If he had heard a word I would be surprised. If he understood any of it I would be amazed. I was wearing something designed to distract him.

“All right,” said Jane. Adam nodded too. She said: “Show us what you have.”

I pulled out my folder and crossed my legs. I could see Bart staring and hoping that I was not wearing panties. He was an idiot, after all.

“Nordstrom Electronics,” I began. “And their target is TRB Electronics. That company has the key to their technology. That company has the key to their technology. It is quite technical, but the numbers are very easy to understand …”.

I always had the dirt on Adam Weiss if he did not hire me. But I did not need it. Better to save that for another day, should he decide to cross me. The deal spoke for itself. Within 24 hours they were richer, and my stake, bought days before for a few cents less, did well for me. And I had other prospects under consideration.

So now I was working for Backhouse and Weiss. The only problem was that I had drawn the attentions of my own son – Bart – a rather unpleasant person.

Fortunately, Mark Davis came to my rescue, although only because I called him. I told Bart that I was meeting my boyfriend after work, and he suggested that he should meet him. I knew what was going on, as many years ago I had been in this position before. He wanted to size up the competition. Maybe assert himself. It was awkward but unavoidable. My plan was to show some overt affection for Mark to throw off Bart. You may call me old fashioned, but the thought of any kind of intimacy with my own son, I found revolting.

But things were about to get much worse.

We went to a smart rooftop bar around the corner from the Centurion Building, where Bart had an area reserved. Apparently, he was a regular there. He made sure that we arrived earlier than I had told Mark, and he attempted to charm me. All that did was affirm to me that my son was a dick. Sadly, I had always known it.

Mark was on time but apologised for being late. He and Bart shook hands, overly firmly, and with a grasp that was way too long. It was a male pissing contest. I found myself looking skyward as women do, thinking how stupid men can be.

They both fell over themselves to be attentive to me, but at the same time engaged in verbal jousting over how clever and important they both were.

It was during one of those exchanges that I saw him. It was Shiloh walking towards me with a face like thunder. He was wearing a jacket and was probably as well dressed as I had ever seen him. He would need to be to meet the dress code for this place. He ignored the men with me.

“Come with me,” he said firmly. I had that feeling again. This man was a violent, abusive idiot. So why was I even considering going with him?

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“Your phone,” he said. “It was our phone, remember? Until I got my own it was our phone and I can track it. Track it all the way here, to this high fallutin’ cocktail bar.”

“Excuse me?” said Mark. “Who the hell are you?”

“Fuck off,” said Shiloh. My heart leapt just a little. I had loved this man, or at least been besotted with him. He was direct and competent in a fight. I always thought that he would protect me. But he left me in a hospital with barely any of my brain left. He should not be in my future.

“No, no.” It was Bart entering the fray, moving up to confront Shiloh. “You fuck off, Buddy. I don’t know who you are, but Virginia is with me now. So, you fuck off.”

It was one punch. An uppercut. It lifted Bart into the air and he was out of it. He lay on the floor with blood coming from his mouth. The seething crowd nearby were silenced and moved back from the body. The background music still played. I could see the barkeep calling for security.

“You’d better run,” I said to Shiloh.

“Not without you.” He looked at me with what appeared to be …, I’m not sure what it was. Once again, I found myself momentarily considering going with him, and leaving everything that I had built in the last few days, to be with this … animal.

“I’m not going,” I said. “I want you out of my life. Forever.” Reason was prevailing. But only just.

Mark moved forward to stand before me and Shiloh. He had seen the damage that had been done to Brad, but he was moving in to protect me. I took his arm, partly to hold him back, but partly to acknowledge that he was my hero of the moment.

“I’m with Mark, not Bart down there,” I said, noticing that Bart was now sitting up assisted by two bystanders, and groaning. I only then considered that I was putting Mark in danger. But before he could do anything more, two burly security men had Shiloh by an arm each. And he was being pulled backwards through the crowd. I could see his face the whole way across the bar area. He was looking at me with sadness. We both knew it was over.

“Are you all right?” Mark faced me, with real concern. I braced for the questions, but none came.

“I’ve had it with bad boys in my life,” I said. “And I need to get a new phone.”

We left the bar after the ambulance had come and gone. Bart was conscious but in need of “a period of observation”. Free of him Mark took me to dinner and then back to his apartment.

The truth is that I was hungry for sex. I had lived in this body for a while now. I knew that it was a body that had been used to sex. JPM had a body that was next to useless for sex, despite a mind that dwelled significantly on the subject. But he was a man desirous of women, and that inclination had not passed with his neurons. This body needed a man. I wanted Mark to have sex with me.

It was as if Virginia knew what to do and I was just a voyeur, watching it happen. Like watching a live sex act with a front seat – a recliner at that.

He was not without skills either. There was something to admire in the ease with which he undressed me, and how he ran his hands over my naked body. There was tenderness there, but his touch seemed electric. All men must have heard that a woman’s experience of sex is better than a man’s, but who could know? I was about to, and already I knew that it must be true.

I felt hot all over. My soft hairless skin became extremely sensitive. I swear I could feel his fingerprints as hands passed up my inner thighs. My pussy now exuded natural lubricant.

The head of his penis found the lips of my labia, as I looked up to see Mark’s face. He was smiling as if to call for me to confirm what he knew we both wanted. I just whispered the word: “Yes”, and he slid into me. It seemed hardly possible that so much penis could fit inside my small body. But I knew that was where it belonged. His penis, my vagina. So strange to think it.

He began his rhythmic strokes as I whimpered with delight. I seemed on the edge of orgasm for an impossibly long time, only triggered by his happy grunt and the feeling of warm semen inside me. It was a moment of unbridled bliss. My back arched, and I moan uncontrollably. It is now confirmed on the basis of a single act, that a woman’s experience of sex is better than a man’s.

His penis softened and fell out with a plop. His body fell beside mine. He just took my hand in his and we both stared at the ceiling until we caught our breath.

I had a strange thought. It was unexpected, but it filled my head to the exclusion of all other thoughts. I had decided that I did not want to be JPM Backhouse, or any female version of him. I wanted to be Virginia Delevan, or better still, Mrs. Virginia Davis. I snuggled up closer to him.

I had laid the foundation for a continuation of my life on Wall Street, but this time as an attractive young woman in the best of health. I had marshalled together a job, influence, money, and information that could be used as a weapon if needed. I\t was all there in front of me.

I figured that I had more power than JPM Backhouse, and now I knew how to use it. This time I had not only the advantage of youth, but of being an attractive young woman who had recently learned of her ability to make friends and manipulate.

I could be even more powerful than JPM. Equipped as I was, in an age when gender balance has become a mantra that JPM would have treated with derision, and with knowledge of mistakes he had made, and now with a working lifetime before me. If I was as ruthless as JPM I could have many more times what he had been able to achieve, and live a better and healthier life to enjoy it all, for many more years than he had done.

But as I drew closer again to Mark, I wondered whether I wanted any of it. I was a complete woman. I could be a mother. I could bear his children. He could love me forever. I could help him to achieve things, as his adoring wife. Did I really want to step back into battle?

Or was this Virginia taking over? It did not seem that way. This was a rational decision. Effort with excitement, or let somebody else do that, while I lived for them. I would have another chance at a family, but this time a happy one, where I would be loved.

What would you do?

The End.

© Maryanne Peters 2019