Persuaded
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Lord Brett Sinclair drove his Aston Martin up to the front portico of the Hotel Barrière Le Majestic in Cannes and threw the keys to the valet, Maurice.

“Welcome back, Lord Sinclair,” said Maurice, opening the door for the British peer, a regular visitor in the past

Brett winked as he slipped him a 500 franc banknote – there would be more if he was staying for a day or for a week. Maurice would unload the bags and park the car, and the staff would unpack soon after he had signed in and taken a stroll down the promenade. Brett appreciated good service, along with other good things in life.

As he walked through the white marble atrium into the main lobby, he glanced across the sumptuous furniture and experienced a pang of nostalgia. This is where it had all started – in 1971, now 6 years ago. That was when he had been forced into partnership with the American Danny Wilde after a brawl in the very bar he was looking into as he headed to the reception counter.

“We have your usual room, Lord Sinclair,” said Jules, the concierge, snapping his fingers at staff to ensure that their guest would not have to wait for attention. “We have not seen you for a while and we are so pleased to see you back.”

“Yes, I do apologize, but life has been busy,” said Brett. “I just need a break. I need le Cote d’Azur to refresh me.”

“Bien sur, Monsieur,” said Jules. “And you may be pleased … or maybe not, to find an old acquaintance of yours also staying at the hotel, although very much changed. So changed in fact that perhaps I should not say who it is?”

Could it be Danny? Saying that he might not be pleased might indicate that. But the truth was that Brett had missed his ex-partner in adventure. They had parted ways on bad terms which is why neither had contacted the other in 6 years, but they had enjoyed a special relationship for 2 years before that.

Buth then again, they were not on good terms when they met, in this very hotel only 8 years before in 1970, the same year the Apollo 13 crew safely returned to earth. Before the meeting that had been arranged by Judge Fulton to introduce them as partners in helping the Judges to “to right errors of impunity”, they had met one another in the bar and the friction had resulted in a costly brawl.

The memory of that made him smile on his way to the counter. The Judge had smoothed things over and paid the bill, and now he was welcomed back and assigned his usual room with a view of the bay.

He saw the manager approaching with a huge grin.

“Welcome back your lordship,” the Frenchman said with oily obsequiousness.

“I am in France, Marcel … equality and fraternity and all that. Call me Brett.” The Englishman extended his hand. A hotel manager was not to be treated as a butler but as a businessman.

“Of course, of course, but I knew you had arrived,” said Marcel. “Danny is in the bar. I just happened to mention that you had arrived. I saw your car, you see.”

Brett held up his hand. Mediterranean types are so easily agitated.

“I would normally change before coming down, but I will go through and catch up with my old friend,” said Brett. “I promise we won’t break anything this time.”

“Of course, I don’t think that is likely now, not since …”.

Brett held up his hand again. Conversation with these people could get tiresome. Just smile politely and walk past, he told himself. He was looking forward to seeing that crass American again. Danny Wilde. Born and raised in the slums of New York City, he had found the Navy as his way out and had learned skills there which saw him succeed in the oil business and from there to Wall Street before seeking adventure in Europe.

What a contrast he was to Lord Brett Rupert George Robert Andrew Sinclair, the British nobleman, educated at Harrow and Oxford, ex British Army officer, ex-racing car driver, ex London City trader. Brett was a man who initially found “Daniel” (as he liked to call him just because it irked him) common and boorish, even for an American. But as they worked together, he came to admire the determined resourcefulness of this fellow, and the fact that he could be counted on when it mattered.

It turned out that they had become friends, of a kind. It was just that there was a streak of stubbornness about Daniel that peeved him. Brett could not even recall what it was that had caused their partnership to break down all those years ago. Daniel had been unreasonable, but about what he could remember. That was just as well, because when they shook hands, it would be to bury the past – that was what he had decided.

But where was he? The dark hotel bar was almost empty, as might be expected on a sunny afternoon. The barman was polishing glasses behind the bar and the only customer was a lady seated with her back to Brett. She was wearing a floral sundress and fashionable heels, and her dark hair was swept up at the back and falling in curls as was the fashion. Perhaps Danny had brought a woman to the Riviera? He might be using the Gent’s. Brett approached.

“Good afternoon,” he purred, in a manner that he had perfected when greeting women.

She turned, and Brett’s mouth fell open.

“Danny?” he said.

“Dannielle,” she said in a feminine but husky tone – but a voice Brett recognized “But yes, Danni is what I prefer. You have always known that. Call me Danni.”

“What on earth? You’re a woman.” Brett Sinclair was flummoxed.

“Well thank you for confirming that, kind sir,” she said, adopting a pose that could only be described as flirtatious. It made Brett feel distinctly odd. It was always something he liked in a woman … but this was Danny! Or was it?

“If this is a joke, you have gone to extremes this time,” said Brett.

“Oh no. This is real.” She was suddenly very serious. “Real and permanent. I have gone the whole way. You know that I never do things by halves, Brett. I have been putting this off my whole life, not that I regret living the life I have led. It was just that it was never the real me. This is the real me.”

She stepped off her stool and gave a twirl with her sundress rising as she did revealing her beautiful legs and allowing Brett to see more of her body, including the breasts on display in the low cut front of her bodice. They were real. This was real.

“Remarkable,” said Brett, displaying his British restraint and inclination to understatement

“I was inspired by Sandy Stone. Have you heard of her,” Danni asked before answering. “She is a transsexual, like me, but now very public on the whole issue. It turns out that I am not alone. I am not a freak, and she says that the answer to what ails people like me is to let the woman in me take over. So she has. What do you think of her?”

Danni shook his head allowing some of the soft hanging loose hair to fly across her face. To Brett’s surprise he felt a stirring in his loins. He had always considered such feelings a sign of robust good health, but this was disturbing.

“But what about all the women you have bedded over the years?” said Brett. “It may even have been close to my own tally … not that a gentleman keeps records.”

“I yield to you, your lordship,” Danni mocked him. “Women are a thing of the past for me now, as I have recently discovered. Danny Wilde’s book is closed. Danielle Wilde’s book is open.”

“Are you saying that you are now interested in men?” Brett was reeling from another shock.

“It is a little queer, I suppose,” said Danni, delicately placing a long painted fingernail against her smooth powdered cheek. “It is just that when you look like a woman, and can I suggest an attractive mature lady, men desire you, and you just end up desiring them back. It was a surprise to me too, but a pleasant one. A man should prefer me, don’t you think, Brett?”

“Definitely,” said Brett. He was getting on top of this. “How rude of me, can I get you another drink?” he had noticed the empty champagne glass and his own lack of good manners.

“Bollinger, please,” she said, in a way that sounded as if men had been buying her that drink for decades.

The barman had overheard her as intended, and Brett held up two fingers to indicate he would have a glass too, although he had an urge for something much stronger.

“So, what brings you back to the Cote d’Azur?” he asked.

“Well … you I suppose,” she said. “Or rather the memory of the times we spent in France, Italy and England, all those years ago. I just wanted to see how different it would be to visit some of those old places as a woman. It is very different, I can tell you.”

“The places or the people?” Brett asked.

“You know, it is strange but somehow the places seem so much more colorful seen out of a woman’s eye,” Danni mused for a moment. It is like a man sees the world in black and white, and now there is color everywhere.”

“Am I more colorful, Danni?” asked Brett with a sly smile.

“I am trying to work that out,” she said. “It is as if you always were but only now am I realizing that. You are an extremely good looking man, Brett, and you were always a charmer. Perhaps you charmed the woman in me even when she was locked inside the body of that New York bruiser.”

“And now she is free?” Brett made a point of throwing back the whole coupe of champagne freshly poured.

“Now she is free,” confirmed Danni.

“Would it be presumptuous of me to invite you upstairs so that you might show me more of this new you?” said Brett, his eyes suddenly sparkling like a fairy tale hero.

“I thought you might never ask,” said Danni.

She took just a sip before stepping off the stool and accept his proffered hand. A lady sips only. And a lady should not so easily be persuaded either. But Lord Brett Sinclair was special to Danni. He always had been.

The End
1803

Author’s Note: In August 2024 There was an exchange on FM MB bemoaning that there were no stories there using the characters of “Agents of UNCLE”, no “Danger Man”, no “The Prisoner”, no “The Saint”, no “It Takes a Thief”, no “The Champions”, no “The Persuaders”...” I was minded of how good Tony Curtis looked in drag in “Some Like it Hot”.