Focal Point
CHAPTERS 7 & 8
 
By Alyssa Plant
 

Michael Cohen's dream was to protect and serve as a police officer.... That job didn't satisfy him until one day, when people without names came to visit. He wanted to make a difference, but he didn't expect it to make a difference to him, too...

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Chapter 7

Some part of my brain told me that I ought to be scared of what I was doing, but was overridden by an overwhelming sense of self preservation. If I broke down now, I would draw attention to myself, but if I kept going, nobody would be the wiser.

So I did just that … I followed Jane and Harriet along the street, occasionally agreeing with something, or making non committal sounds. Before long, a taxi appeared, and we flagged it down and boarded. Jane gave the driver an address , and I sank down into my seat with relief. I had never before been more self conscious of walking 50 meters in my life.

“You okay?” Harriet asked, watching my expression carefully. “It’s okay to be nervous,” she said with a friendly smile, giving my hand a light squeeze. “I know what you’re thinking … Seriously though, nobody will work it out unless you telling them; you look amazing,” she grinned.

“She’s right,” added Jane from the other side of Harriet. “Sally did a right number on you, it suits you down to the ground …”

“So everyone keeps saying,” I sighed. “I’d like to get to grips with pretending to be this first though if you don’t mind,” I muttered darkly.

“Just treat this as what it is …” Harriet said with a shrug. “An operation … you’re an undercover Intelligence agent, so act the part and earn your paycheque,” she added, making it sound like this was the simplest thing in the world.

“It may have escaped your notice,” I said darkly. “But I don’t know this role very well.”

“Coulda fooled me,” snickered Harriet. “That’s the easy part though. You look like you belong, that gives you a little leeway … We won’t have to concentrate on getting your mannerisms and behaviour to be as feminine as possible to remove suspicion … you look so …. female,” she said gesturing at me, “that nobody would begin to suspect you were undercover. So relax okay?”

“Easier said than done,” I muttered to myself.

We arrived at a small Italian Bistro in Knightsbridge and made our way inside. I tried to take what the girls had said to heart, but it was easier to understand what they meant, than it was to truly believe. It sounds silly, but I swear that I expected everyone that cast their eyes in my direction would see through my deception. It was irrational I knew; I had seen myself in the mirror at Sally’s, and I knew there was no way anyone could tell, but subconsciously, it was a hard feeling to shake.

We were seated quickly, and shared a quick light lunch. We relaxed, and I began to get to know the two girls a little better. If anything, they seemed to open up to me more as Sharon than they had as Mike. Harriet kept looking at me strangely when she thought my head was turned: My unnaturally broad field of vision was clearly not on 6’s file ….

“So what is Mr Tornworth like to work for?” I asked between bites of my salad. I had been scolded several times for how I ate, and was beginning to feel like I was 5 again.

“He’s not bad. He can get stroppy at times when the Deputy Chief rides him and the other heads of departments, but that’s normal; the guy’s an ass,” Harriet shrugged.

“Er, ’not bad’?” Jane scoffed. “He’s only not bad to you because you’re one of his precious field Officers … You don’t have to spend as much time with him as I do. He rides us pretty hard when you go off gallivanting around foreign countries,” she snickered. “All in all, he’s not TOO bad. I suppose, we could have done so much worse,” she shrugged. “Safe to say you won’t find him too bad.” Jane said to me. “You’re a man, after all.”

“Yeah, he can be a bit old school,” Harriet added screwing up her face, “But he’s not as bad as Toby can be.”

“What have I walked into?” I moaned. “Although I’ll probably get to see a different side thanks to this mission,” I said, sipping my wine, “I may not see the full brunt of his misogyny, but doubtless, my membership card for the old boys club will get lost in the post.”

“I guess that makes you an honorary girl for the duration,” Jane chuckled. “You’re going to have to learn to fend off Daniel Many Hands, so if anything, that qualifies you,” she said with something approaching glee.

“I think I get the idea,” I sighed. Men were another facet of this mission that I was as yet unwilling to even consider. Though that might be easier said than done like so many other things I was dealing with for the first time.

We chatted idly for another half an hour or so before leaving to get a cab into central London to begin the second part of my torture and education: Shopping.

The taxi dropped us off at the end of Oxford Street, and Harriet, like a true general led the attack from the front. She was clearly an experienced London shopper, possessing just the right amount of haughty confidence to keep the vulture-like sales assistants at bay. Between themselves, the girls began to compile a small mountain of clothing they thought suitable for me. Thankfully, I wasn’t exactly sure what was suitable for a female me, so I largely kept out of the discussions, occasionally vetoing a disgusting colour or style that I would have found repulsive on any woman, let alone myself.

Eventually, the mountain of clothing became too large for them to support, and I was dragged towards the changing room to begin trying on the third of the shop we had acquired. To my credit, I only balked slightly when I was guided forcefully into the women’s changing room and installed in a cubicle. I had often wondered why women took so long when shopping, and after seeing the lengthy process that took place in each shop, I had a new understanding for the process. I started to think about how much I would benefit from the experience when I got a girlfriend, but something felt extremely wrong about ‘girlfriend’ when I was stood there, a perfect representation of the sort of girl I would have fancied. The world was a weird place…
“Where next?” I asked with trepidation as we left Harvey Nicks.

“It’s a surprise.” Jane replied ominously.

I groaned; “I’m about done with your surprises.”

“There is one thing my dear sister cannot do,” Jane said as we made our way along the busy streets. “She cannot pierce.”

I swallowed heavily. “Pierce what?”

“Your ears silly … It’s going to look very funny if a 24 year old woman doesn’t have pierced ears.”

“I thought we weren’t doing anything permanent?” I asked nervously, trying desperately to find some way out of having metal shoved through my body.

“They heal if you take them out within a few weeks.” Harriet said, attempting to reassure me. “And if it doesn’t, lots of guys have them pierced…”

I sighed, “It just seems a very permanent step to take. This is moving so fast.”

Harriet was quiet for a moment before she spoke, “Think about it this way: The more we do sooner, the more dramatic the difference, and thus, easier for you to separate yourself from this … If anything, getting your ears pierced for a few weeks is going to help …” she offered. “Plus you’re such a big baby. It doesn’t hurt.” She grinned, spotting one of my reasons for hesitation.

“I’m not scared.” I said puffing out my chest, only to breathe out rapidly when I saw my breasts push forwards in a way I did NOT want to see on me. Harriet was watching the entire inner conflict with amusement, and found it hard to stifle a giggle.

“You’ll get used to those,” she whispered conspiratorially in my ear as we walked. “And for future references, you can’t pull off macho at the moment, honey.”

I scowled, but said nothing. She was right.

Jane took me to an upmarket piercing parlour where she paid for me to be impaled by a disturbingly large needle; twice. It hadn’t hurt as much as I expected, but I was still not pleased by such a permanently feminine step, whether I needed it or not. The silver studs were plain and unfeminine, but represented a strange new line I had crossed unwillingly.

Afterwards, we returned to the shopping assault with renewed vigour. I should have been pleased by the respite. Much to my embarrassment, I was subjected to Lingerie and shoe shopping before my two captors were finally satisfied. By this time, it was almost five, so they grudgingly decided to call it a day. We took a taxi back to my flat in Battersea, not wanting to chance the tube with such a mass of bags and packages. The girls offered to come up with me, but I declined, there were some things I needed to face alone.

Before I knew it, I was alone outside my flat. Hefting my packages, I climbed the stairs slowly towards the second floor. As I climbed, the stairs seemed to extend further and further. I didn’t know if it was the thought of what lay at the top, or the weight of my bags, but my feet felt like lead. How had things happened so quickly? It was only Wednesday that I had agreed to do this, and now here I was … stuck as a girl for the next few weeks. It was almost enough for me to want to be back at the Met again.

I reached my flat, and let myself in. I carried my bags through to my room and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor. I couldn’t meet my housemates looking like this….

I stripped off my skirt and blouse and pulled the pins from my hair before slipping out of my room and down the corridor to the bathroom where I cleaned off the makeup; that girl was still there …. I looked at my face from every angle, but no matter what I did, I still saw Sharon looking back at me. I cursed to myself under my breath and returned to my bedroom to find something simple and unfeminine to wear. I wasn’t quite ready to reintroduce myself to my housemates in a skirt.

I sorted through the bags, hanging the different garments in my wardrobe before I finally found what I had been looking for. We had gone to several High Street chain shops to find me some less dressy clothes for when I was around the house. I carefully slipped off the tights, and pulled on the loose jog bottoms and tee shirt. I felt much more comfortable after the restrictive garments I had spent the day in. Needless to say I still wore the damned corset, but I had grown used to it to a certain extent. I padded through into the kitchen, and got myself a beer from the fridge; I needed something to take the edge off my anxiety. Opening the bottle, I slipped onto the sofa and rubbed my aching feet. I certainly understood what girls meant about the pain of beauty now.

I sipped the beer and began to think of ways that I could phrase my predicament. I didn’t think the truth, no matter how appropriate, was possible; the nature of the Mission denied me that option. I toyed with several other ideas to little success, I opted in the end to go with a very vague version of the truth, and play the national secret trump card.

The sound of the door opening and shutting in the hallway snapped me from my reverie.

It was all the strength that I possessed to not run for my bedroom as each footfall reverberated on the polished wooden floor of the hall. I clenched my fists and waited for the inevitable.

Becky came into the room and dumped her bag on the sideboard with a sigh before turning to head towards the kitchen. As she did so, her eyes fell on me as I sat rooted to the spot on the sofa.

“Hi,” she said, a little startled. “You scared me … I’m Becky, I live here,” she said smiling warmly.

“I know Becky.” I said quietly. “Me too …”

Becky looked at me for a moment and I saw recognition flicker across her eyes.

“Mike?” she asked slowly furrowing her brow. “Is that you? What is this?”

“Ah, it’s a long story,” I sighed, trying to find the words. “This isn’t some lifestyle thing,” I hurriedly added. “It’s for work ….”

Becky looked sceptical but sat down to listen while I told her the edited version of the truth.

When I finished, Becky sat looking at me for a moment, as if wondering whether I was being honest or this was some massive fabrication to cover my queerness.

“How can they ask that of you?” she said with a frown. “Isn’t this a bit much?”

“I don’t honestly know. I originally decided to do it because I knew it wouldn’t work.” I grimaced. “But then it did … and I’m sort of flying by the seat of my pants here … well, my knickers…” I said dryly.

Stifling a laugh, she smiled warmly and moved over to sit next to me on the sofa and wrapped her arms around me.

“I don’t care what you look like, Mike,” she murmured softly as she hugged me. “You’re one of the few people in this city that actually gives a damn about me, and you deserve the same in return,” she said looking up at me with a deep far away look in her eyes. “You are very brave,” she said quietly. “Not many men would do this.”

“I’m still wondering if any have,” I snorted. “Anyway, I worked out today this is easier If I don’t see myself as a man.” I mumbled quietly. “I guess that makes me more embarrassed by this, and no amount of ‘brave’ will fix that.”

Becky looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “So you think of yourself as a girl like this?”

“I guess so.” I shrugged. “Sally thought … she … helped with this,” I said gesturing at myself. “She thought it would be a good idea to think of myself as a whole different person during this thing. I think I agree … It made shopping easier this afternoon … thought I was still scared.”

“You went out like this … in town?” Becky asked with surprise. “What was it like?”

“Well nobody pointed and laughed or shouted freak at me … so I guess okay,” I shrugged.

Becky giggled. “Well I can see that,” she said slyly raising her eyebrows. “I didn’t recognise you till you said you lived here … I noticed the similarities, I thought you might be a relative till you said,” she trailed off. “You look like your own sister,” she added flatly.

“I wouldn’t know, I don’t have one,” I shrugged.

“You know what I mean,” she sighed. “You just look like … I guess what you would have looked like if you were born like this.”

“This feels really weird Becky.” I admitted biting my lip. “Since this started, I’ve started feeling so strange, things just keep getting weirder.”

Giving me a reassuring squeeze, she said nothing for a moment. “Take your friend's advice,” she said quietly. “There is nothing weird about being a girl; I’ll vouch for that … So stop being Mike, and become Mike the girl … at least for a little while.” She shrugged.

She was right of course, so was Sally, they all were. The more I thought of myself as ‘Sharon’ the easier I found it to just exist, but the disturbing fact was, the more I did so, the more I forgot Mike. It hadn’t been a day, and I felt him slip just a little as I thought this way … This was wrong ….

“So ….” Becky pressed, forcing me from my reverie. “Do you have a name you use? For this I mean …” she added.

“Sharon,” I muttered.

“Oh, very cultural,” Becky giggled. “Sharon Cohen … Yes, I like it. It suits you.” She smiled.

“So Sharon,” she giggled playfully. “How are we going to tell that nasty man we live with that you came to your senses and joined the winning side?” she smirked devilishly.

She was taunting me, I knew her game, but I wasn’t going to rise to it as much as I wanted to. For the most part, it was because I knew she was only joking to make me feel better, not to upset me, and I guess that made a difference. The subject of Pete still cast a very large, very black shadow over my mood.

“I guess I can tell him when he gets home.” I frowned. “I guess it’s easier to get this out … I just know he won’t begin to understand this like you have.” I sighed ruefully.

“He’s going to be difficult.”

To my surprise, Pete was rather well behaved about the whole subject. Naturally, he had been utterly surprised by my appearance. He fielded many of the questions I expected. He wasn’t as convinced by my story, but gave me the benefit of the doubt. I think something in his eyes told me that he expected something like this … but I didn’t want to think about that. In his favour, he didn’t give me any hassle; that much I was glad of.

The night wound on, and we found an uneasy coexistence. I caught Pete looking at me curiously on several occasions. I think despite his own ideas, I did not meet them in a way he had envisaged. Tired from the day’s activity, I made my excuses, and retired to bed. It was almost surreal as I changed into the nightgown we had bought, and slipped beneath my familiar covers: one of the last things that remained constant. As I lay there, fear, uncertainty and confusion wracked my mind; sleep provided welcome respite.

I woke late on Saturday morning. It was unusually sunny for this time of year, but still brisk and windy. I lay in bed watching the tree outside my window blow back and forth in the spring breeze. I had woken slowly; that lazy, gentle awakening that leaves one refreshed and awake. I slipped out of my covers, and felt the weight of my breasts as I sat up, no, that wasn’t right … the false breasts; I didn’t think I’d ever get used to that feeling. I slipped out of my room, and made for the shower without looking at the mirror. I stripped off the nightdress, and stepped under the cool jets of water and tried to ease the night’s tension from my body. I reached for my body wash, but something about the men’s shower gel seemed a little weird this morning. Shaking my head to myself, I reached over and grabbed one of Becky’s many bottles and began to soap my wet hair. The whole process took much longer than normal, how did girls not find this annoying?

Stepping out of the shower, I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself; it took a moment for the sway of my free breasts to remind me to tie it higher. Steeling myself, I peered into the steamy mirror. That girl was still there…. She just looked a lot soggier. Even with my sodden hair plastered against my skull, I looked like a female. It was quite disconcerting to be honest. I rubbed my chin in the vain hope that I would have magically turned into a man over night but there was to be no miracle. Resigning myself to this new me, I brushed my teeth, and returned to my room.

I spent the day around the flat, doing very little; watching television, reading, and ignoring life. It felt reassuring to be doing something normal that didn’t remind me of my appearance. Becky and Pete surfaced around lunch time; Pete looked surprised that I was still dressed as a girl.

“Why don’t you take that stuff off at home, mate? Isn’t this a bit much?” he asked leaning on the kitchen counter, watching me carefully.

“I can’t really,” I said honestly. “Most of my guy clothes won’t really look right with these, will they?” I asked hefting my false breasts. “And unless I’m totally deluded, I’d look really strange, what with the hair … and stuff,” I trailed off running out of ideas.

“That’s what has me boggled, mate,” Pete said screwing up his face. "I expected that to be a wig and some water balloons, but it's you isn’t it? What did they do to you?” he asked with a faint look of unease.

I turned towards him properly and looked at him. “You think I’m having a sex change don’t you?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. “You think this is all some big story to cover up the fact I’ve turned gay and decided I want a vagina … That’s what you think isn’t it?” I asked standing up and approaching him with what I hoped was menace.

Pete recoiled as I did and held his hands up in surrender. “Wow, no, mate, seriously, I don’t think you’re gay,” he said, “I mean, even if you wanted to be a woman, that doesn’t make you gay I don’t think…” he said looking a bit taken aback by my burst of anger. “Look Mike … God, it,s weird calling you that … Look … It’s just sudden... is all.. Like the spy business … Something keeps telling me it’s a bit convenient I guess. You just look … so….” He trailed off gesturing at me.

“What?” I snapped angrily.

“Well look at yourself,” he said, sighing. “You look just like my ex when she was angry …. The huffy angry routine … the hands on the hips … You … You just … This doesn’t seem so out of place for you I guess.” He admitted. “I look at you, and I don’t see a guy. Sorry, mate, but you just come across as a girl in pretty much every way, and it’s a bit disconcerting,” he said frankly.

Automatically, my hands shot down to my sides. “I … No I don’t,” I said not even believing myself.

Pete raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

With a sigh, I slipped onto one of the breakfast bar stools and put my head in my hands. “This is weird, Pete,” I admitted. “This isn’t some sex change, I don’t think I’m a girl, I don’t want to be a girl … This is fucking me up in the head, but I just don’t think I have a choice … I can’t say what … but too much is riding on this.”

Pete reached out and took my hand and gave it a squeeze in that manly reassuring way he did …”It’s alright, mate, you said what you need to. I guess I was just being a tool as usual … you’ve got more balls than me to do this,” he admitted honestly with a lopsided grin.”

I snickered. “It takes balls to be a woman.”

After my heart to heart with Pete, I felt slightly better knowing that I had both of my housemates onside to a reasonable extent. I felt somewhat shocked that he had thought I wanted to become a woman … that I would lie to him like this … As for my behaviour, I wasn’t going to think about that. As far as I was concerned, it was appropriate, and probably a product of yesterday’s launch in at the deep end. I spent the rest of the day in my room reading, only venturing out to order takeout and retrieve it. I resolved to spend the weekend in the flat. Becky had other ideas…

On Sunday morning, I was dragged from my slumber by a persistent knocking at my door. Rolling over in bed, I rubbed my eyes and listened to see if the knock came again. As it was repeated, I swung my legs out of bed and made my way towards the door. Opening it a crack, I saw Becky looking up at me. “Come on you, we’re going out,” she grinned mischievously.

“Becky, I was asleep,” I moaned stifling a yawn.

“I know,” she said with a sly grin, “and you really should wear a dressing gown when you answer the door, what if I’d been Pete?” she asked with a leer.

Looking down, I realised just how exposed I was. The nightdress was brief, and a lot of leg and breast were on display. Blushing, I grabbed my dressing gown off the back of the door and wrapped it around myself. “Whatever,” I muttered sleepily. “Fine, I’ll get up … in about 3 hours,” I muttered closing the door and retreating to my bed. No sooner had I slipped beneath the covers again, Becky had entered my room and pulled the covers from my bed.

“No you don’t,” she laughed. “Come on girl, Up!”

“There is no girl here,” I mumbled, shoving my head under my pillow. “Go away.”

“Come on now,” she soothed, removing the pillow and sitting down on the bed beside me. “You hid all day yesterday, now I won’t let you spend the rest of the weekend in the house,” she said sternly.

I shook my head. “It scares me,” I muttered quietly into the pillow. “I’m a guy in a skirt, and it freaks me out. I’m not leaving this place in drag unless I have to,” I said resolutely.

“Now stop it,” Becky admonished. “We are going out for a walk to relax and unwind. You need to get over this freak business. You aren’t in drag if you start thinking of yourself as a girl,” she said prodding me in the back.

“So everyone says, but I’m not,” I insisted flatly.

Becky didn’t say anything for a moment. So I rolled over and looked up at her. “What?” I asked quietly, trying to read her blank expression.

“I just want to help you,” Becky said sadly. “You need some time to get used to things … I … Never mind,” she said shaking her head as she got up and left the room with a choked sob.

I sat up in the bed and felt truly awful; I took out my own idiotic anger against my friend, and I’d hurt her feelings. At that time, going out didn’t sound so bad if it would help settle the mood. Showering, with effort to keep my hair dry, I dressed simply in the plainest underwear I could find, the corset, and a pair of jeans and a cowl neck sweater before venturing out of my room and knocking on Becky’s door softly.

“Go away,” she called quietly. Ignoring her, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. Becky was lying on her bed curled into a ball; she didn’t even look up when I entered.

“Becky,” I said awkwardly. “Look, I’m sorry. This is very sudden for me. I realise you wanted to help, and I will come if you still want to,” I said quietly.

Becky looked up at me with red eyes; she had been crying. It made me feel even worse. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled sadly. “This is my fault.”

“No it’s not Becky,” I sighed. “This is me. I got into this, you only wanted to help,” I said softly.

“No,” she said flatly, sitting up. “This was my fault,” she said looking away. “The other night, when we had that night in … It was … lovely, but when you came home like this…” she said gesturing at me. “I sort of hoped that I could be a part of this for you, because I saw you like a little sister, sort of…,” she said quietly. “Growing up, I had two older brothers, and more than anything in the world, I wanted a little sister,” she said with a tear rolling down her cheek. “I took advantage of you like this,” she sniffed.

I walked over and sat down by her side and put my arms around her. We had known each other for nearly 5 years, and I almost did see her as the sister I never had. Growing up an only child, one makes attachments with close friends. You find substitute siblings, and being the two people I had known longest in my life beside my parents, Becky and Pete were almost a second family to me. At that moment, this ceased to matter to me. The fear of these feelings, the fear of being discovered and the fear of being a man in a dress evaporated. If Becky needed a sister, maybe I could help her? What if I made this one person happy for a while? I could do that…

“I guess I could be her for a while,” I said softly.

Becky furrowed her brow and looked at me, trying to work out what I was saying.

“Well you are older.” I said with a shrug. “And we have known each other so long, you do feel like a sister…. and as I am at the moment … well, I guess while I’m like this, I could do with a big sister around to talk to,” I said, meaning every word.

Becky looked at me with wide eyes and a silly grin on her lips. “Do you mean that?” she asked hopefully.

“I guess so,” I said, “I suppose I could use the help and experience.” Becky hugged me tightly, squeezing the air from my lungs more effectively than the corset. “Oh thank you Mike,” she said wistfully. “I really, really wanted a sister for so long,” she grinned. “Are you sure you’re okay with coming out? I didn’t mean to press…” she asked cautiously.

“Sure,” I shrugged. “And I think we should both get used to referring to me as Sharon, don’t you think? I do need to get in character …”

Becky grinned, and ran out of the room to shower and get ready before I could change my mind.

While she was busy, I slipped back into my room and searched amongst the new footwear I had acquired. There was a pair of flat, fur boots in a light tan that caught my eye, both for comfort, and for some reason, I liked the way they looked when women wore them with jeans. So slipping them on, I found a large shoulder bag, and transferred the contents of my suit pockets into it, along with the contents of the bag from Friday’s adventures. I managed to apply a little makeup in the mirror on my wall. Nothing extravagant, just a little mascara and a clear lip gloss. I wasn’t meant to be parading around like some supermodel; my girl was down to earth. Somehow I managed to look more feminine wearing less cosmetics; that was slightly disturbing.

Feeling ready as I could possibly be, I sat on my bed and brushed my hair for a moment while I waited for Becky to finish. How had I gotten into this? I was sat in my room, having just applied cosmetics and chosen what women’s footwear went with my women’s jeans and women’s top … The more I thought about it, the weirder it felt. What if I was Sharon? As Sharon, this was getting dressed … this was making herself presentable to go for a walk and a coffee with her flatmate on a lazy Sunday. When I thought of it that way, it really wasn’t anything to even write home about; a non issue. But I wasn’t Sharon … was I? I was Mike … masquerading as a woman he invented called Sharon … I finished brushing my hair and walked over to the mirror by my door.

I didn’t look like a Mike … the harder I looked; the harder it was to see that the girl in the glass was a masquerade. I looked like a young, casually dressed girl … Right now I felt like one too … I was Sharon?

At that moment, something clicked inside my brain and I felt my identity shift, or split; I wasn’t sure which, but from that moment however, I felt different. A part of me was Mike. He wasn’t going anywhere. But for now, I was a 24 year old woman called Sharon Cohen, I worked for MI6 and I had so very much to learn … For the first time, this didn’t feel like a charade. I knew deep down, this was a job, but I felt like I could manage…. There was no way anyone could see Mike unless they investigated the contents of my knickers … and short of Angelina Jolie turning lesbian; that was never going to happen.

“Just a job,” I shrugged, as I slipped out into the hallway.

Becky and I left the flat and walked down towards the river. It was an unusually warm Sunday morning, and there were people going to and fro as we walked; I felt extremely self-conscious for the first few hundred meters, though that began to wear off as it slipped through my confused brain that nobody was seeing anything out of the ordinary.

We found a small café by the Thames that wasn’t as overflowing with tourists as the others and we ordered coffees and a pastry before finding a table outside in the weak spring sunshine.

“You alright?” Becky asked, sipping her cappuccino. “You were really quiet on the way down here.”

“I guess,” I mumbled looking out over the river. “It’s not so bad, but a little bit at the back of my mind keeps telling me that someone’s going to twig.”

Becky snickered. “You looked at yourself recently?” she asked with a sly grin. “I don’t know how, but you sound, move and act so real it’s scary … I can hardly believe that there’s Mike in there…” she said quietly.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said quietly. “I don’t really feel like him at the moment either.”

“How do you mean?” Becky asked, setting her coffee down and giving me her undivided attention when I wanted it least.

“I guess … well I’m not wearing anything too feminine,” I said plucking at the jumper I was wearing, “and I really haven’t got much if any makeup on, but I still feel very much like girl I guess,” I shrugged. “It sounds weird I know, but I sort of started to think of this me as a different me …” I trailed off, not knowing how to go on.

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” Becky began, raising her eyebrows. “But even in a guy’s clothes, I think you would still appear female at the moment. It’s not just the hair, or the boobs,” she chuckled, “You carry yourself differently; I don’t know how much coaching you had, but its great!” She enthused. “There’s nothing macho or masculine about you like this …” she said smiling reassuringly.

“Yeah, lots,” I said quietly taking a sip. “Lots of coaching,” I said hating the truth she had inadvertently stumbled on. I know she had intended to be supportive, but I couldn’t help but feel the rug begin to come out from beneath my feet. Things were beginning to move faster in strange directions and I had no map and the brakes were shot. It hadn’t escaped my mind that I was faring much more easily at this than I should, but perhaps it was because I was an extremely observant person. I watched people, I analysed, I studied … It was my job to watch. As a sniper with the Met, 90% of my job at an incident was to watch, interpret and relay information. I decided that this was what I was doing now … I was using what I had subconsciously collected over the years … Just a job ….

After we were finished at the little café, Becky and I walked along the Thames and into the city proper. We looked around a few shops, not really intending to buy anything. Becky asked my opinion on feminine things, clothes, shoes, etcetera, trying to gauge how I thought now. It was mildly irritating, but I humoured her. After eating lunch in a deli near Victoria, we made our way home on the tube, having had our fill of Sunday exercise. I was glad to get back to the flat. There had been a lot brought up during the day that I needed time to think over. Things were changing. I found it hard to say whether that was good or bad, but I knew that was still to come.

I had truly enjoyed our day together, and before heading to bed that evening, I made sure I told Becky so. The smile of genuine pleasure I had received was worth the worry.
 
 

Chapter 8

Monday morning arrived too quickly for my liking. I was being picked up by car at 8, so there was no rush to get out the door and on the tube this morning. Showering, I realised that I would soon have to buy my own bathroom products instead of using Becky’s; I was quite surprised by how much shampoo and conditioner my longer hair needed … Drying myself, I returned to my room, and slipped into my underwear. It was too weird now to even think of it as women’s underwear now, plus no woman had ever worn it, they were new clothes, I guess it made it easier to think of it as just a different style. I dried my hair, and brushed it out before looking through my wardrobe for something to wear. This was ten times harder than it used to be; now every day was pretty much ‘smart casual’ from my old life. There was no slumming in a tee-shirt and jeans in the office anymore…

Today was pencilled in as training … girl training … I had been told to wear a skirt by Harriet, so I began to look through what was available, finally settling on a dark grey skirt that came to my knees. Adding dark tights, and a black blouse, something dragged me to the mirror in my room to appraise my appearance. The reflection that greeted me was somewhat daunting. A slim, pretty blonde woman looked back at me. It made me feel numb, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and she was stood in her stocking feet, but she looked every inch a woman. I closed my eyes and shook my head; I didn’t need this. After spending an age attempting to apply makeup, I gave up in favour of a little lip balm and mascara, like the day before; the less was more approach seemed much less clown like in my opinion. Collecting the bag from Friday, and a pair of low heeled black shoes, I pulled on a long knee length trench coat that Jane had simply insisted that I needed, I left my bedroom to make breakfast.

Pete and Becky were sat at the breakfast table when I entered, and both looked up. Pete gave me a curious look, and Becky smiled broadly, it was nice to have some constants in this world of upheaval. I muttered a good morning, and went straight for the coffee pot and toaster. Sitting down with my prizes in hand, I caught sight of Pete shaking his head, a silly grin on his face.

“What?” I asked between bites of my toast. “Did I do something?” I asked self-consciously.

“Nah,” he shrugged. “I’m still so thrown at how good you are at this, mate.” He chuckled, folding his paper. “It’s like living with another bird now.”

I rolled my eyes, “Whatever, Pete,” I muttered.

“It’s his training.” Becky added, “I mean her training …”SHE has had the best teachers, so you would expect a little authenticity,” she said gesturing with her spoon. “Plus I think you could do with more female influence Pete,” she chuckled. “Maybe you’ll stop that disgusting scratching you have a habit of doing around the place … and the mess … Maybe another female will drag you in line,” she said with a sly smile.

“Not likely, “And he’s not a female, so I’m safe.”

“Can breakfast discussions not revolve around me?” I asked sheepishly. “Its bad enough, without being flavour of the month,” I said feeling very much on show.

“Sorry,” They mumbled in unison, before awkwardly shifting the conversation in other directions.

I was the last in the flat as Pete and Becky left to make their ways to work. I felt nervous waiting, but almost on the strike of 8, my phone rang. Collecting my bag, I let myself out of the flat, flipping my phone open.

“Hello?” I said into the handset, as I locked the door.

“I’m outside,” Harriet said, “You can’t miss me,” she added closing the connection. I looked at the handset for a moment, before shaking my head and making my way downstairs and out onto the street. Between the hatchbacks and estates that were part of my road, a pristine black range rover was parked, with a sole female occupant behind the wheel. I grinned and walked around to the passenger side before climbing in.

“How subtle.” I said by way of greeting.

“Well I like to make an impression,” smiled Harriet. “Good weekend?”

“Fine I guess, I went out and picked up a few guys, nothing exciting, though I’m still walking funny, I think,” I said as she pulled out into the street. Harriet turned to look at me with a shocked expression on her face as she drove, not quite sure if I was telling the truth or not.

“At least you’re looking on the funny side of things,” she said shaking her head as we turned onto the main road. “You had me going for a minute.”

“Well don’t worry, I’m not going after men, nor do I intend to,” I said firmly. “Although I did go into town with my flatmate on Sunday, we had a good time.”

“Dressed as you are?” Harriet asked curiously, although I didn’t miss the conversational air she used to set me at ease with the question.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “We thought it would be helpful to get me used to it more, it was nothing intensive, just a walk, and a few shops.”

“I’m surprised by you,” Harriet said quietly. “On Friday, you were awkward, but your appearance made up for that, but now, you seem to be more relaxed and comfortable, even more natural I’d hazard to guess…” she added glancing my way. “Did you practice with your housemate?” she asked.

“No,” I sighed. “She noticed it too. I guess it’s like I told her … I’m an observant person, I guess I’m subconsciously copying things other women do … I mean women do…” I corrected quickly. The slight twitch in the corner of her mouth told me she had not missed it.

“It’s not a bad thing,” Harriet said as she navigated the streets of London in the 4x4. “It makes our job easier, gives us more time to focus on the agent side of things.”

“How much of this do I need to know?” I asked plucking at the blouse I was wearing. “I’m not supposed to be mincing around in high heels and stockings; I’m supposed to be a freelance killer...”

“Truth be told,” Harriet said looking over at me. “Not that much. We will do some coaching and test work today, and see how you fare, run some scenarios, practice mannerisms and behaviours, but as you say, the refinement is less important for the tomboyish character you’re portraying, Jane thinks it best if we give it a week at least.”

“And the rest of the time?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

“We will spend some time on the ranges, you may need time to get used to shooting with…. New developments,” she said giving me a wink. “Later in the week, the formalities of working in the field, and protocol, we hope to have next week free for more mission specific work.”

I nodded, I was excited, but I didn’t want to reveal that just now. The prospect of a week’s worth of prancing around in high heels and mini skirts all week, and learning to flirt and act like a lady was not that appetising.

We arrived at Vauxhall Cross about 20 minutes later, and Harriet pulled into a bus stop just down from the Albert Embankment. I was about to ask her why we were waiting, when I caught sight of Jane North making her way across the foot bridges and towards us. We exchanged greetings as she slipped into the back seat of the Range Rover, before Harriet slipped us out into the traffic flow once more.

“Where are we going?” I asked nervously, the details of the day were conspicuous in their absence.

“We’re going to spend the next few days at my place, and work on your presentation, Miss Cohen,” said Harriet taking on a tutorial tone. “You have a few days to learn what we did in many years, so you had best be studious.

“But I thought I had enough to cope?” I asked, feeling my hope of avoiding finishing school disappearing fast.

“I must admit you do look fantastic this morning,” said Jane from the backseat. “Did you help her?” she asked, looking at Harriet.

“Not me,” Harriet replied holding up her hands, which made me wince, despite the Range Rover never changing course. “She came out this morning like that when I arrived to collect her.”

“Housemate?” prompted Jane, looking over at me.

“No, I just wore a skirt because you said so…” I shrugged. “The rest seemed to go with it, so I just did….”

“Impressive, perhaps you’ve been hiding yourself all these years?” she said with a sly chuckle.

“NO,” I said emphatically. “I’m not some transsexual, or confused, or anything, I’m just observant, and happen to look at women a lot,” I said, attempting to recapture some ounce of masculinity; difficult as that was as I straightened the hem of my skirt with my manicured nails.

We pulled up outside a house in Hampstead and Harriet let us in. The place was expensive, just like most of this part of the city.

“It was my parent's London town house,” Harriet offered by way of introduction as we hung up our coats. “After Daddy decided to move the business to the States, they let me have it; it sort of makes sense for work.” She shrugged.

“It’s nice.” I said honestly, feeling somewhat overawed, despite having been similarly given a property by my parents. This was much nicer … Harriet took us through to the living room, which like the rest of the house, was stylishly furnished, and spotlessly clean. As she left to put the kettle on, Jane wasted no time in admonishing me for how I sat. By the time Harriet returned with our drinks, I had taken a seat nearly a dozen times.

I spent the day with the two girls learning how to walk, sit, and behave in a manner befitting a young woman … I tried to remind them that I wasn’t meant to be on a catwalk, just a simple arms deal, but Jane showed annoying persistence that appeared to be a family trait, and I was cut little slack.

“Can I sit down now?” I begged after what felt like the hundredth time around the living room. “My feet are going to drop off and I’ll be no use to you,” I whined.

“You might start to appreciate how hard it is for us now,” snickered Harriet as she watched my progress from her position on the plush, comfy couch.

“Believe me,” I said, planting my hands on my hips and striking what I hoped was a superior air, “I shared that pain after Friday’s torture session.”

“You’ll grow to love shopping, dear,” Jane smiled sweetly.

“I bloody hope not,” I muttered sourly. “Look, I can mince around in high heels, and wiggle my arse with the best of them now, can I stop?” I begged with a sigh, “isn’t this a bit much?”

Apparently it wasn’t … By Thursday afternoon, I had been taught to walk, sit, move, gesture, and properly apply makeup with the natural ability of the fairer sex; although maybe that was the un-fairer sex? I had seen little of my flatmates thanks to my punishing schedule, something of which I was extremely glad. Once satisfied, Jane North released me from her clutches, pronouncing me ready or the world at large.

Dropping Jane North at Vauxhall Cross for the last time, Harriet pulled out into the traffic flow once more and aimed for my humble abode.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, more factually than a question.

“I’m tired, mentally and physically,” I sighed giving her a weak smile. “She was very exacting.”

Harriet nodded. “The benefit of it wasn’t direct you know,” she said looking over at me as we crawled through the city.

“I know,” I said quietly. “Teach me the lot, so even if I tone it down, the undercurrents are still visible, that even relaxed and not acting the catwalk princess you two created, I will be ‘feminine’.” I said gesturing quotation marks.

“Not as dumb as you look, Blondie,” Harriet chuckled swinging the Range Rover down a side street. “We’re back at the office tomorrow okay? But bring some casual stuff for on the ranges in the afternoon.”

“Finally, something I know,” I groaned. “And Just because I’m blond doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” I insisted, with an over the top pout that made Harriet burst out laughing. “Tomorrow, this girl gets to have some fun.”

Harriet shot me a sideways glance. “Do you mean that?” she asked, suddenly quite serious. “I mean … the girl bit?”

“Well it beats referring to myself as a boy at the moment,” I shrugged non comittally. “I don’t FEEL like a girl, or want to be one, but for the purpose of this whole thing, when I am …. And after the last few days of eating, sleeping and breathing girl … I do sort of think I might feel like one, if I knew what that was like,” I shrugged. “Does that make sense?

Harriet nodded sagely. “How do you think girls … women think?” she asked softly.

“Different to guys?” I said not really knowing where to begin. “I guess more sensitive, emotionally lead, more passive and submissive…” I listed off every stereotype I could think of. “I mean, guys are meant to be the dominant violent ones, right? We think with our heads, you think with your hearts.”

“Not always the head on your shoulders,” Harriet said coyly. “So what does that make me?” she asked. “I’ve killed for my country, I’m dominant, a ‘go getter’, I’m violent, and submissive, and emotional, and decisive … what am I?” she prompted, looking for my reaction.

I shrugged. “I know it sounds clichéd but I really don’t think these things make a difference. How do women think? Just like men I guess, but we have different goals and ideals that are social things we acquire over the years. What are you? What am I?

“God knows, because right now, I think I’m starting to lose grip myself. Does what we do define our sex? No, that’s like trying to suggest women are better nurses, and men are better soldiers. I guess I failed that test right?”

“Mmm, No,” she mused quietly.

“What?” I asked, almost afraid of the punch line I was inviting. “What did I Just say wrong?”

“It’s not that, Mike,” she said quietly, “Hang on,” she added, pulling the Range over to the kerb and turning the engine off before turning to face me.

“Look, this is going to sound so out of the blue, but I’m going to burst If I don’t say this … I was attracted to you when you started to work with us,” she said blushing, “I was a snotty cow at first because I didn’t want you to see … then you were just so damn nice…,” she sniffed. “The way you took to this whole charade…. It made me respect and … care for you more,” she said quietly. “Now, the way you are … You aren’t a man pretending to be a woman, you’re not undercover. The way you think, and look, all say woman to me … and the weirdest part is; I’m not put off…. What you just said … and how things have been … I think I love you … I guess that makes me a lesbian … ” she said in a tiny voice, looking down at her hands as they gripped the steering wheel. “Please say something,” she said quietly, after an awkward silence.

“I … I don’t know what to say.” I said, stunned. It was by far and wide the last thing I expected. “You love me?” I asked dumbly.

“Sorry,” Harriet mumbled quietly. “I thought I could put my feelings aside, but this…. It’s really got me thrown.” She shrugged, turning towards me. “I don’t know how to feel about this, Mike.”

“I’m not sure either,” I said quietly, feeling my heart in my mouth. “Can we go somewhere? It doesn’t feel right discussing this in the car … and who knows what your people have in this…” I said gesturing at the vehicle around us. Harriet nodded quickly, before starting the ignition again and pulling out into the street.

“Please just tell me how you feel,” Harriet asked looking across at me as she drove. “Please tell me that I’ve not lost it.”

I swallowed and looked out of the window before I answered. “I guess.” I mumbled.

What could I tell her? Yeah, I fancied the pants off her, and I thought she was an amazing person that I’d love to get to know better? Why now? Why not a few years ago? Why does the first opportunity for a relationship come when I’m dolled up like a transvestite on Her Majesty’s Secret Service? Irony is a bitch.

Harriet drove us to a small pub just south of the river near Putney Bridge. We left the Range Rover and walked into the pub in silence. I had completely forgotten how I was dressed; it didn’t seem to matter now and I hardly even saw the other patrons as we ordered drinks and walked out onto the terrace to find a quiet spot to talk privately.

We sat at a small table overlooking the river and sat in silence, neither of us sure where to begin. The entire time, my heart was thumping in my throat and I didn’t know if I could say what I want to: This was the first time I had felt anything for someone, and the kicker was that she felt the same, but we were both stuck. I shook my head and took a gulp of the wine in my hand. I chuckled to myself and looked at the large white wine I had ordered. What happened to a pint? My manicured, painted nails gripping the glass delicately reminded me why this could not work. It didn’t make the choice any easier.

“Please tell me what you’re thinking,” Harriet asked quietly. “This silence is so bloody awkward,” she said with exasperation, the corner of her mouth twitching into an embarrassed grin. “Where do we stand?”

“Honestly?” I asked, setting the glass down on the table. “I really like you. You’re pretty, friendly, and over the last week, I’ve sort of felt I want to know you more … but I don’t see it happening realistically … do you?”

Harriet looked at me and bit her lower lip. “I … Why does it matter?” she asked with a hint of disappointment.

“It matters because we are working to a tight deadline here, then I get to go save the damn world in a frock,” I said quietly. “And didn’t this … appearance put you off?” I asked furrowing my brow.

Harriet shook her head and reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Look, Mike … Shit, I can’t call you that … I’m trying to convince myself it’s you under there, but try as I might … I only see Sharon …” she whispered softly.

Harriet sighed, and looked out over the river as dusk began to settle over London. Her hair rustled lightly in the breeze, and she looked more beautiful than ever.

I lifted my wine glass and took another sip, I didn’t want to get into this; all sense told me to wait till after the operation, but it couldn’t work, and it wouldn’t …”Harriet talk to me,” I prompted gently, breaking her daze.

“I don’t know Mi … Sharon, this is all so weird, but I do really think we have something … I don’t want to risk it by waiting, and I realised on the drive over here that I don’t really care about your outside. You are you, and the rest doesn’t matter…. I feel for the person, not the clothes, whoever that is; you said it yourself … What does gender matter? All these things are smoke and mirrors, and I want to try,” she said softly.

I raised my hand and stroked her cheek gently. Her skin was warm to the touch, and I looked into her eyes. That moment, I realised I wanted to kiss this woman, and I wasn’t going to worry about the consequences. Taking each day as it comes became my motto at the beginning of this spy rubbish, and it wasn’t about to change. Cautiously, I leant forwards not taking my eyes off Harriet’s beautiful hazel pair. She sensed what I was doing, and lent forwards till our lips met gently. The sensation was electric, I could feel a tingle spread down my body, and I heard my heart thumping in my ears. The kiss seemed to last forever. I didn’t know how long we had kissed, but when we eventually separated, she had a goofy grin on her lips.

“That was magical,” she whispered softly, squeezing my hand. “Are you sure about this?” she asked.

“I’m sure,” I replied with ragged breath. “I need you.”

“Where do we go from here?” she asked, still looking at me. “What do we do?”

“What we are supposed to do,” I shrugged. “We can’t let this interfere with work.”

Harriet nodded. “Of course … Sharon,” she said slowly. “I guess I need to get used to the fact my lover is a woman.”

“I … she is for the next month.”

“I’m going to take this as it comes,” Harriet said with a weak grin. “This is too complicated otherwise.”

“I guess,” I replied, not sure if I ought to protest. I lifted my wine glass and took a sip, feeling the sweet, cold liquid flow down my throat. “So where do we go from here?” I asked dumbly. “I’ve really never done the girlfriend thing before.”

“Me neither,” Harriet chuckled dryly. “Come back to mine? We can talk more, and it’s less … public.”

I looked at my watch, it was only 7; so I nodded, drinking the last of my wine and we left the pub. The drive back was quiet, we chatted lightly, about little things, our lives; who we were. I think we wanted to avoid the main topic till we were more settled. We pulled up outside Harriet’s house a short while later, the main rush hour traffic having died down within the city. Slipping out of the large 4x4, I followed her up the steps to the house, feeling very nervous. Following her inside, I removed my coat and placed it on the stand in the hallway before following her into the living room. Harriet turned towards me as we stood there, both feeling awkward. We stood for a moment before she moved over to the sofa and sat, patting the seat beside her. Nervously, I sat opposite her, my hands clasped in my lap, feeling extremely tongue tied.

“I don’t know how this goes.” I said stiffly. “Sorry I’m so useless.” I muttered quietly.

“Sssh,” she prompted, putting a finger to my lips. “May I kiss you again?” she asked softly. I nodded, and closed my eyes as she gently pressed her lips to mine. That electric feeling returned, and I felt a tightening in my stomach that I had never felt before. I felt her hands clasp my own as we sat kissing for what felt like an eternity.

Eventually, she broke the kiss and I forced myself to open my eyes. Her smile made my heart flip again. “That was lovely,” she whispered, reaching out to stroke a loose strand of hair from my face. “This feels so right,” she said with more feeling. “You’re so pretty,” she sighed, looking at me intently.

“Thank you,” I replied breathlessly, at this moment, not caring how she saw me, as long as that made her happy. Harriet leant in again, wrapping her arms around me and kissed me again, this time with more passion. The flipping sensation in my stomach tripled, and I caught my breath as the charge between us left me feeling weak. I reached out gently, placing my hands on her waist and pulled her to me. The passion increased, and I found her tongue pressing at my lips. Some reaction made me open them slightly in surprise and I felt her tongue slip into my mouth and dance with my own, the sensation was intoxicating. Harriet pushed me back slightly, so that I was reclining against the side of the sofa, her body pressed against mine. I felt her hands moving softly over my torso, tracing the lines of my body and gently began to caress her too. Her smell was overpowering as my fingers traced the bare skin between her blouse and trousers. It was so soft and warm that just caressing it felt wonderful. Harriet broke off for air and looked down at me. Somehow, I was now lying on the sofa, with her above me; it was perfectly ironic that I was taking the female role in things.

“That was amazing,” she purred. “I’ve wanted to do that since I met you.”

“Me too,” I smiled happily. “It’s a little traditional, no?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“How do you?” she asked looking confused, then realised how we were positioned before sitting up and offering me her hand in a mock gentlemanly fashion. “I guess I’m a bit keen,” she shrugged. “And It’s not my fault you’re Little Miss Submissive Stereotype.”

I shrugged. “You’re the first person I ever kissed,” I admitted shyly.

“Really?” she asked softly, stroking my cheek. “I want to find that hard to believe; looking at you … But my mind plays tricks … it’s so difficult to picture you as the man I first met last week.”

“Right now, I don’t think he’s here,” I said quietly.

Harriet reached out and stroked my cheek, running her hand down the curve of my neck and coming to rest on my shoulder. “Let’s not think about that, let’s just enjoy being together.”

Nodding, I leant forwards and kissed her with passion, trying to take the lead as I felt I was meant to. Cupping her head in my hands, I felt her melt in my arms, our tongues dancing. Harriet slipped her hands down my front, and began unbuttoning the blouse I was wearing. Gingerly, I began to repeat the process on her blouse, and soon, we were lying back on the sofa, warm skin against warm skin, in our bras and knickers, running our hands over one another’s bodies, gender forgotten, and eyes only for each other.

Harriet rolled off me and lay beside me on the sofa, propped up on one elbow.

“You know, I think I really do love you,” she said quietly, stroking my belly button.

I bit my lip and looked up at her as we lay there. I felt a glow that I had never experienced before. “Me too,” I sighed.

“I think I really am a lesbian.” Harriet said with a rueful grin.

I sighed and realised she was right. Not once had I been the predatory male that so many of the guys at work seemed to be, we had made out, sure, but it had been more of a equal experience, shared passion with no rush for gratification … On top of that, I had felt strangely at home in a role that I should have found alien, and it did not limit to this encounter. The past few days, the weekend, ever sine this project had begun, I had not felt as outraged or bad about things as I expected I should. If anything, I felt more at ease for the first time in my life. “Yeah.” I said simply. “I think you are.”

Harriet reached out and slipped the bra strap from my shoulder, gently caressing my skin. Her eyes asked a question, that my lips answered. Cautiously, she unclasped my bra and slipped it from my body, till my breasts were free to her touch. She gently lowered her head till her lips covered my nipple, and I felt her tongue gently caress the hardened flesh.

I awoke with a shudder.

I was lying in my bed at home, the covers half off me, one of the straps on my nightgown had slipped down, and my fingers were cupping the silicone of my breast form. The strangest part was, I felt a surge of disappointment as I remembered not only our parting the night before, but the fact that I now had questions to ask of myself, and I had a good idea of the answer.

Note to my readers:
I'm posting this in chunks of around 10,000 words, Its my new novel I’m writing, and while I have written more, I’m trying to write more than I post by several chapters, so I can keep things flowing and make sure the plot functions without the pressure of fans begging for the next installment. As some of you have guessed, Haifa has taken a short break, I'll resume Sarah's adventures after I finish Focal Point, which at this rate... won't be long! So read, enjoy, and Don't stop commenting, I really appreciate all the suggestions and discussion. With regards to my grammar: Thanks for letting me know guys, I know I’m not perfect, but I’m a writer, not the editor type, I intend to send it via an editor before it visits the publisher, but that is a way off yet. So for now, Believe me, I know I have the grammatical ability of a dead badger.
Alyssa :) xx
 

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To Be Continued...