Three Men and a Christmas Spirit

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Three Men & a Christmas Spirit.
By Tanya Allan

Three young men break down on the way to spending the Christmas break in the French Alps, in a region where cell coverage is almost non-existent. Only one speaks sufficient French to seek help. Leaving his friends with the car, Terry Cooper sets off to find a telephone just as it starts to snow. He meets a woman on the road, but before he can speak to her, she vanishes. He believes she has gone though a gate, so he follows to find a large chá¢teau at the end of the drive. On answering the door, the butler mistakes the bedraggled Terry for a girl. On entering the chá¢teau, Terry is allowed to call the breakdown organisation. however, on leaving he sees a portrait of the woman he saw on the road. What is weird is that he bears a striking resemblance to her.. What is weirder still is that she has been dead for nearly two years.

He is then seen by the owner of the chá¢teau, who cannot believe that the young person in front of him is male, or that he has walked here by chance looking just like his dead wife.

So begins a fantastical adventure that can only have one outcome; ...

..... or can it?

Three Men & a Christmas Spirit

Tanya Allan

Three Men and a Christmas Spirit.

The author asserts her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.

This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.

The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone.

~o~O~o~

Foreward

This is the modern reproduction of a day-dream I thought up while a teenager a long time ago now. There are no prizes for guessing which character I identified with, but to be fair, this story is very different to the original dream. That dream was repeated many times, with subtle variations to add some extra dimension to the fantasy world I was forced to inhabit occasionally to maintain sanity. (No comments on that point, please)

The world has moved on, as have I. However, dreams are still an essential part of life, and if you lose the ability to dream, then one’s life must lose some colour, meaning and purpose.

~o~O~o~
1.

“Sod it!” Hugh said, banging the steering wheel with his fist.

“What is it?” asked Terry from the back seat. What with all their stuff, he was crammed into a relatively tight space. As the smallest of the three, he’d been volunteered to take the back.

“I don’t know, but it’s as dead as a dodo,” his friend replied.

“That’s what you get for buying a fancy Italian classic car. It looks good but spends more time at the side of the road than on it,” said James from the front passenger seat.

“I’ve spent a bloody fortune on this damn thing; it should be fine!” Hugh said.

“Yeah, but most of that went on new panels and a cracking paint job. It looks lovely, but you should have overhauled the electrics, as I suggested.”

“Know-all!” Hugh muttered.

James got out of the front passenger seat, wrapping his large coat around him and pulling up the hood against the driving sleet.

“Flip the bonnet, old son, and I’ll take a gander,” he said before closing the door.

Hugh leaned down and flipped the catch.

Through the windscreen they saw the gleaming red bonnet raised. The ice-laden rain seemed to make it glisten even more, even in the dying light.

A few moments later James leaned round from the front of the car.

“Give that a try,” he said.

Hugh turned the key and nothing came on; not an ignition light, nothing.

“It’s dead,” he announced in a flat and depressed tone.

“The electrics, as I thought,” said James, closing the bonnet. “You need a new set of electrics.”

“You’re a damn wine merchant; what the fuck do you know about engines?” Hugh asked, with some feeling.

James grinned, ignoring him.

“Look, it’s starting to snow,” said Terry from the back. Sure enough, the rain was gradually solidifying as large snowflakes floated down instead.

“Oh, bollocks!” said Hugh with some feeling.

“We can’t leave it here; we’re in the middle of the road. We’ll have to push it over to somewhere safe,” James said.

James was built like the rugby player he was, while Hugh was tall but slim and Terry was the shortest and slightest of the three. All the men were the same age; twenty-six. They’d been friends since school, having gone their separate ways through university and into the workplace. They had kept in touch, along with two others, Mark and Robert, so this annual Christmas break was something to which they all look forward.

Mark’s parents owned a ski chalet in the French Alps. Every year for the last three years the group would make their way to the chalet and spend Christmas and New Year skiing and generally drinking and eating too much without nagging families around them. Terry particularly had nothing to stay at home for, so these guys were almost more a family than his mother and sister were.

Hugh, having graduated in accounting and financial management was now working for a firm of financial advisers. James was the purchasing manager for a wine merchant specialising in New World wines.

Terry was a struggling free-lance commercial artist, mainly working with advertising and publicity agents in and around the London area. Having done A level Art and French, he’d been fortunate to have won a place at a Paris Art College, where he’d had a ball for three years. Being amongst other arty and non-conformist types suited him very well.

He loved Paris, and shared an attic apartment with four other students; all male and all French speakers (one was from North Africa — Algeria). Although he managed to steer clear of any romantic entanglements, he made some friends and expanded his artistic boundaries immeasurably. He found some of the more silly British attitudes towards the French were similar to some French attitudes towards the British, or certainly the English. There were a few Scottish students there, and they never seemed to hold the same views as the English. In his experience, the French were slightly reluctant to be too friendly unless you were prepared to at least meet them half-way with respect to their language and customs. As he spoke reasonable French from the outset, he never had any problems, so by the time he left, he was almost fluent.

Coming back to the UK had been tough. Unlike his few school friends, he was deeply in debt after his time at college and was not working in a field where he was likely to make a lot of money in a short time. Having been away from England for three years had done him no favours, as he had no contacts and no real prospects, unless he got lucky. So far, he hadn’t. Not that many people were making a fortune these days, for the recession was making it hard for nearly everyone.

He now rented a small flat in Tooting (SW London) that had a north facing room that he used as a studio. Although he liked to do his own pieces, his name wasn’t yet known so he wasn’t selling the quantities he’d like to. His mother dropped in and out of the local hospital mental unit, as her depression was often so bad she needed constant care. His sister had moved in with her boyfriend, whom Terry had yet to meet. They were both working, but never seemed to have any money either. Times were tough, but he was just managing to make ends meet — just.

Mark and Robert worked in the city, Mark for a stockbrokers and Robert in insurance. This was probably the last year the pals would undertake this trip, certainly in its current form. Three of the group were looking to get engaged in the New Year, and it had taken them all their powers of persuasion and compromise to claim the trip as a stag trip. Next year was extremely unlikely.

“Oh great; it’s getting dark, staring to snow and we’re in the middle of bloody nowhere in France,” moaned Hugh.

“Anyone got a signal?” asked Terry looking at his phone to see no signal displayed.

They all checked,

“Not a squeak; it’s the bloody mountains,” said Hugh.

“Technically they’re not mountains,” said Terry, helpfully. “They aren’t high enough. These are hills. The Alps are mountains and are about four hours to our south east.”

“Who asked you?” Hugh muttered.

The other two laughed.

“There’s a light on up there,” observed James, peering up the hill.

“Oh great, half way up a fucking mountain!” said Hugh bitterly.

“Hill,” corrected Terry.

“Oh shut up!” both the others said.

“Come on, let’s push this heap of crap out the way and then go knock on a door,” said James.

Hugh resented his pride being referred to as a piece of crap. He couldn’t say anything because, at this very moment, it was about as useful as a piece of crap.

It took them only a few minutes to push the elderly Alpha Romeo hatch-back to the side and onto the soft verge. The rear and most of the back seat was crammed with their gear, with three sets of skis on the roof rack.

“Now what?” asked James.

“Well, we need to phone for help,” said Hugh, looking at the light some distance away with distaste.

“We also need to speak French,” said James.

Both looked at Terry.

“Now I know why you guys bring me along,” Terry muttered, zipping up his red ski jacket. In way he was pleased, for the others subsidised his trip to a greater extent. He felt better being able to contribute something, even if it was just his skill with the language.

“We can’t leave the car, not with all the kit on board,” said Hugh.

“Oh, all right. Just don’t fix the bloody thing and bugger off without me,” said Terry.
“I take it you want a tow truck?”

“See if you can get through to the AA. I’ve got five star international recovery.”

“You’d better give me your card and car details, then,” said Terry.

“I reckon you’ve got no chance of getting this heap going again this side of Christmas. I mean, it’s the twenty third, so they’ll probably get it to a garage and that means a hire car until the holidays are over,” said James.

Hugh handed Terry his AA card and car details, so the latter set off towards the lights.

The other two watched him go from the relative warmth and comfort of the broken down car. The snow fell thickly, but the ground was so damp, it wasn’t settling yet.

“This is where two gorgeous babes in a Mercedes come along and rescue us,” said James, grinning.

“In your dreams, mate,” said his friend. At least they were in the dry.

Terry found a road winding up the hillside towards the lights that seemed to nestle in some trees some way off. There were two sets of lights, one sort of straight up the hill and some on the same level as where he now stood, but perhaps a couple of kilometres further. He was keener to stay on the same level, even if it was longer.
The road bent round to the right, so the lights up the hill were now on his left. The only route to them seemed to be through a monstrous pair of pillars with heavy iron gates between them. An established and rather fine three metre high wall stretched off in both directions, leaving the gate as the only possible means of access.

He dismissed that route as being too difficult, so was about to set off for the other lights when he sensed that someone was watching him. He turned and saw a woman standing by the gates.

His first thought was that she was dressed wholly inappropriately for the weather. Although he was wet, at least his jacket was keeping his top half dry and warm. He was grateful that the rain had stopped, for the snow was easier to brush off his clothing. On the other hand, she was wearing a skirt and blouse, with no coat or jacket. Her high heel shoes would be fine for an evening out, but not for sloshing around in the snow.

His second thought was that she was far too attractive to be wandering about alone as it was getting dark in this weather.

“Excusez-moi, Madame,” he said, turning and walking towards her. He fully intended to ask where the nearest house was.

At that moment, a car came up the hill, causing him to turn and to watch it as he got over to the side of the road. It swept past him, heading along towards the lights. He cursed silently as he should have tried to have flagged the car down. It was the woman’s fault. He turned back to the woman to find that in the couple of seconds he had turned away, she had vanished.

She hadn’t come past him, so there was only one way she could have gone and that was through the gates. But they were still firmly shut and he could not see anyone on the other side.

Although seemingly impassable, he found that with minimal effort they opened reasonably easily. They looked to be quite old, but from what he could see, they’d been oiled recently and were well maintained. He felt it very odd that he never saw or heard her slip though the gates. She must have been moving very fast.

The tarmac driveway in good condition stretched up through the trees, with shrubs on either side. There was no sign of the mystery woman. The light was fading fast now, so it was gone four pm. As driveways went, it was in excellent condition. It was the sort of drive that big houses and hotels had in England. He set off at a brisk pace.

There was still no sign of the woman, so he started to walk faster, thinking he’d catch her up quickly. He never did.

The lights still seemed to be quite a distance away, but after half an hour the road levelled out and so Terry was grateful not to be climbing any more. His jeans were soaked almost to the skin, he was pleased to have spent a little more than he could afford on a decent ski jacket. He went around a large clump of bushes and trees and stopped dead.

There in front of him stood one of the biggest houses he had ever seen. Typically French in architectural style and elegant design, it was a true chateau of the eighteenth century. The drive swept down to a large circle of gravel, with a huge ornamental fountain in the centre.

Considering that there must have been over twenty windows facing this aspect, there was only a light visible from one on the first floor and a couple on the ground floor.

The front door was up several marble steps. It was big and ornate; wholly in keeping with the rest of the house. The snow was beginning to lie, as it was falling thick and fast. There were no footprints in the two centimetres that lay on the ground, so the woman could not have come this way after all.

Not without some trepidation, he mounted the steps to the front door and pulled the bell-pull.

He heard a distant jangle from deep behind the door.

He waited for what seemed many moments. He was about to pull it again when he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching on a hard floor on the other side of the door. There followed the sound of a couple of bolts being withdrawn and a key being turned.

The door opened remarkably silently for something so big.

“Oui, Madamoiselle?” said a gruff, male voice.

Terry sighed, thinking, on no, not again. It wasn’t uncommon for people to initially believe him to be female. Terry had pulled back his hood, as he did not wish to give anyone the wrong impression. At five foot six, he wasn’t a big man, so he doubted that anyone would be intimidated by his appearance. He also had unfashionably long hair for a man in 2012. He was naturally reluctant to spend money, and that wasn’t the whole story. He actually liked having long hair, but when pressed to give a good reason, he probably wouldn’t be able to give one. His art was his life, but he didn’t sell very much. The commercial side kept him in food and rent, just, and his rich friends permitted him to have a decent social life. With no car and only a bicycle, he didn’t have too many expenses. He liked to think that his image was that of an archetypal Bohemian artist, and certainly his friends seemed to feel his image was an accurate portrayal of his character.

“I am sorry to trouble you, but we have broken down on the road below and I was hoping to use the telephone to get some help. Unfortunately our mobile phones do not receive a signal here; otherwise we would have used one of them. Might I use your telephone?” Terry said in good, if somewhat rusty French. It had been three years since he had been in France. He rarely spoke French these days, and it’s amazing how fast one forgets even the simplest words.

His voice, although well modulated, was in that narrow range band that made it acceptable for both men and women. Indeed, his big problem, particularly on the telephone, was that most people believed they were talking to a girl unless he made things plain at the outset.

The owner of the gruff voice was dressed in black. Terry correctly assumed he was a butler, but he did not smile or give any visible sign that he understood a word that Terry said.

The butler took a step back, permitting the dripping Terry to enter the ornate entrance hall.

Terry stared around in awe. It was huge. The floor was marble, the pillars were marble, the ceiling had gold gilt and within the floor was a mosaic of a bucolic scene, complete with horses and young women. This was just the entrance lobby. Behind the butler was a set of double doors with glass leading into the reception hall. Terry could see a staircase winding up to the right, like something from a Disney film.

“Follow me, mademoiselle,” the butler said, turning and marching resolutely through the doors and into the larger hall. He turned left immediately, so Terry almost had to run to keep up. He had yet to correct the man’s mistaken perception about his gender.

He went through two more doors, into what must be the servants’ area, as it was much more utilitarian here. There was a phone on the wall. The butler pointed to it.

“Merci,” Terry stammered, fumbling through his pockets to get the card and other details.

It wasn’t easy, but eventually he managed to get through to the AA centre. The operator became somewhat difficult when she realised that Terry wasn’t the policy holder, but Terry explained that he was the only one who could speak French and the owner was with the car while he asked to use a telephone. Almost reluctantly she agreed to accept the call and deal with the problem. Then Terry had to ask the lurking butler exactly where he was.

“Chateau Bascomme, on the D520C, some ten kilometres east of St. Christophe-sur-Guiers.”

Terry dutifully passed it on.

He received a sense that the operator in the AA centre in England wanted to ask, ‘What the hell are you doing there?’ but never got the chance.

He was told that the call was logged and that a tow truck would be organised to take the car to the nearest garage. Due to the holidays, it was unlikely that the vehicle would be repaired, but an assessment would be made and if not repairable the vehicle would be recovered to England. Luckily Hugh had a special policy that meant he could hire a car for the remainder of his trip.

“Remain with the car. The recovery agent might be a couple of hours,” were the last instructions.

Terry hung up the phone and smiled his thanks to the butler.

The man nodded, but didn’t move. Terry got the message, so started to get his wallet out.

“Non, ce n'est pas nécessaire.”

“Merci,” Terry said.

He then followed the man back down the corridor and into the big hall once more.

There he stopped, staring up in wonder at something he had not noticed on his last pass through the hall.

It was a huge portrait of a very glamorous woman in a long white evening dress. It was on the curved wall up the stairs, and judging by the rails upon which her right hand rested, it had been painted with her on these very same stairs.

She looked to be in her late twenties, with auburn hair up, as if for a formal function. Huge precious stones were embedded in the many items of jewellery that adorned her, and she was smiling, looking over the artist’s head at someone or something behind him.

Terry stood, appreciating both the skill of the artist and the beauty that he had captured. She almost seemed to breathe she was so real. But then, he felt icy tendrils of discomfort — for she was the woman he had seen out on the road.

“Who is she?” he asked, in French.

“That is the late Comtesse du Bascomme.”

“Late? No, that can’t be,” he said.

The butler said nothing, but inclined his head.

“I’ve only just seen this woman out by the gate. I wasn’t coming up this way, but I followed where I thought she went,” he said, feeling a fool.

The butler frowned.

“The Comtesse died nearly two years ago. It was a tragic accident.”

“But, I’m positive it was her.”

“I’m sorry, but that is just not possible.”

“She’s beautiful,” he said, unwittingly drawn closer to the painting. He took two steps up the stairs so he could see the artist’s signature and date. To his surprise, it was only painted in 2006. He couldn’t read the signature.

“Yes, she was,” the butler replied. For the first time, he allowed some emotion into his voice. In that brief statement, Terry understood that she was well loved and sorely missed.

“It’s a good painting, not just the wonderful subject,” he said.

“What the devil is going on here?” said a strident and angry voice from above.

~o~O~o~

To give the butler his due, he did not flinch or show any sign that there was anything amiss. He simply turned and spoke in rapid French explaining the moist Terry’s presence.

Terry turned to look up at the man upstairs. There was a huge chandelier handing down in the hall, illuminating the stairs, the hall and the landing above. It was almost in his direct line of sight, so he couldn’t see the man as clearly as he’d have liked.

As he looked up, the man looked down towards him. He was a big man in his late thirties, dressed in an expensive suit, and looking the very image of a wealthy and confident aristocrat. From the top of his immaculately cut hair, to the toes of his shining shoes, he reeked of style, class and money. He was everything that Terry wasn’t; in his soggy jeans, leaky trainers and damp ski jacket. Terry was conscious that his long damp hair was plastered over his face, so he swept it back.

“Who is this young woman?” the man asked.

“It appears that their car broke down outside our gates and she was the only one in her party who speaks French, sir,” the butler said.

“You are English?” the man asked, switching to English.

“Yes sir,” Terry said.

The man moved slightly, as before, the ornate chandelier was between them, making it difficult for each to see the other.

“Mon Dieu!” the man said, looking suddenly pale and shocked.

Terry was worried; what had he done?

“Louis, have you seen?” the man asked in French.

“Sir?” The butler was obviously at a loss for the first time.

The man came down the stairs, so he was looking directly at the painting and then at Terry.

He pointed at the painting and then pointed to Terry.

“Look, the resemblance, it is uncanny!” he said, once more, in French.

The butler, who, it appears, was called Louis, regarded the damp young Englishman and then the painting of the late countess.

“I grant you, sir, there is a slight resemblance,” Louis remarked.

The man came all the way down, closely regarding Terry in his dampness.

“You look too masculine; why do you dress like this?” he asked in English.

Terry felt himself getting cross.

“Because I’m not a girl, and these are my normal clothes.”

It was at this point that the man must have become aware that Terry was in fact male. He seemed confused at first, but then relaxed, laughing at his own foolishness.

“My dear boy, please forgive me. I have been distinctly lacking in manners. I am Armand, the Comte du Bascomme. You are?”

“Terry Cooper, that’s Terence Cooper, sir.”

“You speak very good French; have you lived here, in France?” he asked, in French this time.

“I was at college in Paris for three years,” Terry replied in the same language.

“It shows. I first thought you were a young woman, so please accept my apologies. You see, with your long hair and slight build, you strike a remarkable resemblance to my late wife, so perhaps it was wishful thinking,” he said, pointing to the portrait. “As you can see, you have very similar build, length of hair and general colouring.”

Terry felt embarrassed and confused, so to cover it he turned and looked at the painting.

“She was very beautiful, and the artist has done a wonderful job.”

“Hasn’t he? She died a couple of years after that painting was completed. She and our unborn child died in a car crash. It was truly the worst day of my life.”

Terry felt he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m so sorry,” was all he could manage.

The butler coughed discreetly.

“Sir, the young woman has to return to her friends and the car,” he said.

“Louis, it seems I was mistaken, she is a he,” he said.

Louis regarded Terry with a disbelieving eye.

“Indeed, sir?” he said.

“Where is it; your car?” the man asked.

“On the road, just about a kilometre before your driveway.”

“That is ridiculous, for you are already wet, so to return you will be soaked completely. How many of you are there?”

“Just three of us, sir.”

“Louis, get out the Toyota and go tow them back up here, to our garage. At least the mechanic when he arrives will be able to look at it in the dry and with some light. You my boy, do you like art?”

Dismissing Louis without any further comment, Terry felt embarrassed again. Louis didn’t seem to mind, as he simply walked out.

“I make my living in art; I’m an artist. I love art; or most art, that is.”

“Ah, some of what they call art is nothing more than stupid people being duped into paying good money for rubbish,” the Comte said, but suddenly looked worried. “I hope that’s not what you do?”

“No, sir, I’m a commercial artist. I do my own work, of course, but I get paid to do work for advertising and publicity work.

“Ah, so these friends of yours, they are artists as well, yes?”

“No, James buys wine and Hugh is a financial adviser. We’re due to meet two more up at the slopes; both work in the city. We all met at school thirteen years ago.”

“Ah, so these others work in the City of London, yes?”

“That’s right.

“So, when did you plan to be there?”

“We had hoped to be there this evening, but that doesn’t look possible now.”

“It is not your car?”

“No, it belongs to my friend Hugh.”

“The financial adviser?”

“Yes.”

Terry felt uncomfortable, as the Comte was staring at him openly.

His discomfort was apparent.

“I am sorry, Terry, but you do look very like my late wife. I find it very difficult. I do not mean to stare. Tell me, do you have any French blood?”

“Not that I know of. My father was a salesman, but he died when I was about eleven. He came from Newcastle on Tyne. My mother still runs her own sewing business; making curtains and stuff. She also does some dressmaking,” he said. He did not add, when she’s sane enough. She suffered from depression, so was often zonked out on medication.

“And where does she come from?”

“Originally for North Wales, but she left there with her father when he looked for work in Birmingham. She lives in a place called Coleshill, just to the east of Birmingham.”

“Where do you live?”

“London, at the moment. I rent a small flat in Tooting.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“One younger sister. The last I heard she was pregnant and moving in with her boyfriend in Birmingham. We’re not as close as I’d like.”

“Do you take after your mother or father?”

“Mum, I think. Dad was a big bloke and mum is just over five foot. I stopped at five six when I was about thirteen.”

Terry saw out of the window as a large Toyota Land Cruiser drove past and headed down the drive.

“That is Louis and one of the other men; they go to collect your friends,” the Comte said.

“That’s very kind of you all, sir. I’m sure we could have waited.”

The Comte waved a languid hand.

“No matter. Now, I want you to come and see some things,” he said. “Please, take off that soaking jacket. Place it on that rack by the front door, if you could be so kind.”

Terry hung up his jacket as requested. As he walled back to join the Comte by the stairs, he was conscious that the other man was still critically regarding him. He started mounting the stairs, so Terry followed.

“Are you often mistaken for being a girl?” the Comte asked.

“Occasionally; I think it’s because of my general size and hair,” Terry said, feeling his cheeks start to flame.

“And the way you walk and move,” the Comte added. “Does it bother you?”
Terry shrugged.

“Getting bothered wouldn’t help, would it? I used to get upset, but now it doesn’t really bother me.”

“May I ask you a personal question?”

“Am I gay? The answer is no,” Terry said, feeling rather cross.

“No, it wasn’t that. It was whether you have ever dressed as a girl?”

Once more Terry’s cheeks flamed.

“A couple of times, for a joke,” he admitted.

“Joke?”

“The first time was for a fancy dress party. My friends bet me that I wouldn’t go as a female character from a movie. I went as Lara Croft and won the bet.

Armand was familiar with the character. As he looked at the slightly built English lad, he could see that he would probably make a better girl than he did a boy.

“That was brave of you. How much was the bet?”

“Twenty quid. It was an easy one, for apart from the boobs, she just wore a tee shirt, shorts, big boots and a pair of pistols. It wasn’t exactly glamorous. One of my friend’s girlfriends did my makeup, which sort of made it all come together.”

“And the second occasion?”

Terry felt his cheeks warming up again.

“One of the guys at the first party didn’t believe I was a bloke, so we played a trick on him. I dressed as an ordinary girl when they pretended to set him up on a blind date. Only I went instead.”

“Was it successful?”

“Too much, I suppose. When I told him after the meal, he got very angry.”

“He didn’t hurt you?” Armand asked, looking concerned.

“No, he knew it was his friends’ idea, but it was a nasty moment. I’ve met him since and we laugh about it.” Terry laughed shortly. “Mind you, he doesn’t like being alone with me.”

“Did he make a pass at you?”

“That’s why I told him. He wasn’t a happy bunny.”

“He still didn’t believe you?”

“He did when his mates came out from round the corner in the restaurant.”

“That must tell you something, no?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You told the man you were not a girl and yet he only believed it when the others told him.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Terry said, now beginning to.

“You noticed that Louis didn’t believe you when you said you were a male?”

“That’s his privilege,” Terry said, hiding the hurt.

“I think perhaps it bothers you more than you say.”

Terry didn’t say anything.

“Oh, so, you come here for the skiing?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“Yes, we come every year. Our friend’s parents own a chalet.”

“I like the skiing. It was something my wife and I enjoyed. We hoped to take our children skiing.”

There followed a long and awkward silence, as both men thought about what was but was no more. They had reached the first landing and were walking along the corridor. Terry knew there were at least two more floor above, and yet this floor alone was bigger than most of the street on which he lived.

“Here,” the man said, pushing open a door to a plush bedroom; a woman’s bedroom; her room.

Terry had never been in a shrine, but had he done so, he would have instantly recognised the room in which he now found himself.

“Your wife,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. This is my memory room. Apart from the portrait on the stairs, I have removed everything else and placed them here. Sometimes I just come here to be with her; surrounded by her images and her things. All her clothes are in that wardrobe, all her cosmetics and perfumes are on that dressing table, and all her photographs and other images are on the walls. This is where I can be close to her, in my mind, at least. If I can’t sleep, I come here and sleep with her spirit close to me.”

Terry felt a heavy sadness for the Comte. His own father had died, but his mother, sister and he had just put it behind them the best they could and got on with life. The past was gone, so those who were no longer with the present were gone, never to come back. One had to move on or wither away. He almost told him that he had seen who he thought was the dead Comtesse out on the road, but he decided that it might now be helpful.

“Is it not a beautiful room?” the Comte asked.

“In a way, but it is a very sad room too.”

“Sad, how?”

“Your wife was a very beautiful woman, full of life and full of hope. To relegate all that to a room like this does her memory no justice. She is beyond all this, now. She is where no pain, no aging and no suffering exist anymore. To keep these memories trapped here means you can’t be free of the past. She wouldn’t have wanted you to do this to yourself.”

Terry was looking at the many pictures of the Comtesse. She was indeed a beautiful woman. Now his mind was attuned to it, he could identify with her to a degree. He saw in her eyes, in particular, a spark of what he saw in his own eyes in the mirror each day. Her hair was the same colour, and the shape of her head and neck. She even appeared to be of a similar height. For she came up to just above her husband’s shoulder when they stood side by side, as he did now with the same man.

He felt uncomfortable. It was almost like looking at a different aspect of himself.

“She was just twenty-two when we married. She was thirty three when she died. It was the end of my world. The world has been a very dark place since her light went out.”

“I can imagine. What happened?” Terry asked.

“I was in Monaco at a meeting. She was driving to meet me and a truck coming in the opposite direction blew a tyre. The car was hit head on. They told me that she never knew what hit her.”

“I’m sorry,” Terry said, without knowing what else to say.

“You said that you are an artist?”

Terry smiled, as if to belittle his craft.

“Yes, I like to think I am.”

“Any good?”

“I make a reasonable living from it. Some say I’m very good, but perhaps not the ones with money to spend. But I’m managing to pay off my student loan and hope to be able to buy my own place soon.”

The Comte laughed.

“Then, I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh yes?”

“Come.”

Once more, Terry found himself following the other man. They went along a corridor and this time down in an elevator. He was beginning to grasp what an enormous house this was. They were now in the lower ground floor. In this basement was a full sized swimming pool, with a modern gym and spa that would be the envy of many five star hotels.

Armand Bascomme pointed to a long wall that ran along the side of the pool, which was painted white. There was one indifferent picture hanging right in the centre.

“I would like a mural painted there. I would like my wife to be seated as I remember her on the beach, dressed in her bikini and perhaps a wrap-around skirt. I think I should like her lying or sitting looking at the pool and smiling as I remember. So, perhaps you could have the sea over there, and some trees with perhaps a table with a bottle of wine and some glasses.”

“I’m not sure that I’d be….” Terry started to say.

“I’ll pay you one million Euros, and you can take as long as you want, as long as it is finished in three months.”

Terry did some sums in his head. A million Euros was worth around £834,000. That was a serious wedge of money. Still in a scruffy, rented flat, that was enough to enable him to buy his own place.

He grinned, as this was almost too good to be true.

Three months, he could manage this in a month. Then he had a worrying thought.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

“Catch; what do you mean?”

“I mean that is silly amount of money to offer someone who might be completely incompetent. So, what’s happening?”

“If I am not completely satisfied with your work, you get no money.”

Terry shook his head.

“No, then you can poke it, mate. If you’re not happy, then I will take time spent. So, at twenty quid an hour, that should do. I’ll spend forty hours in every week, for twelve weeks. That makes nine thousand, six hundred quid, so that’s say eleven thousand five hundred Euros. I reckon that will just about cover it. But, if you like it, then I’ll gladly accept the million Euros. Oh, and I want a written contract.”

Armand smiled and nodded.

“You are more intelligent than you look. I accept. I will have my lawyer draw up a contract. You start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Not a chance; I’m spending Christmas with my friends. I can be here on the third of January, if that’s okay?”

The Frenchman seemed to be considering his statement.

“Very well, I will have the contract here for nine in the morning on the third of January. You will start then. Will you require any paint and equipment?”

Terry walked over to the wall, running his hand over the paintwork.

“This is a waterproof paint. Is it because of the humid atmosphere?” he asked.

“I have no idea. The contractor who put the pool in did it all.”

“It’s warm in here, and with the water, I guess it’s pretty humid, so I will need specialist paint, probably suitable for outdoors. Failing that I will have to use a clear sealant. If I order the paint and other equipment from my supplier in England, can you take delivery of it?”

“I may not be here, but someone will be. Do they not have any suppliers here in France?”

“Yes, of course they will,” Terry said, grinning sheepishly. “But even they won’t be open for a few days. I’ll call them after Christmas, or go on-line. They’ll probably be able to deliver after New Year. That won’t matter dreadfully, as for the first few days I will make sketches and plan what I’m going to do. I suppose you want to approve each stage?”

“Would that be normal?”

Terry laughed.

“Normal; what the hell is normal about this? No, it’s not normal, but for a million Euros you can do what the hell you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” the Frenchman said, smiling slightly.

“Within reason,” Terry added, not liking that smile.

Again, the Frenchman simply smiled.

“Can I ask you a question?” Terry asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did you ask me whether I dressed as a woman?”

“You have a very feminine appearance and it is similar to my Theresa. Even after you told me that you are male, I still find it hard to believe. I just wondered whether you were aware of it,” he said.

Terry regarded his reflection in the large mirror that ran along the shorter wall. It helped give the impression of the whole area being twice the size.

Terry knew he wasn’t exactly Mr. Universe, but he had never considered himself as being feminine. However, now it had been drawn to his attention; with his long hair, and slender frame, he could see what the man was getting at. He flicked his hair away from his face; an unconscious gesture he often used. He stared at his hand in the mirror. It was a feminine gesture, and he had never realised it.

“Okay, as I told you before, I am aware of it; but it has never been a problem.”

Armand seemed surprised.

“You were never teased or called names?”

“No more than anyone else. I’ve been this size since I was thirteen. I don’t play sports, so I never mix with those sporty types who would see me as being different. I’ve always been into computers and art, so I suppose the worst name I got called was a geek.”

“You were fortunate.”

“I just wanted a quiet life, so I never sought to attract trouble.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Why; are you gay?” Terry asked, feeling defensive.

Fort a moment Terry thought the other man was going to get angry, so regretted his question, but the man’s conversation was beginning to annoy him. But the Frenchman simply smiled that annoying smile again.

“No, I am not. I have never had sex with a man and never felt that way inclined. I was deeply in love with my wife since we were both in our teens. We knew we would marry and I have never wanted to be with anyone else. Now she is gone, I still don’t want anyone else.”

“That’s very sad. I suppose others have told you that it’s best to just move on; life is for the living, and all that?”

Armand smiled again.

“Oh yes, they never tire of telling me that.”

“Look, I can’t bring her back; I’m just an artist. I will try to get her likeness, so can I have a few of her photographs to study while I’m away?”

“If it will help, of course.”

They returned to the shrine of his late wife.

“What was her name?” Terry asked, as the other man handed him a selection of photographs.

“Theresa.”

“Nice name.”

“Yes, quite like yours. I called her Terri,” he said.

Both men felt awkward. It was a relief when they could hear the arrival of the others. Armand handed Terry a folder in which he could keep the photographs.

“Look, I’ll keep these safe and give them back once I return,” Terry said.

“I appreciate that. Now, shall we go and see your friends?”

“If you like; and the answer to your question is no, I have no girlfriend, and no boyfriend either, if it comes to that.”

Armand simply smiled and nodded.

They found Hugh and James standing in the hallway, staring at the spectacular home.

“All right, guys?” he asked, feeling strange speaking English again.

“Shit, Tel, you’ve done well, mate,” said Hugh.

“At least we’re not stuck out there on the road for hours,” James said, grinning. “Whoa, who’s the babe? She’s something else.”

“She’s the Count’s late wife. She died in a car accident a year or so ago,” Terry said.

“She could be your sister,” said Hugh, looking up at the portrait.

“That’s what the Count said. I don’t see it myself.”

“You gotta be blind, mate. You looked just like her when we set up Harry for that date, remember?” asked James.

“Unfortunately,” muttered Terry.

It took the tow truck three hours to reach them. The driver spoke no English, and wasn’t much of a mechanic either. Even in the relative luxury of the Comte’s spacious and well equipped garage he was unable to diagnose the fault. Louis assisted, acting as an interpreter for Hugh. In the end the man shrugged and said that he’d have to take it to the garage in town. Then it would be up to Hugh. Either he could have it repaired there, or have it recovered by the AA.

He asked whether Hugh and the others wanted a lift to town to be close to the car.

Hugh then spent a large proportion of the time on the phone to the AA, trying to arrange a replacement car. It seemed extremely unlikely that anyone would be able to repair the stricken Alfa Romeo this side of the New Year. He was resigned to the fact it would be recovered to England and he would have to sort it out on his return.

He was able to arrange a rental car through the AA, but they wouldn’t deliver it. He would have to get into the nearest town with an approved agent. He was at the end of his tether, seething but unable to take it out on anyone. It was now after seven o’clock, so there was no way the car rental office would still be open.

“We’ll have to find a hotel or youth hostel,” he said, on putting the phone down.

“I’ll go ask the butler if he knows of anywhere close,” said Terry.

He found Louis down the corridor, sitting at the kitchen table talking to a rotund lady who appeared to be the cook.

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but is there a hotel or hostel nearby?” he asked in French.

“They are all probably full at this time of year.”

“Is there any way of checking?”

“Only by calling them all. There are not that many.”

“Okay. We haven’t got time for that, as the tow-truck is taking the car to the local garage now. We could go with it, but the driver told us there is no hotel near the garage.”

“I will speak with the Comte,” Louis said, getting up and heading upstairs, leaving Terry with the cook. She seemed friendly but stared at him rather too intensely for his liking. Terry felt uncomfortable.

“Ah, you are the girl that wants to look like a boy?” she said.

“So everyone says,” he muttered.

She came over to him and, reaching out, gently pulled his hair away from his face.

“You should not hide your face behind your hair, as you have nothing to be ashamed about. Hmm, it is true, you do look like her.”

“I’m not a girl, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

She made a disparaging noise, as if that was of little consequence. Terry felt that she didn’t really believe him but also that it wasn’t worth arguing over.

Louis returned, looking surprised.

“He actually stated that it would be in order for you all to stay the night,” he said, with incredulity in his voice.

“He didn’t?” asked the cook, matching the surprise in her own voice.

“He did; he said that I should let them have the three rooms above the stables.

“That’s very kind,” Terry said. “Are you sure that’s be okay?”

“You do not understand. Since she died, not one person has stayed here apart from the Comte. He never goes anywhere unless absolutely necessary and spends all his time in that damn room, moping and wasting his life away,” said Louis, weakening and showing more emotion than at any time previously.

He visibly pulled himself together.

“I apologise, that was unprofessional of me. I am just pleased that we seem to have witnessed a crack in the ice,” he said, allowing himself a small smile.

Terry passed on the offer to Hugh, who was concerned that he needed to be in town anyway to acquire a rental car as early as possible on the following morning.

“There has to be a hotel or a Bed & Breakfast place in town, surely?” he said to Louis.

“It is not exactly in season,” Louis said. “Most hotels in the town close over the holidays, as everyone wants to be with their families.”

“Damn it!”

“If I may offer my services; I could drive you to the car rental agent in the morning, if that would be acceptable?”

It was. The three lads settled into the basic, but warm and comfortable stable block accommodation. There were four rooms above the empty stable. One was a plain but utilitarian bathroom. Even with all their bags and skis, there was still ample room. They had everything that they required. The stables below were unoccupied, as the Comte had sold all his wife’s horses shortly after the accident. The accommodation above was used by those who used to be employed to tend the horses. Now the horses were history, so were those particular jobs.

Louis had reverted to his poker face and coolly informed them that his master invited them to dinner that evening at eight.

“We don’t need dinner jackets, do we?” asked James, semi-facetiously.

“No, but I suggest you smarten up accordingly,” said the butler before leaving them. Terry had a strange thought that he might be required to wear an evening dress, such as the woman in the painting wore.

Dinner was a strange affair. Seated around a vast dining table, with the Comte at the head, Hugh on his right, James on his left and Terry sat at the opposite end to the French aristocrat; in the seat that his late wife would have sat in, had she not been late. He felt self-conscious dressed in his best trousers; which happened to be a newer pair of jeans, and a proper shirt. He didn’t possess a tie. The others weren’t much smarter, but at least they wore sports jackets. Terry didn’t possess one of them either.

The dinner was a coarse pá¢té, followed by lamb cutlets and finished up with an apple flan. It was probably far better than they either expected or would have got in a hotel. Louis was in attendance, showing no expression at all. He was simply wondering why an attractive girl would dress like a boy. He served the meal and then retired after all the food had been devoured and the plates cleared away. Armand spoke a little, but mainly he gazed with a curious expression down the table at Terry; who, in turn, felt amazingly self-conscious.

After the meal was over, Armand bade the three friends goodnight, telling Hugh that Louis would be ready to take them to the town at eight o’clock on the following morning. The boys thanked him for his hospitality and made their way to the stable block. The snow was lying thicker now.

“He’s a poof,” said James, once they were in their room. “He fancies you Tel.”

“I asked him that and he denied it.”

“You asked him if he was a poof?” James asked, aghast.

“He was asking me weird questions, so I came out and asked him. He said he only loved his wife and had never any strange inclinations.”

“You came out?” James laughed at him.

“Okay, wrong phrase; I just asked him, okay?”

“So, what weird questions did he ask?” Hugh asked.

“It was all related to his dead wife. He wanted to know if I had any French blood.”

“Is that because you look like her?”

“Probably.”

“What else?”

“Whether I’d ever dressed as a girl.”

“Did you tell him about Lara Croft?” James asked, laughing.

“Yes.”

“What was his reaction?”

Terry shrugged.

“He changed the subject.”

“I still reckon he fancies you, mate,” said James.

“I think he doubts that you’re a bloke. He spoke to you as if you were a girl, you know, flirty like.”

“Bollocks!” said Terry, with some feeling.

Back in the main house, Armand was in his memory room, seated on the chair, surrounded by everything that was his Theresa’s. He’d been captivated by the young English artist. He knew that Terry claimed to be a male, but there was so much about him that reminded him of his lovely wife. It wasn’t just there was a marked facial resemblance. That alone was surprising, but not the main impact. It was the way he moved, his mannerisms and his voice. Without asking him to prove it, he found it hard to believe that someone as clearly as beautiful as this could ever be male.

Armand knew that he as in danger of making a fool of himself, but he couldn’t help it. It was almost as if her spirit had summoned the boy to come here for some strange and as yet unknown reason. He had never even considered having a mural painted in the pool area, but it was a reason to get the artist to stay.

But for what?

He had no idea. He simply knew that he had to have him close by.

~o~O~o~

Terry swept down the slope and came to a rapid and almost graceful stop by the café at the foot of the run. He turned and watched his friends arrive shortly after him.

“Terry, you cheated by going straight down that black run,” complained Mark.

“No cheat, there were no rules,” Terry said, grinning.

The others all knew that he was the best skier among the group. It was quite good for him, for it was the only thing at which he was the best. The others were all in better jobs, better flats or houses, drove fancier cars and were all better paid. Some, like James, were good all-round sportsmen, while others were ambitious and would rise quickly in their chosen professions.

It was a great holiday, which the rather bad start did not seem to affect in any way. Indeed, it added an extra dimension to the holiday, and certainly made it one that none of the three involved would ever forget.

Christmas was spent in an alcoholic haze, supplemented by excellent food and some great skiing. At New Year, a group of English girls from another chalet invited them over for a party. They all had a good time. Even Terry almost managed to get intimate with a secretary from Godalming called Tina. Unfortunately, she’d drunk too much and succumbed to unconsciousness before he could get past first base. At least none of them mistook him for a girl!

It was with some reluctance that they all set off back to England. Mark and Robert flew, and Hugh had to drive the hire car to Calais. He was planning to leave it there and get the train back to England, as his car was already there waiting for him. James was going with him, but they agreed to drop Terry off at the Chateau.

He rang home, to no reply. That probably meant his mother was in the hospital again. He rang his sister Cally (short for Catherine) and had his fears confirmed.

“Mum took another turn three days ago. She decided to come off her meds, you know how she is. She thinks she’s cured and doesn’t need them, yet without them, back into the pit she slides.”

Cally was six months pregnant now, and in a steady relationship with a decent bloke. She was muttering about getting married, so she joked about Terry being a bridesmaid, as she had been in on the Lara Croft joke.

“Ha ha, very bloody funny,” Terry said, feeling particularly prickly about that subject.

“Anyway, it won’t be until after the baby. I’m not getting hitched looking like a blimp.”

Terry almost decided to call it all off, as he was seriously concerned about the Comte’s sanity and he felt that perhaps he was needed at home. He had told his sister that there was a job opportunity in France. He did not say anything more in case he decided not to take it.

“If mum needs me, I’ll come home,” he said.

“Don’t be daft, she’s in the best place at the moment; what could you do? No, you take the job and then you can help pay for my wedding,” Cally teased.

A million Euros is a million Euros, so he was prepared to put up with Attila the Hun for a few weeks for a million Euros. They set off, with the rental car piled high with their stuff.

“We’ll have to leave all your crap with you, as we can’t take your skis as well as all our stuff on the train,” said Hugh.

Terry was happy with that. Despite only having one small suitcase of clothes, he had to admit that he wasn’t exactly overburdened with clothes at the best of times.

They were on a tight schedule, so they dropped him at the front door and sped off, wishing him luck.

Terry turned and faced the door for the second time. This time he had a fair idea of what to expect, but he still felt somewhat nervous.

Louis answered the door, as expected.

“Ca va, Louis?” Terry said as soon as he saw the familiar, if not slightly dour face.

He was blessed by a small smile and an inclination of the head, as the man opened the door for him.

“I am well, Mademoiselle, um, sir, thank you. How was your holiday?” the man asked in French.

“Please don’t call me sir. My name is Terry.”

Louis tried it and it came out as Thierry, a common French name. Terry reckoned that was as close as he would get, so accepted it.

“I take it I am in the stables again?”

“No, Terry, you are in the main house. The master thought you would like to be close to her room, so as to get a feel of her presence.”

“Don’t tell me I’m in her room; that room?”

“No, next door.”

Terry was relieved.

Terry’s skis and other skiing paraphernalia were placed in some obscure storeroom, After that he carried his small case upstairs to be shown the room next door to the ‘memory room’.

It was a spectacular room with a king size bed and an en-suite bathroom that was bigger than his entire flat in England.

“Who else is staying in here?” he joked.

It fell flat, as usual.

“No one, Terry; this room is for you. You will be dining with us in the pantry tonight, as the master is in Paris on business.”

“Oh, does he go off often?”

“Rarely these days, but he seems to have regained some enthusiasm for life since your last visit. He will be there until tomorrow. He said he would be back for breakfast.”

Terry didn’t know whether to be pleased about this fact or not. In fact, the Comte’s attitude was perplexing. He just hoped he’d not interfere with the painting too much.

“Overnight train?” he asked.

“No, the Comte always drives himself. It is his one great pleasure. He has eight cars.”

“All good ones, I bet?” Terry asked with a smile. Louis inclined his head in assent.

Louis was actually married to the rotund cook, whose name was Clara. They had two children, a son Patrick, who was serving abroad in the French army and a daughter Lisa, who was married and living in Nice, as her husband was a dentist there.

Terry asked a lot of questions about his host and, as from that very morning, also his employer. Louis was reluctant to say much, but his wife was the opposite. Once she got started, she told him everything he wanted to know, and a lot that he didn’t know he wanted to know. Clara secretly believed Terry to be a girl who was pretending to be a boy for some obscure reason.

“She was an absolute darling. Everyone loved her. She wasn’t only one of the most beautiful girls around, but she was intelligent too. They were inseparable ever since they were about sixteen; like one of those silly romance novels. They never knew anyone else, and neither ever wanted to. She was beneath him, of course, but no one cared. His parents disapproved of the marriage initially, but after a while they came to love her too. She was a naturally lovely lady who sliced through class barriers and everything like a hot knife through butter. Her father was a farmer not far from here, nothing very special, but at least he owned his own land. Oh, and her brother Sebastian is a really nice boy. He and Armand became good friends. They were so well suited; it was like a fairy tale wedding and marriage.”

“He told me it was a car crash; what happened?” Terry asked.

“No one knows for sure. She was in her little Fiat and it was knocked clean off the road by a big truck. Some said the truck blew a tyre, but others said the driver was asleep at the wheel and the tyre burst afterwards,” said Clara.

“She died instantly,” added her husband.

“The master was in Monaco on business, but when he heard he was distraught. He lost his parents and his wife and unborn child all in a couple of months.”

“What business is he in?” Terry asked.

The couple looked at each other briefly.

“He owns a couple of casinos,” said Louis.

“He also buys and sells commercial property. In fact, he dabbles in quite a few things. He invests in the stock markets. Very good at it, he is,” said Clara.

Louis snorted.

“Much good it does him. What good are millions in the bank if you never spend any of it?”

Clara chuckled.

“It’s there when he needs it. Mind you, he is very generous to us, he is,” she said.

“Is he all right; mentally and emotionally, I mean?” Terry asked.

“Probably, emotionally, at least; I don’t think he’s mad, but depression can make anyone seem bonkers,” she said.

“My mother suffers from depression. Some of the time she seems to be on a different planet,” Terry admitted.

“Oh?” Clara seemed concerned.

“It all started when my dad died. I was only eleven, so my sister was just eight. He left us with a few debts and a big mortgage. We had to sell the house and move into something smaller. About a year after the funeral, mum started on the anti-depressants.”

“It’s not my place to comment of the Comte’s health, but he was under the doctor for a while. It seems he is no longer taking medication, and seems better,” said Louis.

“That’s good. I’d hate to be the cause of any difficulties on that score. Have you been with him long?”

“I was in service to the Comte’s father, as was my father, to the family for many years. This is as much our home as his,” said Louis, changing the subject.

“I was one of the kitchen maids, and one thing led to another,” Clara said, winking at Terry and making him laugh.

“I have to admit, I feel uncomfortable when he looks at me. He’s a bit strange,” admitted Terry.

“It is because you look very like his Theresa. She was a dear girl, but he simply has to move on. Life goes on, as they say,” said Clara

Terry finished the meal, which was very good and very filling.

“I’m stuffed, that was excellent, thank you. If I stay here for too long, I’ll get very fat indeed,” Terry said.

“There is a gymnasium,” Louis pointed out.

“Thanks, but I’m not really a gym person. I’ll go for walks and stuff, but I don’t enjoy sweating away and getting nowhere.”

“There a many good walks in the grounds; and rides too, if you’re a horsewoman, um, man.”

His wife nudged him with her elbow.

“I’m sorry, but you look so like her that I forget,” Louis said.

Terry shrugged, accepting the apology.

“I didn’t think there were any horses left?” Terry asked.

“The master sold them all after Theresa died. He was a great horseman in his time. He was prepared to represent France in the Olympics, but he suffered a fall and damaged his back just before the qualifiers. He occasionally talks about buying some more. Do you ride?”

“I rode a donkey at the seaside once when I was nine. It was the last holiday that my dad was with us.”

The French couple couldn’t think of anything to say, so there was an uneasy silence for a while.

“Look, I’m tired. I shall get an early night. So thanks for your hospitality. Can I help wash up, or something?”

Clara looked at her husband and smiled knowingly, before turning his offer down.

“You go to bed, dear, we’re better doing this as we know where everything goes.”

After bidding them goodnight, Terry walked up to his room. It was quite creepy being in this massive house almost alone. The servants’ wing was a good ten minutes away, so he was as good as being alone.

Downstairs, Clara and her husband finished clearing up and prepared to go to their flat to the rear of the house.

“That is no way a boy!” she declared.

“I agree, but she is adamant that she is a male.”

“Pshaw, these young things, what are they thinking of? Do you think she is a lesbian?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“She was watching the master with those big eyes of hers, I don’t think she is.”

“The master thought she was a girl.”

“I don’t wonder, he probably thought she was a ghost. Poor dear, what kind of trouble makes you want to pretend to be a boy?”

“Whatever it is, it’s none of our business,” he said.

“Hmm, as long as it doesn’t become our business.”

Unaware of the discussion concerning his gender, Terry had a bath, because he could. In the chalet, there had been a small shower, which was slightly better than the one in his flat in Tooting. He couldn’t remember when he last had a bath in a huge bath in a huge bathroom.

Afterwards, he slipped into bed, and took out his dog-eared paperback - a science fiction anthology.

He finished the short story that he had already started, and was toying with the idea of reading another. It was still early, not yet eleven. However, feeling quite tired, he turned the light off and snuggled down in the enormous bed. He had never slept in a bed this size.

It took him a while to get to sleep, as his mind was over-active. He was planning his mural in his mind. He’d looked at the photographs, and so he thought he had a damn good idea as to what she looked like. The problem was, every time he looked in a mirror, he could see her looking back at him.

He must have dozed off, for he awoke with a start.

Had that been a noise?

He lay in the gloom, hearing only his own loud heart beats and breathing. No, it must have been a dream. He relaxed and was drifting off to sleep, when he heard something.

Awake now, he sat up, straining to hear anything, something.

He wondered if this house was haunted by the countess. He wasn’t afraid, as he believed that he had already seen her ghost. He knew that she would never hurt him. He held that thought.

How did he know that?

There, the noise of a footfall outside his door.

He got out of bed and tiptoed to the door, opening it quickly.

The hallway was empty. Well, not empty, for there was furniture, suits of armour, paintings and all manner of decorative ornaments, but no people and no ghosts. He waited, listening and watching for several moments.

After hearing nothing more, he was about to go back to bed when he saw a glimmer of light coming from the room next door; her room. The door had been closed when he had come to bed. Now it was open a little, perhaps six inches.

Curious, he walked down the carpeted hallway and pushed open the door. There was no one there. The glimmer of light was a digital alarm clock with very bright numerals shining greenly on the bedside table.

“You’re getting jumpy,” he told himself.

As he turned and was about to return to his room, he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye.

His blood ran cold, and he could feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck.
It was the wardrobe door, slowly opening. Terry felt very odd, conscious of his pulse rate thumping in his ear.

He walked over and looked at the offending item, switching on the ceiling light by using the switch by the door.

It was one of four doors, of a wardrobe that ran the entire length of the room. There were a lot of clothes stored here, all belonging to a dead woman.

He closed the door.

As he was here, he opened each of the doors, checking just to make sure no one was hiding behind any of them.

The Comtesse Theresa owned a hell of a lot of clothes!

And shoes; Terry hadn’t ever seen so many shoes in one place that were not in a shoe shop. These, though, were all in the same size. He had a funny thought. What size was she?

He picked out a red pair of high heeled shoes. They had a fancy name inside, with the name — Milan in gold letters.

He was in bare feet anyway, so he placed them on the floor and tried them on.

They fitted perfectly. It was weird, as he was instantly a good four inches taller. He could feel his muscles down the back of his legs tighten. He walked across to where there was a full length mirror.

He looked very odd in his WASPS Rugby shirt (that was at least one size too big) and his shorts, which were completely covered by the shirt, oh, and the glamorous shoes.

He pulled up both sleeves and stood with one hand on his hip. He felt very strange. His hair swept down to his shoulders, and for a change (as he’d just washed it) looked remarkably bouncy and glowing with sheen.

He looked like a girl wearing a man’s shirt as a dress. He had incredible legs, which stretched up under the shirt promising something that wasn’t there.

He felt the familiar rising of a certain part of his anatomy. This was so weird, he’d never become aroused by seeing himself in female attire before, even when dressed and made up to look as good as they could get him. This was just one pair of shoes, for goodness sakes!

Feeling guilty, he placed the shoes back in their place. He spied a pair of long black boots with even higher heels in the corner of the wardrobe.

He took them out. They had inserts inside them to keep their shape. He took these out and slipped the boots on. They fitted as if they had been made for him. He tottered across to the mirror and was amazed at the visual impression this gave.

He wondered what he would look like with proper clothes on.

Twenty minutes later, dressed in a bra stuffed with nylons, panties, stockings and suspender belt with a little black dress on; with the boots, of course, he stood in front of the mirror with a raging erection.

He then sat at the dressing table and with rising excitement, applied makeup as if he’d been doing it all his life. Last time he’d dressed as a girl, two girlfriends of the key conspirators had done his make up on both occasions, and he hadn’t either done a thing, or remembered what they had done. Yet, he applied foundation, eye shadow, mascara, lip-gloss and a touch of blusher without hesitation or shaking hand.

He brushed out his hair and stood in front of the mirror again.

“Oh my God!” he said, out loud and in French.

There, standing looking back at him; was Theresa, the late Comtesse du Bascomme, looking exactly like she had in one of the photographs in the frame on the chest of drawers.

Terry stood frozen to the spot by a mixture of incredulity, guilt, shame, amazement, lust and fascination.

He moved and the girl mirrored his movements, looking refined, elegant, poised and very feminine. He also thought she looked beautiful.

In the next hour or so, he tried on countless dresses and skirt/top combinations, with as many matching shoes as he could find.

In the end, he thought he was going to burst, so he quietly walked into the bathroom, enjoying hearing the sound of the high heels on the tiled floor, as he masturbated carefully into the basin.

Once sated, he ensured there was no leakage and ‘tucked’ the offending articles out of sight.

Two more hours he ‘played’ dressing up, totally captivated by the creature in the mirror; a creature of his own making.

No more did he experience the unwanted feeling of rising manhood, as he rather liked the flat and feminine appearance he now sported. In the end, he felt exhausted; exhilarated, but completely tired out, so he carefully took everything off, replacing them all where they came from. He knew that Armand would know exactly where they belonged, so he did his best to replace everything in their rightful place.

Reluctantly, he even replaced the silk nightdress that he rather fancied, and returned to his own room. He looked at his face in the mirror, still wearing the makeup.

“You’re a clown, and should be ashamed of yourself!” he told his reflection. The girl smiled back at him and winked, blowing him a kiss. Angrily he washed his face, scrubbing hard to remove the now set mascara.

He fell asleep dreaming of Theresa.

~o~O~o~

Terry awoke to the sound of a car outside. For a moment he forgot where he was, but as he took in the sumptuous bedroom, he remembered. He also remembered being up until gone three in the morning, playing with Theresa.

He looked at his watch and saw it was only seven o’clock.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched. He felt different today. His hair felt fuller, somehow. He put it down to the shampoo and conditioner he used on the previous night. He felt tempted to wear her underwear, simply because of the way they felt on him.

Instead, he pulled on his tee-shirt, jockey shorts and jeans, an old sweater and trainers; job done. He felt his chin, and was pleased that he didn’t think he’d need to shave today. He shaved every other day at best, and wasn’t bothered that he wasn’t a twice a day type of guy.

He wandered downstairs to find Louis up and looking as immaculate as ever, greeting the Comte as he came in through the front door.

“Ah, you’re here; good. I wondered if you’d manage it. I half thought you’d chicken out,” the Comte said on seeing Terry. He then paused, staring at the young man.

“What have you done; you look different?” he said, almost angrily.

“Me? Nothing. Oh, I washed my hair last night. I hope that’s okay?”

Armand looked him up and down, finally nodding and dismissing the thought as if it was of no consequence.

“We’ll take breakfast in the Orangery,” he said, and set off to his study.

“What the hell is an Orangery?” Terry asked Louis.

Louis smiled.

“Many large homes have them. In the old days when it was fashionable to have oranges throughout the year, they would grow them is conservatories with heating piped in to keep them warm,” he told the bemused English lad.

“Oh.”

Louis watched as Terry followed Armand to the Orangery. He even walked like a woman, he thought.

Breakfast was of the continental variety; croissants, coffee or hot chocolate, bread, butter and jam.

Terry didn’t mind as he wasn’t a great one for eating anything before lunch.

However, he found he was hungry, and ate quite a lot. He was busy unrolling his croissant to fill it with butter and jam when he was conscious of being watched.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you normally eat your croissant like that?”

“Like what?”

“By unrolling them and then filling them with butter and jam.”

Terry shrugged.

“Hell, I don’t know, I don’t often eat them. I didn’t know there was a right or wrong way to eat the damn things.”

“My wife used to eat them like that,” Armand said, lapsing into silence.

Feeling guilty for something he hadn’t even known about, Terry ate everything as quickly as possible.

As he drained his hot chocolate, the other man apologised.

“I am sorry, Terry. It was wrong of me to say that. You were not to know. I have to tell you that I find it hard to sit across the table from you, as you look even more like Theresa than on the last occasion we met. I think that perhaps it might be a good idea that we do not eat together. I think in future you will eat with Louis and Clara, if that’d be acceptable?”

“Fine, whatever,” Terry mumbled.

Armand drew a large envelope from his jacket pocket, and opened it.

“This is our contract. Please read it, I have had it translated into English as well. It simply states that you will undertake the commission to paint a mural of my late wife to my satisfaction within three months. If you succeed, the sum of one million Euros will be paid to your account, and if you don’t I agree to pay you the equivalent of fifty pounds an hour pro rata for the work you have done. Is that acceptable?”

Terry looked at the piece of paper with blurred vision. He couldn’t even focus. One million Euros - that was a shit-load of wonga!

Terry signed his name before Armand changed his mind.

Terry spent the morning showing Armand a series of sketches that he’d done of possible designs for the mural. He’d browsed some of the photographs and seen various buildings, mainly down in the south of France, so having a corner of a street café at one end, with the ocean at the other, with trees spreading their branches from above to break the monotony of a long wall.

In the end, Armand selected a compromise, taking some features of one sketch and some from others. It was what Terry had in mind in any case, so he finished the day by completing the first draft of the agreed sketch.

He went on line and discovered a reputable artists’ supplier in Paris that had everything he required. He placed a large order into his virtual cart and sought Armand.

He found him in ‘the’ room, sitting on the small sofa surrounded by his memories of his wife. As soon as he entered he knew that Armand suspected that he’d been through the clothes.

“Have you been in here?”

“Yes,” replied Terry, innocently. “I just had a look yesterday when planning my sketches to get an idea as to the clothes she wore, and shoes, and stuff like that. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

This seemed to mollify the man.

“I’m not used to people being here, so I apologise. It’s a sensitive area for me.”

“If you don’t want me to, then I’ll stay away,” Terry said. Actually, that might help him; for if he was banned from the room, he would have a good reason not to come in here. If he came in, he knew that he would never be able to resist the incredible urge he experienced. Even now, in the presence of her husband, the pull to wear her clothes and to become her was enormous.

“No, I want you to feel her essence, to understand her and to touch her spirit. That way I know you will capture that essence and produce something that will be so real to me.”

“I’m only an artist; I can’t bring her back,” Terry said.

Armand smiled a very sad smile.

“I know that, I’ve been to all manner of strange people with just as strange claims. Some told me they talked with her, but they were charlatans. Louis told me that you said you saw her?”

Terry was surprised by the question.

“I saw something. It was when I was coming to find a house to phone for help when we broke down. I was undecided whether to come up here or along the road to some other lights. I saw a woman by the gate, but just before I could ask her where there was a telephone, a car came past and when I looked again, she’d vanished. I followed where I thought she had gone, so came up here. I saw no foot prints in the snow, but came to the house anyway. As soon as I saw her portrait I recognised her.”

Armand was very still, staring intently at Terry’s face.

“What was she wearing?”

“That was odd, because it was wet, with sleet and snow, yet she only had a skirt and blouse on, oh, and high heel shoes. I thought at the time she looked under-dressed for the conditions. Her hair was wet and she looked pale and cold.”

“What colour blouse?”

“It was getting dark so I can’t be sure. I thought it was pale blue.”

Armand seemed to crumble, placing his head in his hands. Terry didn’t know what to say or do. After a couple of moments, the man looked up, obviously struggling for self-control.

“That was what she was wearing when she died,” he said; his voice choked with emotion.

“Can I ask a question?” Terry said.

Armand looked at him.

“Has anyone else claimed to have seen her; have you?”

The man shook his head.

“No, this is the first time.”

“It might not have been her,” Terry said.

“There was no one else?”

“No.”

“How could you have missed anyone?”

“That’s just it; I turned away for a split second. There was only one way she could have gone and that was through the gate, but it was shut when I looked at the car and was still shut when I turned round again.”

“They that’s even more reason for you to be here; she led you to me.”

Terry wasn’t sure what to think, so he nodded.

“Um, I came to see if you’d approve some of my equipment purchases,” Terry said.

Armand stood up, appearing to have regained his composure once more.

“Fine, show me,” he said, following Terry to the office/study where he’d been on the computer.

He approved all of Terry’s selection, paying by credit card. Delivery was set for three days time.

“It’ll take me that long to prepare the wall and finalise the sketch. May I spend some time in her room to get a better feel for her?” he asked, feeling strangely excited at the prospect. He knew he couldn’t control his urges, but he didn’t know if he wanted to. It was as if he’d never been truly alive until last night.

“No problem, spend as long as you want,” Armand said.

Terry sat in the room, making a series of sketches from the various photographs. They were good sketches, he was pleased with them. He lost sense of space and time; simply allowing the atmosphere of the room pervade his very being. There was no doubt that although she was not here in the material sense, her spirit still dwelled in this room.

He took a snack lunch of bread and cheese in the kitchen, chatting with Clara. He was interested in everything about the dead Comtesse, so felt that the cook would know more than her husband. He was right, for it turned out that Theresa turned to Clara as a confidant and mother-figure in times of stress.

“Not that there were that many, of course. But Theresa wasn’t from the aristocracy, so felt out of her depth when all of Armand’s high-flying and wealthy friends came for formal occasions. There were banquets and balls, so she’d often come and ask me what she should and shouldn’t do. We entertained presidents and royalty here, so she was mixing with the rich and famous.”

“I don’t understand how there is still an aristocracy in France, as I thought they beheaded them all?”

“During the revolution, the then Comte was so loved by the local people, they hid him and arranged his escape to England. It wasn’t so much the Comte and his people, but the people considered him to be their Comte. He looked after them and so when directives came to get rid of all his kind, they set up a people’s committee and simply engineered his escape to England.”

“But the chateau; how come the family still possess it?”

“The same committee sealed it and guarded its contents until it was safe for him to return. We might be a republic, but they never wanted to get rid of him in the first place. The title is meaningless, but still the Comte looks after the local people, even today.”

Terry felt he was beginning to understand this old building and the people that inhabited it. He even managed to walk about without getting lost. Several times he thought he saw her; at the end of a long corridor, or just leaving a room by another door when he entered. He could smell her perfume wafting in places that he knew no one had been for ages.

If this was a haunting, he was neither intimidated nor afraid. In fact, he welcomed her presence and would actively seek out solitude in the hope she would be there.

She never was, but he was left with a sense of almost.

The three days went quickly. The nights passed less quickly; as Terry had to force himself not to visit the room. Every inch of his being wanted to become her. This wasn’t a sexual thing. That first time he had become aroused at the visual image of the attractive woman he became. The sexual urge died on ejaculation and hadn’t returned. No, this was different. He wanted to become her once more; he needed to become her once more.

She visited him in his dreams, not as a third person, but he became her, or was it the other way around?

Each morning he awoke, feeling a little different. He occasionally caught himself using overtly feminine gestures and aching to wear the clothes that made him feel so alive. He fought to remain himself, feeling that there was an invisible battle raging within him.

A delivery truck arrived on the appointed day, so he had fun unpacking all the equipment and paints. He had never been able to afford so much at once. His small flat with studio was packed with hand-me-downs and second hand equipment. Most of his own brushes were old friends, carefully tended but almost useless now.

Louis and Clara watched as he meticulously tidied up his work area, getting everything organised.

“That is not a boy!” Clara said emphatically.

Louis made a face. He too doubted what Terry had said, but was not going to argue.

Once organised, Terry showed Armand his final sketch.

The man had tears in his eyes.

“This is remarkable,” he said. “But this is only a sketch, so how much better will the finished product be? You have captured her exactly!”

He then pointed to the vague figure of a man standing by the water.

“Who is this?”

“That is you. I thought that you might like to be together with her, at least on the wall.”

Clearly Armand was not convinced, so Terry elaborated.

“It’s a long wall, and without height to bring in other objects such as buildings, I felt that it was necessary to put in someone else. Now, I know how much you want to be with her, I thought that at least this way you could be.”

“Very well, but if I don’t like it, it’s out!”

“Fine.”

Terry lost himself in his work. The wall had to be prepared, as the existing paint was not suitable to hold the paint. He took it back and applied a base paint on which he could make a start. His intention was to seal the entire wall with a clear sealant after the painting was complete. It just wasn’t possible to get the intricate details and colours in the water resistant paint that would have been more suitable for a pool or spa. It might be more expensive, but that wasn’t his problem.

Days sped past, and the nights dragged. He was fortunate that he put in long hours, so was tired when he went to bed. The urge was still there, but he’d succeeded in controlling it. His time with Louis and Clara was positive. They relaxed in his presence and shared more of themselves and their life. Clara often referred to Terry as she or her, and Terry lost the desire to keep correcting her.

There were others on the household staff; Georges the gardener, Philippe and Marie, the handyman and maid. For formal occasions, many from the nearby village would come in and assist, but with only the Comte in residence, there was no need for a huge staff.

His first meeting with Georges was memorable, in that the poor old boy almost had a heart attack. Terry had been working all morning and needed a break. So, with his ski jacket on, he decided to go for a walk. He was about to go out of the back door when Clara pointed to his trainers.

“You’ll get frozen in them,” she said. There is a pair of her boots in the boot room, why don’t you try them on?”

It was wet out, at least the snow had gone, but it left quite a lot of mud in places.

Her boots were what Terry would call wellies — rubber boots. They were also bright red, but he knew they’d fit.

So, with a woolly hat on his head, sunglasses on and her wellies, he ventured forth, unaware that he couldn’t have looked more like her if he’d tried. Okay, perhaps with some makeup, but you know what I mean.

He was walking around the side of the house when Georges came round the other way pushing a wheelbarrow.

He stopped dead, staring open mouthed at Terry, who had the low sun behind him. With his long hair and her boots, poor Georges must have thought he was seeing a ghost.

“Bonjour,” Terry said cheerfully, unaware how close to her voice his was.

Georges went very pale and put the barrow down.

“Je suis Terry,” Terry said. Once more unaware that this was what she called herself.

Still the man stared.

“Je suis l’artiste anglais chargé de peindre la comtesse,” he said.

It took the poor old man a while, but he shook his head and sort of smiled.

Terry shrugged and continued on his walk, unaware just how deeply his appearance had affected poor Georges.

After a week, he had started the base colour on the wall, and was planning just where everything was going to go. Below stairs, rumours had begun to filter out from the village. One was that the Comte had found another girl who looked just like his late wife, others were similar, but that the girl was a boy, another that the girl was a girl, but pretended to be a boy and so on. Louis and Clara did their best to stop them, but people do like a good scandal.

Georges was positive that Terry was a Terri, and a girl, but Louis gave up trying to convince him otherwise on the few occasions they met in the grounds.

George always greeted him with, Bonjour mademoiselle Terri,” to which he responded, “Bonjour Georges.” It was not a relationship destined to be frightfully deep.

As the days passed, Armand was rarely present. He was in the house, and occasionally dropped in to see how Terry was progressing, but Terry began to suspect that he wasn’t that interested in the painting. He felt that the man was torn; on the one hand having Terry around reminded him of his wife, and he wanted him there, bit on the other hand, Terry reminded him of his wife and he didn’t want to be near him.

One Friday he announced that he was going to Italy on a business trip for three or four days. Italy wasn’t that far away, but Terry immediately felt his heart leap. Here was a chance, he thought.

It was almost more than he could bear, waiting for the man to leave. He tried to concentrate on his work, but just couldn’t help planning what he was going to wear.

Eventually, he was alone in the house, apart from Louis and Clara, that is. The other servants lived in the village.

After supper, he retired early to his room and waited for everything to quieten down. He was into ‘her’ room so quickly it frightened him. It was as if his being was taken over by another. He sat, almost as a passenger or spectator as he applied make up and dressed in her underwear. There was no need to relieve his pent up sexual frustration this time, as he did not rise to the occasion. He tucked them away and ignored them, revelling in the transition.

When he finally stood facing the mirror dressed in a designer dress, wonderful shoes, carefully applied makeup and smelling of her perfume, Terri breathed out as a new person.

Gone was the essence of Terry the male, in his place was Terri the girl.

She walked through the house, seeing things as if they’d been in her life for ages. The sound of the heels on the floor gave her a thrill, as did the feel of the exquisite material against her smooth skin. She was in heaven.

Eventually, she had to go back into the cupboards, and Terry went to bed, knowing he would never be the same again. As he lay there, remembering every luscious moment, it dawned on him that at no time had he been sexually aroused. Even the memories failed to instigate a single twinge.

It was as if the real person was now packed away in drawers and hangers, and the pretend person had to get up on the following morning.

The next day, he had a bath and washed his hair. This morning he took some underwear from the bottom of her underwear drawer and wore them instead of his own. Somehow, they made him feel slightly better, more real.

Louis and Clara noticed that he was subdued as he went through the day, but were uncertain of the cause. Indeed, each morning, Terry was slightly different; quieter and very thoughtful, almost depressed.

“Have you seen how much more like the mistress she is?” Clara asked.

“Rubbish, it’s just that she’s always been slightly similar,” her husband replied, both referring to Terry as a girl when he was not around. Even when he was there, they often failed to give him a masculine pronoun..

“Not the face, but the mannerisms and demeanour. It’s almost as if she’s turning into her.”

“That’s impossible,” Louis said, but as he thought about it and watched the young artist, he saw what she meant.

Unconsciously, Terry had adopted so many of her mannerisms, and yet that was impossible, for she’d died a long time before he came to the house. Not once had Armand offered to show Terry the many video clips of her, and yet Clara was right, Terry was becoming more and more like her.

Terry spent several hours every night as Terri. As a result, every morning he was more tired and less of himself. Each morning he awoke to feel that he was more Terri and less Terry.

He was careful with the clothes, but he knew that it was just a matter of time before Armand discovered something was amiss. He never expected the discovery to be quite so soon, or complete.

~o~O~o~

Terry believed Armand to be still away, so after supper he went up to bed as usual. Then, after waiting for the house to quieten, he went to her room. He was skilled now, so it took him perhaps twenty minutes to transform into Terri. This time he wore an evening dress in white and white shoes studded with glistening stones; diamonds?

He was standing admiring himself in the mirror when he heard a noise.

With a mixture of shock and horror, he turned to see Armand watching him. Before he could react, the man turned and walked away.

Needless to say he was mortified and disgusted with himself. He undid Terri and fled back to his room, where he packed his small case in preparation of his leaving in the morning. He planned to leave before seven and walk to the village where he knew there was a bus. He didn’t care where it took him as long as it was away from this place.

He didn’t sleep much, and crept downstairs a little after six in the morning.

“Where are you going?” Armand asked, as he was opening the front door.

“I’m leaving,” Terry said. “I’ve let you down.”

“Leaving is not an option,” Armand said, turning away and walking to the Orangery.

Terry stood there a moment, undecided. Louis came over to him, gently taking his case from him.

“The master asks if you would join him for breakfast.”

“Louis, I can’t, I….”

Louis smiled, not fully understanding, but somehow realising that within this young person a battle was raging. Terry did as he was asked.

“Sit, please,” Armand said, pointing to the chair opposite him.

Terry sat.

Louis served the breakfast and retired. Not a word was spoken while he was there.

“I’m not going to ask you to explain yourself, as I don’t actually believe that you could. Instead, I am going to alter our contract.”

Terry frowned, but said nothing.

“I want the person I saw last night to join me for dinner each evening. Is that possible?”

“You what?”

“You heard.”

“But, surely, you can’t expect…”

“I expect you to do what I ask. I expect you to fulfil your obligations. No, I demand it.” Armand spoke with quiet authority. Terry could have dealt with anger or disappointment, but not this.

“Yes sir.”

“I will lay out what she will wear, including jewellery. She is not to leave the house or to speak to anyone other than me, understood?”

“But, Louis and…”

“I will have dinner served into the Ban Marie and then we shall be alone.”

Terry nodded.

“Then eat your breakfast,” Armand said, opening his newspaper.

It was a difficult day, but Terry worked hard to try to forget his awkward situation. He had done the sky and sand, so was beginning to get the sea colour just right when Armand walked in to see how he was getting on.

He sat on a chair and said nothing, simply watching.

Terry tried to ignore him, but found his concentration was sapped.

“May I ask a question?” Armand asked.

“Of course?”

“What did it feel like?”

Terry wondered for a moment what he was talking about. But then he twigged.

“It was as if she took me over so that I became someone else.”

Armand nodded. “It was like seeing her again. It hurt me, very much.”

“I’m sorry; I never meant to hurt anyone. I didn’t know you were back.”

“That was evident,” Armand said with a tight smile.

Terry bowed his head, not knowing what else he could say. He felt deeply ashamed.

“You were powerless, you know?” Armand said.

“I know, but I shouldn’t have done it.”

Armand stood up.

“No, it was meant to be,” he said and walked out.

At six, Terry went to his room to wash and get ready for dinner. On his bed he found a black dress, underwear and a pair of shoes on the floor. There was also a makeup box, so clearly Armand didn’t want him doing this in ‘her’ room.

He ran a bath, and stepped in, allowing himself to relax as he washed his hair.

When he got out, he wrapped one towel around his body, not around his waists as he would normally have done, but around his chest, like a woman. He wrapped a smaller towel around his wet hair.

He sat on his bed regarding his reflection. He dropped his towel and looked at his naked body.

He thought he was familiar with it, but he found himself almost a stranger. He had not shaved for a week now, and his body seemed virtually hairless. It had never been particularly hairy, but it seemed less so. His hips seemed slightly wider, while his waist looked to be narrower, if that was possible. He pushed up his pecs to resemble a cleavage, and felt that they too appeared to be fleshier than he remembered.

Shaking his head, he dried his hair with the hair-dryer and slipped into the bra and panties. He smiled as he automatically tucked his things away. He rolled up two socks into the bra cups, pushing them down so this flesh was pushed up. As he rolled on the stockings, he caught the thrill as a flutter in his tummy. It was as if he received a very gentle electric shock, giving his entire being a tingle. His hair shone and glistened as he brushed it out. There as no doubt any more — it was fuller and much thicker than ever before.

He found his hand trembled slightly as he applied the mascara. It was the prospect of being seen by someone else that made him nervous. However, he finished the task and once again stared in wonder at who he had become. It was then he saw the nail varnish, so, shrugging he picked up the nail file and set to work.

Armand had left a black box on the bed. In it was a string of pearls and a smaller box containing pearl drop ear rings.

Terry had pierced ears, although he was often of the habit of not wearing earrings. He would have to reopen the holes every now and again, so this time he had to do so again.

It took a while, but in the end Terry was gone, and once again Terri took his place.

Armand was equally nervous as he paced the floor in his study. Louis hadn’t questioned his orders to provide the food and then retire. He and Clara would be grateful for an early night. However, Armand was beginning to doubt his own sanity. It was perhaps a little mad to see his beloved Terri in this rather effeminate English artist, but something had driven him to invite him to undertake the painting.

He had not meant to drive quite so hard to return to the chateau last evening, but it was as if that same something urged him to return. He had driven in quietly and entered through the back door. He always called in to ‘her’ room before going to bed, just to talk through his day with her and to say goodnight.

As he approached, he noticed the light was on in ‘her’ room, so he quietly walked up to the door and glanced in.

To this moment he did not know what prevented him from crying out; for Theresa stood there in a dress she adored, looking exactly as he remembered her, that he was forced to cram his knuckle into his mouth to prevent a cry.

He stood there for many seconds, watching her. Something spooked her, for she turned and caught sight of him standing watching. He felt so guilty and so awful for disturbing her, so he turned and walked away, unaware of the anguish his presence had caused.

In his room his mind told him that it was the English boy, but his heart was singing too loud tom hear the truth. He did not sleep much, as gradually his head managed to win over his heart.

What would the boy do? He asked himself.

Leave; he had no alternative but to leave. It was the only honourable and honest action that he would think of.

He mustn’t leave, for if he leaves then so will she, and Armand couldn’t cope with that; not now he had just rediscovered her.

He waited for him at the front door for quite some time. He was right, for the boy was leaving. Unsure exactly how to approach the lad; he kept it brief and without emotion. How he wanted to bare his soul, he knew that he couldn’t do that; yet.

Now, he was facing the point of pain. The pain of being with her again, and yet not being with her. Last night she had looked the same, but deep down he knew that she wasn’t Theresa.

How should he play this hand? Should he declare how he saw things, or should he enter a fantasy world and invite the strange girl to join him?

Was he just fooling himself, or was there a spiritual element at work?

He didn’t doubt that Theresa’s spirit was still close by; but how close and how much influence could that spirit hold over the material world?

Well, now he was about to find out.

He checked his Rolex wristwatch for the umpteenth time. Now, the time had come. Sighing he left the room and made for the stairs, He went down slowly, glancing up at her portrait. He stopped halfway down, staring up at her with a frown on his face. Was it his imagination, or was she smiling just a little more than before?

He heard her footfall at the top of the stairs before he saw her. He turned where he stood, looking back up to the top of the stairs.

She stopped as soon as she saw him, with one hand gong to her breast in a move that Armand remembered so well. Her nails glistened in the lights of the chandelier and she looked so worried that his heart cried out for her. He took one step up towards her and held out his right hand.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he said. Terri noticed that his voice broke slightly. She wondered whether it was emotion or disgust.

She smiled weakly as she came down the stairs, treading carefully as the high heels threatened to pitch her on her bum. She held onto the banister rail with one hand.

“Sorry, it’s the heels; I’m not used to them,” she said, in flawless French. Armand noticed immediately that the Terry’s normally obviously English accent was missing somehow.

She took his hand and he escorted her down the stairs. They both stopped at the bottom, looking up at the portrait.

“Do you think that this is what she wanted?” she asked.

Armand shrugged.

“Perhaps.”

“Where are we going with this?” she asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know. Does that bother you?”

“A little; but, hey, I’ve not been myself lately,” she said with a nervous little smile.

Armand smiled, seeing her smile.

“Come, dinner awaits,” he said, leading her to the dining room.

They sat on a smaller table, opposite each other. He served the food from the Ban Marie, and then poured her a glass of white wine with the pate.

She was shaking.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, concerned.

“I don’t know, a little. I think I’m just unsure of what to do.”

“Do you sense her?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“It’s difficult to explain. It’s almost as if she is inside me. I found that I instinctively know things that I never knew before. Things that I’m sure she knew and wants me to know. Take makeup; how could I possibly know what colours go well and which are just not for my skin type? Yet, I managed reasonably and without conscious thought. It was just as if she took over part of my being.”

Armand looked at his companion; for the first time, trying to see the person he knew was at the heart; a young and skinny English boy called Terry. But the illusion was too complete. The girl possessed a figure that, from his memory and the countless images of his wife, seemed in perfect harmony with her; the face, flawless and beautiful; the hair, lustrous and gleaming, with those coppery undertones cascading to her shoulders. The swell of her breasts rose beneath the material; and the obvious cleavage on display with the string of pearls shining like the icing on the cake.

“How do you feel?” he asked, genuinely interested.

“I’m not sure. Nervous, fearful, yet also excited and, this sounds silly, but also somehow fulfilled.”

“Fulfilled?” he asked, frowning.

“I don’t know how to better describe it. When I first dressed in her clothes, it was as if I was suddenly the person I always should have been. Yet nothing in my past ever gave me a clue that I might be transgendered or, well, confused in any way about my sexuality or gender. I wore girl’s clothes twice for a joke. I never became sexually aroused and neither did I think; ah, that’s what I should be. Yet this time, as I looked at myself looking like this, it was like coming home and that the real person was the sham.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, as Armand thought about what she said. There was no doubt that his companion was a she, no matter what a geneticist would say. Everything about her told him, and the world, had they seen her, that she was a girl, and a beautiful one at that.

He cleared away the starter and served the next course, a pair of trout with a selection of vegetables.

He watched her eat. He had regarded Terry whilst eating and it was like watching a completely different individual. She took small mouthfuls and ate slowly, chewing each mouthful thoroughly. She ate as he would expect someone looking like this; she ate just like Theresa.

She caught him staring.

“I’m not your wife; you know that?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? I mean, deep down, do you not actually believe she is alive inside me somehow?”

Armand was silent. She put her fork down.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “It’s like a constant battle inside me; between my head and my heart.

He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“My head tells me one thing, and yet my heart wants me to be someone else.”

“They say you should follow your heart.”

“Yeah; where will that take me? Look at me? What am I? I’m neither one thing nor another. I’m certainly not your wife and I’m not certain that I’m who I used to be any more. In truth, I don’t think I know who I am. You have such expectations of me that I know will fall far short of what you want. You say you want me to be like this at dinner each evening and then go back to being who I used to be during the day. Well, I can tell you now, I can’t do it. I don’t know what happened to me, but I can’t swing back and forth just to keep you happy.”

“It’s not about me,” he said, realising as he said it he was lying.

She wasn’t angry or upset, but her smile was laden with weariness.

“Oh yes it is, it is all about you. It’s certainly not about me, and Theresa isn’t here anymore so it’s not about her. No Armand, this is all about you and I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”

“You will do what I ask,” he said, feeling the fear rising inside of him being displaced by anger.

She wasn’t intimidated as Terry would have been. Instead she simply stood up.

“Or you’ll do what? Send me to my room? Refuse to pay me? Get a life, Armand. You need to realise that life goes on and for you to dwell in the past with someone who is dead is inviting death upon yourself. Oh, you might have a heartbeat and breathe, but you’re becoming dead inside.”

The realisation that bluster and shouting wasn’t going to solve the problem hit Armand hard. He as used to getting his own way, but he was astute enough to know when one tactic wasn’t working.

“Please sit down; I apologise, I did not mean that to sound threatening. I just don’t want to lose her again; lose you again,” he said, confusing himself.

She sat, but did not resume eating. She looked at him in the way Theresa had when she was upset with him, usually for being pig-headed.

“They tell me that you used to have such potential; you were always the life and soul of the party, well, my dear Comte, your soul has withered and is about to die if you don’t do what she would want you to.”

“How would you know what she wanted for me?” he asked, the anger rising again.

She laughed at him.

“You have no idea what this is like for me, have you? Do you actually care?”

“Of course I care.”

Shaking her head she looked almost pityingly at him.

“No, you don’t. You don’t actually care about anyone in your life but yourself. You are so wrapped up in your misery that you can’t even understand what she went through. I don’t know what your problem is, but I suspect you’re overburdened with guilt. You can blame yourself for eternity if you want, but why make everyone else suffer?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I don’t? Well, here’s how it looks from my perspective, if you actually give a damn. I was minding my own business, heading off on holiday with some friends when the car breaks down. As I was the only one who can speak your language, I got elected to search out for a phone to call for help. I’m standing by your gate when I see the ghost of your late wife. Oh, yes, you can look at me like that, but I am convinced that I saw her, and for a reason. When I turned away, she vanished. I thought she’d come up here to the chateau, but no, she had gone somewhere else entirely.”

Armand frowned.

“Where, where did she go?”

“You still don’t get it do you?”

“Get what?”

“Do you honestly think I like getting dolled up to look like your dead wife?”

“What?”

“You heard. I’m not even a woman, yet I look like this. Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit odd?”

“You said you felt at home like this,” he said, confused.

“That’s not the same and liking it. Look, I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. When she vanished she simply went to the only place she could; into me. I suppose you could say that I’m possessed by the spirit of your dead wife. That would explain why I yearn to look like this; why I adore the feelings that it invokes in me and can’t walk past her room without wanting to go in and to make myself look like this. That’s not the same as liking it. You see, when you’ve been without a material body, those feelings are as alien to me as these clothes and the way I feel just now. I feel like a woman and part of me wants to stay that way forever.”

“Part of you?”

“That part that isn’t me. The part that is the real me wants to run away and never come back. Which is what I must do. Only, now I’ve experienced these feelings, I’m terrified that I might never want to go back to be the old me. Can’t you understand?”

“You can’t run away!” he said; his voice rising in genuine fear.

“I have to; for my own sanity.”

“What about me?” he asked; sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

She looked faintly triumphant.

“See? That’s what it has always been about; little old you. Well, I don’t know what you will do. You have two choices, I suppose; you can stay like this and wither away and perish; becoming like a zombie living in the past with the dead, or you can move on. Personally, no amount of money in the world would induce me to a life of darkness and misery. So, you can take you precious million Euros and stuff them where the sun doesn’t shine, because I’m not prepared to pay the price you’re asking of me.”

Armand had no idea how difficult this was for her to say. But to watch her stand up and prepare to leave him was almost as bad as getting the news that his beloved Theresa had died.

“No, please, don’t go. I want to move on, as you say, but I can’t do it alone,” he said, sounding desperate. Gone was the suave and sophisticated millionaire aristocrat; in his place was a little lost boy.

“You don’t understand, do you? I cannot go from being her to being me. I can’t stay here with what I suspect is inside me and not try to become her for every waking moment. It’s like purgatory for me. Being so close and yet not being nearly close enough. So, to ask me to be Terry the painter for most of the day and to become Terri the woman each evening is just asking the impossible. I can’t do it, physically, emotionally or spiritually. I’ve never been what might be called transgendered, and I’ve never considered men as something of interest as far as sex is concerned. Mind you, If I’m honest, I can’t say that I was a great lover of women either, as my experience in that area is exactly zilch. Hell, I think I only chased girls because it was expected. I still don’t really know what would have happened had one actually allow herself to be caught. I think I was one of those people with a non-existent sex drive.”

“And now?”

“Now? Hell, if I was confused before, I’m twice as confused now.”

“Then what can we do?”

“We? There is no we. There is me, and I just hope that once I leave here I will go back to being who I used to be. Then, there’s you; I can’t say what you can do, Armand, I really can’t.”

He looked almost about to cry, so she came round to him and laid a delicate hand on his arm. He looked down at it seeing the crimson nails, so delicately shaped.

“Look, Armand, please accept three truths. One, Theresa is dead; two, I am not Theresa, and three; I am not your wife. Hell, I’m not even a woman.”

“You look like one,” he said, almost petulantly.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” she said with a smile.

“What about the painting?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“You have to finish it,” he said, pleading now.

“I think we’re past that, don’t you?”

“I want you to finish it,” he persisted. “We have a contract.”

“I told you, I can’t switch back and forth. I can’t deal with the urges and desires that rise up inside me. The temptation would be too great for me to resist, and I’d never be able to concentrate. It’s not fair to ask me to. Although I could use the money, I’m not prepared to fuck up my life in order to get a few Euros.”

“One million is not exactly a few.”

“I know, but I’m trying to make it sound easier than it is.”

“Then be like this all the time; just until the painting is finished.”

She laughed at him again.

“Yeah, right, like that is a realistic proposition. Just what do you think the rumours in the village will say then?”

“What rumours?”

“You really don’t give a toss about anything outside your shell, do you? Shit, Armand, how blind can a man get? They are saying that you have taken an English lover. Some say he’s a transvestite that looks like your wife, and some say she is a woman who pretends not to be. Either way, any credibility we have is fucked beyond belief already.”

“Where do these things come from?” he asked, genuinely shocked.

“From old Georges, probably.”

“Georges, how is this possible?”

“I was taking a walk, oh, don’t look like that; I was not dressed as your wife at the time. I was just walking in the garden, taking a break. Anyway, I walk round a corner and almost bump into him pushing a barrow. He sees me and probably thinks he’s seeing a ghost. I seem to have that effect upon some people, don’t I?”

“And he’s spreading rumours like that?”

“No, he probably said that he met me and that I looked just like your dead wife. Other people naturally assume there’s more going on than there is and juice it up with all manner of speculation. Let’s face it; Carla and Louis think I’m a girl who dresses like a boy for some reason. No one would recognise the truth if it leapt up and bit them on the bum. Before you know it, we’re going to be married.”

“This is unacceptable,” he spluttered.

“No, it’s real life. This is what happens to people at every level of life. No one said life was fair or that only nice things happen. So, all the more reason for me to go.”

“I will sack Georges.”

“Don’t be a fool. That would only add fuel to the fire and make an old man very bitter and angry. He has probably done nothing wrong, in any case. It will be other people speculating because they have no other information upon which to draw.”

“Then what can we do?”

“With me gone, you don’t need to do anything.”

“You can’t go,” he repeated.

“I sure as hell can’t stay. I told you why.”

“I’m not sure I can do this without you,” he admitted.

“You mean without her, don’t you? Look, there’s enough of her inside of me to realise that most of what she’s doing is to get you to understand that she doesn’t want you pining and shrivelling up. She wants you to move on, and hopefully, once you do, she can. I think by hanging onto her so hard, you’re preventing her spirit from moving on to where it should go.”

“You don’t know that,” he said.

“No, not for certain, but it’s a very strong feeling, and believe me when I tell you that I’ve had quite a few of those recently.”

“So, are you saying that if I move on, she will be able to move on too?”

“Yes; and perhaps I can get back to my life as well; such as it was.”

He stood up.

“Then please work with me on this. I will undertake anything you tell me in order to allow her to move on. This will help all of us, yes?”

She sat there for a moment, slightly stunned by the change in approach.

“You mean I have to stay here and help you?”

“Yes, and finish the painting.”

“I thought I explained that I can’t stay here.”

“Not for very long; just until the painting is completed.”

“You still don’t understand. I can’t….”

“Please, you must be whoever you feel you want to be. The first thing I am going to do is remove that room as being a shrine.”

“How?”

“I will box up everything and store them in the attic. Perhaps giving most away to charity.”

Terri’s heart gave a lurch.

“What; all those lovely clothes and shoes and…”

Armand smiled, knowing he was on the right track.

“Make your mind up, either you want to leave all this behind, or you stay and help. I will get rid of the shrine first, though. If you want to help, you can keep what you think you might need. Everything else goes into a box.”

She looked up at him with tears welling in her eyes. This was almost too much to bear. She was completely torn. On the one hand, Terry wanted to be free to live his life, but on the other, now Terri had seen what life could be like, she was as determined to see what her life could be like. It was easy to say, ‘I will go,’ but ever so hard to actually leave behind so much that had meant so much for such a short period of time.

Was there actually a spirit of Theresa within?

Who knows; but one thing was for sure, life was going to be different for whoever won.

Six

“Sir, may I have a word?” Louis asked after breakfast, exactly a week later.

He was concerned, for the last week Terry had missed breakfast and lunch, preferring instead to work through the day without a break. A large DO NOT DISTURB sign was on the door to the pool area. Neither he nor Clara had seen the young artist since breakfast on the day that they had served the dinner into the Ban Marie and then retired. They were worried that Armand had said or done something to hurt the young artist. Also, various rumours that had been circulating in the village had come to his notice, and he wanted to warn the Comte of their existence and the potential damage or at least offense they could cause.

“Yes, Louis, what is it?”

“Sir, it seems that unwittingly old Georges may have started some ugly rumours. It seems….”

“It’s about the presence of a person who looks like the late Comtesse, yes?”

“Yes sir, I thought you sh…”

“I am aware of the rumours.”

“Ah. May I speak candidly, sir?”

“By all means.”

“Sir, I have known you since you were a little boy, and if I may be so bold, you were a stubborn little boy then, and it appears that little has changed.”

Armand laughed.

“Louis, my old friend; thank you for being honest. Terri has also drawn my attention to the fact, but called me pig-headed. She also told me that I was in danger of shrivelling up and dying if I did not move on.”

Louis nodded, grateful that he wasn’t out on a limb alone, but then he recalled what his boss had said.

“She, sir?”

“It seems we were duped. Terri isn’t a boy. She did not believe that I would employ her had I known she was a girl. She told me the truth last night, and I’m surprised that no one else has noticed.”

Louis blinked a couple of times. Duped; him? No.

“Ah, no sir.”

“No?”

“Yes, sir, no. Neither Clara nor myself believed that ma’mselle Terri was ever a male, sir.”

Armand stifled a laugh. Keeping a straight face, he nodded sagely.

“I see, then it was I alone who was duped, it seems. Whatever the case was, mademoiselle Terri will be staying on and completing the work that she has started. She feels exceptionally guilty and ashamed at her attempted deception. I believe she felt worried that as she bore such a striking resemblance to my Theresa, she might invoke some negative reaction from those here. I have assured her that will never be the case, but you know how girls are?” Armand said, with a knowing smile.

“Indeed, sir.”

“I will speak with her and assure again her that no one bears her any ill will. I hope that she will come out of her isolation soon. I was just mentioning this in case you should see her dressed in, um, more fitting garments. She and I have talked at length, and she has helped me in many ways. I have decided that she can have some of the Comtesse’s clothes. Apart from the fact they fit her beautifully, I believe it will be of benefit to me that I give them away to someone who will do them justice. I am going to dismantle the shrine, and she has promised to help me. I think it is time I tried to take positive steps to move on in my life.”

“Very good, sir; will that be all?”

“No, Louis, Ma’mselle Terri will be joining me for all meals in the future.”

Louis worked hard to stop the smile.

“I’ll pass the news to Clara, sir,” he said and retreated quickly to head for the kitchen.

“She’s done it at last!” he announced to his wife.

“Done what, sweetheart?”

“Gone and told the master the truth about her real gender. I am to inform you that Mamselle Terri is being given the Comtesse’s clothes so we are not to be surprised when we see her looking more like she should.”

“He’s giving away her stuff?” Clara asked, shocked.

“So he said. She’s persuaded him to move on and they are starting by dismantling that shrine he’s made to her.”

“About bloody time! Good for her. I don’t know how she managed it, but she got to him in the end,” Clara said, smiling broadly.

Armand had smiled at Louis’s retreating back. He wondered how long the rumours from the village would take to change now.

He wandered to the pool.

He stood at the door watching her work, as he had done every day for the last week. She was unaware he was there. He smiled as he watched her.

She wore that same tatty old British Rugby shirt over a pair of shorts. The shorts were so short he wondered why she bothered. Mind you, her legs were spectacular.

Her hair was tied up in a scarf and she was spattered in paint. The only thing of Theresa’s she was wearing was makeup, and possibly underwear. He watched her closely. Every nuance, every movement was feminine and seemingly calculated to display that single fact. His gaze was drawn to her shirt. He could see the firmness of a small bust beneath the baggy shirt that was clearly too big for her (the shirt, not the bust). However, he also saw the movement of the breasts that were 100% natural. They were not large, but they were significantly larger than what was there. If Terry had been male, then Terri was not.

She was working on the figure of Theresa. Several sketches were stuck to the wall, as well as a few photographs. She had already painted the body and general silhouette, so was now working on the facial detail. The rest of the mural was almost completed, apart from the outline of the man that would be Armand.

He stood there for a long time, intrigued and fascinated as he watched his late wife’s face materialise before his very eyes. This was not like a photograph, where a single split second was captured in a moment of frozen time. This was a composition of true artistic merit, whereby her features reflected the depth of feelings and emotions that formed her psyche.

Eventually, feeling tired by standing for so long, he moved. She heard him and turned.

“How long have you been there?” she asked.

“A while. It’s beautiful.”

“She’s not finished.”

“I can see that, but she is still beautiful. You have captured her essence.”

Terri laughed.

“I think she’s captured mine. It’s more like a self portrait than I care to admit.”

“You look beautiful today,” he said.

“Stop it, please. I don’t need this. It’s too bloody complicated, so Just let me do the work, okay?”

“I’m sorry, but I just thought you ought to know.”

“Knowing that sort of thing doesn’t help me, to be honest.”

He pulled up a chair and continued to watch. She ignored his presence and kept going, gradually filling out the face and adding texture, shade and shadow to give it depth and warmth. He liked watching her hands, as they seemed to be working independently and yet produce such a cohesive product that he was breathless with admiration.

Several times he was about to say something, but caught himself in time. He did not want to break her concentration. After a moment he realised that Louis was standing next to him. He looked up and raised an eyebrow. Louis wasn’t looking at him, but at the girl. Armand coughed gently. Louis immediately looked down and passed him a note.

Soundlessly he got up and left with Louis. When they were out of earshot he thanked his butler.

“When did he call?”

“Ten minutes ago, sir.”

“And he wants to come here?”

“Yes sir, as long as that would be alright.”

Armand looked at the paper again. Sebastian was Theresa’s brother. They had been friends as long as he had known Theresa, and yet he had not been able to see the man since Theresa’s death. Every now and again he called, asking to see his friend, and each time Louis had been told that the master wasn’t available.

“I’ll call him back,” Armand said.

Louis’s usual expression lost its cool for a second, as shock and surprise registered. It was so quick that one could have missed it, but Armand didn’t miss it.

“Don’t be so surprised; I think I’m ready for him now.”

Louis stared after him as he walked off to make the call. He glanced towards the pool area and smiled.

At five o’clock Terri put down her brushes and started to clear up for the day. It had been a good day, as she had made real progress. Theresa was remarkably easy to paint. If she was in any doubt then she found that by looking into the mirror, she could paint that little feature from her own facial expression. She was conscious that this was the first week she had ever painted a la femme, so to speak. She had lived and breathed as a girl all week, and it had been amazing. Her concentration was miles better, and although initially distracted by seeing nail varnish on her finger and toenails, she became used to the sight very quickly.

That morning she had received a shock as she prepared to dress. For on her chest were two small but very firm and definite breasts. Also the genitalia were so small as to be almost missing. This had been a daily reduction over the last few days, but something significant had happened over the last twenty four hours.

It was as if by giving into the urges, a profound and possibly lasting change was initiated.

Strangely, she felt no fear or concern over what was happening. Her life as Terry was insignificant and drab that she hardly thought about it. Every day was an adventure into a whole new and exciting world, and she wasn’t going to miss it for the world.

She went upstairs to have a bath and change. As she washed out the paint and shampooed her hair, she felt remarkably calm in a situation that might have had Terry quaking in his boots. She felt that she was female now, and as her fingers probed between her legs, the evidence was not overwhelming to the contrary.

She reasoned that as she was in no pain or discomfort, neither did she have any difficulty in peeing, albeit from a slightly different place, she must be okay.
As she sat at her dressing table, now creaking with the weight of all Theresa’s cosmetics and perfumes, she applied makeup as if she had been doing it all her life.

She wanted to look good for Armand, but not because she was attracted to him. He was nice, if not a little creepy, but not someone that she felt she could ever love.

She caught that thought.

Had she really come this far in such a short time?

What happened to the boy who tried (and failed) to get that drunken girl to go to bed with him?

He had always been ambivalent to terms such as gay and straight. Not that he felt drawn to be one or the other, or even something in between. Since being introduced to Terri, it was as if she had taken on the wholeness of a woman. That included her sexual orientation. Not that she’d been able to put it to the test with many people; there as simply Armand and those who worked here. But in her mind, her fantasy time, she was a complete woman and a heterosexual one at that! She could not say that she had switched sex drives, for Terry never really had one, and Terri had yet to discover if she possessed one. She did, however, possess a yearning to be loved and needed. To a certain extent Armand seemed to require and provide both. But it wasn’t the kind of relationship that she could imagine developing into anything like a sexual one.

Sex.

She may never have experienced a sexual act with anyone, either male or female. She had, both as Terry and as Terri been able to fantasise and imagine having sex. Particularly in bed, when she was free of distractions, she was able to let her mind float along a sea of endless possibilities. As a living impossibility, she found herself thinking more and more about having sex with a man. She tried to fantasise about having a same sex relationship with a woman, and although erotic, it didn’t actually feel right. Whereas, being penetrated by a man, in the correct fashion, she found deeply erotic and right.

When she dressed, she dressed to make herself desirable and to look as attractive as possible. This was for her, not for anyone else, simply because she could.

She selected a turquoise dress that matched her green-blue eyes and set off her coppery tones in her now lustrous hair. With matching shoes, she set off downstairs for dinner, feeling every inch a countess.

As she reached the hall the front door bell rang.

“I’ll get it,” she shouted, as she knew Louis was in the kitchen.

She opened the door.

Standing on the top step was a tall young man dressed to keep the cold out in a heavy dark overcoat with a velvety collar. His shoes were for the city and inside, not for wet and cold weather. She saw a battered pickup truck on the drive behind him, so unlike the Ferrari or similar that Armand liked to drive. He looked every inch a very pleasant but very normal young man.

“Hello, can I help you?” she asked, in French.

Whoever he was, he appeared to have a speech impediment. He stared at her, his lips moving, but no sound emanating from them.

“You’d better come in. I expect you want Armand,” she said, standing back to allow him to enter the hall.

He came in, still staring and appearing to have lost a little of his colour. He was quite tanned, but seemed to be getting paler by the second.

“Ah, Sebastian, I see you’ve met Terri. Terri, this is Sebastian Pascal, my brother-in-law. Sebastian, this is Miss Terri Cooper, from England. She’s an artist.”

“But she’s…”

“Ah, yes, she is a little similar to your big sister, isn’t she? I wasn’t sure anyone else would see it.”

“I thought I was seeing a ghost,” Sebastian admitted, regaining some colour to his cheeks.

“Yes, when I first saw her a similar thought crossed my mind. I think old Georges the gardener still thinks she’s a ghost. Well, stop gawking at her and take your coat off.”

Terri had never seen anyone quite so overwhelmed at her presence, so smiled to try to make him feel less ill-at-ease.

“My God, you even smile like her,” he said, taking off his coat. Beneath it he wore a grey city suit, with shirt and conservative tie.

“A suit? My goodness, have you sold that damn farm of yours?” Armand said on seeing his dressed in a suit.

“Not yet. I was in a meeting with the bank and some potential buyers; hence the suit,” he said. “My God, you even move like Theresa,” he told me as we walked through the house.

“I probably pass wind like her as well, but I’m really me, so try to get over it. Armand has almost managed it, and I’ve been here for five weeks,” she said.

Armand slapped Sebastian on the back, and urged him to come through to the small sitting room. It was one of the less formal rooms in the house, which was still larger than many people’s homes.

A roaring log fire took the chill of the atmosphere.

“You never told me he was coming,” she said accusingly at Armand. Armand took the stiff cocktail from her with shaking fingers.

“You are not my wife, as you so often remind me,” he replied back at her, to which she laughed and walked to the drinks table. Sebastian watched as she took a bottle of beer and opened it, drinking straight from the bottle.

“How,… where,…?”

“Terri and some friends were in a car that broke down outside my gate just before Christmas,” Armand explained. As she was the only one who spoke French, she came and rang the bell for help. I persuaded her to paint a mural of your sister in the spa. Would you like to see it?”

“I’d love to,” Sebastian said.

“It’s not finished yet, I’m not sure I want anyone seeing it before it’s finished,” she said.

Armand looked at her, raising an eyebrow and inclining his head slightly. Sebastian frowned, was the man seeking her permission? My God, what power did she have over him?

“Oh, all right, it might be helpful if he sees any glaring errors.”

The three of them walked the short distance to the spa. On seeing the large figure that was clearly his late sister, Sebastian felt tears in his eyes. This girl had captured her so utterly it was beyond words. He sat on a chair and looked on the image of his sister. She was looking at him back, right in the eye. She was smiling, as if sharing a secret joke, and there was a definite gleam in those wonderful eyes of hers.

Sebastian looked at the girl who had created this masterpiece. She was standing watching him. Their eyes met. She had even more stunning eyes than the painting. They were knowing-eyes; deep eyes full of promise and laughter. He felt drawn to them, as if he was falling into them, which wasn’t an unpleasant experience.

“Well, what do you think?” Armand asked, breaking the spell.

“I think she’s beautiful,” Sebastian said, staring at the English girl. He was unsure whether he meant the girl or the painting of the girl; his sister.

Terri blushed and broke eye contact, but Armand had eyes only for the painting of his wife.

“I agree, she is. Terri has done a wonderful job, a true masterpiece.”

“I’ll start on him tomorrow,” said Terri, pointing at the outline of the man.

“I take it that’s Armand?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes, if he likes it, it’ll stay. Otherwise I’ll whack a palm tree in there. I’m leaving a bit of space next to Theresa, just in case Armand remarries and wants to add his next wife.”

“Terri has been helping me move on,” Armand stated.

Sebastian felt an unreasonable stab of jealousy. It was totally irrational, but he felt sad that this man was quite so proprietary over this wonderful creature. It was unreasonable of him to expect her to see him as anything other than her subject’s younger brother. After all, they had no reason to mean anything else to each other. But those eyes; they haunted him still.

“Oh?” he managed to say.

“That’s a bit melodramatic, all we’ve done is finally redistribute Theresa’s clothes and box up other stuff that has been hanging around keeping poor Armand in the past. He has to move on, as Theresa would want him to pine away like a little lost puppy, would she?”

“No, she wouldn’t. I told him that often, but he never listened to me.”

“He rarely listens to me, but I have an edge over him. I look sufficiently like her to get him to do what’s sensible. Besides, I’m going to leave in a couple of weeks, so I need to know he’s okay to abandon,” she said.

“You’re leaving?” Sebastian asked, rather too quickly than he intended. Armand looked sharply at him and then smiled.

“Oh yes, Terri is just what I said, an artist commissioned to do a job. She keeps telling me that she’s not my wife and that she has no intention of becoming my wife.”

“To be fair, you haven’t asked me,” Terri said, teasing him.

“The event is not imminent,” Armand said, teasing her back.

Once again Sebastian felt jealous of their intimacy. That was shattered when she turned to him, touching his arm with one of her delicate hands.

“Tel me, Sebastian, it must have been a terrible time for you as well; so how are you doing?” she asked.

Suddenly, and completely unbidden, all the grief and anguish he had thought controlled and subdued for so long came bubbling up to the surface. Before he knew what was happening, he was sobbing his heart out on her shoulder, being held in her arms. Armand looked embarrassed but caught her eye over Sebastian’s heaving shoulders. She winked, so he quietly left them alone.

It took him some minutes to regain some semblance of control. He had never been able to express his grief before, so had found this girl a catalyst to allow him to release all that pressure. His sister’s death had come at a bad time for the family. His mother was going through treatment for cancer, which had been unsuccessful. She had died six months after her daughter. Their father, a doubly broken man was now a virtual recluse and an alcoholic. Sebastian had to shoulder all responsibility for the family, not only through the funerals, but also to pick up his father’s failing farm and try to turn it around. He was not a farmer by inclination or training, having a degree in IT systems and engineering, but he knew that if he wanted to sell the farm in order to secure a decent standard of living for his father, he would have to get it into the black.

He had been successful, in that now the farm brought in a modest profit last year, so he had managed to clear his father’s many debts. He now had a profitable farm to sell, as he had no desire to spend the rest of his days as a bucolic slave.

Women were a luxury he could ill afford. They were a distraction that had to potential to cost him money, so he had experienced virtually no social life since his sister’s accident.

It was doubly incongruous that he now sobbed into the arms of a woman who was both a stranger and at the same time, hauntingly familiar. She even had a similar name to his sister.

Armand was relieved when the pair returned to the sitting room. Sebastian was someone about whom he felt extremely guilty. He was aware how much he had suffered of lat, but his own predicament rendered him impotent to do anything about it.

When he returned, he looked far happier, and Armand noticed that he still held Terri’s hand. He caught Terri’s eye again and she shrugged.

“So, how goes the sale of the farm?” he asked.

“I’m in negotiation with a neighbour and a couple of other interested parties. He wants to expand, but isn’t willing to pay what I want. However, now he knows that one of the corporate vegetable producers is interested so he might go higher. I just have to balance the two out. I reckon I should get what we asked in the end. I’d feel happier if a local farmer took it over.”

“What does your father think?”

“He doesn’t care as long as he can buy the next bottle. Seriously, he’s in a decent rehab place at the moment, so I’m not bothering him with the details. If I get the asking price, I can get him placed in a supervised apartment complex which will be just what he needs.”

“What will you do?” the girl asked.

“What I wanted to do ages ago; run my own IT business. I’m not a farmer at heart, and Dad knows that.”

Louis entered the room.

“Mr Sebastian, how good to see you again, sir.”

“Hello Louis, how are you and Clara?”

“Better now, sir,” Louis said, pointedly, staring at Armand and then at Terri. “Dinner is served.”

It was a pleasant meal, in that the stresses of the last couple of years seemed to evaporate as the two men spoke about Theresa and all the things they should have spoken about a lot earlier. Terri felt sidelined, which didn’t upset her at all. She was able to enjoy the food and listen to their conversation. It allowed her observe them and to get to know both of them a little better.

“So, what made you want to commission a mural?” Sebastian asked.

Armand smiled slightly and nodded towards Terri.

“She came into my life when I least expected it. To be honest, it was the only excuse I could think of to keep her here longer than one night.”

Armand then told the tale of how Terri and her friends broke down and of his surprise at seeing someone who looked so like Theresa. He also mentioned the ghost, which Terri rather wished he hadn’t.

Then, of course, she had to go over that aspect of the story again. There followed a discussion as to whether ghosts were real, or even the possibility of spirits possessing or certainly influencing the living. She stayed remarkably quiet, watching and listening to the two men. Her own view was that Theresa wanted to get her husband to move on and would stop at nothing to achieve that. Terri was available and in some way must have been an easy subject for Theresa to commandeer, so to speak.

Funnily enough, ever since Armand took the decision to move on, Terri felt that the turbulent spirit within had subsided. Whether she was gone or not would remain to be seen (or not seen, to be more precise). However, as Terri realised that she was changing in a profound and very female way, she knew that her life would never be the same again. Not that she actually wanted to go back to what was before.

As she sat in a designer silk dress, at a sumptuous dinner table, in an exquisite example of a decadent French period of history, listening to two educated and erudite men talking about a plethora of subjects, she bade a silent and very final farewell to Terry Cooper.

Not only did she no longer want to return to being Terry, she found she looked forward eagerly to whatever this new life held in store. She knew that there would be difficulties. Her inexplicable and unexpected change in gender would bring with it a host of bureaucratic and documentary nightmares. To suddenly go from being a square peg in a square hole to a round peg in a round hole would cause the unimaginative bureaucratic mind a near thrombosis.

Having thought that, she also considered her situation. Somehow, she was now a girl. No scientist or doctor would ever be able to explain how, so, therefore, by a process of elimination, it must be a miracle, by its very definition. It was reasonable, she mused, to accept that if one miracle was possible, then others were equally possible.

While on this train of thought, she thought about her language skills. Yes, Terry had been able to speak French. It was crude and basic, but passable and manageable. He had always been able to make himself understood and understand others, as long as they spoke slowly and clearly.

Yet, in just a few short weeks, along with everything else that was occurring, she now spoke almost fluent French, almost without any accent that would mark her as a non-native to anyone with whom she came into contact. Being a woman came naturally to her. Clara and Louis never spoke about it, but she knew, with a degree of certainty that neither had ever believed that she had been a boy, despite Terry’s assurances that he had been.

She had, despite all this, never left the chateau or the grounds. She wondered whether the enchantment, if that’s what it was, would wear off as soon as she left. It became almost a block in her mind, as she grew to fear the prospect of any reversal to what she had become.

She would never admit it, but it was becoming a growing issue for her. From not wanting to stay for fear of what she might become, she now started to fear leaving for fear that what she had become might revert to what she had once been.

The men chatted on, oblivious to her mental plight. Armand suggested they retire to the sitting room and allow Louis and Clara to finish up and get to bed. She glanced at the ornate clock on the marble and gilt mantle piece. She was surprised to see it was after ten in the evening.

“If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have an early night, as I want to crack on with the painting tomorrow,” she said. “I can see you two talking long into the night. I ought to add that I think that you, Sebastian, ought to think twice before driving home, as you’ve already had three times more wine than is good for you.”

Both men laughed.

“See, Sebastian, she even sounds like your big sister. Never fear, my dear, young Sebastian is staying the night. We had discussed it earlier, and he is with us for a couple of days.”

She smiled and nodded her approval, as both men stood out of courtesy as she left them alone. As she mounted the stairs, she heard Sebastian say, “My God, what a woman! Tell me Armand; were you serious when you stated that you have no intentions with her?”

Terri stopped to hear the reply.

“My dear friend, she is very special to me, but my intentions towards her are purely business. I could never marry her or even think about forming a relationship with her. You see, I suspect that she is too like our beloved Theresa, so to live with the prospect of losing her as well, I could never live with that responsibility.”

“Yes, but do you love her?”

Terri felt her heart rate increase.

“Love her? Of course I love her; for to know her is to love her. But I loved my mother and would never have thought about marrying her.”

Both men laughed and Terri relaxed and made her way up to bed with a smile on her face.

~o~O~o~

She never heard him come in.

It was late afternoon and she was busy finishing off Theresa’s shoes. Because the scene was a beach scene, she had decided to paint sandals on her feet. That way she was able to give her painted toenails and emphasise her muscle tone without compromising it with fashionable clutter.

Theresa wore a bikini top in turquoise, and a wrap-around skirt in azure. Her hair was free, cascading down across her shoulders and she looked directly into the room.
She was about twice life-size, so Terri was careful not to overdo the makeup and artificial colouring. She had been a natural beauty in life, so Terri wanted that to shine though the art.

The first thing that drew her attention to the fact she was being watched was when he sat in a wicker chair — it creaked slightly, causing her to turn around.

“Oh, hello, how long have you been here?” she asked, seemingly pleased to see him. He was relieved, for he had feared she might be angry at being disturbed..

“Only a few moments. You really are gifted. It’s an amazing likeness, and yet you never met her,” Sebastian said.

Terri chuckled.

“I feel as if I’ve known her a long time. We’re friends, she and I.”

“You’ve done wonders with this wall; it looks great.”

“Thanks, you can stay as long as you keep saying nice things. I’ve got to start on Armand tomorrow. I think I’ve done everything with Theresa that I can.”

“You’ve even got her engagement ring perfectly.”

“Thanks. It took a while to get the light diffusion affect through the stones.”

“They look like miniature rainbows,” he said, peering up close.

“I held the real ring up to the light, and light came through like a prism. I tried to get it in paint, but it was tricky.”

He sat in silence, watching her for a while. She was relaxed and at ease with him there. More so, she felt, than with Armand, whom she believed was more critical. That was only right, as he was paying for it.

“When will you be finished?” he asked.

“I don’t know; a couple of weeks at the most, probably.”
“What will you do then?”

She shrugged.

“I have no idea. Try to get my life together, I suppose.”

He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Being here is like stepping off the world. I’ve sort of forgotten what it’s like to have to live normally.” She wanted to add, and as a woman, but didn’t.

“Would you stay in France?” he asked, sounding strangely hopeful.

She smiled.

“Why, are you offering?” she asked, teasing him.

To her surprise, he blushed and looked away.

“I’m teasing you,” she said, chuckling. He liked her laugh. It was a warm and gentle sound.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

“You can ask, but I reserve the right to lie,” she said, smiling.

He laughed, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you,” he said. “You have to be unique.”

“I hope I am. What is your question?”

“Armand, what is he to you?”

“He’s my employer,” she said.

“That’s it?”

“No, but I’m not sure how to explain it. You see, we met under unusual circumstances for both of us. I suppose you could say that we were both at difficult moments in our respective lives. Not that I knew it at the time. It seems that being here was good for me, and my presence was good for him. I’m not sure that my extended presence here would be good for either of us. I might occasionally be wearing Theresa’s shoes, but I don’t want to step into them permanently; if you get my meaning?”

“He’s a great guy,” he said.

“Yes, I know he is, but there are loads of great people out there. I’m not sure I’m ready to shut myself away into someone else’s life. That’s what I’d be doing, for all I would become is an extension of your sister. Hell, I already look like her, and all the members of staff here treat me as if I was already a permanent fixture.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Hell no, as Armand is loaded and so I’d want for nothing; except perhaps my own life. I’m not too keen to be someone else until I die.”

He smiled.

“Thanks, I needed to know what your motive was.”

“Don’t tell me you thought I was a gold digger after his money?”

“Perhaps it crossed my mind, but not so much after him, more after taking what should have been Theresa’s life.”

“I hate to break it to you, but she’s not got one any more.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. Oh, I won’t lie to you, I have thought about all kinds of possible scenarios, and staying here is one of them. To be honest, I don’t know what is in the future, but I’d like to think I’m bigger than that. It’s a big world out there, and so I want to see some of it before I die.”

“He told me that he would hate to marry you and then lose you. It’d be like having lost everything twice. I think he loves you.”

“I’m sure he might think that, but it’s not me he loves, it’s who I represent. He might talk about moving on, but he still loves your sister. He’s just beginning to come to terms with his loss, now. The next step will be to actively seek someone who doesn’t always remind him of her. I’m too like her, you see. If I were to marry him, then he would be marrying me for the wrong reasons. I’m not Theresa and never will be, no matter how much I look and even act like her.”

“So, if I married you, would that be like incest?” he joked.

“That depends if you see me as your sister or an individual in my own right. Anyway, who’s to say I’d ever accept a proposal from you?”

He laughed, but she could tell that he was confused about her.

To give him space to think, she occupied herself by starting to work on the figure that would become Armand.

“Armand told me that you met him when you were travelling to the ski slopes,” he said, breaking the silence.

“That’s right, just before Christmas.”

“Do you like skiing?”

“Love it.”

“You know Armand has a chalet?”

“I didn’t, but I’m not surprised.”

“In our teens, we’d often go up there. It hasn’t been used since Theresa’s death. If I asked to borrow it for a week, would you like to join me?”

She stopped painting and turned to look at him.

“What’s brought this on?” she asked.

“I admit I find you attractive and want to get to know you better. I don’t find this place easy to, well; easy to express myself freely.”

“Really, why not?”

He looked about him, as if trying to see ghosts or lurking eavesdroppers.

“I’m not sure; perhaps it is because Theresa lived and died here.”

“I thought she died on the road?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. When are you planning this trip?”

“I don’t know, probably nearer Easter. Will you be finished by then?”

“That’s what, over a month away? Yes, probably.”

“I should have sold the farm and sorted out my father by then. I’ll need a break before starting to set up my new company. Can I ring you?”

“Of course.”

“Would you come out with me one day soon? I’d like to show you the farm before I sell it. It’s silly, but I’d like you to see where Theresa grew up.”

“That’s quite sweet. Yes, I’d be interested in seeing it. Have you actually got a buyer yet?”

“As I said last night, negotiations are on-going. I just need to try to get the best price I can. Now it’s actually making a profit, it should be relatively easy to sell.”
He could tell she was only half listening, so he fell silent.
She finished what she was doing and glanced at the wall clock.

“Okay, time to go shower. Thanks for keeping me company, she said with a smile.

“It really was a pleasure,” he answered, quite honestly.

“Are you staying another night?”

“Yes, I will be going on Monday.”

“Good,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “I stink, so I’m going to have a shower and change. I’ll see you at dinner, I guess?”

“I hope so.”

Terri went up to her room, where she stripped off her paint-spattered clothes and regarded her naked form in the full-length mirror.

She could not really recognise who she was any more. Her breasts were more than evident, if a little on the small size. However, they seemed to be growing significantly each day. Gone were all vestiges of manhood, so that she began to doubt that they had ever been there in the first place. She now possessed something that Terry had been attempting to access for years, to no avail. It was a wholly neater and more satisfactory arrangement, and one with which she was more than content to end up.

Terri was now 100% female, and utterly without any idea as to how it could have possibly happened. She had read stories on the internet about magical change, or an intersexed person who had been unaware of their own body and a hormone surge had triggered a change from apparently normal male to normal female.

This was neither. Terry had been 100% male, and now Terri was 100% female. There was no medical, scientific or rational explanation. Indeed, neither was there a fantastical or fairy tale explanation; no magic charms, no talisman or Djin (Genie). There had been no alien device or sudden surge in electricity. Instead, this was simply a complete and very gentle change. She suspected the change was instigated on a spiritual level, but had no proof. Likewise she suspected the Theresa’s sprit was at the root, but again, the feeling of being possessed had gone, and with each day that passed, she began to doubt that as well.

She knew, without evidential foundation, that she was a normal genetic female, with chromosomes to match, but was not about to go and find a doctor to check.

That thought brought a little black cloud over her. A doctor represented officialdom, and she knew that eventually she would have to deal with officialdom. Never having had a driver’s licence, as Terry had neither the financial wherewithal nor the opportunity to either learn to drive or afford a car, so that was only one less complication.

Looking as she now did, possessing a passport in the name of Terry Cooper and stating that she was male was going to prove difficult. Also, being the holder of a birth certificate and national insurance details that both claimed Terry was a male was going to be equally problematic.

She sighed, why was life so bloody difficult?

She showered and wondered what she would wear tonight. Armand had told her to take whatever she wanted, and they were hers to keep. She would need six suitcases if she was to keep the lot, and she was sorely tempted. Then she would need a Pickford’s removal lorry just for the shoes.

She grinned; if nothing else, she was going to be well-dressed.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Clara was questioning her husband as to their employer’s intentions over Terri. She had grown to become fond of the girl. She might look like the dead countess, but she was very different in nearly every other aspect.

“Is he going to marry her?” she asked.

“How the hell should I know? You know the master; he doesn’t exactly confide in me over matters like that.”

“I think he wants to, but I’m not sure it would be good for her.”

“Young Mr Sebastian has fallen for her, that’s very evident.”

“He’s such a nice boy, I’ve always liked him. I remember him at the funeral, having to be so strong for the others. I heard he was upset yesterday.”

“He had a moment with Miss Terri in the spa. I think she enabled him to release some grief, perhaps for the first time. The master asked me to check on them. The poor boy was wracked with tears and she was comforting him. I just left them to it.”

“Would she stay; if the master asked her, I mean?”

“I don’t think so. I think she is missing the life she left outside. Mind you, if her mural is an example of her skill, she could be a great artist.”

“I think she’s a sweetie; such a gentle soul. She was so excited when the master gave her all those clothes. I can’t think of a better place for them to go.”

“They’re worth a pretty penny, that’s for sure. I don’t know how much he’s paying her for the art work, but I think the clothes would be worth it alone,” Louis said.

“In a way it will be a shame if she leaves, as I rather like having her around. She’s brought some light back into this old place.”

“She’s rather too much like the Comtesse for my liking. I find it unnerving at times.”

“Oh, she might look like her, but that’s as far as it goes. I think the master wanted her to be just like her but can’t cope with her being so different.”

The bell rang on the wall.

“Ah, it seems the guests have started to arrive, so we’re in business,” Louis said.

“Does she know there’s a dinner party with sixteen people invited?” Clara asked.

“I very much doubt it, as he doesn’t share much with anyone.”

“She’ll not like it, I fear.”

“She’ll manage; she’s like that,” said Louis with a smile.

Terri found out the hard way. On her bed was a long evening dress in black and gold. it was beautiful. There was also a jewellery box with a gold and jade necklace with matching earrings. She thought it all looked a bit formal and fancy for a quiet evening in with his friend, but she shrugged. It was his call; besides, she simply adored wearing wonderful garments that made her feel like a princess.

As she descended that wonderful staircase, she was brutally aware that several complete strangers were watching, mostly open mouthed, as she did so. They all wore formal attire; the men in tuxedos and the women all in long evening dresses such as she was wearing.

“Ah, Terri, you look wonderful, my dear,” said Armand, coming up to escort her down the last few steps.

“What the hell is this?” she hissed through her teeth while smiling gently.

“Just a few friends have come for dinner. I have rather neglected my social life of late and felt, well; I felt that as I have a temporary hostess, to make the most of her.”

“Don’t you think it might have been kind to have told her?”

“I’m telling her now, as she looks absolutely radiant.”

“Bastard!” she hissed as they reached the last step. Armand chuckled and began the introductions.

They were all beautiful people; well dressed and apparently very affluent. They appeared mostly older than Armand, perhaps the local pillars of the community. There were two younger couples who were of a similar age to him, and clearly they were close friends. All, with the exception of one mature couple, stared at her in undisguised shock.

“I know; I do look like her, about which I can do nothing. Please just accept that I am not Theresa and certainly not married to him,” she said pointing at Armand.

That drew some laughter, breaking the ice for the most part. Louis circulated, moving them all into the large and very ornate drawing room, where two girls served drinks and canapés from trays.

Terri saw Sebastian by himself, so made a beeline for him.

“Did you know about this?” she asked.

“You obviously didn’t. Armand told me as we changed for dinner. I had no idea.”

“You know you asked me whether I’d ever want to be married to him?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t,” she said, taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

That was the nicest thing she could have said to him. His smile became broader and he seemed to relax.

“This isn’t your scene; is it?” she asked.

“Not really. I’m not really into all this. I think it comes with not being stinking rich. I love a nice dinner with people I like, but most of these people are business acquaintances that he wants to impress. He uses his title and wealth like a weapon to get what he wants,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “Armand usually gets what he wants.”

“Yes, but does he actually know what he wants? Do I? Do you?”

“I never used to, not really, but I think I do now,” he said, so obviously that she blushed.

Although she wanted to stay and talk to only Sebastian, Armand took her by the arm and forced her to circulate with him. She was polite and as the champagne started to have an affect, she relaxed and perhaps became rather more outspoken than she wished to be.

By the time Louis announced that dinner was served, she felt only relief. Armand had placed her in the place that would have been Theresa’s, but had also placed Sebastian at her right hand side. On their place mats were quail’s eggs and caviar.

The grey haired and very distinguished man to her left turned out to be English.

His French was reasonable, but he looked very relieved when she switched to English. It was the first time she had spoken English for several weeks.

“What brings you here, monsieur?” she asked.

“Ah, you speak excellent English, my dear. How lovely. My wife and I are looking to buy property over here as an investment and someone told us about the Comte.”

He looked down the table at a pleasant, but rather plump lady seated to the Comte’s left hand side. He told her that their names were Harry and Beryl Farnsworth, from Hampshire.

“Ah, you seek something like this chateau, perhaps?” she asked, teasing him.

“Not quite; our budget would stretch to something rather more modest. Tell me, was that your portrait we saw in the hall?” he asked, with a slight frown.

“No, that was the late Comtesse. Some people do say that we look similar.”

“She was my sister, sir, and I can confirm that,” said Sebastian in very good English.

“Ah, I was a little confused, as I heard Armand’s wife had died, and yet when I saw this young woman come down stairs I thought that I must have been misled.”

“No, I’m simply employed by Armand. I’m an artist, commissioned to paint a mural here at the chateau. I shall be finished soon, so have to go back to reality.”

“So, you’re not….?” he started to ask, and looking meaningful towards Armand.

“His mistress, no, not as far as I am aware,” she said, with a smile.

Clearly embarrassed, Harry went red and tried to stammer an apology.

She placed her hand on his.

“Don’t worry, you should hear the rumours in the village; they’re so exciting that sometimes I wish they could be true.”

That made him laugh, his embarrassment forgotten. She then asked him about his family, which got him going. They had three children; all were married and so now had six grandchildren. Terri sat back and let him talk about his favourite subject.

The food was wonderful, so Terri didn’t stay angry with Armand for long. Harry asked about her background, so she was honest, omitting the fact that she was brand new to being a girl.

“You’re English?” he said, surprised.

“Yes, well, sort of. My mother is British, so I suppose I am.”

“You speak very good French, have you been here for many years?”

She was about to tell the truth, but baulked.

“No, not that many,” she said, and then changed the subject. She found she was uncomfortable talking about her other life.

After dessert, the gentlemen stood to allow the ladies to withdraw to the drawing room. A box of cigars was produced as well as some cognac as the women filed out.

“Can I come with you?” Sebastian whispered, which made her smile.

The ladies were served coffee in the dining room and sat in far more comfortable surroundings.

“This is the only chance they get to fart and smoke those damn smelly cigars,” said one lady in French.

“And tell rude jokes,” added another.

Terri observed that Beryl looked a little out of her depth. She had heard her speaking French, but she was less fluent than her husband. Terri went over and sat next to her.

“These things can be quite daunting if you don’t speak the language brilliantly, can’t they?” she asked in English.

“Oh, bless you dear, I was trying so hard to make it look as if I understood everything, but my French isn’t as good as Harry. I heard you talking with him, so thank you.”

“I understand you’re looking for property here in France?”

“Yes, Harry has always hankered after a place to get away from the rat-race. We thought that by buying an extensive property, such as a farm with several buildings, we could make a little complex for the family to use as a getaway. The weather here in France is rather kinder than in England, and the property prices are considerably cheaper. It has the advantage of being reasonably close and far enough away to get that feeling that one is away. Do you know what I mean?”

Terri smiled.

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

“Your English is excellent; where did you study it?”

“At school,” she said, perfectly honestly. Having attended schools in England, what else was possible?

“But, you’re not English, are you?”

“My mother is Welsh.”

“Well, I never; you speak such fluent French, I was certain you were French.”

“No, I’ve just been working here for a little while.”

They continued to converse for a while, until eventually the men joined them, reeking of cognac and cigars.

The conversation honed in on the mural and so they all trooped down to the spa, much to Terri’s embarrassment.

There was much intakes of breath, combined with ooohs and aaahs as the guests gushed forth with their praise. Actually, as Armand stood back and admire the piece, he appreciated that it was strikingly good. Terri had captured his dear late-wife exactly, and he felt his emotions begin to rise. It filled the space beautifully, and although not finished, one could already clearly see that the standing man was Armand.

Terri had managed to capture every nuance in his posture, so, although not moving, his vibrancy and energy seemed to be very apparent. She still had to complete his face, which was facing towards his wife, so most of the profile was looking away.

She had obviously spoken to Louis, for she had dressed him in his favourite holiday shirt, of a Hawaiian style, in red and white; and shorts. That meant Louis had given her access to his wardrobe, which didn’t bother him. What bothered him was that she had captured his stance and general attitude so accurately, and that unnerved him.

“So,” asked one of the guests. “When will you finish him off?”

This drew some laughter from the assembled throng.

“I should think it will be complete within a week. Then, after it has dried, I will seal it with a clear seal so the damp doesn’t erode it. This is a very humid and warm atmosphere, so I don’t want it decaying prematurely.”

Two of the older men were the CEOs of prominent French companies. They took her to one side and Armand could hear them talking about commissioning her to undertake work in their respective organisations.

It suddenly dawned on him that she was actually on the point of leaving him. He fought a rising panic. He had not thought about her ever leaving; not seriously. Now he did, he didn’t enjoy the prospect.

Sebastian saw him tremble slightly and guessed the reason. He walked over and stood beside him.

“You have to let her go, Armand,” he said.

“What?” he asked, to give him time to think. Was he really that transparent?

“You need to let her go, for both of your sakes. She’s not Theresa, so you can’t expect her to step into her shoes and perpetuate something that isn’t real.”

Armand smiled and nodded at Teri’s shoes.

“I hate to say this, but those are, or were Theresa’s shoes.”

“Yes, they were, but they look just as good on her, and you need to let her wear them when she leaves. If you keep her here, you’ll lose her. If you let her go, when she comes back, it will be because she wants to and not because you want her to.”

“It’s not that easy, my friend,” Armand admitted.

“Because you love her; or is it because you think you should love her?”

Armand was silent.

“She needs to be free to choose whom she wants to be with.”

“You, you mean?”

“I have to be honest, I would be honoured, but that’s not why I’m telling you these things. Whoever she chooses will be a very lucky man. But, and I know I’m not the only one who has said this, she isn’t my sister so you can’t expect her to turn into her for your own selfish desires.”

“But she already has,” Armand said.

“What?”

“When she came here, she was nothing like what you see now. I am convinced that Theresa’s spirit dwelled in her for a time and has made her more and more in her image.”

“For a time?”

“Yes; there came a time when I could sense that Theresa was not with her any more. In fact, after that moment, she seemed to blossom and become whom you now see.”

Both men watched as Terri interacted with several of the men. She was charming and her eyes seemed to gleam with hidden strength and fun.

“It will be hard to say goodbye to her,” Armand said.

“It would be harder still to keep her against her will.”

“I’d never do that,” Armand said, shocked at the suggestion.

“Emotional blackmail is very subtle. To say you can’t live without her is tantamount to forcing her to cut her free choice.”

Armand nodded.

“What should I do?”

“What you know is right. It is time to move on, my friend. Who knows, perhaps she will come back to you when you are both ready.”

Armand laughed.

“That’s not what you want, is it Sebastian?”

The other man smiled.

“No, but then it’s not about me, or you. It’s what is best for her.”

They both watched her for a moment. She glanced their way, saw them watching her and stuck her tongue out at them. They both laughed.

Armand sighed and made a decision.

“Reluctantly, my friend, I have to agree. It is time I moved on.”

~o~O~o~

It was the first week of April and Terri sat in the Autoroute service station, drinking a coffee as she had a break on her journey heading north through France. Louis had volunteered to drive her to Paris where she could catch the direct train for London. She had turned him down; as she claimed she wanted time to think. Armand had introduced an alternative that she had accepted.

The last five weeks had gone too fast, and yet things had changed even more than she had anticipated.

She finished the painting within a week of the dinner party, giving herself another day for it to dry and then to spend a further day sealing it. While she waited, Sebastian arrived and took her out for the day. Armand told her that he had to go to Paris on business, but secretly she thought he couldn’t cope with someone else taking an interest in her.

It was a nice day. She had gone to see the farm, which looked to her very much like a farm, only a French one. They had had lunch in a small café near his home, which had been lovely. As she sat in the early spring sunshine, watching the people go about their daily lives, she realised that this was the first time she had left the chateau in several weeks. She was relieved that she didn’t instantly change back as the passed through the gates. She hoped it wasn’t slow acting.

As they walked through the streets, she was shocked at the reaction of people to her. She was not prepared for the stares, from both men and women. Oh, it wasn’t negative, for nearly everyone smiled and nodded amiably at her, with the man slipping envious glances at Sebastian. She was wearing a skirt and pullover, with the boots that she had so admired on the first evening. Sebastian had told her that she looked lovely, but she felt amazingly self-conscious at being out in public for the first time.

That made her think about the incredible journey she’d embarked on unwittingly and unintentionally. She had come a long way and could not really believe she was the same person. For all her bluster to Armand about not wanting to be someone else, she found that she adored being this new person.

Sebastian was attentive and glowed with a strange inner pride at being seen in public with her. She took his arm and found she enjoyed being with him.

They dined in a restaurant which was rough and ready. But the food was excellent and the atmosphere was far more to her liking that some of the more refined and chic restaurants that she suspected Armand would have taken her to.

He returned her to the chateau to find Armand pacing the hall like a concerned parent. She kissed Sebastian’s cheek and thanked him for a lovely day. He left reluctantly, determined to see her again.

Once everything was finished, she approached Armand to speak about things in general and money in particular.

“I need to talk,” she stared off by saying.

“I thought you might. Sit, please,” he said, taking her into his study.

“I need your advice,” she admitted.

“I’m flattered, my dear. Go on.”

“Well, I have this,” she said, throwing her male passport onto his desk in front of him.

He picked it up and looked at it, comparing the photograph to the girl sitting in front of him. He could see the resemblance, but they did not look like the same person.

“Ah, I see what you mean.”

“It’s not just that, I’m not sure how to get things sorted. I mean who do I go to?”

“Do you have your driving licence?”

“I don’t have one. I’ve never driven.”

He seemed surprised.

“You can’t drive?”

“I’ve never had to.”

“I thought everyone drove in England.”

“I don’t. I could never afford a car.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Leave it with me. I will speak to someone.”

“I know you’ve contacts, Armand, but surely this is over their heads too. I shouldn’t think this has happened before.”

Pursing his lips he considered it for a moment.

“If you know people, they always know other people. As I said, leave it with me.”

“Okay, and then there’s the matter of the money you owe me. I suppose I had better ask whether the mural is to your satisfaction. Well, is it?”

He smiled, shaking his head sadly, for he never really wanted the painting finished. For, while it was still incomplete, she was here with him.

“Yes, Terri, it is.”

She breathed out a relieved sigh.

“So, how would you like the money paid?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“If it goes into my male bank account, I might never get it released looking like this. What do you suggest?”

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then leave that with me also. I may have to open an account for you with a French bank, would you mind that?”

“As long as I can access it anywhere, I don’t care where it goes.”

“Excellent, then I shall see what I can do. You’ll have to stay here until I can sort these out. You don’t mind that, do you?”

She shook her head.

Three days later, at the breakfast table in the Orangery, he passed her some forms in French.

“Sign these; they’re so I can open a bank account for you in France,” he instructed.

“Who is Theresa Tonnelier?”

“You are.”

“What’s wrong with Cooper?”

“It’s not very French.”

Shrugging she signed Theresa Tonnelier in all the appropriate places.

“There seem to be a lot for a bank account,” she remarked, starting to read some of them.

He took them from her.

“There are others here; I will sort things for you, so just trust me, all right?”

“If I must,” she said, teasing him again.

“Sit still,” he commanded, taking out a large and very professional digital camera. He took a series of photographs of her head and upper shoulders.

“What are they for?”

“It’s a photo licence, remember?”

“Oh.”

He left her alone to finish her breakfast, coming back as she was clearing up.

“Sign these the same way as you did the forms,” he said, sliding some photographs over the table. She did as he asked.

That afternoon she was preparing to go for a walk in the grounds when Armand sought her out.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Just come with me; you’ll find out.”

She followed him out to the garage area. There were eight garages built into what was once a carriage house in the distant past. He opened one on the end and entered, she followed.

“Shit!” she said, looking down a line of supercars. There was a red Ferrari, a Bugatti Veyron, a Bentley, an Aston Martin and several others; each one worth well over £100,000 each.

However, sitting next to them was a little Mercedes Sports car. It looked much smaller than all the others.

“This was Theresa’s car,” Armand said.

“I thought she had a Fiat?” she said.

His brow darkened at the mention of the car in which she died.

“She had this as well.”

“I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me. Why are we here, Armand?”

“Get in,” he said, pointing to the driver’s side.

“Duh, I don’t drive, remember?”

“That’s about to change. Get in.”

She got in behind the wheel, feeling very odd.

“The steering wheel is on the wrong side,” she observed.

“Duh, yourself, we’re in France, you stupid girl.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling silly.

Armand got in the passenger side and passed the key to her.

“Put this in the ignition and check we’re in neutral.”

She just looked at him, so he showed her how to do what he had just said.

It was a very long day for Armand, but in the end, and after having a stiff cognac, he felt it was worth it. Terri had been taken from the stage of unconscious incompetence to the stage of conscious incompetence and the car did not have a scratch on it. True, they had not left the estate, so the only vehicular traffic they encountered was old Georges pushing a wheel barrow over the road by the house. He should recover, in time.

Terri thoroughly enjoyed herself, once she worked out the coordination to use her hands and feet independently and used the correct foot on the appropriate pedal.

“Can we do that again?” she asked, like a breathless school girl.

“Would you like to?”

“Very much.”

Actually, she was an excellent pupil, as she had absolutely no preconceptions and was completely open to all instruction and suggestions.

After three days of this he had to tell her to slow down rather more than to tell her to speed up. For three hours each evening, he made her sit at the computer and study the on-line training programme for learner drivers. She was exceptionally quick, and picked up all the road signs and rules very quickly. There were a few problem areas, in that France had some unique rights of way signs and rules that were different to those in England.

“Why am I doing this?”

“You wanted to learn to drive, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but without a licence, I can’t do much about it.”

“I told you, I’m going to sort that out. Trust me, okay?”

A week after she had asked for help, she came to breakfast feeling groggy and rather out of sorts.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.

“I feel bloated and sort of crap,” she said, vaguely. “I must be coming down with something.”

He smiled.

“Ah, perhaps I ought to have Carla talk to you.”

“What?”

“You’re a woman now, so what happens to women each month?”

The penny dropped.

“Oh shit!”

“Oh shit indeed. Would you like to get me Carla to have a word with you?”

“No thanks, as I don’t really want her to know how new I am to all this. So, when will the yucky bit start?”

“My dear, I have no idea, but probably in a few days.”

“That’s fine; I can research and prepare myself in that time.”

When it came, she was prepared for the mechanics, but not the accompanying feelings. Armand avoided her for a couple of days.

It didn’t last that long, but as it was her first, it wasn’t too bad. She accepted it as part of the package and carried on with her studies.

Breakfast four days later was more bearable for both of them. Armand had a pile of envelopes next to him.

“How to you feel today?” he asked as she appeared.

“Better, I think.”

“Good, do you fancy driving today?”

“Yes please,” she said, unrolling her croissant.

Smiling, he opened the first envelope. He scanned the accompanying letter and slid something across to her.

It was a French Carte d’Indentité; the national identity card that also served as a passport within the EU. It was a document that the British Government had refused to adopt for British nationals.

“Meet Theresa Tonnelier, now you are official. There is a passport coming too, but it will take a bit longer,” he told her, passing the next document across. It was a French EU Drivers licence.

Terri squealed in delight and hugged him.

“How did you manage it?” she asked, looking at the documents that both told the world and his wife that the holder; Theresa Tonnelier (her), was female.

“I told you; in my line you meet people who know people. I deal in millions of Euros and some very prominent people are eager to be my friends. Favours have been owed and are now called in.”

“You didn’t do anything illegal?”

“Illegal, no, not exactly, but obviously I must have bent some rules to obtain a document for you in that name.”

She sat there, staring at the documents.

“Why Tonnelier?”

He didn’t say anything, but tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. She clicked.

“Ah, French for the person who makes barrels - Cooper, yes?”

He nodded.

“What’s this address?” she asked, tapping the appropriate section with her nail.

“It’s a cottage on the estate. It’s used by temporary staff occasionally, so for the time being, it’s somewhere you could call home until something better comes along. I’m sure you wouldn’t object. At least I can empty my house of all your clothes, skis and other baggage that you haven’t looked at for months.”

She just stared at him with tears in her eyes.

“Clothes?”

“You told me that I have to move on. That is step one.”

“I don’t know what to say. This has been keeping me awake at nights.”

“I know. I did tell you to trust me, didn’t I?”

She nodded, feeling slightly ashamed.

“This is the last one,” he said, sliding another piece of paper across to her.

It was a birth certificate issued by the French consulate in Dakar, Senegal, in West Africa.

“I’ve had to construct a past for you, in line with your new appearance. Your parents were Bernard Tonnelier, a French engineer and his wife Marie.”

“That’s my real mother’s name,” she said, interrupting.

“I am aware of that, so to make things easier, she was English. In my experience, you want to keep things as close to reality as possible, so the less lies you tell, the less they can use to hang you.”

“I’m not sure I like the analogy, but I understand.”

“It is actually a genuine birth certificate, although the details are obviously false. The certificate belongs to a diplomat friend of mine who accidentally omitted to hand over some of the official papers when the consulate was closed during a sensitive period of Senegal’s recent history. The consulate was in fact attacked and several documents were burned by rioters before the army and local police restored order. Apparently it is quite common for certificates with these serial numbers to have been omitted by the registrars due to the troubles. I was able to present this to obtain your documentation and so now you have been entered into the system.”

“So, I’m legal?”

“Absolutely.”

“What can I say?”

“You could say yes when I ask you to marry me?”

She smiled.

“You really want to ask that question of me?” she asked.

“Yes and no. Part of me never wants you to leave this place, but part of me knows that you will have to. Sebastian told me that if I keep you here, then I will lose you, but if I let you go, then perhaps you will come back to me.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I told him he only said that so he could have you.”

She laughed, but was genuinely flattered that both men had such feelings for her.

“You know my past, and still like me enough?”

“Terri, I love you; not perhaps like I loved Theresa, but in a different way.”

“Enough to want to marry me?”

He looked undecided.

“I said it before, and I’ll probably say it again. I’m not Theresa, so don’t make me try to be her,” she said.

“Oh, but you are Theresa, you even have the documents to prove it.”

She laughed at that.

“The licence is provisional, so you will need to take your driving test. I have booked you into a driving school. You have one lesson a day for two weeks. You have the first lesson in one hour.”

The French system is tied into the driving schools. It is virtually impossible to do it outside the system, as so many experienced American and other non-EU drivers discover. The school will assess when they consider the student is ready and then apply for the test. The test could be conducted anywhere in the region. Before that, the student has to get thirty-five out of forty objective test questions right on a written/computer test.

The next three weeks became a rollercoaster ride for Terri, and less so for Armand who watched her drive down the road in the little Citroen belonging to the school each day.

Her instructor was an overweight man called Patrick. He initially thought she was Armand’s daughter, which made her laugh. Having been told that she was neither his daughter nor his wife, he assumed she was his mistress. She couldn’t be bothered to correct him.

When she took the written test, she passed; having dropped just one answer — ironically to do with the diamond sign that related to rights of way.

Each afternoon, he’d take her out in the Mercedes, just to reinforce what she had learned that morning. Still the silver Mercedes had no new scratches, but there had been a few close calls. They had discovered that her reactions were superb, which had been just as well, otherwise they’d have been embedded into the side of a removal truck as it pulled out of a side road without looking.

When she finally turned up for the test in the outskirts of Lyons, the female examiner regarded Terri’s designer dress and stunning looks with an expression of disdain. However, in three quarters of an hour, she could not fault the girl’s driving and passed her.

Armand took her out to celebrate at one of his favourite restaurants. She had been right, it was highly pretentious serving what Sebastian called ‘art on a plate’ with some disgust.

At the service area, Terri finished her rather indifferent coffee and wondered why she was going back to England.

On the back of that dinner party, she had received several excellent offers of work, which she was still considering. Most were to undertake mural type work in big corporate headquarters. They offered her good money, but she was unsure if she wanted to be tied into that sort of big jobs for the length of time that they would take.

Sebastian had sold the farm and wanted her to go skiing before the end of the season. She had said yes, but was unsure what her movements were.

Armand had given her the car — the little Mercedes as a going-away present. She had found it desperately hard to leave. In the end it had been Armand who had virtually forced her to go.

“You must go. You need to know you can. You need to close Terry’s life; otherwise you will never be able to be free of the past.”

On that final morning, Sebastian had arrived to see her off as well. Louis and Carla came out and she hugged everyone. There wasn’t a dry eye to be seen.

Armand had handed over another envelope to her.

“Your bank card and chequebook,” he said. “You will find the funds are correct.

Both wept openly as she flung her arms around his neck.

“I will come back,” she said.

“I know,” he said, smiling through the tears.

She then hugged Sebastian.

“I’ll come skiing in a couple of weeks, okay?” she said.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“It will give me a deadline.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

She glanced at Armand. Of course, Sebastian had no idea as to her past.

“Stuff that needs doing,” she said vaguely.

Carla gave her a big hug and a packet of home-baked biscuits.

When she drove down the drive, it was the first time she had been in a car alone since her test.

The Autoroute was boring, but she had been right, it gave her time to think and plan what she was going to do.

Terry was no more. She was Theresa Tonnelier, a French girl of mixed French and English parentage, so she had to ensure that she could close down Terry’s life without jeopardising her new one.

Terry had less than a hundred pounds in the bank. He owed rent on his flat, as he hadn’t been there since before Christmas. He had a sister whom he didn’t really know and who didn’t really want to know him. He had a mother who didn’t know which planet she was on for much of the time. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a life to close.

His friends were different. She would miss them, but then she doubted that they would miss him. Terry had always been the geeky one; the one for whom the others always had to pay, as he never had any money. She wasn’t convinced that any of them would have given him one thought over the last few months. None of them tried to contact him.

Why was she going?

Because she had to and because she could; not because she wanted to.

~o~O~o~

She drove off the ferry and up to the booth to present her Carte d’Identité. The bored official took in her photograph, her looks and the pristine car and handed it back. He asked no questions and simply passed it back to her.

“Welcome to England, Miss Tonnelier. Enjoy your visit,” he said, already looking at his next customer.

As she drove out of Dover, Terri had to concentrate as she had never driven on the left before. It was around eight in the morning, as she had stayed the night in a hotel just outside Calais and caught the first ferry. The car was a dream to drive, and easy to drive too fast, so she constantly had to ease back on the accelerator.

However, now she was driving on the wrong side, she found it quite hard. There were a lot of trucks, mainly foreign, almost forming convoys as they headed up towards London. It was cold and wet in England, so as she got out at a service station to fill up with petrol, a lorry driver whistled when he saw her long legs and quite a short skirt. She almost wished she had worn jeans; almost.

There was a Polish plated Ford Transit van at the pump next to her. Two men, looking like builders or decorators stood by the pump, having a voluble discussion in what she assumed was Polish. They glanced at her and then resumed their argument. She filled up the Mercedes and then walked to the shop to pay. Using her new bank debit-card was a nervous moment, but she recalled her pin and it all worked perfectly.

“All right, love?” the Asian man on the till asked as she got to the front of the queue to pay for the fuel. “Do you want a drink and a Kitkat for one pound fifty?”

“Quoi?” she asked, and then spoke rapid French at him as she presented her card for payment.

“Bloody foreigners,” he muttered as he handed her receipt to her. She grinned and walked out. She began to feel that this wasn’t her country any more.

“One million Euros!” she said to herself, over and over again. She shook her head, it was truly unbelievable.

She drove up to the M25 and then clockwise round the south of London to the turn off to get to Tooting. It was as she got closer to the flat that she became nervous of leaving the car close by. On an impulse, she drove into a Holiday Inn and checked in, paying extra for a car space inside the secure garage. She then caught a bus that took her straight into Tooting.

She stood on the pavement looking up at the flat. Her presence caused a number of people to look at her curiously. She was as out of place here as Terry would have been at St.Tropez.

My God, did I actually live here? She thought. It was a dump. She looked up and down the street; she was about the only Caucasian present. Not that the fact bothered her, as she knew the area well and most of those who lived round here were great people. It was perhaps that she had changed rather then them.

Steeling herself, she entered the building. The security system was out of order and the front lock broken, so she just walked in and up to her flat on the third floor. Using the key, she entered and stopped.

The place was a tip. It hadn’t been ransacked; it was exactly how Terry had left it before Christmas. She felt ashamed.

There was a mountain of mail behind the door, so she glanced at it briefly. Most of the envelopes contained bills or demands of one sort or another. There was absolutely nothing of any interest at all. She dumped it all back onto the floor behind the door without attempting to open any of them. She glanced into the sink and curled her lip up disgustedly. Even the dirty plates were still there with some alien life form clinging to them

She daren’t open the fridge.

She walked into the bedroom and looked in the cupboards and drawers. There was the old HP laptop that was broken and he’d been waiting for enough money to get it repaired. She had expected to take something of her past life with her; as there must be something precious or of value here.

There was neither. Even in the small studio, there was nothing she wanted to take. None of the paintings were any good, so she turned her back on them all and walked back into the living room.

There was nothing for her here, she decided. Not one solitary item of his life was of any use or any value to her at all. Not one good memory, not one keepsake of his time here, no photographs, music CDs, — nothing.

The contents of this flat shamed her. Was this really all Terry had to show of his life? It was pathetic, as she knew that she had so much more potential than was contained within these four walls. She opened her handbag and took out Terry’s passport and wallet. She flicked to the back of the passport and regarded the photograph for a moment.

It was of a stranger.

She shut it with a snap and placed both the passport and the wallet on the table. She had no idea as to who would be sent in here to carry out the eviction, but this would keep any investigation close to home. Without looking back she simply walked through the door and let it slam behind her. When she got to the front door, a young woman was struggling with a stroller and the door. She held the door to let her in.

“Ta,” the girl said, smiling wearily at her.
“That’s okay,” Terri said, feeling that she had risen above this place. The girl headed for one of the ground floor flats, so Terri walked outside.

She looked at the keys in her hand. Two keys, one for the front door and one for the flat door. The front door lock was broken and there was nothing in the flat worth keeping. She saw the grating in the road, so dropped them down it as she walked to the bus stop.

As she sat on the bus, looking at the tired shops and streets on her way back to the hotel, she reflected on how much she had changed. She could not even remember what drove Terry; what ambition or objectives he had in his life. That life was now like an indistinct dream and it was losing a little clarity during every moment that passed.

When she reached the Holiday Inn, she went straight to her room and had a shower, as if she could wash Terry and her past out of her life.

Then she lay naked on her bed and touched herself with her hands. It was odd, caressing parts of her body that were recent and unusual. It wasn’t like she missed what was no longer there; it was more that she found the new stuff exciting but still strange. She started rubbing herself, enjoying the amazing sensations that caused. It was the first time she had done this, although she had explored and played with her new equipment quite often, she had never persisted, feeling that it was wrong for some strange reason. This time she let herself go, fantasising about having sex with different but indistinct people; both men and women — such was her confusion over sexuality. However, when she brought herself to climax, there was only one person in her mind’s eye and he wasn’t indistinct at all.

Feeling a mixture of relief, guilt and heightened sensuality, she took another shower, simply because she could.

In her mind, his face swam through the water, even when her eyes were closed. She found she didn’t mind at all. Finally, the fog of confusion was lifting and she felt she was identifying that she was now a normal girl, with desires for those of the opposite gender.

Overall, the Holiday Inn depressed her, as it was full of reps and busy people all scurrying around trying to become important or rich, or both, but not really managing it. She had liked the pace of life in France, even if it had been secluded and isolated from the world.

In the indifferent restaurant, four different men attempted to pick her up, so she became stupidly French and spoke no English. One spoke a little French, and persisted for a little longer until she leaned in close and said in perfect English, “Look, take a bloody hint and fuck off or I’ll tell your wife.”

She had no idea whether he as in fact married, but it worked.

She slept surprisingly well, and checked out after breakfast. She hoped that it was also after the silly time when everything seized solid on the M25. She toyed with the idea of heading round to the M1 and then up the M6, but hated the idea of that route, so went for the M40 instead. She was glad she did, for just as she reached Banbury, the radio told her that there was an accident on the M1 at Milton Keynes and another on the M6 between Rugby and Coventry.

Still, when she hit the M42 to the south of Birmingham, the road was slow due to heavy traffic. There were 40 mph speed signs on all the gantries over the carriageways. Her Mercedes had Kph on the outer speedo dial and Mph on the inner one. She had not got used to either yet. The odometer was in kilometres, so she had to convert miles all the time from the signs.

She enjoyed driving. She found it quite tiring as she had to concentrate hard all the time. She had yet to become unconsciously competent, but as the journey progressed, she began to relax a little. She enjoyed the admiring glances from the men who overtook her. She might be in a fast car, but she was not yet confident enough to break the law consistently and persistently as did most other drivers. She also found it more economic to drive around the speed limit. She smiled at the irony, as that was actually the least of her problems at the moment.

The sun came out when she was within a few miles of Coleshill. The landscape was very different from France; not better or worse, just different.

Coleshill was quite a nice little town, but it was too close to Birmingham and Coventry for her to say that she liked it. She drove into the Manor Hotel just off the Litchfield Road and parked in their car park. She knew it of old, as it was always considered to be quite posh.

It was a small, family-run hotel of a comfortable and good standard. She enquired about a room and was pleasantly surprised at quality of the recent refurbishment. It wasn’t desperately expensive, but she kept having to remind herself that finances were not a problem she had any more.

“Would you be requiring dinner?” the girl behind the reception asked, as she filed in the registration card. She wore a badge that said that her name was Henrietta.

“Yes please,” she said, trying to remember her car number.

Henrietta looked at the completed card and then frowned.

“You’re not English?”

Terri handed over her French C d’I and watched as the girl took a photocopy.

“Your English is very good,” Henrietta remarked, on handing back the ID.

Terri simply smiled and thanked her.

Leaving her car at the Hotel, it took her fifteen minutes to walk to her mother’s flat in Coleshill. Once more, her appearance was at odds with the general populace, so she drew attention on herself wherever she went. She was vaguely aware of it, but chose to pay no attention. She rang the doorbell, but there was no sound of movement and no one answered it.

She stood looking at the run-down building from the outside for a moment.

“Can I help you, love?” said a voice.

On turning she saw an elderly man wearing a cloth cap holding a dog’s lead. On the other end of the lead was an equally elderly black Labrador. Not that the Labrador seemed intent on escape, she felt it was more to help pull the old man home.

“Yes, I’m trying to find Marie Cooper,” she said, aware that a French accent crept in somehow.

“Oh yes, poor Marie, are you a relative or something?”

“I know her son,” she said, perfectly honestly.

“Oh yes, young Terry; I haven’t seen him in years: how is the lad?”

“I have not seen him for a long time now. But he asked me to call in on his mother if I was ever in England.”

“Oh yes, and where are you from, dear?”

“France. We met when we both studied art.”

“That’s right; he got a job as an artist, I heard. I think he’s down London way, but that might be wrong.”

“His mother?” she asked.

He tapped the side of his head with a finger.

“In the hospital again, I think. She’s not been right since her old man died; cor, that must have been over twenty years ago now. Depression, they call it, but she’s always been known as plain Mad Marie around here.”

Tears came to Terri’s eyes, stinging and welling as she fought to control them.

Unaware of her plight, the old man continued.

“Got a daughter too; young Cally. In the family way, I heard, moved in with some fella and not been seen up this way for a long time.”

“Do you know which hospital Marie is in?”

“No, sorry love, I don’t. They had to move her just before Christmas, I think, as she kept trying to top herself. The vicar might know, as she was always in church, wearing her knees out praying for her kids.”

She managed to thank the man and headed for the church. The actual church was locked, so she followed the path round to the vicarage. Fortunately the vicar was in and spoke to her on the doorstep.

“No, I’m sorry, I have no idea where she is now,” the vicar told her. “I think she’s now in a secure unit in Birmingham. However, I don’t believe that she’ll be coming out soon.”

“Why’s that?” Terri asked.

“The poor lady is almost catatonic now, with all the medication they have her on. The last time I visited her, before they moved her, she didn’t know me and was unable to understand anything I said. You could ring up the mental health team; they would know where she is.”

She thanked him and left the church.

Terri’s problem was that she couldn’t ring up and tell them she was Terry, as she no longer sounded even the remotest bit like a male. However, she might sound like Cally.

She went to the library and researched on the internet various help numbers for the mental health team. She knew Cally’s address so tried the numbers until at last she found a mental health social worker who knew where Marie had been placed.

“My name is Cally Cooper, I’m trying to trace my mother,” she said.

“Oh, Miss Copper, I’m pleased you called. My name is Mary Yates. Is there some way we could meet?” said a very pleasant sounding woman. She had a soft Irish accent.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to discuss this on the phone if I can avoid it, so can you come to the hospital or our offices?”

“Not at the moment, I’m expecting and can’t get about that easily.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, but your mother passed away three days ago. We’ve been trying to contact both you and your brother. Do you know where he is?”

“No, I haven’t seen him for ages,” she managed to say as the numbness crept in.

“We will need you to come in and speak to someone. Can I set that up now?”

“I’ll call you back,” she said, and hung up quickly.

Mother — dead?

She tried to analyse how she felt about it.

Not a lot was the answer. They hadn’t been close, but she felt a level of guilt for perhaps not trying harder to be closer. But she felt she had at least tried.

She dug out her mobile and found Cally’s number. Then she went to a pay phone and called her. Eventually she answered.

“Hello, Miss Cooper?” Terri asked, trying to sound as much like the woman she had just spoken to. She was quite good at accents, so felt reasonably confident.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“I’m a social worker, my name is Mary Yates. I’m sorry to tell you that your mother passed away recently.”

“What; mum’s dead; when?”

“Three days ago; and we need you to come in. Can you make an appointment at your convenience to do that?”

“Oh shit, must I?”

“Well, there is your brother; is he available?”

“Terry? No, I have no idea where he is. He went abroad months ago and I haven’t heard from him for ages. I suppose I’ll have to do it. This is fucking inconvenient, you know; I’m due to give birth any day now?”

Terri gave her Mary Yates’ real number and hung up.

Closure?

Probably not, but what more could she do?

Dinner at the Manor Hotel was surprisingly good, but she felt awkward eating alone. She received openly curious glances as people took in her good looks and expensive clothes. She occasionally heard the words ‘French’ and ‘foreign, but speaks good English’. The weird thing was she felt foreign in her own land.

The dining room was small, with perhaps only a dozen tables. There was a party of two couples at the table at one end and four men; probably businessmen at the table in the window. Two older couples were on two different tables, and her, alone. By the wall in the corner.

As she ate, she tried to formulate some plans. Did she want to meet up with her old friends; Hugh, James, Mark and others?

No, it wouldn’t work. They wouldn’t know who she was, and even if she told them the truth, they wouldn’t understand. She felt that Terry’s life was no longer valid or real, so to break all links with it would be the healthiest option. The past was dead, so she had to make new friends and a new life.

But where?

The temptation to return to the chateau was strong, only because it was safe and familiar. She didn’t actually want to go down that route. She knew that Armand would probably be weak enough to welcome her back and they would get married, because they could. But it wouldn’t do either of them any good in the long run. It would be for all the wrong reasons.

Okay, then she had decided on two things. Firstly, she didn’t want to stay in Britain at the moment; and secondly, she didn’t want to go back to the Chateau, yet.

She smiled.

She was kidding herself, as she hadn’t decided anything of note.

Okay, perhaps try a different tack. What did she have going for her?

She was a wealthy young woman, with reasonable artistic skills, so she could make a living anywhere as an artist, but did she want to?

She thought of the job offers in France. They were good, high profile offers that had the potential to place her name in the limelight. Did she want that?

Possibly.

Actually, she didn’t really know what she wanted. She knew what she didn’t want, so was satisfied to have turned her back on Terry’s life. Tomorrow was another day, and she had no idea what it would bring. She was looking forward to it immensely.

“You look very pensive,” said a male and very self-confident voice. She looked up to see one of the businessmen had come across from their table. She glanced towards the table to see the others were all leaving.

“I have a lot on my mind. I got some bad news today,” she said before her brain caught up with her tongue.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I just saw you alone and thought I’d offer you some companionship. Please excuse me,” he said, and began to turn away.

“It’s alright, I’m not sure that I need companionship, but I’m not sure if I want to be alone either.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” he offered.

“I’m not sure that would help, perhaps a small brandy,” she said, looking at the man more closely.

He walked to the waitress who was already clearing his vacated table and ordered a couple of brandies; then he returned.

“May I?” he said, indicating the vacant chair at her table. She nodded.

“I’m Peter Garrow,” he said, holding his right hand out across the table.

She took it and held it briefly.

“Theresa Tonnelier,” she said. The name naturally made her speak it in French. It rolled off very naturally, but she found it hard the reconcile as being her own name now..

“Ah, you’re the Mercedes with foreign plates in the car park?”

She smiled and nodded.

“So, you’re French?”

Again she nodded.

“Lovely country; my wife and I spent many happy years holidaying there. The kids all learned to swim down in the south.”

She judged him to be in his early forties. By the look of him, he looked after himself, as he wasn’t running to fat like two of his three colleagues. Over six foot tall, and wearing an expensive but not a flashy suit, he looked like a successful man.

“You say that as if you’re not going there again?” she said.

“Well, not through choice. My wife, Elaine, has multiple sclerosis and although in remission, our days of adventure holidays are over. The children are all away at very expensive schools, so we send them off on school trips to ski and so on, and then the pair of us go to Dorset for a more gentle holiday ourselves.”

“I’m sorry, it is a terrible disease.”

“Doubly devastating; as Elaine was a very active person.”

She smiled sympathetically, unsure of what to say.

“Look, I’m not in the habit of accosting single women, but you looked rather unhappy. My business dinner came to an end, so I thought I might cheer you up. I have no ulterior motives, I assure you.”

“So, what business are you in?”

“Acquisitions and mergers; I’m a specialist that companies bring in to sort out the finer details once two companies merge or one acquires another. Those three were all the directors of three companies that are considering a merger. I’m afraid I didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear.”

“Ah, what they call a hatchet man,” she said, teasing him.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, but unfortunately, usually is. It’s tough when you have two sets of management now running one company. If we can keep people on, then we do try, but often there just isn’t the resilience to maintain that level of personnel. Look, this is frightfully boring, so how about we don’t talk shop. Why are you in England?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I came to see if a young man I once knew would still be an element in my life,” she answered, being vaguely truthful.

“And is he?”

“No. I think my life is able to carry on without him.”

“Hence your sadness?”

“Not so sad, really, just thoughtful. Apart from the bad news, I have some serious decisions to make.”

He glanced at her left hand, taking in the expensive earrings and necklace. Her clothes and shoes were very obviously designer material, so he could identify quality when he saw it.

She caught his glance.

“No, not married. I needed to know about the English boy before moving on,” she said, waggling her left ring finger at him.”

“Your English is excellent,” he said, feeling embarrassed.

“Thanks, but I cheated really, as my mother was English.”

“But your dad isn’t?”

“No, he was French. They’re both dead now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be doing a very good job at cheering you up.”

The waitress arrived with the two brandies. It caused a welcome break to the conversation.

“So,” he said, once the girl had left them. “Tell me, how does a stunningly attractive French girl find herself connected to a boy from this neck of the woods?”

“We met at Art College in Paris. We were close for a time, and then we drifted apart. It’s not much of a story, really. I’ve just finished a commission in France, so I thought I’d come and make or break things with him.”

“So you’re an artist; what medium?”

“Mainly portraits, but I do many different types of painting.”

“You don’t look like an artist.”

“Oh?”

“No, I’d have put you down as a model or an actress.”

It was her turn to feel embarrassed.

“Judging by your car, you appear successful,” he said.

“I do all right.”

“Elaine dabbles with a paintbrush,” he said.

“Oh yes, what does she paint?”

“Landscapes, mainly. She loves painting the sea, but between you and me, she’s not that good at it yet.”

“Painting water is one of the hardest things to master.”

“I’m sure it is. Tell me, what do you do for fun?” he asked.

“I love skiing and swimming. I’d love to lie on the beach in the sun and do absolutely nothing. I’ve been working very hard recently. How about you?”

“I’ve recently got into golf. I swore I never would, but my days of cycling in the Andes and kite-surfing in the Cape Verde islands are over. I don’t like leaving Elaine for very long, so we tend to go on holidays where she can sit and paint the scenery and I can play golf.”

“You’ve never been tempted to paint?”

“God, no; I tried once, and was utterly useless at it. No patience. My last real works of art were doodles on my exercise books at school. I do have a semi-serious hobby. My friend and I are building a sports car in his workshop. I’ve always been interested in mechanics and he does it for a living. We’ve designed and built a sports car that we hope to market and persuade one of the big boys to take our design seriously enough to finance. There are loads of top-end cars, like your Mercedes, that are too expensive for the man in the street. Our little car looks great and hopefully will cost a fraction of some of the super cars and still give them a run for their money in performance and reliability.”

She smiled, but talking with him emphasised the elements that were missing from her life. She wasn’t exactly living a lie, but neither was she being open. While she was here, real truth would be a luxury she could never afford, and there as always danger lurking from people who had known Terry.

However, he hadn’t finished.

“Actually, I have to be honest; I do have an ulterior motive for speaking with you, but I fully expect to be turned down. You see, we’re planning to put together a film presentation featuring our new car to send round some of the top manufacturers and motor journalists. One of the things we want to do is put it on our new website. We planned to film a top actress or model to look glamorous in and around the car to launch it. However, we got a serious reality check when we started making enquiries with some of the agencies. Do you know how much they charge?”

“I have never had cause to hire one, sorry,” she said.

“Would you be willing to be our glamour for the launch video?”

“Me? I’m not an actress or a model. I have no idea what to do.”

“Hell, I’m a hatchet man, what do I know about launching a new car?”

They laughed together.

“I’d have to put it past my partner in crime, as Daniel Harding has put up most of the money so far. I said I’d arrange the model, so he is relying on me.”

“So?”

“If I told him that you’re a French model, and that you’ll do it as a favour to me for nothing up front, he’ll be delighted, as the others wanted over five hundred quid for half a day.”

“I’m in the wrong job,” she said, smiling.

“If we get the backing we need, we’ll give you a fair cut. What do you say?”

“It might be fun,” she said, undecided.

“What are your plans tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’m not certain. I was going to head home.”

Home?

Was France home now?

She glanced round the very English hotel dining room.

This wasn’t home; that was for sure.

“Can I persuade you to meet him at the workshop, say at ten-thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Just him?”

“What? Oh, no, I’ll be there, and his wife and mine. Heck, the film guy and probably the dog too.”

“When would you plan this shoot?”

“Why, are you on a tight schedule?”

“I’ve been asked to head for a ski chalet before the end of the season. There’s only a week or so left.”

“Then we could do it at the weekend, and you’ll be on your way by Monday.”

“Okay, so where do I meet you?”

It was pouring with rain as she drove the Mercedes through the gates of a small industrial unit on the outskirts of Coventry. The single-story red-brick building was a good sixty years old; probably built after the German bombing of the town back in the second war. The rather bleak surroundings were made worse by the awful weather.

Bits of old cars seemed scattered at random in puddles in the side yard, but outside the main doors, the area was clear, except for three cars that were already there. She pulled in beside them and switched off the engine. Apart from the three parked cars, one could imagine that this place was derelict. She wondered at the wisdom of doing this. But Peter had flattered her and told her that she would be perfect for the job.

For someone who looked as good as she did, one of Terri’s problems was that she had very little self-esteem or self-confidence. As Terry, she had been an underachiever with real self-confidence issues. The fact that his art had been thought good enough to gain him a place at a prominent art college had made a difference. However, on returning to Britain with a wealth of ideas, he had floundered from one job to another; unrecognised and barely making ends meet.

She sat in the car, watching the rain run down the windscreen and reflecting on her situation.

On the previous evening, Peter had not attempted to get her into bed. Once she agreed to speak to his partner, he bought her a second brandy and then allowed her to get to bed — alone.

As she had lain there, her mind crossed the channel and focussed on one person — him. She went to sleep thinking of him and smiling.

Meanwhile, inside the workshop, Daniel Harding was not convinced that Peter had secured the services of a genuine French artist.

“I tell you, she’ll turn up,” Peter said, worrying that perhaps she might not..

“Look, Pete, I know you and your grand ideas, there’s no way you could get a retired model to work at such short notice on a small-fry operation as this for bugger all, let alone someone as gorgeous as you claim she is. You probably picked up some scrubber in a pub and gave her a hundred quid to drape naked across the bonnet.”

Gerry laughed.

“Yeah, some scrubber,” he said, unnecessarily.

Elaine wasn’t present, and neither was Madge, Daniel’s wife. They decided, probably very wisely, to leave this to their men-folk. Elaine’s brother Gerry ran a successful video company, but he specialised in weddings. Still, he had the small editing suite, the right equipment and knew the theory. He was also happy to do the job for free as long as it publicised his company.

The three men stood looking at their baby; the DG-03. Not a catchy name, but it was the third version of the original design.

It looked sleek and what a British sports car should look like. Not fancy and Italian, or smooth and efficient like a German car, nor a little bit of everything like the Japanese cars. It was stocky and chunky, with an air of lurking power. In matte black and brushed aluminium, it looked utilitarian and mean. The bodywork was mostly carbon fibre, and it weighed much less than commercial competitors. The low profile grille and headlights made it look slightly carnivorous and faintly reptilian. It wasn’t a pretty car, but then again, they didn’t want it to look pretty, they wanted it to look good.

It did.

The door at the end opened, so all three men looked up.

Spellbound, Daniel watched as the tall and stunningly attractive girl walked down the grubby workshop. With the exception of the car, her dress was almost the most expensive item in the entire workshop, only he didn’t know that. In her high heels she was a good five foot ten. She looked as if she had literally stepped from a top fashion magazine, with her auburn hair flowing and bouncing with each precise and crisp step. From the top of her head to the tips of her Italian shoes, she oozed sex appeal and sophistication.

She walked like a model on the catwalk, and Daniel’s jaw dropped.

“Bonjour Pierre, ca va?” she said, coming up to Peter and kissing him on both cheeks.

Gerry coughed with embarrassment and looked at Daniel.

“Some scrubber, eh?” he whispered.

Peter introduced her.

“Daniel, this is Theresa Tonnelier. Terri, this is my business partner Daniel Harding and Gerry our film guy.”

There was no need for Daniel to make a decision. From the moment she appeared, all the men knew that they’d be completely off their rockers not to use her for the video. Gerry was trying to work out how he could persuade her to part with most of her clothes.

Terri half expected a very amateurish operation, both in regards the car and the video. In the event, the car was a delight and Gerry, apart from his desire to use naked models, was very good at what he did. There was even a script and a small team, including a sound engineer and camera crew.

Daniel wanted her to be clear at whom the video was aimed.

“Our target audience is not the buying public, but those in the industry who are looking for something new and cutting edge. We use new materials in the car to make it very light and extremely responsive. There are a lot of very good cars out there, so the competition is stiff. We’d like to get people like Jeremy Clarkson and the design crews at Aston Martin or Jaguar interested. So, it’s not the case of just flopping a partly naked girl across the car like Gerry wants to do. We want to look at the design process, the engineering and the innovative concepts that have gone into the final construction. Then we want the driving factors highlighted.”

“Why use a female model at all?” she asked.

“Because cars are not just for men, despite what men think. Ninety percent of those who design and build cars like this are male, but many of those who drive them are female. I have this idea of a driver in a black suit coming out of the door and getting into the car, wearing a black full face helmet with black visor. Then we go to shots of the car being put though its paces and finally of the driver getting out and taking her helmet off, shaking her hair free. You’re exactly what we’re looking for.”

“And she can drive,” said Peter, grinning at his friends enthusiasm.

“Huh?” said Daniel.

“She drives a Mercedes sports car.”

“Shit, if I could, I’d give you one of mine, but we’ve only got the one,” Daniel said, grinning sheepishly.

It took all weekend to shoot. The weather on Saturday was awful; rain, more rain and wind. They placed the DG-03 onto a trailer and covered it with a tarpaulin to transport it to an old airfield with an empty hangar. The partners’ wives turned up with thermoses and sandwiches and helped make things a little more bearable.

Due to the foul weather, they did all the indoor shooting on the first day; mainly of the mechanics, designs and techie stuff. Terri sat on an elderly overstuffed and partly bald sofa reading magazines and chatting to Madge and Elaine as the film crew mucked about doing their bit.

In Madge, she found a dynamic and energetic woman, full of grit and humour. Elaine didn’t appear to be suffering from anything initially. However, as the day wore on, her fatigue levels began to show, and she was able to do less and less. Terri felt desperately sorry for her.

Madge was funny about the men and their pet project.

“Those little boys and their toy; I’m just gobsmacked that they’ve actually managed to get it to this point. Dan is a very good mechanic, but couldn’t organise himself to save his life.

They had acquired, at little cost, a driver’s jumpsuit in black from a company that specialised in such things. It was baggy and unflattering as far as she was concerned. Having time on her hands, she disappeared into Birmingham with Madge and returned with a very expensive black jumpsuit that came from a top designer outlet. It fitted her perfectly, whereas the other one simply didn’t.

The helmet was easier, as Daniel had several from his old Formula Three days.

They had taken an old helmet, removed the visor and sprayed it with a professional glossy metallic paint and then replaced the visor. As they weren’t using it as a real helmet under racing conditions, there would be no problems with the integrity or safety of the driver.

Sunday saw a break in the weather, and even the sun came out for a while at lunch time. They had access to an old RAF runway, so took advantage of the clear spell to do the major shots of the car with Daniel driving, wearing his black jumpsuit and his helmet.

Terri was only in shot for a maximum of twenty seconds when she walked to the car and got in. Then for another twenty-five seconds when she drove the car to an abrupt halt and then got out, removed her helmet and shook her fabulous hair free. There was a final shot as she walked slowly away with the car in the foreground. At that point one could see the stylish jumpsuit and the amazing high heels. Then she stopped, turned as the camera zoomed in for the final line.

“The DG — Three; c’est magnifique,” she breathed, smiling to the camera.

They all sat round at the end of shooting and looked at the various sequences before editing.

All expressed satisfaction with the whole thing, and there was a real sense of achievement over what they had all done.

Daniel was quite embarrassed that they couldn’t afford to pay her.

“Look, if we get someone interested enough to back the production, I’ll give you one of the first off the line, how about it?”

“That would be great, but actually, I was just pleased to be part of it all.”

To celebrate, the whole team enjoyed a slap up meal in a local pub’s restaurant, and for the first time since coming back to England, Terri actually felt she was among friends. As she took in her surroundings, and the very ordinary and nice people she was with, her mind immediately went to Sebastian.

He’d like this restaurant that served good, honest food without frills or pretensions. No art on a plate; just good food, good wine and good company. What more could you want?

Suddenly, she knew what more she wanted. She wanted to be with him very much. Leaving the party, she went into the car part and called him on her cell phone.

They spoke for many minutes, actually saying nothing of importance. They spoke about their respective days and the weather, but the fact they were speaking and that both felt their respective hearts soaring as soon as they heard the other’s voice, said it all. They spoke in French, which made it more special, somehow. In the restaurant everyone around her spoke English, so it was almost like being there with him. It made her feel different and in a secret place with him and him alone.

“I’m coming back soon. I want to go skiing with you,” she said.

“When will you get here?”

“I’m not sure. I want to catch the early ferry tomorrow, so maybe tomorrow night or early the next day.”

“I’ll be waiting. I’ll make the arrangements for the chalet.”

“Great,” she said, feeling excitement.

“Terri?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

She was unable to respond for a moment or two.

“You might be slightly ahead of me. Can you wait for me to catch up?” she asked.

“I’ll wait forever,” he said, which brought tears to her eyes.

After finishing the call, Terri returned to the party. Peter saw she was smiling.

“Good news?” he asked.

“You could say that. I think I have a better idea where my life is going now.”

“Ah,” said Elaine, with a grin. “That means she’s spoken to someone who has told her that he loves her.”

“You’re assuming rather a lot,” said Daniel. “It could be another girl.”

Elaine looked at Terri.

“Possible, but I don’t think so. I think I could tell,” she said.

“His name is Sebastian,” Terri said, helping them out.

“Ha-ha, told you!” said Madge.”

“Is he another art student?” Peter asked.

“No, he’s just sold his family farm and is about to start his own IT business.”

“In France?” asked Elaine.

“Yes, in France.”

“Will you come back to the UK?” Peter asked.

“Who knows? It depends on the incentives,” Terri said, smiling.

“You’ve really done us a favour. Thanks,” Daniel said.

“I think your video would have been great without the glamour element,” she said.

“I agree, but it takes it out of the basic into the professional class. It looks good, so will get the interest of those who can make decisions. It’s got all the specifications and important stuff about costing and materials, so why not add a bit of bling to make it look special?”

After saying goodnight and goodbye to the team, Terri spent the night at the hotel before setting off for France once more.

~o~O~o~

As she woke, on her last morning in England; or so she thought, guilt rode her hard. She ignored it for a while.

She enjoyed a leisurely and exceptionally good breakfast, before returning to her room and packing her things. She loaded her car and then approached the reception desk.

The guilt struck again. It threatened to overwhelm her.

Sighing, she picked up her mobile phone to call Cally’s number. Terri had had this phone for over a year, but as there had been no reception in France, and being abroad incurred extra costs on calls, she had not used it for ages. She had checked when she got back to the UK and there were no calls in the voicemail. No one had called her, which meant that there had not even been any work in the offing. She smiled sadly. No one missed Terry, neither did anyone want him.

She had checked her emails regularly in France, and apart from spammers, nobody had attempted to contact Terry, not even Cally. She now had a different email address; one that made no mention of Terry Cooper.

She found her sister’s listing and pressed call, hoping that she was not available. It rand for a while, but Cally answered just before Terri shut it off.

“Hello?”

“Cally, it’s Terry,” she said, trying to masculinise her voice.

“Terry; where the fuck are you? My God, I’ve been trying to reach you for bloody ages and….”

Terri interrupted her.

“Leave it out, Cally. My phone has been on for weeks and you’ve not tried to contact me once. I’m still on the internet, and you’ve never sent me an email, so cut the crap; okay? I found out Mum has died, so I rang you to see whether you’re making any arrangements.”

“How did you find out?”

“I rang the social services. Now, about the arrangements?”

“Arrangements; what arrangements?”

“The funeral arrangements.”

“I can’t afford to pay for a funeral. I’m just about to have a bloody baby, so why should I?”

Terry sighed.

“Okay. Look, I may not be able make it, as I’m tied up abroad. However, I’ve made some money on my last job, so if you contact the funeral directors and get them to deal with Mum, and then give me the details, I’ll pay all the bills.”

“Just send me the money, Terry, and I’ll pay.”

“No, Cally, I’m not that dumb. You make the arrangements, and pass me the details. I’ll pay the bills. Okay?”

“Why can’t you send me the money?”

“Because you and I both know that you’ll spend the money and forget about the funeral.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“You made some money; can you lend me some?” she asked.

“You make the arrangements, so when you send me the details; I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re coming back for the funeral, right?”

“I doubt it, Cally. I live in France now, so I doubt I’ll ever come back to Britain.”

“Not even for Mum’s funeral?”

“I’m in a contract. I won’t be able to get away,” Terri lied.

“You won’t see your niece or nephew if you don’t come back,” Cally said, almost whining.

“No, that’s right, I won’t. When are you due?”

“Any day now; but they said it was in two weeks time. To be honest, I can’t wait.”

“Look, I have to go. I’m not keeping this phone, as I’ll have to get one abroad. I’m still on my email, so pass me the details and I’ll pay all the bills.”

“Where are you?”

“Not far away in miles, but a long way away as far as everything else in concerned.”

“Huh?” her sister asked, confused.

“It’s not the distance; it’s everything else.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I can’t explain, but things have changed for me, far more than anyone would understand.”

“But you’re the only family I have left,” Cally said, starting to cry.

Terri swore quietly to herself. This wasn’t going to plan at all.

“You’ve got your bloke and. Well, you’ll be a mum soon.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Cally, stop crying, please. I’m not the same person as I used to be.”

“You’re still my brother.”

“No, Cally, I’m not.”

That made Cally stop crying.

“What do you mean? Of course you are; you can’t change that.”

“I have. Look, if you really want to find out, I’ll meet you for a coffee. Once we meet, you’ll see why I can’t stay around.”

“Where?”

“Do you remember the Chocolicious Café in Coleshill High Street?”

“Yes

“Can you get there by ten?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you there. Just prepare for a shock.”

“What kind of shock?”

“A big one.”

Terri cut the call at that point.

Damn!” she said aloud.

She returned her cases to her room and then told Henrietta on the reception desk that she might be staying on for a few more days. They had no bookings for that period, she that was not a problem.

She drove the short distance into Coleshill and parked. She wandered round the small shops, just to give herself time to think. She had not planned this, so to disclose the truth was going to be tough. She wondered how Cally would take it. They were not desperately close, as the family had been largely dysfunctional for as long as she could remember, but she was her only sister. Cally had been right, they were all that was left.

She arrived at the café a few minutes early and sat with her back to the wall in the window so she could see everyone arrive. It was then she regretted dressing in quite such style. Terry had always worn jeans and a scruffy tee shirt, so the cashmere skirt and top with Italian shoes and expensive jewellery was about as far as one could get from who she had used to be. Cally would never recognise her as being her long-lost brother.

Her sister arrived at ten past ten, pushing the door open and closing her brolly. It had started to rain since Terri had been in the café. Cally was enormous. She also appeared drabber that Terri recalled. She wore a mauve maternity dress and a voluminous coat that was one step down from a tent. She’d cut her hair, so sported a very short style that was tinted vaguely red, bordering on the purple. It almost matched her dress.

Cally glanced round the coffee shop and although she saw Terri, she obviously discounted her as being someone far too different to be of any interest.

Apart from the pair of elderly women at another table, Terri was the only other customer.

She got up and approached her sister.

Cally watched her as she began to move, but was already looking away as she drew close.

“Hello Cally,” she said.

Cally’s eyes almost clicked and widened as they flicked back to look at the tall, sophisticated and obviously very attractive young woman.

She frowned, looking Terri up and down.

“Do I know you?” she asked, looking up at this beautiful girl.

“I said be prepared for a shock.”

“Shit! Terry?”

Terri reached out and almost had to pull her sister to the table to sit her down. Cally’s mouth was opening and closing, but no sound escaped.

“Coffee?” Terri asked.

“But….”

“How about a cappuccino; I’ll have another?”

“But…”

Terri left her stunned sister and went up to the girl who was watching this little scene with undisguised interest.

“We’re sisters. She hasn’t seen me for a while. I think I’ve changed a little more than she expected,” Terri explained as she ordered two cappuccinos.

“She’s not going to go into labour, is she?” the girl asked, staring with a worried expression at the pregnant girl doing goldfish impressions.

“I hope not.”

Terri returned to the table to find that Cally had regained the power of speech.

“No way are you Terry!”

“I do look different,” Terri agreed.

“I can’t believe this; are you really Terry?”

“I call myself Theresa now, but will answer to Terri, with an I.”

“You’ve had, a…, a…, a sex change?” she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Not as such, but it seems that my body did it by itself, so yes. I think I must have not been what everyone thought I was. You see, I haven’t needed any surgery or anything. In fact, I’ve not seen a doctor for about three years.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a girl now, Cally; a real one, with all working parts.”

“All?”

“All, even down there.”

“But you were a bloke,” Cally said, still pale.

“I thought I was, as did everyone else. It seems we must have all been mistaken. Such things do happen.”

“Do they?”

“Yes, but not often, I grant you.”

“How?”

“I honestly don’t know. Look, shall we try to move on; we do have stuff to discuss?”

“Huh?”

“Mum’s funeral,” Terri reminded her.

“Oh, right. Shit, when you said shock, I sort of expected something weird, but never this.”

“What did you expect?”

Cally shook her head.

“Not this.”

The girl came over with the cappuccinos.

“Everything okay?” she asked, as she placed them on the table.

“Fine,” said Terri, watching her sister.

Cally nodded dumbly.

Three other customers entered, so the waitress went off to deal with them.

“My God, you look fabulous. Is that cashmere?” Cally asked, reaching out and touching Terri’s top.

“Yes.”

“And those shoes, shit, I’ve never even tried to wear shoes like that. How much were they?”

“I honestly don’t know. They were bought by someone else.”

“Not a bloke?” Cally asked with her eyes widening.

“No, by the lady who used to own them.”

“Does she know you’ve got them?”

“She died a couple of years ago. Her husband gave them to me.”

“Are you, um, you know?”

“Shagging the husband? No, as it happens.”

“Bloody hell, I would, for a pair of shoes like them.”

“I’m not you and I’ve got a wardrobe full of them.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, Cally. Look, this isn’t why we’re meeting, is it?”

“Isn’t it? What size are your feet, anyway?”

“I’m a seven, as it happens.”

“Damn, I’m a six.”

“Cally!”

“Okay,” she said, looking at Terri’s face for a change. “Who did your makeup?”

“I did, why?”

“It looks better than I could do.

Terri regarded her sister’s heavy mascara and dark almost gothic eye shadow and almost black lipstick.

“Yes, well, maybe I could give you a few pointers.”

Cally shook her head.

“You look amazing; I can’t believe you’re my brother.”

“I’m not, not any more. I’m your sister now, Cally.”

“Shit, mum would be surprised. Did she see you?”

“No. I only got back a couple of days ago. I went to the flat and found she’d been put inside again. When I phoned the mental health team, they told me that she had died.”

“The social services called me too.”

“Ah,” said Terri.

“What are we going to do?”

As Terri looked at her sister, she realised that Cally was in no condition, mentally, emotionally or practically to undertake any arrangements.

“Where is mum’s body?” she asked.

“I dunno. I wasn’t really in a fit state to talk when they called. When I called them back, I spoke to someone else, so I have to call back again today.”

“Shall I call them, and we can make arrangements together?”

“Could you?” Cally asked, looking relieved.

“I’ll deal with the funeral directors direct.”

“Okay.”

Terri called the social services and asked for Mary Yates.

“Hello?” asked the pleasant Irish voice.

“Hello, this is Terri Cooper; I understand you’ve been talking to my sister about our mother?”

“Ah, yes, my goodness, you sound very like your sister.”

“People say that. Now, where exactly is my mother now?”

Terri spent several minutes on the phone, at the end of which she had been recommended a good firm of undertakers who could take the matter on to completion. All the necessary medical forms had been completed. They’d even ensured that the death was registered with the local registrar, as she’d been in the care of the local authority and the next of kin had not been informed. All documentation was with the body held at the mortuary.

On terminating that call, Terri then called the undertakers.

“Hello, I’m Miss Cooper, I’d like you to deal with my mother’s funeral,” she said.

By the end of that call, she had made the arrangements for them to collect the body and deal with the funeral at the local crematorium.

“Do you know when would be the earliest opportunity for a slot at the crematorium?” she asked.

“Obviously, we’ll have to collect her from the mortuary and ensure all the documentation is complete. But if everything is as you say, then it could be as early as Friday.”

Terri was disappointed, as she desperately wanted to get to France.

“No earlier? As I have something I must do.”

“I’m sorry, that would be the earliest, and if there are no slots, then perhaps not until the following week. How long a service would you like?”

“Ten minutes; there’s just me and my sister. Just to say goodbye.”

“Let me call you back when I’ve made enquiries with the crematorium. I’ll have a better idea by then. We’ll go and collect you mother. Will you want to view the body before the funeral?

“No.”

The call ended there, so Terri felt very frustrated. Cally picked up on it.

“Why have you got to rush away?”

“I’m going somewhere with someone.”

“Oh yes?”

“I met someone and he asked me to go skiing before the end of the season.”

“He?”

“Yes, Cally, he; it’s a bloke, as I am a girl now, okay?”

“Have you….?”

“Damn it, it’s none of your business, but no, we haven’t, okay?”

“Did you ever… as a bloke, I mean?”

“No, Cally, as it happens, I never did.”

“Were you gay?”

“No.”

“I always thought you were a bit feminine, so it’s alright if you were.”

“I wasn’t gay, shit; I don’t think I was anything. I tried with girls, but never got far. As for blokes, they never attracted me, okay?”

“This is so weird!” said Cally, smiling for the first time.

“Do you know what sex it is?” Terri asked, changing the subject and nodding at the bump.

“No; Dave didn’t want to know. They asked me if I wanted to, but I suppose I like the surprise. As long as he or she is healthy, that’s all I’m worried about.”

“You look enormous. So, just a couple of weeks left?”

“Yeah; I can’t bloody wait. I have a sore back, sore knees, a small bladder and can’t get comfy at night.”

“In a couple of weeks you’ll have sore boobs and get no sleep at all at night,” Terri pointed out. “What does Dave do?”

“He’s a porter at the local hospital.”

“Does he work shifts?”

“Yes.”

“Bummer. He’ll volunteer for the night shift and then moan if the baby cries during the day.”

“No, Dave’s good, he’ll be fine. I told you we’re thinking of getting married, didn’t I?”

“Probably. I’ve been preoccupied over the last few months.”

“I was going to ask you to give me away, but you’d better be my maid of honour now.”

Terri smiled as Cally was far more accepting than she had anticipated.

“When’s the big day?”

“When we can afford it, so not for a while.”

A germ of an idea occurred to Terri.

“How about a fancy wedding in a French Chateau?”

“In your dreams.”

“Not my dreams; these days, it’s my reality. I’m serious; if I can arrange it, would you like it?”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“Can I talk to Dave about it?”

“If you want. Does he know about me?”

“He knows I have a brother, I think.”

“You think?”

“I don’t talk about my home life before I met him.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. I don’t either,” Terri said.

“We didn’t have a great childhood, did we?” Cally asked.

“It was crap. Dad dying started the rot.”

“No. I asked mum about him in a lucid moment and she talked about him as if he’d popped up to the shops. She was in complete denial.”

“It might have helped if she remarried, but she just went off the rails,” Terri asked.

“In the last couple of years they increased her medication. When she was on them she wafted through life as if nothing could ever harm her without any sense of reality at all. But then she’d say that she was better and stop taking the meds. It took her about a week to get bad again.”

“It’s sad, but I won’t miss her. I can’t say that I was close to her; were you?”

“Not really. As I said, she spent more time in hospital than out over the last few years. You going to Art College was the final straw; she never coped with that at all. She would tell people that you’d died.”

“I felt bad about going away, but I needed to escape.”

“So did I. I was closer than you, but rarely saw her. I feel bad now.”

“Me too, but it’s too late now.”

“So, Dave doesn’t know much about my life up to when we met. I think I might have mentioned that you were an artist, but I don’t think it went in.”

“Then don’t talk about a brother, just a sister, okay?”

“Okay, but why?”

“Terry the bloke has gone. He is no more, to quote Monty Python. There’s just me and I’m not a bloke.”

“I can see that.”

“You can always say that Terri is short for Theresa, as that’s what is on my birth certificate.”

“Can I see?”

“Terri dug out her Carte d’Indentité and French driver’s licence.

“Bloody hell; who’s this Theresa Tonnelier?

“Tonnelier is the French for Cooper.”

“Oh. But this is like you’re a completely different person.”

“I am. I’ve had to make up a new family history and everything.”

“Why?”

“Because I was able to; someone who helped me knows the right people. It’s too complicated otherwise. Cally, do you know what it must be like for trans-people who have to fight for every step of the way to be accepted?”

“No.”

“Well, since this happened to me, I have, and I’m lucky enough to be spared all that crap. I’ve anew life now, so I don’t want to be tied up with Terry Cooper’s life.”

“I’m part of that life.”

“True, which is why I’m sitting here with you now. I just want you to accept me as I am now and not as I was. Terry is dead.”

“Long live Theresa,” said Cally with a smile.

Terri lifted her coffee cup in a toast.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“What about your old job and friends?”

“What about them?”

“Won’t they miss Terry?”

“It’s been several months and I’ve not heard a squeak. Why should they?”

“That’s very sad.”

“Maybe, but it makes making a new like easier.”

“Have you been back to the flat in Tooting?”

“Yes. I won’t be going back there.”

“Someone called me. I think they were after rent.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. I told them I didn’t know where you were.”

“That was fine.”

“What about all your stuff?”

“I don’t need any of it.”

The waitress came over.

“More coffees, ladies?”

Cally nodded, so Terri agreed.

“I can’t believe how pretty you are. Did you guess that you were a girl; underneath, I mean?”

“No”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I got this job just after Christmas. I spent Christmas skiing with some mates, and then I went to this chateau. I had to paint a mural of the dead countess for this bloke. He is a real French Count, whose wife had died in a car crash. He thought I looked rather like her and, well, anyway, after a few weeks I started to change until I’m as you see me.”

“He doesn’t want to marry you, then?”

“I’m not sure what he wants. I would not want to marry him. He is still in love with his wife, so although I might look a bit like her; I’m not her, so it wouldn’t work.”

“Okay, so who’s this bloke you want to get back for?”

“He’s her brother.”

“The dead girl’s brother? Yuck, that’s like incest, isn’t it?”

“He’s not my brother, you twat,” Terri said, exasperated.

“Oh, but did he fancy her as well?”

“Cally, don’t be an arse.”

“So, what’s his name?”

“Sebastian.”

“Does he know about you?”

“You mean about Terry?”

“Yeah.”

“No, and I’m not going to tell him unless I have to.”

“Ah, now I see why you want to sever all your past.”

“Talking of which, I need to call him,” Terri said.

“Why?”

“I told him I might be coming home, so now I’m not, he needs to know.”

~o~O~o~

11.

Sebastian was amazingly understanding; particularly when she explained that her mother had died.

“So, when is the funeral?” he asked.

“I hope in a couple of days; this Friday.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a coffee shop with my sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister. Is she as beautiful as you?”

Terri regarded her sister as she spoke rapid French with Sebastian. Cally wore a dazed expression as she listened to the conversation, but understood none of it.

“In a different way. She’s nine months pregnant.”

“Ah, so you have to support each other.”

“Something like that.”

“Would you like me to come and be with you?”

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“You’d do that for me?” she asked.

“Of course, if you need me.”

“That’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever heard of. Thank you, but I’ll be alright.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but we’ll get through this together. Once it is over, then I’m finished with things over here. I can start afresh somewhere new.”

“There will always be your sister,” he reminded her.

“She has her life, and I have mine.”

“Perhaps, but I know from experience, your sister is important. Mine was, but I only realised it when she was gone.”

“Thanks, I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m right. But, I need you to know that I’m more than happy to come to England to support you at this tough time.”

“Thank you, Sebastian, but I can’t ask you to do this. It’s too much.”

“You are alone in the world now, except for your sister. She is pregnant, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So, she is married?”

“No, but they are talking about getting married after the baby is here.”

“But she has her man with her?”

“Dave, yes.”

“Who do you have?”

“I have my sister.”

“No, losing a mother is a significant loss, so I mean who do you have to support you?”

“Who I’ve always had; me.”

“Which airport do I fly into?”

“No, Sebastian, you mustn’t.”

“Which airport, Theresa?”

She fell silent. That was the first time he had called her by that name; her name, and yet his sister’s name as well.

“Birmingham. It’s just a few miles away from here.”

“You will bring me back, yes?”

“We can share the driving.”

“I look forward to it. I will call when I have booked a flight. I will be with you tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

“At a local hotel.”

“Book me a room there, please.”

“I have a big room,” she said, before she realised it.

“Are you sure?”

Was she?

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“You know I love you, Theresa?”

“I know.”

“You can book me another room, I’m happy waiting.”

“No, I want you, Sebastian.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Je t’aime,” she said, causing Cally to look at her.

“Until tomorrow, my love.”

He was gone.

“Your fella?” Cally asked.

“Yes, I think he is. He’s coming here tomorrow.”

“No shit, he must love you then.”

Terri didn’t hear her, as her mind was a couple of hundred miles away.

Armand and Louis had cleared the house of everything belonging to Theresa, the Comtesse. They had left the portraits, jewellery and some photographs, but the bulk of the clothes and other things he had never got round to disposing of were moved into the cottage he had set aside for Terri.

Clara had been in the cottage to receive them and put them away neatly. Both she and her husband felt this was a long overdue action, but Armand was feeling far happier now.

“I’m at peace, my old friend,” he told Louis as they brought in the last box.

“About time, sir,” said Louis.

“I’m thinking of going up to Paris after Easter. I will stay in the house up there for a few weeks, so can you and Clara come up and run the household up there?”

It had been the custom for the Comte to stay in Paris for eight to twelve weeks through to the summer break every year. The staff would simply close up the Chateau and move up to Paris. They had not done so for four years.

“Of course, sir. What of Miss Terri when she returns?”

“I suspect she will be otherwise occupied, but if she so desires, we will always have a room for her in Paris.”

Louis frowned.

“Sir?”

“Sebastian called me. Terri’s mother died last week, so she is arranging the funeral. Her sister is about to give birth, so Sebastian felt it proper to go to her aid.”

“I see.”

“I had to tell Sebastian a little about Terri’s past, as, well, let’s just say Terri is a complicated girl with a complicated history.”

“Yes sir. Do you know if she is taking up any of the offers of work here in France?”

“She is still considering them. I rather think she might.”

“Good.”

Armand watched his faithful retainer help his wife in the bedroom. He smiled, it was good to see people content. He just wished he could feel content, but his spirit was still troubled.

His Theresa was gone, and so too was Terri, as she flexed her wings and sought new horizons. He was not upset, despite many fearing he would be. Indeed, he was pleased for her, and was pleased and a little proud of his part in watching a butterfly arise from the chrysalis.

His spirit was restless because he felt lonely. While he had been mourning his Theresa, somehow her spirit lingered and kept him company. Then Terri came and he felt for a while that spirit in her. Now it too was no longer there. He had sensed its absence just prior to Terri leaving for England.

He yearned to meet someone new and someone different. Theresa was gone and he was no longer haunted by her image. He still liked to sit and look at the excellent mural, but it was an appreciation and not a longing that kept him there.

He hoped he might find someone in Paris.

Air France Flight 6432 arrived at Birmingham three minutes late, at 14:28.

Sebastian glanced out of the aircraft window at the grey tarmac that glistened in the rain. He had simply got on the flight at Lyon and now here he was an hour and a bit later. He wondered whether she would be there to meet him. He had learned English at school and had travelled extensively in Canada and the USA, but he had never been to England.

He had called Armand to ascertain whether she had contacted him after hearing her mother had died.

He was surprised that she hadn’t, but Armand wasn’t the least bit surprised. He had told him some of her troubled past.

“She had a gender difficulty, of which she is embarrassed, but you ought to know. She was what many people might call a late bloomer, and even she thought she was male for a while.”

“Terri, a male; never?”

“I tell you this in strictest confidence. She is perfectly normal girl now, but went through a time of confusion. Please understand that some people you meet in England might not realise she was a girl. This is so you are not surprised by strange things that people say. I have helped her by easing things with the official channels. It was necessary for me to acquire a Carte d’ Identite for her and managed to create a slightly different family history. She’s now French, so it will make things easier for her to forget the past. She’d not be pleased that I’ve told you, so just pretend you know nothing.”

He asked a few questions to clarify a couple of points, but was left with a feeling that Terri needed him even more than ever. Instead of making him feel he wanted nothing to do with her, he felt closer and more in love with her than he did before.

He had thought about her all the way, hoping that her last words to him were what she really felt. He had never experienced feeling like this before. Never had a girl so captivated every waking moment of his being.

Not having any hold luggage, as he simply had one holdall with all he needed. He wore his suit, knowing that it might be all that was needed for the funeral. So with his night clothes, wash bag and a spare shirt and a pair of socks, he was sorted.

As he came through the arrivals door he saw her standing there; a vision is black and gold. Somehow she wore his sister’s clothes to better effect than she had. She looked truly stunning, and he wondered how anyone could confuse her as being male. Her long auburn hair seemed to glow and glint with light and he had eyes for her and her alone.

Their eyes met and held. Neither was conscious of anyone else existing. All noise and clamour dispersed as she waited for him to walk across to where she stood.

He stood before her for a moment, simply looking into her eyes.

She licked her lips is anticipation, still holding his gaze.

“You came,” she said, in French.

“Yes, I came. You look beautiful.”

He kissed her then.

He had imagined what it would be like, and the reality was so much better.

He held her close as she wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, standing on tiptoe to be on the same level. Two became one. The rest of the world became as nothing for several seconds.

He broke first, breathless and feeling aroused and yet tender at the same time.

She had felt his arousal and matched it invisibly. She held onto him as he broke from the kiss.

I love you,” he said.

She smiled, gently pulling his head back so she could kiss him again.

The rain stopped as they walked to her car. Even though she drove carefully out of the airport he felt vulnerable on the wrong side of the road.

“When is the funeral?” he asked.

“I don’t know. The funeral directors are trying to fit us in this week, but are having problems. They should be calling me back in a while, as they think there might be a cancellation in three days, on Friday, but they can’t give me a time.”

“Otherwise I will have to stay with you until next week; that would be a shame.”
She smiled. It was so nice having him here. She suddenly wanted to tell him the truth about her history, but balked. She didn’t want to lose him.

“How are things at the chateau?” she asked.

“Armand has cleared out everything of Theresa’s.”

“Really? Wow, that’ll please Clara. How is he?”

“Armand? Fine. Well, he’s still coming to terms with the fact that Theresa is gone, but at least he’s not in denial any more. He’s shutting the chateau for a couple of months.”

“Why?”

“They used to do it every year; he wants to be in Paris for a while.”

“Has he got a place there?”

“Of course; a bloody great house. Louis and Clara will go and open it up so he will have all the comforts of home.”

“So, what’s he done with your sister’s stuff?”

“Most of it is in your cottage, some he’s chucked and some he’s put in boxes in the attic.”

“My cottage?”

“Don’t you remember, he’s allocated you one of the cottages on the estate; just until you get yourself organised.”

“I remember now. I thought that was just a mail drop address or something.”

“No, I think he wants you to use it as home until you know what you want to do with your life.”

She turned off the M42 into Litchfield Road. Within a few minutes she turned into the Manor Hotel.

“This looks nice,” he said.

“It’s not very grand, but the food is good and the bed is comfortable.”

“Look, about the bed; I’m happy having my own room.”

“I’ll leave it up to you, then. You can have your own room or come in with me.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want you to do what you would like to do.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Look, Sebastian. I’m very new at this sort of thing. I think I love you and I want to be with you. I would like to have you to myself all night, but I’m not sure how to…”

He silenced her with a kiss.

“I’ll come in with you, okay?”

She simply smiled.

Henrietta was on duty in reception when the chic French girl entered with a very handsome man in tow. The English girl wondered how the French girl managed to look so spectacularly attractive all day. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day she saw her, Terri always looked immaculate. They were laughing and talking in French. Henrietta had thought the girl was rather sad; always alone and never smiling very much. Well, things were different now.

“Hello, my boyfriend has just flown in so we’ll be two for dinner tonight, and for breakfast, is that okay?” she said.

“That’s fine, Miss Tonnelier. How long will you both be staying?” Henrietta said, feeling slightly envious of the girl, as her young man was very dishy indeed.

“I’m not sure, as I have to arrange a funeral at the end of the week. Perhaps we will be here until the weekend, perhaps a bit longer.”

She took her key and Henrietta watched them head upstairs. She smiled, knowing what they’d probably be doing in a few moments.

She would have been wrong. Sebastian put his bag in the room, used the toilet and washed his hands and face afterwards. Terri sat on the bed and waited for him.

As he came out of the bathroom, he ached for her, but knew better than to rush in at this stage.

“This is nice. Have you stayed here before?” he asked in English.

She was surprised; firstly that he spoke English, and secondly that he spoke very good English. She replied in the same language.

“No; I’ve been here for meals and functions, but I’ve never stayed the night. I used to live in the village nearby, so it was the posh hotel we went to for special occasions. You speak very good English; why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged, a very Gallic gesture; it made her smile.

“You speak such good French, there was little point.”

“You’re full of surprises,” she said.

“Ah, then we shall have fun finding out about each other’s surprises.”

“Mine aren’t very glamorous, I’m afraid.”

“That’s the beauty of surprises; once they become known, all the romance and mystique disappears.”

“No, I really mean that mine are rather grotty.”

“What is that word, grotty?”

“Um, unpleasant.”

“Ah, I’m sure they’re not.”

“They are.”

“Okay, then we shall leave them alone until we get to know each other much better.”

She smiled her thanks.

“You don’t want to stay on here, in England, after the funeral?” he asked.

“No. I want to go home.”

“Home?”

“France; my home is there now. It’s where I finally became who I should always have been. In a way, you could say it is the land of my birth. I think I might take on some of the work that was offered. Besides, you’ll be there, and, well, are we about to become lovers?”

Sebastian laughed at the in-your-face way she asked the question.

“If you would like to, perhaps. You’ve already introduced me as your boyfriend, so now I am your lover too, yes?”

He bent over and kissed her. She responded, and he felt that longing in his soul. He had never wanted a girl as much as he wanted her now. It took all his will power to break from the kiss. He was so close to pushing her back onto the bed and let nature take its course.

She looked up at him, her own ache reflected in her eyes.

“I want you, Sebastian,” she said, in French.

“Later, my little love. I would really like some real English tea and crumpet.”

“Ah, put like that, you could be misunderstood. It should be crumpets, as singular crumpet could mean you want a woman.”

“Quoi?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Crumpet is a slang word for women. So, I want some crumpet could mean I want a woman for sex.”

“Ah, that could be right, then,” he said, teasing her.

She reddened and looked at him coyly.

“I suppose I should have thought about contraception. I’m sorry, I’m not really well organised, am I?”

Sebastian laughed at her naivety.

“Terri, my love, do not even start talking about such things. Let’s go and get some tea, okay?”

“But, I’m….”

He kissed her again.

“Tea, now!”

~o~O~o~

The hotel did a very nice afternoon tea, with scones and cakes. They sat in comfortable chairs almost alone in the lounge area, apart from two spinsters talking in hushed tones in the corner.

They spoke in French again, because it was easier to be intimate and private even when in earshot of others. Terri appeared to be on edge and nervous. She felt that she was in danger of losing him because she had not taken the precaution of seeing a doctor and going on the pill. Until this moment, the idea of actually having sex with a man was simply something she had never thought would happen for real. In her fantasies no one became pregnant, particularly her!

“Relax, my love,” Sebastian said, not quite sure why she was so nervous.

Her mobile phone stopped any conversation by ringing. The two old ladies looked at her as if she had just stripped naked and shouted an obscenity. She excused herself, and took the call in the hall. It was the funeral directors.

“Ah, Miss Cooper, we’ve managed to isolate a short half-hour slot on Friday at one thirty in the afternoon. The previous client has had to put their funeral back due to problems with relatives getting there on time. Would that be convenient?”

“That would be perfect. I’ll let my sister know.”

“I’ll email you with the details, Miss Cooper.”

“Thank you.”

She contacted Cally to tell her, but instead got her boyfriend, Dave.

“She’s in labour,” he said, sounding somewhat less than thrilled with the situation. Terri thought he didn’t come across as Mensa material.

“This is Terri, her sister. I’m calling to confirm the time of the funeral for our mother on Friday. When did she start contractions?”

“Lunch time; I got her to the maternity unit about two hours ago, they say that the contractions are progressing, but we’re a bit away from the actual birth. Hang on; I thought she only had a brother called Terry?”

“It’s the name; I think a lot of people assume that Terri is a boy’s name. It’s short for Theresa.”

“Oh, okay. Look, I know it’s her mum’s funeral and stuff, but she’s not in a position to do anything at the moment.”

“I understand. Can you call me as soon as there’s news?”

“Uh, yeah, I suppose so.”

Terri wasn’t convinced that Dave would remember.

“Does she want me to come to be with her?”

“Uh, I’ll ask her.”

Terri waited while odd sounds came from the other end, including the sounds of a female in extreme discomfort. She heard Cally shout, “I don’t fucking care!”

Dave came back.

“That’d be a no, not just now.”

“Okay, text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Uh, okay. Thanks.”

On returning to the, by now, cold tea, she must have looked thoughtful, for Sebastian asked her whether she was all right.

“My sister is in labour, so it might just be you and me at the funeral.”

“Then it is as well I came, isn’t it?”

She took his hand.

“I can’t thank you enough for coming. I’d hate to be alone right now.”

She finisher her tea and nibbled a scone. Sebastian regarded her as she did so. She ate delicately, just like the beautiful girl she was. He remembered Armand’s words about her being gender confused and wondered how anyone this pretty could ever be confused. She caught him looking at her, so smiled at him.

“Penny for them?” she said.

This went completely over his French head.

“Huh?” he asked.

“It comes from the old saying; I’ll give you a penny for your thoughts. What are you thinking about?”

“You, and how beautiful you are, even when eating.”

She flushed a deep red colour, looking down.

He reached over and gently lifted her chin with his hand, so she had to look at him.

“I was actually wondering what secrets you could be keeping from me,” he said, determined to clear away whatever was lurking within her.

She snorted; a cross between a laugh and an exasperated sigh.

“You don’t want to know,” she said.

“But I do. I tell you what; I’ll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours?”

“You have secrets?”

“Of course, doesn’t everyone?”

“I don’t know, I’ve not really thought about it.”

“They do, but some are silly and insignificant.”

“Mine isn’t,” she said, almost bitterly.

“It is only significant if is allowed to build up to something it isn’t.”

“What’s your secret?” she asked.

“I have three. One, I find it very hard to speak to beautiful girls. I have no confidence at all, and often would rather run away.”

She laughed out loud.

“That is rubbish,” she said. “You had no difficulty talking to me. That proves it; I’m not that beautiful!”

“You are different. You are so like my sister, I had no difficulty talking to you. Besides, you are so beautiful, I just had to.”

“You, Sebastian, are full of crap. That was invented, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all. I am not an outgoing person. I am very shy, and beautiful women terrify me.”

“Yeah, right!” she said, not believing him. “So, what’s number two?”

“I lost my virginity to a teacher at school. She was twenty-five and I was fifteen.”

“I’m glad you said; she.”

He smiled, nodding and thinking back.

“I think she caused me to be terrified by beautiful women.”

“I can understand that. What happened?” she asked, chuckling.

“I was in trouble for being late with homework. I was given detention after school to ensure I did it. She was supervising me. We were the only two in the school and, well, she had this low cut top on, and she caught me looking at her breasts. I think she wore it on purpose. She asked me if I was looking at her breasts. I denied it, so she told me off for lying. She asked me what she could do to me for lying. She told me to take my trousers down. The next thing I know, she is fondling my parts. I’m ashamed to say, it responded enthusiastically. Before I knew what was happening, she had removed her pants and was sitting on the desk with her legs open. I wasn’t too stupid not to take advantage of an opportunity. I may not have been experienced, but she was and helped me in, so to speak.”

Terri smiled at him. Despite herself, she actually found the mental image of the fifteen year old Sebastian banging his teacher profoundly erotic.

“Did the relationship last?”

“One short steamy sex session hardly constitutes a relationship, so no. She was discovered by the head teacher screwing the football captain a week later. She was dismissed and I never saw her again. I have to admit, it was a great relief, for although I felt a great sense of achievement, she terrified me.”

“That’s quite a big one. What’s number three?” she asked.

“Ah, I think it must be your turn,” he said.

“Must it?”

“Come on, it’s only fair.”

“I only have one, really, and I’m not sure I want to share it,” she said.

“Why not?”

“You might see me differently because of it.”

“What if I promised not to?”

She shook her head.

“You couldn’t promise something like that without knowing what it was.”

“Then I promise anyway.”

She smiled; a sad little smile.

“I’m still not sure.”

“Okay, then I let you off,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“No, that’s not fair,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Okay, I was brought up believing I was a boy. I wasn’t always like this; as you now see me.”

His expression didn’t change. He sat there, holding her hand and smiling at her.

“That’s it?” he said.

She was surprised at how insignificant he seemed to believe her secret was.

“Yes, I suppose so. I actually thought that I was a boy until I went to the chateau, after Christmas. Armand thinks that it was your sister’s spirit that changed me to be more like her.”

“He’s wrong, for you may look a little like her, but then I suspect you did before you knew of her existence. No, you are nothing like her in character and temperament. You can’t have been a normal boy, can you?”

“I thought I was.”

“You are a normal girl now, right?” he asked.

“Yes, definitely.”

“Then, logically, you can’t have been a normal boy. There is no way that someone can change from being a normal male to become a normal female. You can’t have been a complete boy. Did you ever have sex as a boy?”

“No, but…”

“Were you ever mistaken for being a girl?”

“Yes, now and then, but….”

“Okay, by people who didn’t know you were male to start with and you had no opportunity to tell them at the outset?”

“Quite a lot, but…”

“How about on the telephone?”

“Some of the time,” she admitted.

“Some?”

“Okay, most of the time.”

“Louis and Carla thought you were always a girl,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You knew that?” she asked, beginning to feel manipulated.

“Carla mentioned to me that you pretended to be a boy, but she never believed you.”

“What did you think?”

“I wondered why you would want to. I wouldn’t have believed it either.”

“But I wasn’t pretending, I genuinely thought I was a boy, I was a normal boy down there,” she said looking downwards.

“Are you sure they weren’t just enlarged girl bits?”

“I didn’t think so, but….”

“Okay, let’s get one thing clear; are you a girl?”

“Yes, but…”

“Listen, Terri, people just can’t change gender. If you were boyish enough to think you were a male, you must have been mistaken. I take it you’re perfectly formed as a girl, down there?” he asked, nodding towards her crotch.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?

“He reddened again.

“I’m not entirely stupid. I have checked. Visibly I appear perfectly normal, and well, things have happened.”

“You mean it all functions correctly?”

“Yes; well, I assume it will, as I haven’t actually tried it out yet….” she blushed again, losing her train of thought

“Then you must have just been a late developer. What you had must have been mistaken for a boy’s bits. Sometimes the clitoris can be enlarged to such an extent to give the impression of a penis.”

“I know what I had, and believe me, I was a boy.”

“Well, to be honest, it doesn’t actually matter now, does it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you a boy now?”

“No.”

“Do you like being a girl better than being a boy, mistaken or otherwise?”

“Yes, I do, I think.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then forget what you thought you were, and concentrate on enjoying being what you are. I said I wouldn’t think anything different of you, and I don’t. You’re still just as lovely as before, so forget it and move on.”

She stared at him, almost disbelieving that anyone would see her problem as miniscule as he obviously seemed to.

“You don’t find it an issue?” she asked.

“No, why should I?”

For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a reason. It was just she had built it up as a massive issue in her mind.

With just a few words, he had successfully defused it so that the whole issue withered and perished. She felt an enormous sense of release and relief.

“So what’s your third surprise?” she asked.

“Ah, that’s an easy one. It is that I told my father that I was coming to England because my future wife needed me.”

She stared at him.

“You what?”

“I told my father that I was coming here to be with you, my future wife.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

“Of course, but you wouldn’t want to disappoint an old man, would you?”

She laughed.

“You, my dear Sebastian, are full of crap. I don’t believe number one, and I think number three is suspect.”

“So you do believe me about my teacher?”

“If I’d have been your teacher, I might have been tempted,” she said.

“If you’d have been my teacher, I wouldn’t have needed help.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes, if a little intimidating. I learned afterwards that at least seven others had been there before me.”

“She sounds as if there was something wrong with her. Why did she go for kids in school; was she unable to form relationships with people of her own age?”

“I was fifteen and flattered by the attention. I never asked her deep and meaningful questions that a psychologist might think up.”

“Did you love her?” she asked.

“Hell no, she terrified me, but also attracted me. It was juvenile lust on my part, and I’m sure as hell she never loved me, or the others, if it comes to that.”

“I’m the same age as she was, yet I don’t think I’ve thought about sex much in my life. I suppose I’ve thought about it more since, well, since becoming me properly. As a boy, I rarely thought about it, unlike most of my friends, it seems.”

“Did you think you might be gay?” he asked.

“Not really; mainly I wondered why sex didn’t seem to take over my waking life, as it did with others. I went out with girls, but was never able to form an intimate relationship with any, even though I was good friends with them. Perhaps they saw something in me that I couldn’t see myself. I think I had more female friends than male ones, but I was never temped by either, sexually, that is.”

She then thought about her Lara Croft incident, and reddened slightly. He noticed and looked enquiringly at her.

“There was this time when my friends thought it would be funny for me to go to a famous movie character costume party as a girl. I went as Lara Croft and there was one guy — Craig, who fancied me. He would hardly leave my side. I’d never dressed as a girl before, yet he was convinced and kept wanting me to dance with him.”

“Did you?”

“Yes; it was fun. I’d never been a great dancer, but I found that as a girl, it was far more natural. As a bloke I found it awkward and became self-conscious. Perhaps it was because I was in disguise.”

“How many people knew?”

“I suppose six; the two girls who helped my makeup, and four of the guys. They all thought it really funny, so rather than tell him the truth, they set him up with me as a blind date a week or so later. The same couple of girls in our group dressed me in a slinky dress and did my hair, makeup and everything. The evening was quite nice, as we went to a fancy restaurant. If I hadn’t been so nervous, I think I might have enjoyed it more. Anyway, our friends were just round the corner, and towards the end, just as Craig was getting quite serious with me, they came over and told him the truth.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He didn’t believe it for ages, but then he got angry. I was unhappy about the way they did it, so I left. He came to see me a few days later and told me that he didn’t blame me, as he didn’t really think I was a bloke. He never socialised with us again. I thought it was quite cruel.”

“Doesn’t that say a lot about you, though?”

“I can see it now, but then I was just a bit confused.”

“Why?”

“Because I actually felt different when dressed as a girl. I felt free, if that makes sense. I just felt too much guilt to enjoy the experience. It was the guilt that made me try to bury the feelings and to just get back to normal.” She paused. “I hate that word.”

“Whereas now?”

She smiled at him with such an open and contented smile that he knew the answer before she spoke.

“Now I’m free to be me. It’s like I’m home at last.”

* * *

The crematorium possessed a bleak and desolate atmosphere. Marie Cooper’s coffin was the cheapest that money could buy and it sat the front on the raised area. A single wreath of white lilies sat on the top, looking faintly incongruous.

Looking far more glamorous than her surroundings, Terri was in black, but a very stylish black. Comtesse Theresa had owned quite a few black dresses and skirt/top combinations. This was just one dress that would have looked good in the casino at Monte Carlo.

Looking equally stylish and as sombre was Sebastian, wearing a long black coat over his dark suit.

The funeral director and the crematorium official were equally surprised at the couple’s appearance, as they were hardly typical of those who attended their services.

“Are there any others coming?” the official asked.

“I’m not sure. My sister gave birth yesterday at nine in the evening after a long labour. I don’t think she’s coming. There might be someone from the social services, but I doubt it. I don’t think she had any friends,” Terri said.

In the end, she was proved wrong. Six people came; four women and two men. She had never seen any of them before. Everyone sat along the front row, all feeling self-conscious. The doors were closed and Terri stood at the front.

“Thanks for coming. Unfortunately Cally has just had a baby girl so will not be joining us. This will not be a long service; as there is not much to say. Mum is in a better place now, free from the mental torment that has plagued her since my father died. Depression is a terrible thing, as it is rarely understood by those who don’t suffer from it. And for those who do, it is a burden that proves too much too often.

“This is a time for us to say goodbye and to get our own minds focussed on the temporary nature of our lives. We only get one go, so we need to make it count. Unlike games, you can’t stop at a difficult pat and go back and start over. Whether you have a faith in God or not, life will end and we will never know when or how. Likewise, those whom we love will also die, and we need to have the courage and will to keep going.

“Marie Cooper died young, as she was only fifty. She never saw her grand-daughter, and she never really got over her husband’s premature death either. She had a faith; so she was firmly of the belief that she will now be reunited with our Dad. For that I am grateful. Let us say the twenty-third Psalm together, and then I will lead a few prayers.”

After it was over, they stood outside looking at the single wreath of flowers that she had arranged through the undertakers. The six people shook her hand and mumbled inane platitudes, scurrying away as soon as they felt it was polite. One had been a friend she had made in one of the psychiatric units; a fellow depressive, with a social worker from the mental health team, just to make sure she didn’t try to run away. The others were friends from the church she used to attend. Terri noted that the vicar wasn’t there.

Finally, Terri stood with her hand firmly in Sebastian’s hand, wondering if this was all that life was about.

“See, no one expected you to be a boy?” Sebastian said.

She smiled, saying nothing. The grief just hit her. Although not close to her mother, it dawned on her that she would never see her mother again, and her mother would never know that she had two daughters.

“She never knew the real me!” she said, as tears fell unbidden from her eyes.

Sebastian said nothing. He was thinking of his own mother’s death and his father, who was in frail health. He stood holding her until the tears dried up and a discreet cough from an official marked their allotted time as being up.

She had to sign some forms for the crematorium and undertakers. As she signed — T. Cooper, she realised that she would probably never sign that name again.

“So, what now?” he asked.

“I’d better go and see Cally. Then how about we go home?”

“Their bags were already in the Mercedes, as they had checked out of the hotel that morning.

They stopped off at the maternity wing and saw Cally briefly just before she was discharged to go home. She was waiting for Dave to come and collect her.

Cally looked tired and in need of a shower. Teri held her niece for a while as Cally took that shower. Sebastian watched Terri sitting in the hospital armchair holding the tiny child.

“What’s she to be called?” Sebastian asked.

“Ann-Marie, I think. Ann was my grandmother’s name and Marie after mum.”

“You will be her Godmother?”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“Gosh, I might be, isn’t that something?”

“You will be a good mother, too,” he said.

Dave turned up to collect Cally and the baby, so was surprised to see the couple already there. He had never met Terri, but guessed who she was.

“I’m Terri, and this is Sebastian,” she said.

Sebastian shook hands with the rather bedraggled young man.

Dave stared at his daughter’s only aunt. Terri looked far more glamorous than he expected.

“You don’t look like Cally,” he remarked.

“Do I not?” she asked, knowing full well that there was little family resemblance.

Dave felt slightly intimidated by the couple, as they were clearly in a different class to those with whom he normally felt comfortable. They were dressed far better than he could ever hope to be, and looked distinctly out of place in this little unit.

“Cally’s just having a shower, so I’m minding the baby. Isn’t she great?” Terri asked, looking down at the little infant.

“Yeah; mind you, she took a while to get here,” he said, grinning.

They spent nearly an hour there. Finally, they helped the couple to get the baby into the car. Cally hugged her sister, telling her to keep in touch. The reality was that both women knew that they inhabited different worlds, but the bond of blood was so strong that perhaps these worlds might meet on occasion.

“I was serious about using a chateau as a wedding venue,” Terri said.

“Oh yeah, so you own one, do you?” Cally joked.

“No, but a good friend of mine does.”

“I’m not sure if we could afford it,” Dave said.

“It’d be on me. How else will I get to see my niece?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, but look, just get her home and work through the first few months. Perhaps plan a Christmas wedding.”

Terri waved as Cally and Dave drove away, leaving her holding Sebastian’s hand.

“You deserve a medal for helping me though this lot,” she said to him.

He shrugged.

“I’ve enjoyed it,” he said.

“How about we head for the slopes?”

~o~O~o~

Louis supervised the girls as they carried the trays of champagne glasses into the ballroom. The small orchestra was playing quietly on the raised dais at the end, as the guests arrived and started to mingle in both the ballroom and the hall.

He stood like a Regimental Sergeant Major on a parade ground, watching as the girls wove in between the guests, ensuring that each had a glass. In the kitchen, his wife was up to her neck in organised chaos as they struggled to get everything ready on time. He couldn’t recall having so many staff working so hard at the chateau; it was almost like the old days.

The guests, decked out in their finest evening dresses and formal tails kept a hubbub of conversation drowning out the orchestra. Several were attired in military mess dress, so breaking the customary black and white of the tails and ties with their rich blues and reds. He nodded with approval, as he could see the occasional splash of decoration, in the form of medals or distinctive stars of office or title. There were several ambassadors present, as well as titled aristocracy and royalty from various European families.

There were thirty people staying the night at the chateau, and several times that number had come for the evening by car. The field to the rear of the chateau had been turned into a make-shift car park for the event. Chauffeurs were warming themselves in the stable block, in which he had arranged food and non-alcoholic refreshment to be served.

A large Christmas tree, complete with quality decorations stood in the hall by the staircase. Indeed, the decorations in the chateau reminded Louis of a time when the current Comte had been a boy and the Winter Ball had been a regular event in the local calendar.

A hush fell among those guests in the hall, which spread slowly to those in the ballroom. All looked at the couple on the stairs.

Dressed in his finest evening tails, with the ornate star on his chest, the Comte Armand descended the stairs with his bride to be on his arm. Someone began to clap, so soon all present were applauding the happy couple. Armand stared at the perpetrator of the applause, as she was standing at the foot of the stairs by the Christmas tree.

He felt twin pangs of regret and envy as he observed her looking so radiant and beautiful holding the arm of his friend. The feelings did not last for long, for she looked so happy that he was only too content to permit her happiness.

He glanced to his left and smiled at Laila. She returned the smile and squeezed his arm where she held it. She was as different to the two Theresa’s as one could get. Where her previous wife had been a brunette, Laila was blonde with very fair skin. She was a Norwegian who had been married to a Frenchman for eight years, so had a home in Paris. He had met her in Paris in the spring, when he least expected to. Now divorced with a young son, she was contemplating returning to Norway, but her son, Anders, was in school in Paris and had made friends. She felt it would be cruel to uproot him from the stability offered by the school. It was bad enough when his father had run off with the other woman, but financially they were secure and she won the house in Paris in the settlement.

They reached the foot of the stairs. The guests parted to allow them to walk to the ballroom without being hemmed in. Armand paused briefly at where Terri stood with Sebastian.

“You look well,” he said to her after kissing her cheek.

“I am well, thanks. Congratulations, Armand; I’m so pleased for you both,” she said, kissing Laila on both cheeks.

Laila smiled, as this whole event was so surreal for her. She had met so many of Armand’s friends and relatives, she was hopelessly confused. However, as she regarded this young woman, dressed in a very fine ball gown, she felt faintly curious and concerned. She glanced at the portrait on the wall and then back at this young woman.

Armand saw the concern and chuckled.

“My dear, this is Theresa Tonnelier, the young artist who painted that mural of Theresa in the spa. She has just returned from Paris where she has completed three commissions of works of art in some of our finest corporations’ headquarters. This is Sebastian, my brother-in-law and if that ring on her finger is anything to go by, her future husband,” he said. Then he turned to Terri.

“It is, isn’t it?” he asked Terri.

Sebastian nodded.

“She only said yes last night. I bought the ring six months ago, just after we returned from England,” he said.

“But you look…” Laila started to say, glancing again at the portrait.

“I know, but I’m no relation, I promise.”

“Are you returning to the cottage?” Armand asked.

Terri glanced at her fiancé.

“She’s decided to move in with me in Paris. We both felt that for her to stay on here might cause more complications than would be necessary,” he said.

“Besides, I’ve the offer of some more work in the New Year up there, so I might as well be local,” she said.

“From what I hear, your name is sought after in the art world?” Armand said.

Terri simply grinned; with that impish expression that Armand had come to love. She really was very different to his Theresa.

“Go on, you’ve so many guests waiting,” she admonished, winking at Laila, who felt more at ease with the girl now.

Terri watched as Armand and Laila walked slowly into the ballroom, speaking to various guests as they went.

“He still loves you,” Sebastian said.

“No, he still loves Theresa and because I look like her, he thinks he loves me. Now he has her, he’ll forget about me.”

“No Terri, nobody would ever forget you,” Sebastian said.

Terri smiled and turned towards him, but then saw two men enter the hall. Her expression froze.

“Oh shit!” she said.

Sebastian turned and saw two men giving their coats to the girl on cloakroom duty.

“Who are they?”

“James and Hugh. They were with me when we broke down here a year ago. I can’t believe that he asked them.”

Just then the two Englishmen were joined by two women, looking elegant and attractive, but seriously nervous and vulnerable. Indeed, all four looked somewhat out of place.

Terri glanced towards Armand, who had turned back and was watching her.

“Bastard!” she mouthed, to which he laughed and turned away.

Hugh and James came up to the stairs, and were showing the portrait to their respective partners. Hugh glanced at Terri and smiled, looking up at the portrait immediately afterwards. His smile froze and he immediately looked at Terri again.

Terri’s ball gown was not the one in the picture, but was similar. Unlike many of her clothes, this one was not second hand, as she had bought it in Paris a couple of weeks previously, on receipt of the invitation to the ball. She was unwilling to wear Theresa’s clothes to such an occasion.

Sebastian thought she looked strikingly beautiful. The gown was white with gold trimmings that matched her lowlights in her hair. She had put her hair up, so ringlets were hanging from the rear, with a garland of flowers held in place with a small tiara.

On her breast lay a triple string of pearls, a present from her fiancé, and on her left ring finger a diamond engagement ring.

She nodded politely to Hugh, as James was still in conversation with his girlfriend.

“Bonsoir,” she said.

Hugh looked uncertain, as his eyes flicked back and forth from the portrait to her.

“I am Theresa Tonnelier, and this is Sebastian, my fiancé. That portrait is of his late sister, the Comtesse. And you are?” she asked in English, adopting an outrageous accent.

“Um, bonsoir,” said Hugh, looking both embarrassed and confused. Terri saw that his pretty girlfriend was staring at the portrait as well. “I’m Hugh Taylor and this is my girlfriend Amanda Burgess. That’s my friend James Holden and his fiancée Suzy Moore.”

“How do you come to be here?” she asked.

“That’s a good question. We’re on our way to our family chalet for Christmas, as we do every year. Last year it was a stag event and we broke down on the way. One friend, who isn’t with us this year, came up to the house and used the telephone. The Comte was very kind and let us stay the night before heading off to sort out the car in the morning. We were really surprised to get the invitation, actually.”

“This friend of yours; what happened to him,” Terri asked.

Hugh was quiet for a moment, glanced at James, who was now standing staring at her as well.

“We don’t know. After the holiday, he came back here to do some art work, and , well, we’ve not heard of him again.”

“Well, perhaps he has been invited as well. I hope you have a pleasant evening,” she said, placing her hand through Sebastian’s arm. She smiled at the four of them and allowed Sebastian to lead her away into the ballroom.

“You’re very naughty,” he said to her as they stood watching the couples already on the floor dancing a waltz.

“I wanted to see if they twigged.”

“If they had?”

“I’d have dealt with it. But they didn’t.”

“They might yet.”

“They might, but do you know something? I don’t care anymore. Dance with me?” she said.

“Forever,” he said, and swept her off onto the floor.

Hugh watched her dance. James came up next to him.

“She’s gorgeous,” James said quietly.

“I felt I know her. Daft isn’t it?” Hugh said.

“It’s the picture; she’s very like the dead countess,” said Suzy.

“Her dress is simply divine,” muttered Amanda enviously.

“At least she spoke to us,” said Hugh.

“I have a question,” said James.

They all looked at him.

“How did she know we were English?”

All four watched her dance for a moment.

“This always was a spooky place,” muttered James. “Come on, when in Rome,” he said, taking Amanda onto the floor.

* * *

Norman Richardson looked like the successful entrepreneur that he was. Aged fifty-seven, he had attained his first million before he hit thirty, and had just kept on going. When he turned fifty he sold the three businesses that he built up over the years to concentrate on his passion — motor cars.

These are not just any motor cars. But fast and furious motor cars; motor cars that snarl and grunt, squealing round corners and accelerating from nought to sixty in less than three seconds. They are cars that leave you breathless and needing more; cars that get the adrenaline pumping and turn heads wherever they go.

He had invested in small projects in the past, normally to no great results, but this time he felt it was different.

It had started when his son Lucas sent him a short video by email.

“Dad, you should see this. Even if you don’t like the car, the girl is something else!” he had said.

Lucas, having graduated in automotive design and engineering, now worked with a Formula One design team. He had acquired the film through his work. It wasn’t something in which his team were interested, but he knew his father could be.

Norman received six or seven of these types of hopeful enquiries every week. Some were professionally done, but most were hopelessly amateurish and rarely sparked any interest. The comment about the girl intrigued him. He clicked on the icon and watched the video.

With the words, “The DG — Three; c’est magnifique,” still echoing in his ears, Norman scrabbled for a pen as the credits appeared on the screen. He jotted down the website and contact details of the manufacturers, just before playing the film for a second time.

Then he made another call.

* * *

Terri was asleep when the phone rang. As it was Sebastian’s side of the bed, she let him answer it, rolling over and trying to go back to sleep.

“C'est pour toi,” he said, passing her the telephone.

“Oui?” she said, automatically.

“Terri, it’s Peter; it’s about the car.”

Terri was still half asleep, but at least she registered the fact he spoke in English. She sat up, as the bed clothes fell off her naked body.

“What car?”

“The DG-03. We’ve got a backer,” Peter said, obviously very excited.

Sebastian, awake now, started to nibble her left nipple. She smiled, pushing him away. He simply moved lower down, making her squirm with pleasure and bite her lip to prevent herself from moaning. She boxed his ears. Sebastian grinned and rolled out of the bed, heading for the bathroom.

“That is good news. Does that mean you can pay me a fee for the film work?” she said, semi-joking.

“Um, there’s more to it than that. They want to run a proper publicity campaign to launch the new car.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s great, but there’s a snag.”

“Snag?”

“Yup, the CEO of the company wants to use you for the campaign. He said that you have got to be the face of the new car. He wants to rename it too.”

“Oh, what to?”

“No one knows, but he’s floating ideas. The DG-Viper is favourite at the moment.”

“I think DG-Three is fine,” she said.

“Well, by the time we’ve upgraded her, it will be the DG-Four or Five.”

“They’ve bought you out?”

“No; they’ve bought us up. We’re going in as partners and moving to a bigger workshop with better equipment and trained engineers. He’s simply bought up a third of the company, and us along with it.”

“Are you still a hatchet man?” she asked.

“Now and again I have to, as I can’t just stop working. For the moment there’s no money coming in, but that might change come the launch.”

“How does Dan feel about it?”

“He’s like a dog with two dicks,” he said, but then realised what he had said. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean….”

“That’s fine, I understand completely. So, what happens next?”

“Um, not sure, I just wanted to let you know that things were moving. Where are you?”

“In Paris; I’m working on another commission. I’m getting married in June.”

“Wow, congratulations; he’s a lucky bloke.”

The lucky bloke in question returned from the bathroom with an empty bladder and an erection. Terri smiled.

“Look, I have to go as something has come up. Call me when you know anything for definite, okay?”

“I will, but are you up for it?”

Terri looked at Sebastian and nodded.

“Oh yes, I am definitely up for it!” she said. “Au revoir, Pierre.”

She put the phone down and reached up to pull him on top of her.

Somewhere deep inside her, a spirit smiled.

Fin?

Kudos

Comments

loved it

Yet another long and juicy story Tanya, one can't put it down. I must applaud your excellent storytelling and thank you for taking the time to share this. Lovely!

Sydney Moya

Excellent Story - How do these things happen?

Enjoyed reading it, and couldn't put it down.

Portia

More like two men and two Terri/Terry

Tanya,
I am a little over half way, will take a break to enjoy it longer. Like good wine and cheese this story matures as it progresses. The story moves from the anticipation of a simple story line to something more beautifully profound; thanks and congratulations I hope you enjoy what you have captured in words and story. I will enjoy it for me.

Hugs, JessieC

Jessica E. Connors

Jessica Connors

Another Wonderful Story

Another wonderful story.
I would love to see it continued.
But then, I say that about everything that you write.
You must find my comments boring and repetitious.
As always, continually looking for your next offerings, either here or on Kindle.

Merry Christmas

Another Wee Masterpiece !

such as we have come to expect from such a consumate Author. I wish I could write stories like this..... Nevermind, as long as there is a Tanya Allan, I can enjoy reading them.

This was just so beautiful, lovely main character, superb minor characters, good main plot with lots of smaller subplots, local colour was good in both main locations. It was magical yet believeable. This had that special flavour that signals a Tanya Allan tale.

Thank you Tanya for being so kind and letting us still read you for free. I am glad you are doing well. Wish the rest of the poor country was too, but we got what we deserved I suppose so it is our own fault. The choices available were none of them much good. Personally I cannot in all conscience vote for any of them. Hey, THAT is an IDEA. If Tanya was the PM she could magic all the problems away and we could live in a TG Fairyland. Now THAT would be really Christmassy..... :)

Briar

wonderful story

as if you would write anything else. love the question mark. could there be a sequel? keep up the good work.
robert

C'est Magnifique

Brilliant story. I enjoyed everything from start to finish.

~Lili

Write the story that you most desperately want to read.

truly a wonderful story

very nicely done, thank you for sharing it.

Curses!

I ended up forcing myself to stay up way past my bedtime to finish this story!

Well done!

-- Sleethr

Great story

Another great story. Thank you Tanya. I just could not stop reading it. Now that I have finished it I had better get back to work.

More, more, more like this please.

It is just like one of my dreams too. I would love to have a chance to wear clothes like that and change my life accordingly.

Sandra

great story!!

DAMN IT!! I HATE when a wonderful story, comes to an end! (or...maybe NOT!)? These were some great charactors, and quite a unique story! As usual with talented writers, you made us care for these people, like friends. And NOW I need to go to France, chalet hunting! :) I look forward to more of you writing, and thank you for entertaining us, with your exellent stories! Kristyn

kristyn nichols

Tanya darling

Do you by any chance have plans for a post script on this lovely story? I'd love to see her sister's wedding, and Terri's own.. along with the release of the DG-?.

câ€™est magnifique!

I'm up far too late, but I finished it! :) Wonderful!
Hugs
Grover

I agree

Read the story over two days, my Kindle kept locking up, but it's just as well or I'd still be in bed reading with no sleep. I think the thing I liked best about this tory as opposed to some of your others was that Terry didn't suddenly embrace becoming a woman, although that was short lived. Very well done Miss Allan, and looking forward to more, Arecee

As usual ...

... an absorbing read and a good juicy long one which is always a great bonus for me. I think Terri was rather mean to Terry's old friends and I hope she came clean in the end.

Thanks

Robi

Oui, c'est tres magnifique!

Another superb tale from Tanya. Is there a possibility of a sequel? "Fin?
Joanna

Wonderful

I always finish your stories feeling relaxed, upbeat, and so very happy for the good fortune of your characters. Please never stop writing. As long as you write them - I promise to read them.

Thanks again,
Larimus

tremendous story

A great story, as usual Tanya.
Just as nice as the full books, comfortable everyday people.
Except for the changeling, of course.

Cefin

Beautiful Cinderella Story

Tanya Allan did an amazing piece of work to bring a different Cinderella story to life. The story flowed flawlessly taking me from everyday life into the story along with the characters. The elegant dresses and heels the young woman wore were described so not much in detail but perfectly. One could feel the texture, the exquisite figure alluring design. No wonder heads turned whenever the "princess" stepped out in public. Royal queens and princesses never looked as beautiful as Terri, because her beauty was more than looks, it was in her manner, her movement, her spirit. When she met people she didn't drop down to their level of common but elevated them up to her level of grace.
A Cinderella story, but not one I had read before. This one has class none of the others ever achieved.
Beautifully done
always,
Barb

Oklahoma born and raised cowgirl

wow

A wonderful story, thank you so much

MICKIE

Three Men and a Christmas Spirit

Comments

loved it

Excellent Story - How do these things happen?

More like two men and two Terri/Terry

Another Wonderful Story

Another Wee Masterpiece !

wonderful story

C'est Magnifique

truly a wonderful story

Curses!

Great story

great story!!

Tanya darling

câ€™est magnifique!

I agree

As usual ...

Oui, c'est tres magnifique!

Wonderful

tremendous story

Beautiful Cinderella Story

wow

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