Q Is for Queen

'Yes,' she'd said, 'we do have it in a 10 but not in a 12,' and 'no, sir, not in blue or red, that dress is only in black,' and 'oh I'm sure it would suit you, sir, you'd look totally gorgeous in it,' and 'well, sir, with the right sort of peignoir I'm sure you could get into the 10' - and loads more guff like that. Basically she wanted a sale. I'd declined the offer to try it on there and then and also avoided any sort of lingerie and so on. I knew if my FD basque wouldn't work with it, nothing would.

It slid up and into place. I was glad to see when I'd got the waist adjusted that it was very short but not too short. I know many trannies like to wander the streets with their stocking tops and panties on show, I'd done it myself once in Fulham, and damn nearly got myself raped. But I didn't do that sort of thing as a matter of course. And certainly at the Golf Club it might not be appreciated. On the other hand ....

However. The fitting progressed, not totally as well as I'd hoped but far better than I'd feared. I managed to get the bodice round my bust and start to pull the zip up at the back without straining my back or my arm or anything. There was a slight hitch when I realised the stitching just inside the bust of the dress had snagged on the wiring in my basque - maybe a little bit of needlework needed there later - but once I'd realised that it wasn't too difficult to edge it over the basque cups and into place, and then pull the back zip right up. I wriggled and shrugged a bit, really to make absolutely sure my boobs were not going to be able to pop out. I picked up my little black evening bag and looked in the long mirror.

I was pleased. Hell, I was thrilled. But I wasn't really surprised. And the reason for that was simple, I'd just known it was going to work. It hadn't been a case of dressing and trying something new and hoping everything was going to work out OK. After my experiences of the afternoon and the evening I'd been totally confident in my ability to carry it off.

Really it had been the chat with Mildred rather than anything Paul or George had said or done. For the very first time in my career, indeed in my life, I'd been a woman with a woman. Chatting, giggling, smiling, just being. I'd never got such satisfaction out of any of my previous attempts at femininity, whether as a drag queen or as a transvestite - or as a woman. I was glowing inside.

For once, and it was something I'd never really thought about before, my mindset was right. Me. Marie. Woman. It worked! I spent another couple of minutes putting the essentials into my tiny evening bag, lipstick of course, and mascara and my small black-and-silver comb. There really wasn't room in there for anything else, not even my small pack of ultra-long cigarettes or my lighter.

I often carried them for effect really, and for my Dietrich part of my act. OK so she was around a long time ago but people still remember her, and her songs. And quite a few fans had told me I did her so well. I'd even had problems with a producer once, when I'd done 'Falling in Love Again' for my second album. He'd made me re-record the vocal because he said I did it too well. I'd got the timing, the timbre, the accent, the lot, it had sounded too good. We ended up not putting it on the album anyway. Maybe it would get pulled out and released after I was dead, and get released and go to No. 1!

'Ready?' I thought.

Nearly. I did slide a credit card into my evening purse. Simply because I always did, I just had to have something there to get me out of a major hole if somehow somewhere, something went drastically wrong. The card was from a Bank I'd joined specially, for one simple reason. There, embossed on the bottom right, were the word 'M KING'. No Mr or Mrs or even Ms, and no full first name. Gender-neutral, it was. Of course I'd have preferred 'M QUEEN' but I couldn't have that. One final glance in the mirror, a wriggle in the boob area to make absolutely sure, and I was ready. I opened the door.

I walked boldly and confidently along the corridor to the big staircase. Then a little more carefully in my stilettos, down the stairs to make my grand appearance. I could hear voices, Paul and George. They were in a room off the hall, I thought they must be in what Mildred had called the library when she'd given me the tour. Unfortunately neither could see me descending the stairs which wrecked that aspect of my entrance. Still, a girl can't have everything.

I stepped across the hall and into the library. The guys were both there, Paul with his back to me, George facing him and discussing something-or-other. I walked through the doorway and stopped. Oddly enough I don't think either had taken particular note of my clicking footsteps outside the door, it was when they stopped that George first looked over his boss's shoulder.

".... the next time we have to ... oh hell!"

Well, something of a reaction. He'd stopped talking and was staring. I knew why. If I couldn't, after all my efforts, silence a couple of guys like George and Paul then I wasn't the drag queen, or rather the transvestite, I thought I was. Paul turned round. They both just stood there. I knew I had to be careful, Paul was expecting to see an attractive but convincing transvestite, but it had been important George didn't see me as that. He had to see me as a woman.

"I'm sorry I've been so long, Paul."

"Marie!"

Paul didn't say anything else. He turned and looked at George. I think he was maybe concerned about George's presence, maybe in just the way I'd been worried too. If I was to accompany Paul that evening to the 'do' at the golf club I really did have to convince. I'd done so earlier but that time I'd gone for 'attractive'. Now I'd gone for glamour. The short tight shoulder-less dress, low-cut and bedecked with sparkly bits round the bodice, and the striking make-up, all were designed to impress. As were the teased blonde hair and the legs of course, and the heels.

When Paul looked back, it was my shoes he was staring at. I knew why. Six-inch heels, universally known in the tranny world as 'FM stilettos', could in some sense be regarded as a dead give-away. If I was to carry them off, to get away with the long legs wearing sheer black stockings, the rest had to be absolutely right. All of it. Every strand of my wig, every stroke of my mascara - well, the lot. It was verdict time.

"Marie. You look stunning. Am I right, George?"

"You bloody are. Sorry, Paul."

I walked up to my escort. It was my turn to give him the once-over. Even in my heels he was maybe an inch and a half above me. Tall. And handsome. Yes. And dark, apart from a few strands of grey in his hair.

"Marie."

Paul was looking at me, intently but rather seriously just for a moment I wondered if I'd made some sort of major blunder, wrong colour lipstick with those nails or something. But no, it was something else.

"Will you take off your earrings, please, and that necklet. Could you help, George, please?"

And he walked off. I was puzzled, very puzzled.

"Don't worry Miss, I reckon I know what this is about. Here, let me help you with the clasp on your necklet. My Mildred has one with a clasp like this, she always has trouble with it."

George, from behind me, undid the clasp and removed the silver necklet. And I unhooked my earrings and put them in his outstretched hand.

"I'll look after those until later, Miss" he said, turning to put them down near to the phone behind him.

"What's going on, George?" I asked.

But before he could answer Paul returned carrying a wide thin black box. I knew what was in it or course, that style of case carries jewellery of some kind, obviously. He opened it as if he was offering me two pistols to choose from for a duel. But it wasn't pistols, it was - a necklace. And a pair of earrings. It was my turn to be surprised.

There, on the black velvet surface, was the most beautiful item of jewellery I'd ever seen in my life. A diamond necklace. Paul obviously couldn't have known but silver filigree has always seemed to me the very essence of fine, quality jewellery. Much more so than gold even, or platinum. I just LOVE the intricate patterns of the very fine silver.

And you can't fake it. Imitation sprayed-steel costume jewellery, even silver plate, it just doesn't look right. And the necklace I was looking it was so beautiful, a silver chain with filigree curlicues hanging from it, and the whole mesh studded with diamonds. I had no doubt at all, these were not paste or even CZ. They were real. The matching earrings were equally gorgeous, long strands of silver bedecked with, again, real diamonds.

"Paul! That is so beautiful!" I just looked at him. "If you're asking me if I'd like to wear them tonight, Paul, if you need to ask you don't know me well enough!"

And then I realised, I was going to have to take more care. Not the voice, that had been perfect, I'm a good enough professional never to drop my timbre into anything at all male when I'm en femme. But the words and the intonation had been almost tranny-like, and with George there that just would not do. Paul took the necklace and laid it across my chest, this time it was he who did the tiny clasp behind my neck. I took the earrings and skipped out into the hall to look into the mirror there to slide the small silver hooks into my ears. I looked at the effect, the glitter of the diamonds and the silver complemented the slight shimmering of the silver-coloured strands woven into the bodice of my dress.

Paul was standing beside me.

"Marie, you are beautiful. Just the one final touch. This might cause some comments tonight but, what the hell!"

And he slid a silver ring, not exactly matching but the same style, onto the third finger of my left hand.

"It doesn't look like an engagement ring which is probably just as well. But, tongues will wag."

It was my turn to be speechless. Nearly.

"Paul, really, I feel like a million dollars!"

And despite George being there I just had to give him a quick peck on the cheek. Just that, short and sweet but I really was so grateful.

"Well, in dollars they're probably only about half a million."

And he said it so calmly. Half a million! I didn't even think about the exchange rate, I just knew it was an awful lot of pounds.

"I got them for Kathleen last year but - bad timing. It was just before the presentations last year, then the details of the affair came out and I thought why should she have them, no way. So I just put them in the safe. She'd have looked good in them, Marie, but you look stunning!"

"Permission to speak, Sir?"

It was George. He was looking at the two of us. As he did I just stretched my hands up to slightly adjust Paul's black bow tie. Very wifely, or girl-friendly at least. But George was saying something important, clearly, hence the 'Sir'.

"I don't want to speak out of turn, Paul. But. I know Mildred was chatting to Miss Marie earlier and she said something about that Dorothy who came here a few months ago."

I really didn't know what George was going to say and I was a little upset he'd referred to what Mildred and I had been talking about. I could tell Paul wasn't totally happy either.

"Sir. I just got to say this. With Miss Dorothy and that Mrs Agatha who came as well a bit ago, well, if there's any sort of three way contest going with them two and with Miss Marie, Sir ..."

He paused for a moment.

"... they haven't a cat in hell's chance, Sir, those two. No chance at all."

Paul smiled. And I went over and kissed George briefly too.

"Marie, we'd better go" said Paul as he took his car keys from the pocket of his dinner jacket.

But George walked over to him and almost grabbed them from his grasp.

"I'm driving Paul, you'd never keep your eyes on the road. Not with those legs beside you."

Which was really as rude as George got.

So he drove us to the Golf Club. Paul had told me he didn't want to stay long, just to mingle a bit and do his presentations. That was fine by me, I was still on a high after Paul's reaction and George's comments but there was something else I had to get sorted out.

"I'm a bit worried, Paul" I said quietly as we sat together in the back of the car.

George had the radio on, again not loudly, I knew I was safe and he wouldn't hear me.

"If there are people there who were at the show, or saw the adverts maybe. With 'Marie Queen' on them. You know what I mean. If you introduce me as Miss Queen, the penny might drop."

"I get your point, Marie, but believe me, nobody is going to make the link. Absolutely nobody would believe you're a TV, or a drag queen. Not looking like you do."

"But to be sure, look. My credit card says 'M KING'. How about introducing me as Mary King. Would that do?"

Paul looked at me, it was difficult to make out his expression in the back of the car but I heard his voice OK.

"Darling, tonight, whatever you want. Mary King it is."

George pulled up right outside the main entrance of the club. Just for a moment, having been so confident a couple of minutes earlier when we'd been discussing names, Paul seemed hesitant. Not me. I was ready for this. I squeezed his hand.

"Come on, Paul. It's Showtime!"

We walked in together, my right arm entwined with Paul's left. We'd timed it well. People were just beginning to troop out of what I assumed to be the dining room and towards the bar. I'd asked Paul in the car why the awards weren't done during the dinner in what I assumed would be the usual fashion. It turned out that a few years earlier there had been trouble with some over-drunk guests actually cat-calling and throwing food even at one of the speakers so they'd split the awards off the next year and done them in the bar.

And they'd just carried on, they'd felt the new arrangement was working so they'd stuck with it. As we walked towards the bar one of the crowd noticed us and moved towards us, with his wife.

"Hello Paul, good to see you. I'm glad you decided to do this. Very brave of you..."

He tailed off, looking towards me.

"Carl, let me introduce you. Mary, dear, this is Dr Carl James, Club President, and Janet. Carl, Janet, this is my friend Mary."

No explanation offered, none needed. A basic introduction, that's all that was necessary in that situation. I smiled and offered my hand, a little limply on purpose. I'm slightly fortunate to have rather small hands, not really a benefit for playing the piano but fine for impersonating a woman. We chatted for a few minutes, and I knew I was putting forward the right image, basically that of Paul's girlfriend, companion, whatever. Let them think whatever they wanted as long as it involved Paul and his woman-friend. Then we followed the end of the crowd through into the bar.

Grand entrances I can do. I'd done it often enough in full drag and I knew I would impress as the woman I was being. This was easy. Compared to facing a hostile crowd in Scunthorpe after they've had to watch a duo of crap jugglers, while wearing that tomato-red Dolly P. dress and a big bouffant platinum blonde wig, and thrusting out your arms to 'embrace' the crowd and launching into 'Stand by your man', compared to that it was easy. OK this was as a woman rather than in drag but I knew it would work. I'd got the mindset right.

Most drag artistes never try, maybe they should. Go for female rather than drag, I mean. Not every time but just sometimes. Some trannies do, I know that. The female-and-glamorous combination, maybe trannies have the motivation. As Paul and I strolled into the bar accompanying Carl and his wife, I'm delighted to say that some sort of hush descended on the assembled diners. They were looking - at Paul, sure, after his difficulties the previous year quite a few of them had probably heard that he wasn't going to be there.

But they were looking at me too. I'd seen glamorous TVs before, on the Internet mainly, girls like Julie and Katye and Brina, often out for the night with a handsome bisexual man and having a whale of a time showing off their femininity in gorgeous gowns and with carefully crafted make-up.

That evening, at that moment, I knew I'd joined the club. The crafting and the glamour, and the confidence, had all worked to come together at that moment. Everyone was looking, we were the centre of attention, and I was loving it. I looked across at Paul's expression. He'd realised the impact we were having too and was, like me, excited. Quite probably he was aroused too at that moment, it was a distinctly erotic event. I felt a slight stirring in my own tucked member but I over-ruled it and smiled at him.

I leant across and, very quietly and sexily, whispered in his ear.

"Take it easy honey. You know this is going to work. Come on, you need to mingle."

Quite what they thought I had whispered, I don't know, but a slight buzz of conversation filled the room. I eased Paul forward and a waiter appeared in front of us carrying a tray of glasses of champagne. Paul handed one to me and I sipped it gently. And we mingled. We mingled for about ten minutes, sipping our champagne, greeting people, chatting about the weather and golf, mainly with the men, and my dress, with the women. Not that the guys didn't notice the dress of course, what with the long sheer black legs, the bare shoulders and prominent breasts, and the jewellery, they couldn't help notice.

It was wonderful. Smiles all over, for all sorts of reasons, but I'm delighted to say that the main cause of the men's delight was indeed just being in the presence of such a provocatively dressed woman. I knew I'd be good in the role and I was so right. If they'd been filming I'd have deserved an Oscar, probably for 'Best Actress in a Leading Roll'. or maybe for 'Make-Up'. I'd certainly have deserved that.

As the awards began Paul and I moved over towards the guy giving the speeches. And at the right time Paul handed over the little plaques for 'Best young boy golfer' and 'Best young girl golfer'. The 'Best young boy' was Donald, the lad from the bar in the Forester earlier in the day. And splendid he looked too in his new and slightly too large dinner suit. And not too embarrassed when as he came away with his plaque I took his hand gently. I whispered 'Well done, Donald' as I kissed him on the cheek. That couldn't have done his reputation with his mates any harm.

After a few more minutes I noticed Paul looking a little concerned, maybe tired, maybe even a little worried. Things were really going well, I knew it but Paul wasn't getting the same feedback as me. I'd spent many years gauging the mood of a crowd, working an audience, judging how well an act was going. I knew we were making an impression, exactly the right sort of impression but I had to be aware of Paul's sensibilities. Time to go. I took him by the hand.

"Darling, I really think we should be making a move now. I know it's not too late but, well, we've got things to do."

Loudly but not too loudly, easily loud enough for Paul to hear. I led him, not very reluctantly towards the exit door, all the while looking round for George. He was there, just inside the door, talking to another driver maybe. Anyway as soon as he saw us heading his way he got up and leant forward to push the doors open.

"George, time to go I think."

"Sure miss."

He disappeared out of the door at a rate of knots while Paul and I sought out the Club President again to say our goodbyes. The evening's outing was extended by a few minutes when two or three of the other guests realised Paul was leaving, and that he was taking 'Mary' with him. We had to shake hands and clasp hands and do little kisses with about six or seven others before we could make our getaway. But we did, I positively skipped out of the front doors when we realised George had brought the car around.