Nemesis Visits

I sit and slowly drink my tea. The phone beeps and there's another text, from Joe this time about meeting for a drink at the weekend. I can't keep using this phone with all Max's friends knowing the number but a new phone will be expensive or, I wonder... I quickly search on the Internet then log into Max's mobile phone account online, go to the online help chat and tell them that I'm receiving a lot of spam and nuisance calls. Less than five minutes later the phone number has been changed and Maxine has her own phone: result!

Okay, I guess I can't put it off any longer: I'm going to need to go out and to do that I'll need to get dressed. In the bedroom I shed the tee shirt and begin with, well I'm going to call them panties because I hate the word 'knickers'. Okay, now the bra and, after I finally manage to get it the right way up and the right way round, I have the challenge of doing it up at the back. I succeed, eventually, but it leaves me wondering who thought that the back fastening was a good idea?

The top is easy -- a pale pink vee-neck shirt attracts my eye -- but that leaves what to wear below. I see a skirt that would finish somewhere above my knees, I guess: it is a deep, almost blood red, that I think would go well with the top and, even as my hand is reaching out to take it, I stop as three thoughts occur in quick succession. The first is a slight disbelief that I have just stood trying to match clothes to form an outfit; the second is that I really cannot believe that I actually want to wear a skirt and I can't tell whether this is because skirt wearing is somehow hard-wired into my new, female brain or that there has always been some secret desire to cross-dress within me -- I'm going to assume it's the former and blame my girlie brain; thirdly there is the practical thought that going out as a woman for the first time will be stressful enough without the added unknown of skirt-wearing. This final thought wins the argument and I opt for the simplicity and relative familiarity of a pair of jeans; only relatively familiar, however, as I've never worn anything quite as figure-hugging as these before. Finally, I pass over the two pairs of heeled shoes (way too scary to even consider!) and slip on a pair of pink canvas sneakers.

Inside the wardrobe door is a mirror and I take a moment to look at the woman I see there. I'm sure Max wouldn't give her a second glance: pretty enough to avoid ridicule but not sufficiently beautiful to be worth his flattery. God, was Max really that shallow?

I seem to be developing a slightly schizophrenic attitude to Max as I notice that I'm thinking of him as another person: Max's bed, Max's attitude, Max's words... I know, in theory, I am just Max in a new body but the truth is I don't exactly feel like Max anymore. Is this good or bad? I don't know. If I'm not Max then who am I? I don't know this either but, I guess I'm just going to have to try to be Maxine, whatever that means.

I'm going to walk to the small supermarket just down the road for some milk, bread and a few other bits, oh, and some nice-smelling shower gel, shampoo and antiperspirant. Therefore I need money. Max's wallet has twenty quid in it and, of course, his bank and credit cards. Dare I use them? I know the PINs so in theory there should be no problem. In fact, his -- my -- bank accounts are in good shape so I shouldn't have to work for weeks, months even. This isn't going to last months, surely? Ha, I bet Goddesses and spirits of vengeance don't know about electronic banking! I take the cash and the cards, stuffing them into my jeans' pockets.

As I enter the main room I notice for the first time something on the coffee table: a dark brown rectangle the size of a large envelope. I walk over and pick it up. It appears to be made of soft leather, a sort of large wallet or pouch and on the flap are Greek letters that I try to remember from school: a letter N that I can't recall the name for, epsilon, mu, epsilon, delta, no that's sigma not delta, iota sigma, so that's N E M E S... of course, Nemesis.

I remember her reply when I'd asked about ID and money and so, when I open the flap, I am not surprised to find sheets of paper and banknotes inside. There is a birth certificate for Maxine Helen THOMAS, with the same date of birth, parents and other details as my real birth certificate; there is a sheet with details of my National Insurance number (not the same as Max's I notice) and an Inland Revenue tax code; a card giving an NHS Number for Maxine Thomas and, lastly, £300 in cash. What there isn't is a driving licence so unless I want to take a risk, the car will have to stay in the garage for the time being.

Taking twenty quid from the pouch, just in case I bottle out of using the bank card, I go to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and take a step forward. There is no one in the hallway but nevertheless, as I turn to pull the door closed behind me, I cannot help looking back into the safety and security of the apartment. "Shit! That was close!" I gasp out loud as my eyes spot the apartment keys on the table by the door. Imagine if I had walked out without them? I almost dive back into the apartment, suddenly terrified that the door will maliciously slam on me, trapping me outside. My fingers close on the keys and I almost sob with relief. The bunch of keys feels huge in my new fist, far too big for my pockets and even too large to easily carry in my smaller hand. Laboriously I pare them down, unwinding each in turn from the spiral of the key-ring: first the car key then the garage door key, Max's desk and filing cabinet keys and some strange key whose purpose I cannot even remember. Finally, I am left with just the two apartment door keys and the key to the front door of the apartment block. These I slip into my pocket.

I leave the apartment, though I cannot stop myself repeatedly checking that the keys are in place. I cross to the lift and press the call button, tapping my foot as I wait. I don't really want to meet one of my barely-known neighbours and be forced to come up with a story. Actually, I need to think because, sooner or later, someone will want to know where Max is and who the fuck I am. With a soft bing the mercifully empty lift arrives and I enter.

I make it out of the building without encountering anyone and turn onto the pavement towards the shops. It is quite busy so I guess it is sometime after five o'clock and people are heading home. I notice for the first time the difference between men and women as they walk: the men stride, arms and shoulders swinging while the women are more... demure, I suppose, apart from a few girls with a definitely sexy sway. I am suddenly aware that I am striding, or striding as much as my shorter legs and smaller frame allow. I halt instantly before moving into a doorway to watch the girls and women carefully. I don't want a sexy sashay, which I suspect would end up looking like a duck's waddle, but I do want to fit in more so as not to draw attention. I move off, keeping my steps shorter and my arms still; it feels unnatural but it is better I think. I wish I had a handbag or shoulder bag to hold onto as almost all the women seem to have and I add this to my list of things to buy.

I pass a bank and see the hole-in-the-wall ATM. Brilliant: I can get cash from here rather than using the bank card in the shop. I insert the card, key in the PIN and select the maximum withdrawal, £250. There is a breathless moment before I hear the machine begin whirring as it counts the money; there is a clunk and the bank card pops out followed by a soft hum when the cash appears. I glance around before taking and pocketing the bundle of ten and twenty-pound notes. The screen flashes:

No problem, I think to myself but the screen flashes again and I gasp.

My name, my new name, blinks at the centre of the display. I stare dumbfounded as the screen blanks before a new message appears:

There will be no more free money.

Maxine must earn what Maxine spends from now on.

NEMESIS

The screen returns to the normal welcome screen. "Oh fuck!" I swear softly. Why did I think, after that string of mysterious brand-new-yet-old emails and the whole Hong Kong thing, that Nemesis wouldn't know about banks?

So I have five-hundred and seventy quid plus whatever else might be in the flat and Max's pockets so... say six hundred quid or just under. I'm going to need to work and this is obviously part of the punishment. All I can hope is that the apartment will continue to be paid for by Max's account.

Rather depressed, I head on towards the supermarket. What am I to do? There's no way I get a job like my old job but what else can I do? I can type well enough to get by but not well enough for secretarial work, I can't cook worth squat, I've no craft skills... Oh, shitting, fucking hell: as Maxine, I've no qualifications AT ALL! No degree, no A-Levels not a single GCSE to my name... I feel myself on the verge of tears, my vision blurring. I rub the back of my hand across my eyes brusquely and collide with someone.

"Watch where yer goin' yer stupid cow!" The big man I bumped curses me, before lumbering past with his enormous belly.

"I'm sorry..." I manage through silent tears I cannot stop.

There's a gentle touch on my arm. "Are you alright, dear?" It is an old lady carrying a flowered shopping bag peering at me with a concerned look on her wrinkled face. "That fat oaf didn't hurt you did he, dear?"

"No, no, I'm sorry..." I stammer, "I'm not hurt it's just being a bit of a, a crappy day." She pats my arm before reaching into her pocket and taking out a small pack of paper handkerchiefs. Her fingers tremble a little as she pulls one from the packet and hands it to me.

"There you go, my dear, dry your eyes," she smiles. "You youngsters: never think to carry a hanky with you do you?" Her concern makes me smile as I dry my eyes. "Right, if you're okay dear I must get on with me shopping," and she turns and totters off.

"Thank you so much for looking after me," I call after her as I finish drying my eyes. I continue my walk to the supermarket, careful to avoid any further collisions.

The rest of the trip is uneventful, though my eyes continually dart hither and thither, desperately trying to keep track of everyone around me, acutely conscious of every look or glance in my direction. Though I try my best not to be so jumpy, I worry that I must look like some timid rabbit, expecting at every step to be ambushed by a fox. Is this what it is like for all women?

An hour later and having spent rather more than I should of my now finite funds, I close the door behind me and feel the tension finally drain from me: I did it! I walk over to the small dining table and place my purchases on it: toiletries that smell nice, bread, butter, milk, a small pack of smoked salmon (expensive but I can make it last), a punnet of white grapes, a half kilo bag of dried pasta spirals, a jar of tomato and basil pasta sauce, a small block of Cheddar cheese and, lastly, a cheap, faux-leather navy blue shoulder bag from a small, dusty luggage shop on the high street.

I put the food away and take the toiletries to the bathroom, make up the bed with clean, fresh sheets and put the dirty bedding from the laundry basket into the washing machine. I have to rummage to find the detergent and then look in the handbook to see how to operate the damn thing. I'm going to have to cancel the cleaner because I definitely can't afford the sixty pounds per week that Max paid her for, what is it, three visits a week?

I flop in front of the TV in what is a novel experience for me: I am at home on a Friday evening. Normally I, well Max, would have been out drinking and trying to find some woman to chat up and, with any luck, get into bed to screw and then dump. I have zero inclination to go out now but, even if I did, I would not want to encounter someone like Max. Did you hear that Goddess?

My attempts at cooking are a mixed success, so perhaps I was just lucky with the scrambled eggs at lunchtime. Still, I've learned that you can't boil pasta for twenty minutes unless you like the idea of eating a rubbery looking mush! I binned that before trying again and this time I stood and watched the pasta, rather than the TV, as it cooked. The sauce was slightly burned on the bottom of the saucepan but, apart from tasting a bit smoky, it was still edible. Anyway, while the bag of pasta will last me ages, there are only two portions of sauce so I didn't want to bin it if I didn't have to.

I ought to start looking for work but, somehow, the stresses and emotions of the day combine to make me feel lethargic; I'll do it tomorrow because this girl is too tired tonight. Did I really just call myself a girl? I'm tired, that's all. I'm off to bed.

CHAPTER 5: A Visitor

I've felt generally happier today. No, not happier because this whole situation is awful, horrible and unnerving and I wish it were over. So I'm not happier but I am a little easier and more comfortable with my body; I suppose that I'm getting used to it. I could certainly get used to the orgasms as this morning's climax was almost as awesome as yesterday's miraculous discovery!

The trawl through the local paper for work proves fruitless: every job required either qualifications or experience or both. I might have to start looking out for cards in shop windows and on the small advert noticeboards they have up in a couple of shops.

Just after lunch, I decided to go for a walk to the park nearby, partly because I was going a little bit stir-crazy being stuck indoors but also to try and get used to being out, being seen. And I certainly was seen; I was very conscious of being eyed up by most of the men I passed. It's not comfortable, feeling that you're constantly being appraised and judged with every glance. At least, that's what it felt like but maybe it's just my self-consciousness at work... or maybe it's because that's exactly what Max always used to do to every woman he saw.

When I got home again I decided to try on the red skirt as the idea of what wearing it would be like has been nagging away at the back of my mind. It feels, well, unlike anything I've ever worn. The fact that my legs are bare beneath the skirt makes me feel almost as if I'm naked below the waist, especially when the air wafts against my legs as I move. I have practised sitting, using my hand to tuck the skirt beneath me as I sit and keeping my knees together. This last hasn't been as difficult to remember as I thought it would be: I feel so exposed anyway that I really don't want to make it worse.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I'm surprised both at how accustomed to my new appearance I'm becoming and at the fact that I like how I look in this skirt. However, the dark hair on my legs really spoils the effect; Max always disliked hairy legs on women and it seems Maxine feels the same. Still, I do know how to wield a razor.

Legs, it turns out, are much less fiddly to shave than faces and fifteen minutes later, with my newly smooth, hairless legs, I'm walking around the apartment as I try to accustom myself to how the clothing feels and moves. I jump as the doorbell goes. I glance over at the clock on the shelf; it is just after six thirty and I wonder who the hell that could be as my heart races. At the intercom, I press the VIEW button and the little screen lights up to show Jason. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

I can't just ignore him or who knows what he might do; Max should be here and, if I don't answer, he might be concerned and call police or someone to investigate. I press TALK. "Hello?" there is a definite tremble in my voice.

"Who's that? Max, have you got some bird answering your door for you? Max?" Jason asks. "Come on, mate; you're buggering off to Hong Kong on Monday and I wanted to talk to you."

"I'm sorry but he's not here," I reply, my voice no steadier.

"What? Look, who are you? What are you doing there if Max is not in?" he demands.

"I, I'm his sister."

"What? Max hasn't got a sister! Look, you need to let me in because there's something odd here." Oh, shit! What do I do? I need to sort this out and quickly.

"Okay, I'll let you in," I tell him and press the DOOR button to buzz him in. I have about three minutes before he arrives up here so I quickly take the money from the Nemesis leather wallet and tuck it into the inner pocket of my new shoulder bag. I look around and everything else seems in order... the startling knock on the door interrupts me. I'm about to go to the door when it occurs to me that I shouldn't know who Jason is. Bollocks! I let him in without ever asking his name, how suspicious is that? I need to do something to show I don't know him. I move to the door and call through it: "Erm, sorry, I know I should have asked but who, er, are you? I really shouldn't have opened the door without knowing who you are, you see."

"I'm Jason Meyers, Max's boss and also his mate, and I'm here to see him before he buggers off to Hong Kong. Now will you open this bloody door you, you... dopey woman!" His voice is rising and I'm worried that he'll disturb the neighbours so I open the door.

"Erm, come in, er, Jason," I hold the door open as I usher him in. His eyes scan me, looking me over -- boobs to face to boobs to legs to boobs and finally back to face. He steps into the apartment and I close the door behind him.

"You said you were Max's sister and I can see a resemblance, I suppose, but he never once mentioned he had a sister."

"I am, I promise." I walk over to the coffee table and take my birth certificate from the folder and hold it out to him, "Here, as you seem so suspicious of who I am..." He takes it and looks it over and I can feel my heart thumping in apprehension.

"So... Your name is... Maxine? Maxwell and Maxine? What the fuck were your parents thinking? That's really funny!" he says smiling.

"Yes, bloody hilarious," I reply dryly, as my nervousness ebbs slightly.

"Uh, sorry: you probably get that comment all the time. Anyway, I still don't understand why he didn't say he had a sister; a..." he looks again at the birth certificate, his eyes flicking to the birth date. "Isn't that birthday..? Are you his twin?"

"Um, yes but we fell out years ago. He, er," I hesitate, trying to make up a story on the spot, "he only called me yesterday and, um, told me that he was going to Hong Kong and everything and asked me if I'd be prepared to house-sit for him."

"So where is he now?"

"He's, erm, down visiting my, that is, our parents for a couple of days. You know, before he heads off." I hope desperately that Jason believes me. The truth is that my parents both died nearly twelve years ago but I don't recall ever telling Jason that; I don't normally tell anyone. To my relief, after a moment he nods.

"Pity. I wanted to have a word with him for pissing me around by not turning up for two days and for not telling me about this Hong Kong secondment shit." He pauses and looks at me, his expression softening as he runs his hand through his floppy, dirty blond hair in his habitual manner. "Look, I'm sorry about getting a bit... frustrated just now. It's not your fault, what your brother's been doing, I know. I'm not normally so rude to a pretty woman," he smiles and I feel obliged to nod and smile in acceptance of his apology and the compliment.

He edges a little closer as his hand reaches up and his fingers play with the tip of a lock of hair above my shoulder "Hey, er, like, why don't you come out with me instead; a few drinks, maybe a meal..." the back of his hand now gently rubs my shoulder and it takes all my willpower not to shudder at his touch as my mouth goes dry.