If, in my old age, I ever find it difficult to maintain a suitably comfortable
life-style, I believe I could guarantee one by writing a memoir of Cassandra's
parties.  Through them, I was present at some of the key moments of the history
that none of our children will ever be taught.   Not that I ever had children,
but short of being accosted by a woman desperate to carry a baby for an old queen
like me, that was always somewhat unlikely.

Ah, yes; the stories.  Stories of Cassandra the broker of hidden deals, Cassandra
the arch-courtesan of the post-monarchistic world, Cassandra the secret hand in
British politics, Cassandra the eternal hostess. She was a legend to those who
knew of her private world.  To the uninitiated she was just a wealthy and 
somewhat eccentric woman with a love of entertaining powerful guests.  And now
that she's dead it should be safe to tell all.  Rather, it would be, if she were
actually dead.

I was there that night Cassandra spiked the drinks of delegates from the Scottish
and English negotiating teams with a powerful aphrodisiac. The sexual bond that
developed between them following that one drunken tryst did more to guarantee the
comparative peace that has followed in the British Isles than the years of
fruitless talks that had preceded. The later marriage of the negotiators also
made history as the first homosexual union to be recognised officially by the
Anglican church.  I suspect Cassandra had a hand there too, as the Archishop of
Canterbury was an occasional guest of hers.

Then there was the occasion that, against the wishes of her regular guests, she
invited the increasingly powerful chairman of the Popular English Front, the most
charming and media friendly British fascist since Oswald Mosley.  He was doing
his best to woo the gathered crowd with his trustworthiness and interest in their
futures.  Considering the ethnic and sexual diversity present, he was pursuing a
minority. All was going to his satisfaction until Cassandra asked if he was
comfortable at the party without his partner.  After savouring his surprise,
Cassandra brought out his catamite from one of the side rooms.  The young lad
announced to all there that he wanted to go home as it was past his bedtime. 
That small, but pivotal moment did much to define the next few years of English
politics.

It was stories like these which made Cassandra a legend.  It was always easiest
to see her as a force of nature, or an enigmatic manipulator of the lives of the
rich and powerful.  She had a thousand acquaintances and no friends.  Nobody gave
a thought to Cassandra the person, the woman who existed in private, as well as
public.  Well, almost no one.

*     *     *

I think I was the closest thing Cassandra had to a real friend.  I attended my
first of her parties over twenty years ago,  when I was just coming up to forty. 
I was dragged along by my lover of the time, Michael Cage, the editor of a small
but influential literary journal.

Michael and I had met at the launch party for an anthology of verse to which I
was a contributor.  I had been ill at ease that night, as usual, and had drunk
far too much.  Michael had drunk even more and was in a disgraceful state.  He
spent most of the evening carrying out ad hoc character assassinations on anyone
who stood near him for too long. He had tried this out on me, but I declined to
fight back.  After around five minutes of subtle and clever abuse his tone
suddenly changed and he became quite charming.  Without really knowing why, I
left with him that night, and so started our brief and miserable affair.  The sex
was pretty good, but even in the early days this was hardly enough.  If I were to
be honest with myself I was so lonely that even a vaguely abusive relationship
felt better than none at all.

Michael was one of Cassandra's irregular invitees, but never missed one of her
parties when the call came.  I have never been the gregarious type, and the
thought of attending another do packed with strangers and, I imagined, society
types, filled me with gloom and unease. Actually this is an understatement.  I
had spent most of my life until that time in the grip of a crippling shyness. 
Maybe this is why I became a writer - it's easier for me to communicate with
others when separated by time and distance, letting my static words do the
talking for me.

It would make a better story if I said that I walked through the door of
Cassandra's Knightsbridge flat and was enchanted, all my reservations and shyness
falling away.  Sadly, this was not the case. I looked around at the mass of
smartly dressed and generally beautiful people and I panicked.  As I ran off to
the bathroom to vomit I could imagine Michael rolling his eyes in that theatrical
manner of his. After my stomach had ejected its small payload I did my best to
freshen my breath and regain my composure.  I fear I was still white and shaking
as I made my way through the crowd.  The worst part was that everyone else looked
so at ease.  It was as if I had wandered into a large gathering of friends and
was the sole stranger.  I have felt like this often, ever since childhood, but
never so acutely.  I was on the verge of turning and leaving when I felt a hand
on my shoulder.

"Ah, there you are, Rupert," Michael boomed.  "I was just saying to Cassandra
that you must have called it a night already."  He gave one of the short snorting
laughs that signalled he was demeaning me; it was one of the many reasons I left
him not long after.  I was just about to attempt some suitably witty and cutting
retort when I noticed the woman with him.

Now, I've known and understood my sexuality for as long as I've been conscious of
it.  I have never met a woman I found sexually attractive, but for a split
second, when I saw Cassandra, I had a brief flash in which I could understand
what straight men might see in women.  I don't think anyone would have called her
beautiful - she looked too much like a real person to fit any modern ideal - but
she was the kind of woman who became the immediate focus of any gathering.  She
wore her hair short and dark then, as was the fashion, and it accentuated her
thin face and its sharp cheekbones.  She was tall and elegant and moved with an
unstudied grace.  Her eyes and nose seemed a bit too large for the rest of her
face, but the whole effect was one of a woman one could trust.

"You must be Rupert Cullen," she said.  "I'm an admirer.  I thought _Eulogy for
Angels_ was one of the most moving collections I've read."

I must have reddened.  I could feel it in my cheeks.  I certainly stammered. 
"But, I mean, how could you.  There were only three hundred copies printed.  It
was a disaster."

"Anything but," she said.  Her eyes narrowed conspiratorially, balanced by a
faintly mocking smile.  "For a start it means that you have at least another two
hundred and ninety nine fans out there."  She took me by the hand and led me away
from Michael, dodging through the crowd with skill.  A number of people smiled
and waved, trying to start conversations, but for those few moments I was her
sole focus of attention.  "Let me introduce you to one of the thousands to come."
 We stopped before a loud and drunken group of men, all in formal evening dress. 
"Anthony!"  One of the men turned and looked over at us.  Well, at Cassandra, to
tell the truth.  He was several years older than me, but handsome in that way
that wealthy middle-aged men who know how to look after themselves can be:
distinguished, weathered and terribly sexy.  "Anthony, I have someone you simply
have to meet.  This is Rupert Cullen.  I'm sure I must have mentioned him.  He's
one of the most astonishingly original poets of our age.  Tragically, he seems to
be without a publisher at the moment."

Cassandra turned and kissed me on the cheek.  "I'll leave you two to chat.  I'm
sure you'll find lots to talk about.  I must go and mingle, I'm afraid, but if I
don't see you before you go tonight I'd love to have you back again."  With that
she was off, back into the crowd, like a shark cutting through a school of tuna.

I turned back to my new acquaintance.  He smiled warmly; it was a lovely smile. 
"So," he said, "You're one of Cassandra's favourite poets, then?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but she did say some pretty nice things."  I grabbed a
drink off a passing tray and swallowed it all in one go, without knowing what it
was.  I was still shaking.  "Sorry," I said after a brief but awkward silence, "I
didn't really catch your name."

He stuck out a hand and we shook.  "Anthony Justice," he said.

I blinked for a few moments.  "Erm, as in Anthony Justice Publishing?"

Obviously amused by the petrified look on my face he laughed and put an arm
around my shoulder.  "Yes," he said, "That Anthony Justice."

*     *     *

It was less than two months later that I left Michael and moved in with Anthony. 
I usually attended Cassandra's parties in Anthony's company, but it became clear
in time that I was the guest, with Anthony as my partner.  I'm not sure if this
bruised his ego, but it never seemed to hurt our relationship.

Within a year, Anthony Justice Publishing had reissued my volume of verse, which
sold respectably for poetry, which is to say hardly at all.  They also published
my first novel, _Running South_, which did somewhat better, and started me off
one a moderately successful career as a novelist.  I accused Anthony of
publishing me only because of our relationship, but he told me that in his eyes I
was a promising writer first and a great lay second.  The first time he said this
I hit him with a pillow and we both laughed until we cried.

Even now, as I enter my sixties, I'm not sure that I've ever really been in love.
 It's funny, that for a poet and novelist who has written about love in so many
of its forms, for such a ridiculous number of years, that I still can't define it
to my own satisfaction.  I think, though, that if I ever loved anyone, it was
Anthony.  He wasn't the most affectionate man I've known, and God knows he wasn't
perfect, but I felt a kind of peace in our years together that has been absent
throughout the rest of my life.  There was simply a rightness between us that
never needed to be stated.  Maybe this is the best definition of love I can
manage.

If I ever owed a debt to Cassandra, this was it.  For all the excitement and
richness she and her parties brought to my life, Anthony was her greatest gift to
me.  She would never need to do anything else to earn my trust and loyalty.

*     *     *

Despite the fact that we only ever met at her parties, and never really talked in
depth, my friendship with Cassandra grew quietly over the next ten years. 
Without ever telling me anything, she managed to make me feel like a
co-conspirator, like we were naughty children who shared a secret no one else
knew.  Maybe this is how she made everyone feel. It would explain a lot about her
success.  Certainly it made me feel closer to her than I did to people I actually
knew in depth.

She always took time out at her parties to find a quiet spot and chat with me for
a while, usually about harmless gossip or recent books that had impressed her.  I
didn't understand why, at first.  Here she was, surrounded by the most
fascinating people in England, and she kept coming back to me.  I knew it wasn't
because she was attracted to me, as it was her who had introduced me to Anthony. 
It was almost a year before I realised that it was because, for all her
popularity, she had no real friends.  Obviously some kind of spark had passed
between us when we met, but I was too dull to notice it.  I was glad of her
friendship, odd as it was, as it blossomed over the years.  It went beyond the
shallow thrill of being Cassandra's closest friend and became something genuinely
rewarding, if frustratingly elusive.

So it might have stayed, until her death, if Anthony hadn't died first. It
doesn't seem right his death can be described in so few words.  He deserves
better.  One of these days, I've promised, I will give him the words he deserves,
but not here; this is Cassandra's story.

It was liver cancer, quick and merciless.  By the time Anthony and I knew
anything was seriously wrong we had so little time to say our goodbyes.  That
almost hurt more than his death itself.

It wasn't until after I had put Anthony in the ground that I realised how many of
our friends were really his friends.  Oh, of course they were all very kind in
the time surrounding the funeral, and I had as much sympathy and condolence as
one man can tolerate, but after the initial period of mourning all our friends
drifted away.  Maybe I'm not being fair: it's possible they really had been
friends, but no longer knew how to deal with me in my new role of widower. 
Whatever it was, life became very empty and lonely.

*     *     *

One day, not long after the funeral, Cassandra came to visit me at the flat.  Put
like that it hardly sounds like a monumental event, but it was if you know
anything about Cassandra.  To my knowledge, no one had ever seen her outside of
one of her parties.  I had felt vaguely hurt when she did not turn up at
Anthony's funeral, despite knowing her reputation for privacy.  When I answered
the door, and saw her standing there, dressed in jeans and a plain cotton
sweatshirt, I was as flustered as I had been the night we met.

Cassandra walked in without being ushered and hugged me.  She smelled of soap and
fresh laundry.  "I'm sorry Rupert," she said into my shoulder, "I should have
been there."

We disentangled and I looked at her again.  Without her makeup or one of her
famous gowns she looked like an ordinary young woman.  In fact, fresh faced as
she was, she looked much too young to be the woman I had known for ten years.  I
dismissed this as the time as a consequence of daylight and her lack of makeup.

"Sit down, please.  Let me get us some tea."  I cleared a stack of papers off the
settee to make enough space for her.  Since Anthony's death there had seemed
little point in doing housework.  I was also padding out my meagre income by
doing reviews of poetry and novels for several journals, and as a result the flat
was awash with manuscripts and books.  Cassandra sat in the middle of this paper
chaos and smiled.

I moved to the kitchen in something between a walk and a run, dodging piles of
paper and magazines.  After putting the kettle on I looked around and realised
that all the good teacups either had mould growing in them or were heavily
discoloured from having tea or coffee left in them for disgusting lengths of
time.  I tried to give a couple of them a quick scrub, but it made little
difference.  I almost laughed at the irony of not being able to offer the most
famous hostess of our age even a simple cup of tea.

In the back of one of the cupboards I found a couple of old mugs, decorated with
pictures of characters from a children's show of my youth.  I had picked them up
at a jumble sale, amused by the feelings of nostalgia simple tat could generate. 
I rinsed them out and served the tea in them.

I passed Cassandra her cup.  She held it up to the light and laughed musically. 
"The Banana Splits.  I haven't thought about them for years.  Thank you.  That's
cheered me up."

Sipping my tea, I thought for a moment.  "That was years before your time."

Cassandra shrugged.  "I must have caught repeats on satellite."

We both fell silent, but there was no awkwardness in it.  Just two old friends,
sharing some tea.

"I should have been by earlier.  It was unforgivable."

"Not at all.   I know you're busy.  It must take superhuman effort to do all you
do."

She shrugged again.  "Someone has to.  It's a calling."

I looked into my tea, as if seeking a meaning to her visit.  Despite the inanity
of the talk it all felt important somehow, but I couldn't understand how.

"Anthony's death came as a real shock to me," she said.  "I know we all have to
die sometime, but I'd known him for so long that he just seemed like a natural
part of my life.  The suddenness of it was chilling - a reminder of how any of us
can have the rug pulled out from under us without any warning."

"Well, you shouldn't be worrying about it too much at your age.  With your youth
and vitality you'll outlive us all."

Cassandra shook her head and smiled sadly.  "Nothing is ever as it seems.  I may
not have as many years left as you think.  I have a suspicion that you'll be the
one to outlive me."

I felt like this was my cue to say something, but couldn't for the life of me
think what it was.  I just nodded dumbly.

"Anyway," she continued, "That's what brought me here.  I know it's selfish, with
this really being your time of need, and with me not having visited before it
must be presumptuous, but..."

I may be the only person alive to have ever seen Cassandra at a loss for words. 
"Yes?  It's all right, whatever it is."

"Thanks."  She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small brown envelope. 
"This contains the keycards to get into my flat and my private rooms.  I've taken
the liberty of making you the executor of my will.  If anything should happen to
me, you can use these to find out everything you need to do.  You'll see what I
mean when the time comes. I know I'm making the right decision and I hope you'll
agree."

"Erm, yes, of course."  I tried not to let the absurdity of the situation take me
away from its seriousness.  Here was this fit young woman asking a late
middle-aged man like me to sort out her affairs after her death.  It made no
sense to me at the time.

"Thank you," she said.  "I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"It's quite all right.  Really."

She relaxed visibly and sat back in her seat.  "So," she said, "Tell me all about
Anthony.  Make me feel like I knew him as you did."

*     *     *

Over the course of the next few parties I attended I saw a marked change in
Cassandra.  She seemed to become more preoccupied and self-absorbed.  I don't
think, in her role as hostess, I had ever seen her frown; now she seemed to do
nothing but.  Then, one day, she became her old positive, gregarious self again. 
I thought to ask her what had been going on, but never quite got around to it.  I
felt that if she wanted to tell me, she would.  It was her business.

My role in the parties grew.  I never noticed the change in myself as it was
happening.  I knew I had become less shy, but now people actually seemed to be
seeking out my company and I was enjoying it.  I went from someone who dreaded
the company of others to one who felt less and less comfortable on his own. 
After the healthy advance I got for _The Choirmaster's Dream_ I bought a larger
flat and tried hosting a few parties of my own.  They seemed to be a mild
success, but they never felt quite real enough.  Cassandra's place was where it
all happened for me.

Cassandra even started delegating some of her work to me.  In most cases I was
left to make those introductions that Cassandra thought would be advantageous to
all.  Sometimes the work was a bit more demanding.  When Professor Thomas of
Cambridge announced to the press that he was one step away from developing a
prototype time machine, I was charged with making sure he accepted his invitation
and, once he was there, convincing him about the potential damage such an
invention could wreak.  In many ways he was not a naive man, but he had an
enormous blind spot when it came to his work.  I did my preparation for the party
by reading as many science fiction stories about time travel as possible, in
order to present a variety of potential nightmares, ranging from lethal paradoxes
to the destruction of civil liberties. It was one of the most challenging and
stimulating evenings of my life. I doubt I gave any arguments that the good
professor had not heard before, but the mild hallucinogen that had been slipped
into his fruit juice may have made him more open to other possibilities.  He
showed no sign of a conversion by the end of the evening, but a few weeks later
he announced that there had been an error in his calculations and he was the
possessor of a large and very expensive pile of electronic junk.  Maybe this was
the truth and I made no difference.  I don't suppose I'll ever know, but as I get
older it helps me to think I did something.

It was this and other evenings like it that made me feel like I had a purpose. 
My writing career was progressing adequately, but without making too much of a
dent in the best-seller lists.  I wasn't too worried about this.  I told others
it was because I wasn't really the kind of writer who would ever be popular, but
mostly it was because my focus lay elsewhere.

In all this time I saw many people come and go at the parties.  Some guests would
be regulars for a period of up to a few years, and then their flow of invitations
would dry up.  Others would be there for special purposes, or to be introduced to
exactly the right person at the right time.  This led me to notice two things. 
Firstly, at any given stage, I was the only person who had been attending for
more than five or six years.  Secondly, Cassandra never changed.  When I say she
didn't change, I'm ignoring the fact that she was always on the leading edge of
fashion.  Her hair, makeup and clothes were always perfectly synchronised with
the emerging trends, sometimes even setting them. Over a period of a few years a
stranger who had met her once may not even recognise her as the same woman.  The
problem was that she didn't age.  After just over twenty years since I had first
met her, she still looked like she was a little over thirty.  No one else seemed
to realise there was anything unusual, maybe because they were all kept at a safe
distance.  But it grew to bother me more and more.  Still, I believed one day
Cassandra would tell me what her secret was.  It would have been impolite to
press.

And so it progressed for the ten years after Anthony's death.  Then I received
the telephone call.

*     *     *

It was about one in the morning and it took me almost thirty seconds to work out
what the noise was that had woken me up.  Few enough people want to call me in
general that I tend to be untroubled by the telephone, even during daylight
hours.  I could not remember the last time someone had rung me in the middle of
the night.

"Hello?"  There was a long silence.  "Hello?"

"Rupert.  Come over to Cassandra's place."  The voice belonged to an unfamiliar
man, and from the sounds of things he was in great pain. Every word was choked
with effort.

"Who is this?"

"Just come over.  It's important."

After hanging up the telephone, I sat on the edge of the bed.  It seemed like an
unlikely prank, and Cassandra had showed little inclination for frivolous jokes
in the past.  I had no idea who the man was, but it sounded genuine somehow. 
Worried that now may be the time, I picked up the envelope Cassandra had given me
all those years ago.

I dressed hurriedly and caught a taxi to Knightsbridge.

*     *     *

With moonlight streaming through the windows, with no one else around,
Cassandra's flat looked somehow less real.  It was still as grand and elegant as
ever, but to see the reception hall, with its tasteful, minimalist furnishings
and painstakingly selected artworks without the company of others seemed almost
indecent.  I felt like an intruder again, twenty years after I had first shaken
that feeling off.

There was a sliver of light coming down the corridor that led to Cassandra's
private rooms.  Hesitantly I started walking towards it.

"Cassandra?  It's Rupert.  Is everything all right?"  There was no answer.  I
knocked on the partly open door that was the source of the light.  "Cassandra?"

I eased the door open and looked around.  In contrast to the beauty of the rest
of the apartments, the bedroom that lay beyond the door was plain to the extent
of being out of place.  It contained a single bed, a bedside table and wooden
dressing table, covered with cosmetics, but no other furniture to speak of.  The
closest thing to a decoration was a full-length mirror on one of the walls.  One
set of doors apparently led to a walk-in closet and another single door had what
looked like a security mechanism beside it.  There was a telephone on the bedside
table, on the far side of the bed, with its receiver hanging off.  I walked
around to investigate and saw a bare foot sticking past the end of the bed.  I
ran the few feet to the other side of the bed and stopped.  There was a man lying
still on the ground.  He looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies,
dressed in a silk dressing gown, and he appeared to be dead.  I had never seen
him before.

Carefully, I knelt down beside him and tried to remember how to take a pulse.  I
felt for the artery in his throat.  His skin was still warm, but I could find no
sign of a heartbeat.  I looked over at the telephone and thought about calling
for an ambulance.  Was that what one did when one found a body?  If he had wanted
an ambulance, he could have called one.  He chose to call me instead.  Why?  Who
was he?

I stood up again and looked around the room, hoping to find some clue. In the
walk-in closet there was a dazzling array of women's clothes, including many of
the dresses I had seen Cassandra wear.  There were also a few sets of male
clothing, all casual wear.  Did the dead man live here, with Cassandra?  Why had
I never met him before?

Looking around again, I saw the locked door.  I remembered the envelope in my
pocket and took it out.  There was the card I had used to get into the flat in
the first place, and then another.  I tried it in the swipe unit and a light went
from red to amber.  I pushed the door, but nothing happened.  Looking in the
envelope again I found a slip of paper with a number on it.  I punched it in and
the light went green and there was the sound of a lock clicking.

I don't think I've ever felt the sense of shock that walking into that room gave
me.  It was sleek, white and antiseptic.  Air conditioning filled the room with a
low hum and made the air dry and sterile.  A bank of monitors displayed the
images from hidden cameras throughout the house.  Another bank of electronics
held a couple of computer terminals and a lot of equipment I just simply couldn't
recognise.  In the middle of the room was a pair of white leather seats, almost
like dentist's chairs.  In one of them, stark naked, sat Cassandra, eyes wide and
staring.

Shaking, I walked over to the seats.  "Cassandra?"  She showed no sign of
response.  Hesitantly, I touched her shoulder.  She was cool to the touch.  I
shook her gently.  "Cassandra?"  Her head lolled from side to side.  There were
things coming out of her head.  I still don't know how to describe them.  They
weren't exactly wires, as they appeared to be organic, but wires is the closest
word I can find.  They connected her to the seat.

Nothing made sense to me.  Was she dead?  She looked more like she was in a coma,
but if so, what was she doing here?  I started to feel sick and dizzy.  The
sterile, dry air in the room was doing little to help. I half staggered around to
the other seat and sat down in it slowly.  I leaned back, waiting for the nausea
to pass.

Something started moving under my hands and I sat up with a start. There were
pads of the same material that made up the wire at the end of the arms of the
chair.  The pads seemed to be sprouting animated strands.  I felt something
tickle my ear and jumped out of the chair. The headrest was also made of the
material and it too was pushing out tendrils.  I backed away in terror until I
hit the wall.  As I watched, the tendrils poked around for a bit and then were
sucked slowly back into the chair.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring at that chair.  Slowly my mind
started to give control back to rational thought.  The chair, Cassandra's body,
the man in the next room.  In a flash it all started to make sense to me, but it
seemed lunatic.  Of course she had never aged.  She was never a real person.  I
think I started to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

There was only one way to tell if I was delusional, or if the real world was as
unreal as it now appeared to be.  I took off all my clothes, trying to ignore the
chill of the air conditioning.  I didn't know if I had to be naked, if it would
even work at all, but it seemed like a good bet.  Once undressed I sat down in
the seat.

It took all my will to sit still while the tendrils probed me.  They wrapped
around my hands first, and then my face, discovering orifices. I could feel them
beginning to crawl all over my body like dry worms. They found their way into my
ears and up my nose.  I almost gagged as one pushed down my throat.  As they
worked their way around me I felt myself beginning to lose consciousness, despite
my building panic.  I remember hoping that I hadn't made a miscalculation and
that this wasn't the last thing I would ever feel.

Then, suddenly, I was awake and untangled from the wires.  Looking around, I saw
the other side of the room.  I looked down and saw breasts, and laughed.  I had
been right after all.  I eased myself out of the chair and walked through to the
bedroom, marvelling at the subtle differences in sensation.  My balance felt
different as I walked, rocked side to side by the sway of feminine hips.  I also
felt a sense of well-being that I had forgotten as I had aged, the vigour of
youth.  I looked at myself in the mirror and saw Cassandra, naked, but elegant as
ever.  I tried on one of her faintly ironic smiles and broke into a real one to
see it reflected back at me.  This was incredible - to walk around in someone
else's skin.  Before I could lose myself in the novelty of it all, I was dragged
back down to earth as I saw the dead man's feet reflected in the mirror.

I walked over to him and knelt again.  He felt so light in my arms, as if his
escaping life had left nothing more than a hollow shell behind. I cradled his
head and brought it up to look at me.  His eyes were still open and obscenely
vacant.  The sudden reality of the loss of a friend I had never really known
filled my eyes with caustic tears. "Goodbye, Cassandra," I said and kissed him on
the lips.

*     *     *

I pulled a pair of jeans and a cotton top out of Cassandra's cupboard and
dressed.  I was thankful that Cassandra had been designed with small breasts.  I
didn't know if I could work out how to put on a bra. In my youth some of my
friends were heavilly into the drag scene and would have killed for some of
Cassandra's frocks, but I was always the more reserved type.  Jeans and a t-shirt
would definitely do.  Anyway, there was a lot to be done.

Some of the pieces had obviously fallen into place, but some were also missing. 
Back in the white room I sat down in front of one of the computer terminals. 
Despite some little experience with using computers for writing, my expertise was
decidedly limited.  Surely there would be some kind of password in use.  How
would I work it out? To the side of the screen was a little round bit of glass
that looked like a peephole.  I looked in it and heard a beep.  Looking back at
the screen I saw the message "Retinal scan accepted."  I smiled to myself.
"Cassandra, you thought of everything."

I must have sat up for most of the night.   It turned out Cassandra's body didn't
get tired easily.  I hoped my own was getting some rest wrapped in its white
cocoon.

It took me a while to understand how to access the files on the system, but once
I had I discovered it would take me weeks even to scan them all.  There was a
daily diary, complete with descriptions of all the events at her parties
Cassandra had witnessed and reconstructions of others from the details gathered
by her security system.  There were staggeringly detailed files on all of the
attendees, complete with details I'm sure would have shamed the intelligence
services.  Of course the first file I read was my own.  Who wouldn't?

More began to make sense as I read.  Apparently I had reminded Cassandra of
herself - sorry, himself - when he was a bit younger.  He took a liking to me,
and despite my shyness thought I had some kind of potential.  And he hadn't been
lying about being a fan of my poetry, although it turns out he was disappointed
with my prose.  I was only slightly surprised when I read that in the years our
friendship was developing, he was actually grooming me to become his successor as
Cassandra.  That time Cassandra had visited, after Anthony's death, was when he
had discovered that he had angina.  He was worried that he might not live too
much longer and wanted me to be in a position to take over almost immediately
should he die or become incapacitated. Shortly afterwards he found that the drugs
he was taking to control his condition worked well, and the pressure was off. 
Still, I was there if things got bad.  And now they had.

I had to get up and walk around the room to clear my head.  Would I be able to
take over as Cassandra?  More importantly, did I want to?  Not only would it
involve the sacrifice of what little personal life I had, but it would also rely
on me living a lie.  I didn't know if I could do that.  And the whole idea of
spending large chunks of my life as a woman didn't appeal very much either. 
Cassandra's body certainly felt fitter and healthier than my own ageing one, but
it wasn't me.  I was sixty now, and the idea of embarking on a whole new life
seemed like an impossibility.

There had to be other possibilities.  I sat back down and carried on looking
through the files as I thought.  As I was browsing I came across Cassandra's own
file.  There was surprisingly little in it.  One of the most fascinating
individuals of our age and he found himself to be less important than me.  He was
born in the mid nineteen-fifties, a little over ten years before me.  He had come
from a wealthy background and had developed both middle-class guilt and a strong
sense of ambition.  The two had fused together into a master plan that developed
into becoming a Machiavellian socialite, to use subtle influence to put right
what he saw as the ills of our society.  The problem was that he wasn't very good
at it.  In a brutally honest section he put it down to his general lack of
personality and poor looks.  He built upon this plan, however, and bought the
technology and services he needed to make it work.   He mentions that his money
managed to bring about some outstanding advances in biotechnology, almost none of
which he really understood.  The scientists and technicians contracted in were
sworn to secrecy, but some of the details of the work had found their way into
the mainstream, mostly in the development of a new generation of medical
prosthetics.

Cassandra was born around twenty five years ago.  His explanation as to why
Cassandra was a woman was vague.  He mentions that he believed women were more
natural socialites than men, and that people would open themselves up to a woman
that bit more.  Certainly it made it easier for him to manipulate men, who even
in out new age of enlightenment, hold much of the power.  I think in the end
there must have been a deep personal reason, one that led to a combination of
utility and pleasure. Some men are just born to be women.

As his/her work progressed he realised that he really could make a difference and
what had been an experiment turned into a life's vocation.  The details were
sketchy, and I felt like I still knew nothing of him.  I wished he had had more
of an ego; I would have liked to have known him better as a person.

Once I had read all this, I felt more strongly than ever that it was important
that Cassandra continue.  I may not have shared all the same drives as Cassandra,
but I was not without a conscience.  I had seen too much good come from her work
to let her die.  If she would not live through me, however, she would have to
live through someone else.  Who, though?  I went back to the files.

After many hours of reading through the dossiers on recent guests I had narrowed
it down to three candidates, but one in particular stood out. It would have been
ideal to find a woman, but none on file seemed to have all the qualities I
associated with Cassandra.  The man I had chosen was David Hewlett, a young
lawyer who was beginning to make a name for himself.  We had only met properly
once, but he had made something of an impression on me.  I remembered that he had
one of the quickest minds I had encountered, with a very dry sense of humour.  He
was also painfully handsome.  I had spent a considerable portion of the evening
flirting with him gently.  I knew he was straight, but sometimes that just makes
it more fun.  It can be a refreshing change of pace to play sexual games without
any risk of success, just purely for the sake of entertainment.  To David's
credit he showed no offense, and even humoured me more than I had any right to
expect.

I wondered whether my fond memories of David were prejudicing my judgement.  As I
read on, though, he did seem to be perfect in so many areas.  He was still in his
early thirties and had no family.  He was ambitious, as shown by his growing
reputation as a fearsome barrister with an expanding practice.  Despite this, the
majority of the work he did was pro bono, indicating a sense of idealism.  Added
to this was evidence of a strong manipulative streak, which was probably a
prerequisite for a successful lawyer.   Cassandra had had a very high opinion of
him and thought that he would be most useful in the future.

The question still remained of how to convince him.  I doubted that I could just
call him up and ask him.  He would probably think I was mad, and if I then
presented him with evidence in the form of Cassandra it would confuse and terrify
him.  Something more subtle and devious was required, something that would
combine function and plain fun.  What better way to serve Cassandra's memory?

*     *     *

Before anything else could be done I had a body to get rid of.  I couldn't really
report it to the authorities in case all the details of Cassandra and her secret
came out.  I had no idea of how one disposed of a body.  I entertained some
thoughts of using the building's furnace, if it had one, but I didn't know where
to look.  I couldn't face dismembering him, and it seemed dishonourable to his
memory, anyway.  Maybe if I could find a building site there might be some wet
concrete, but this seemed like a good way of getting caught.

A workable idea occurred to me.  Nobody had seen this man for years. In practice
it was as if he no longer existed.  This made things somewhat easier.

It was still dark outside, but it wouldn't be for long.  I found the oldest and
tattiest looking male clothes I could and took them outside. There was a small
patch of parkland a few streets away.  I rubbed the clothes in a patch of dirt
and snagged them on a chainlink fence before taking them back.  I then dressed
the now cooling body in the dirty clothes.  I wondered if I would have to go back
to my own body for the next stage, but Cassandra was a lot stronger than she
looked.  I carried the body down to my car and drove over to the South Bank with
him lying across the back seats.  Could I ever explain this to the police if I
were stopped.  Once at the South Bank I found a deserted stretch under a railway
bridge and deposited the body, wrapping him in an old blanket and some cardboard
I found in the area.  With any luck the police would never think he was anything
other than a vagrant who died after a night out in the elements.  The temperature
was certainly below freezing.

I still feel bad about leaving him to an anonymous death like that, but I'm sure
it's what he would have wanted.  Cassandra's life was more important to him than
his own death.

*     *     *

"David?  It's Cassandra."  I hoped that despite the difference in controller,
Cassandra's voice sounded the same.  The telephone would probably help.

"Cassandra!  How delightful.  To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I know it's short notice, but I was hoping we could have dinner together
tonight."

"Really?"  He sounded unsure.  "I haven't had an invitation."

"Oh, don't be silly."  I tried to reproduce that laugh of Cassandra's that had
always melted my heart.  "It's just an intimate little dinner for the two of us. 
I'd be delighted if you said yes."

"How can I refuse, then?  What time shall I be there?"

"Eight.  Eight will be perfect, darling."

*     *     *

I had most of the day to prepare.  From having helped organise some parties
before I knew the number for Cassandra's usual caterers.  They were more than
pleased to arrange an intimate little dinner for two at such short notice.  I
imagine Cassandra almost single-handedly kept them in business.

In the file on Cassandra it had said that while she was capable of eating and
drinking she never actually absorbed or digested anything. After a set length of
time it would just pass through her.  This meant she was immune to alcohol, which
explained why I had never seen her in anything other than full control, even when
a party went on until the early hours of the morning.  I made sure there were a
couple of bottles of Chateau Margeaux and some fine brandy on hand.

It took me almost over an hour to search through Cassandra's wardrobe for a
suitable dress.  The choice was staggering, and I had to play with combinations a
bit.  It was a lot more fun that I had expected.  I can't say it gave me much of
a thrill, but I was reduced to helpless giggling a number of times as I got
caught up in straps and zips.  In the end, I picked something black and sleek,
with a split skirt and plunging neckline.  It took me several hours to get the
makeup right, never having experimented with it before, and the hair took almost
as long.   The end result was worth it.  When I looked in the full-length mirror
I was pleased with and surprised by the effect.  Cassandra had always been the
very definition of an elegant hostess, but I had never really considered her
ability as a seductress.

By the time eight o'clock rolled around everything was ready.

*     *     *

"Cassandra, my dear.  Delightful to see you."  David kissed me on the cheek and
walked in.  "This place looks a lot larger when it's empty."

I smiled at him.  "I know what you mean.  Drink?"

"Martini, please."

If I hadn't read David's file I probably wouldn't have remembered too much about
him.  As it was I was able to ask him enough questions about his law practice and
the cases he was working on to kickstart the evening.

In my heels I was about two inches taller than him.  I hoped this wouldn't bruise
his ego too much.  He was even better looking than I remembered, with the kind of
dark looks that hinted at an Italian or Spaniard in his parentage.  The evening
would be a genuine pleasure.

The caterers did their job beautifully.  The food was excellent and rather salty.
 I made sure that David was given regular refills of wine over dinner.  I had
been concerned that I wouldn't find enough smalltalk to keep things going, but it
turned out David had a low tolerance to alcohol.  He became loquacious early on,
opening up about his need to make a difference in his work.  I thought he was
just making conversation at first and then it hit me that he was trying to
impress me.  By the time we came to have brandy by the fire he was positively
flirtatious.

"Sorry," he said, placing a hand on my knee, "I've talked about myself all
evening.  It must have been a bore."  His words were slightly slurred and his
face was flushed.  Everything was going according to plan.

"Not at all."  The feeling of his hand, tempered by the silk stockings I was
wearing, gave me an unexpected thrill.  The evening was getting even better.

"I've just realised that I know almost nothing about you.  Please, tell me
something.  Is there a man in your life?"

I almost burst out laughing, but how would I explain that?  A man in my life? 
Not in the way you think.  "Not at the moment."  I put my hand on top of his. 
"Why do you ask?"

He looked into the fire.  The way the glow picked up the highlights of his face
made me want to kiss him there and then.  "Oh, you know."

"No, not really."  I leaned over and pulled him around to face me. "Why don't you
tell me?"  Our eyes met and I could see a deep longing in them.  I felt a
momentary pang of guilt as I thought about the deception and where it was all
leading.  Then I put it aside.  For the next few hours I would be Cassandra,
letting Rupert sleep in the chair in the white room.

He looked at me like a lost child.  He's intimidated, I realised.  He's heard the
stories about Cassandra and can't believe a woman like her would be interested in
him.  Holding him by the shoulder I leaned back and stretched out on the hearth
rug, pulling him over me.  He paused and then kissed me gently.  "You can do
better than that," I said, with only a hint of mockery.  Our lips locked again,
passionately.

One thing women's clothes have going for them is how much easier they are to take
off in the throes of passion.  I helped David as he fumbled with his shirt and
trousers, but it still took forever.  I hoped the frustration wouldn't kill his
passion.  My dress came off easily.  I had decided against a bra and David paused
in the last stages of taking his shirt off to stare at my, well, at Cassandra's
breasts.  "My God," he said, "You're beautiful."

"Have you any idea how much more romantic that would be if you were making eye
contact instead?"  David looked up guiltily.  "Joke," I said. "It's OK.  Stare
all you want."

He bent over me and took a nipple in his mouth.  It felt sensitive and wonderful
as his tongue played over it.  For the first time I thought I might miss having
breasts when this was over.

With a free hand I started trying to ease his underpants down.  He looked up at
me.  "Isn't this all going a bit too fast for you?"

"Don't worry," I said, "This is how I like it."  This must be heaven for him, I
thought, a woman who doesn't want much foreplay.

He pulled his underpants down quickly.  His erection was firm, if somewhat small.
 Still, it looked like it would do the job.  I thought about sucking him first,
but decided he was probably so excited he would just shoot off in my mouth.  If
this was going to be my only sex as a woman I wanted to know what it felt like. 
God knows I've given enough blowjobs in my life.

With a look of intense concentration he pulled my panties down.  I was glad I had
the foresight to put them on over my stockings.  I had come to like the sensation
of them and wanted to feel the friction of David between my legs through them.  I
spread myself open and pulled David down on top of me.

I've never been much of a fan of being penetrated.  In my sexual relationships
I've tended to be the dominant partner.  I do believe that it is better to give
than to receive.  This time it was a bit different.  The normal discomfort wasn't
as bad, and as David pushed himself into me I was able to look into his eyes.  I
think I gasped.  I certainly bit his shoulder.

It was all over much too quickly, but while it lasted it was wonderful. Maybe
there would have been more practical or foolproof ways of accomplishing my goal,
but I doubt I would have enjoyed any of them quite as much.  I could almost
ignore the fact that I was in a woman's body, despite the different sensations,
and concentrate on the fact that I was making love to a very handsome man.  He
closed his eyes for much of it, but I watched him screwing me, picked out in the
flickering firelight.  I doubt I will ever have such good sex again.  All of a
sudden he started shuddering and breathing quickly.  I felt a spurt of warm
liquid enter me and he slumped over me.  He kissed me hard. "That was terrific," 
he said, just before he rolled off me and fell asleep.

I lay in the warmth of the fire for a few minutes, enjoying the post coital glow.
 I hadn't come, but that didn't seem too important.  I played with the sparse
hair on David's chest and watched him sleep. Luckily he started to snore, which
reminded me we weren't just there for my pleasure.  I nudged him a couple of
times to make sure he was sound asleep.  Once I was satisfied he was I stood up
and lifted David to his feet.  The orgasm and the alcohol made him drowsy and
pliable. "Don't worry," I said, "We'll get you to bed."

As I walked him down the corridor I felt the semen trickling out of my vagina and
down my leg, into the silk stockings.  Never mind, I thought, Cassandra's budget
can stand another pair.  I laid David down softly on the bed in Cassandra's room
and then went through to the white room.

The harsh light of the room snapped me out of any romantic thoughts I might have
had left.  I was there to do a job.  I took a last look at my body from the
outside.  It looked so old and frail, wrapped in its white strands.  I wondered
briefly if I was doing the right thing, but it was too late, really.

I sat down in Cassandra's side of the seat and waited for the white strands.

*     *     *

The rest of the plan was simple and business like.  First, I gathered up David's
clothes and every other piece of male clothing in the house and put them in a
refuse sack and dropped it by the front door, ready to take with me when I left. 
It wouldn't do for David to have an easy out once he woke up.  I wanted to
encourage him to at least explore his new identity.  As an afterthought I rescued
his wallet and keys and put them on the bedside table.

Then, once everything else was ready, I eased David on to the seat in the white
room.  I wasn't sure if the transfer would wake him up and wanted to be able to
make a speedy exit if it did.  The procedure looked even more bizarre watched
from the outside.  The tendrils crept all over him, like anemic snakes, finding
all his entry points.  It gave me shivers of disgust.

Luckily Cassandra showed no sign of stirring once it was done.  Maybe even she
needed to sleep sometimes, or the procedure took longer with an unconscious mind.
 Whatever it was, I wasn't going to wait around to find out.

I believed that David was an inquisitive man.  Once he had got over the initial
shock he would want to work out what was really going on.  I put a note on the
computer console saying "retinal scanner", just in case he wasn't as lucky as me.

Maybe it would all work out.  It was a gamble.  It was possible his masculine ego
wouldn't be able to cope with the idea of being a woman. Maybe, like me, he would
just simply decide this wasn't the life for him.  From the few things I knew
about David, however, it seemed like there was a chance.  The hardest part would
be keeping out of the way and letting him work things out for himself.

*     *     *

A few agonising months later I received an invitation to a party at Cassandra's
place.  I had almost given up hope.

I arrived late.  I was unsure of how I would be received and wanted the
camouflage of the crowd in case things went badly.  There were a lot of familiar
faces there and many new ones.  I felt uncomfortable again and wished I could
feel otherwise.  I greeted a few old friends and discussed trivialities.  After
about half an hour the moment I had been dreading and desperate for arrived and
Cassandra walked up to me.  She looked as radiant as ever, but there was a
slightly different cast to her eyes.  I thought at first it was hostility, but
then realised I had never seen her wearing one of David's expressions.

"Rupert," she said, "I'm so glad you could make it."  No hint of irony, but maybe
it was just a lie.  She took me by the arm and led me through the crowd.  "I
believe we have things to discuss.  Do you agree?"  I swallowed and nodded.  He'd
worked out who the interim Cassandra had been.  There hadn't been too many
possible suspects and he was, after all, a very clever man.

"Maybe this isn't the time and place," she continued.  "Anyway, there's work to
be done."  She touched a portly, grey haired gentleman on the shoulder.  "Chief
Inspector Anderton, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

The man turned around, beaming at Cassandra.  "Of course, my dear."  He looked at
me with a polite interest.

"This is my dear friend Rupert Cullen.  I think it's fair to say that it's only
thanks to his dedication that any of us are here tonight." She turned and pecked
me on the cheek.  "Keep in touch," she said.  Our next meeting would certainly be
interesting.

I looked back at my new acquaintance.  "Anderton?  That's a familiar name.  Are
you by any chance the Chief Inspector Anderton who made it Met police policy to
close down gay S & M clubs?"  A warm, familiar feeling filled me, like I was
coming home after a long journey.

"One and the same, dear boy."

"Oh good," I said.  "I think we have a lot to discuss."