Partners
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

When I first met Benoit he was working as a sommelier in a prestigious restaurant down town. I was there on a business lunch, so we had only one bottle on his recommendation, but I went back for an evening meal with my wife Celeste, the following week. Then again I went, with her or friends, at least three times after that. His knowledge of good wine was of the highest order.

I should know. That is my business. I had been working on Wall Street for years until I had enough money to set up my own wine importing business, selling mainly through my website, but also distributing to discerning wine shops through the tri-state area. Wine was my passion rather than my skill, but I knew how to run a business. And is this area at least, I knew talent when I could see it.

Benoit gave me his card and I hired him to do some consulting work, mainly on French wines. In the end he left full time work at the restaurant where I had met him, and did consulting work only. He designed wine lists and recommended wine matches for his old employer, and other restaurants. And he provided specialist advice to me and at least one other importer.

It gave him the opportunity to go a little bohemian. He grew his hair long and he had a beard, that would have been unsuited to restaurant work. He seemed to live relaxed lifestyle, but I always felt that he was missing something in his life.

I decided to make him a minority partner in my business to keep him from consulting outside my business. He still did the work for the restaurants, but that meant that he steered them towards us. That was not because he was directing them to wine that only we had, but just that he made sure we stocked the right wines. Where is the conflict in that?

I remember he would often say that the minimal wine list was 5 red wines and 5 white wines. They should all be good quality but the most expensive wine should be very expensive (for the buyer spending somebody else’s money), the second should still be too expensive for most (for the buyer trying to impress), the midrange should be cheap for that range (for the buyer who cannot decide) and there should be not too much difference between the cheapest two (both were for tight-fisted customers, but few would go for the bottle right on the bottom as that would be too tight).

Celeste and I mixed with him socially a little. He came around to our apartment sometimes. My wife liked him, and they spoke French together, both being from that country. People who saw them together said that they looked like brother and sister, even fraternal twins. Celeste saw it too and even quizzed him on his family for some indication that they might be related, but it appeared confirmed that they were not.

He was happy to be free on working nights so that he could spend evenings enjoying wine and women, which he seemed to do with vigor. But it never interfered with his work. He was not only gifted but dedicated. I had no reason to complain.

When Celeste was diagnosed with throat cancer he sent us a note offering any help that might be needed, but he stayed away so that our family could work through the issues. Our son lives locally with his wife, and our daughter (who lives at home) came back from Oxford University to be with us. It was a difficult time.

The cancer was advanced and inoperable, so we were all told it was just a matter of time and ensuring that she was comfortable. I had to devote myself to her care. I made only one call to Benoit. He said: “Don’t think about it Chef.” That was what he called me in those days. He said: “I have everything in hand.”

I was prepared to let run the business for months, but sadly Celeste was dead within 5 weeks of diagnosis. And for at least a week after that I could not function. I was a wreck. Benoit had sent me emails everyday just to keep me up to date, but after Celeste died I never read a word. He needed to call me to break through to me.

“We need you back here,” he said to me. “I know the wine but we are having business issues with the key suppliers.”

Such was my grief that I did not feel that I would be able to do anything useful at the office, but when I got there I soon found out that what I needed most was to exercise my mind. Grief is like the waves of an outgoing tide – you are flooded at first, to the point of drowning, but then the waves come back, often and large, to occasional and small, until it is only a memory that never goes away, but is only ripples in the distance. That is, if you have something to divert you.

Benoit was an expert, but wine-sellers often prefer to deal with buyers who are less opinionated or critical. Two of our sellers in Bordeaux and one in the Rhone Valley were in rebellion, threatening to curtail our exclusivity in and around New York. I did not understand Benoit’s correspondence in French, but I understood that it had not been helpful. Unfortunately, they spoke no English. This is where I would have called on Celeste. All three had spoken to her in the past. But she was gone.

I felt that I needed to go to France and resolve the issues, and whether or not they wanted to see him and deal with him, Benoit would need to go too, to interpret, but also because he knew the product, whereas I knew more about drinking it.

“I cannot go,” was all he said.

I needed to know why. He told me: “I’m sorry Chef. We do all the business from here. They can send it and I can taste it here. I write, I call. I did not think that I need to go back, but in fact I cannot go back. You see, I am a wanted man in France. A fugitive. They would arrest me at the airport. I would end up in jail. I would be there for a long time.”

“What did you do?” I asked. But he was not keen to answer. He waved it away.

“I will tell you, but not now,” He said. “I can tell you that it was not dishonesty. But now we need to think about finding somebody to go with you and do the translation.”

“It is not the translation that worries me,” I said. You have handled these customers. You know the wines, you know the volumes, and the customers, and the margins. We need to think about how we can get you there without putting you at risk.”

We talked about the process of getting him a US Passport, perhaps with the name or date of birth varied slightly. Or even finding a passport of convenience from The Kingdom of Tonga.

That night at home I pulled out my passport to see what could be done, and I pulled out Celeste’s passport. Then it struck me. I looked back at a photo that I had of us dining at the restaurant Benoit had worked at, with his face clearly visible, just above hers. Not just brother and sister, but twins. Sure, he was under 30 and Celeste was 40 in this shot, but …, maybe?

The following morning, I put the passport on his desk and said: “Here is your passport. No need to change the document. But we do need to change the bearer a little.”

He looked intrigued, but when he opened it he just laughed. He said: “A good idea, but impossible”.

“This is New York City,” I said. “Anything is possible.” And beside the passport I put down a page I had printed from the internet offering “Male to Female Unbelievable Transformations”.

He looked at both and then at me, and he asked: “You are serious? Aren’t you?”

“Benoit,” I said. “This problem we have in France is your balls-up. If you want to fix it, maybe you can. If you can think of another way, do it. But make it fast, because before the end of the month I plan to be in France with my wife, fully recovered from her illness.”

The was that I could so flippantly talk about my late wife surprised me as well. Perhaps it was the excitement of an intrigue straight from a 60’s comedy, or perhaps it was the thought of having somebody looking like Celeste sitting beside me again. I still cannot say. But I was wishing that Benoit would say yes.

I added: “Do the makeover. If you can convince yourself, or maybe a stranger or two, then you can decide if you could pull this off over there. But you are the one at risk, so it is your decision. But I should add that you have a stake in this business. If you want to keep it going you need to consider this possible solution very seriously.”

That gave Benoit some time to think it through. He did more than that, he researched things. Celeste had never used her US passport, which we had got only recently. Earlier in our marriage she had travelled on a French passport, so she would not necessarily be treated as the same person. When she had travelled the modern finger prints and photographs with face recognition were not in use. So, if Benoit were to use her passport it would be his fingers and face that went into the system.

The only question was whether he could pretend to be Celeste at least for the travel to and from, and perhaps in public in France if needed. There was only one way to find out. Jump in and see whether you can swim.

He asked me whether I would go to the transformation place with him, and I agreed. We explained to Rheba, the lady in charge, that for reasons that we declined to explain we would be going to Chicago pretending to be husband and wife and that Benoit needed to be convincing, not a drag queen.

Rheba seemed unfazed. She said: “We pride ourselves on total transformations. That includes not just appearance, but movement, demeanour and voice. I can assure you, that if you are committed you own mother will think you are her daughter”.

I think that we both suddenly realised that this would be more than wearing a dress and a wig to match Celeste’s hairstyle. To pull this off Benoit was going to have to go through a crash course in being a woman.

The deal that he struck with me later was that if we returned from France with our agencies restored and without him in a French Prison, he would be a full partner with me – 50/50. After all I was asking him to put his freedom at risk for the business. I agreed, but I made it clear it was still subject to me knowing why he was a fugitive from justice in France. I could not accept a partner without a free exchange of information between us.

But that came later. Rheba’s colleague was Selina, in charge of hair and makeup. She said: “We will not need a wig here, there is plenty of hair to work with. It just needs a little tender loving care. And the beard will have to go. I suggest that if you are talking a weekend or longer, we need removal rather than shaving.”

“Nothing permanent,” Benoit pleaded.

“Believe me,” said Rheba. “When it comes to hair removal there is no such thing as permanent.”

For the first time I wondered whether Rheba might not be a woman. It had not occurred to me before. If she was not a real female then she was a great advertisement for her service.

“The best way to do this,” she said, “It is to immerse yourself in womanhood totally for as long as you can. Watch women from a new perspective. Try to understand them. Observe and imitate. We will give you the basics and tell you what to look for in others, but you need to find your own feminine patterns.”

“When do I start,” said Benoit. He was looking at me. Everybody was.

“Right away,” I said. “The sooner we get started, the better job he will do at this, right? When you feel comfortable I will book the flights.”

“She,” corrected Rheba. “The better job she will do.”

But it had to be the following day as time needed to be booked and I needed to make the up-front payment. I paid out of the business account, for “translation services” rather than “Transformation services.” I regarded it as such.

It was agreed that Benoit would move into my place while we were doing all this. He shared space on the Lower East Side and it would be too hard to explain to his room-mates and neighbours. If all went well we would be overseas for over week afterwards anyway. I gave him a key. I had two rooms spare, and although my daughter’s room was not permanently empty like my son’s old room, he chose that. It was a girl’s room and he felt it might help.

In fact, he discovered he was the same size as my daughter, and he took advantage of that, but that was later. For now, he had not even taken the first step. He would be spending the better part of the day with Rheba and Selina

I had a scheduled trip to Boston the following day, so I left early and got back to my apartment after 6:00pm. To my surprise there was a meal being prepared, and there was a table for two set up, with candles. And there in the kitchen, looking at me, was what appeared to be the ghost of my late wife.

She was wearing a black dress but she had a white frilly apron over it so I could not see it all initially. Her hair was clearly her own as it was worn up in a bundle of curls, with a single tendril dropping on one side. Her eyebrows were shaped and she had long dark eyelashes. She was wearing makeup and red lipstick. I could see matching nail polish on the hand that held the wooden spoon.

“Welcome home, Darling,” she said, with a big smile. Her voice was gentle and higher pitched, but husky. It was the only thing that betrayed this vision as not being truly female.

I was so shocked I did not know what to do. Part of me wanted to believe that this was my wife and hold her. But then another part of me knew the truth, and wanted to burst into tears for my lost love. Then I saw smile again. It was the familiar “look how clever I am” that I had seen so many times on Benoit’s face. I smiled back.

“She” did a twirl. I could see that the dress was short but that her legs looked great, and her bottom was the perfect shape. She was wearing heels and appeared to move in them effortlessly. She turned to serve our meal.

“Beouf Bourguignon,” she explained. “A French wife should prepare her husband French food.”

Celeste was not great in the kitchen. She cooked mainly Italian food – from a jar.

This new creature took off her apron and brought over the food. I was staggered to see that there was a visible cleavage and clear breasts of a good size. She could see me looking.

“Clever, yes?” she said. “Push up bra with carefully placed silicone inserts. I have enough flab on my chest to make it work. Inserts on my bottom too, for giving shape.”

“You look fantastic,” I said. I meant it. The idea was to look enough like my wife to get on the plane and past French Immigration, not to convince guests at a dinner party that my wife had returned, but younger, prettier and better dressed.

But somehow, I got caught up in the moment. My business partner was showing off her new skills, and I was enjoying the company of an attractive young woman, eating good food washed down with one of our own great wines. It seemed like the voice was not Benoit but somebody else, and that I was on a date with an exotic stranger. It was as if every word said in this new voice, was new.

“Are we going to do this?” I asked.

“Go to France? Go as man and wife together?” her eyes seemed so much bigger than Benoit’s as she checked with me. She said: “I’m ready. There is a risk, but I will do it.” Then he added: “But I expect to be treated well.”

“I promise,” I laughed. “But you need to work on that voice”.

“I will,” she said. “I have another appointment tomorrow with Rheba. We are going shopping together as an exercise. Don’t worry - it will just be window shopping. But in France, your credit card belongs to me.”

“Don’t be silly about tomorrow,” I volunteered. “I will give you some cash. Buy something if you like. As for France, it is still a business trip and all business expenditure is managed by me.”

She said. “I am thinking of spending the whole time in France in costume. My ladies have suggested how I can do it. And this hair is not a wig that I can take off. Flipping from one persona to the other will just be too complicated. Instead they suggest that I start a “transition” and go as far as I can.”

I said: “Whatever you need to do to keep yourself safe is OK with me. I don’t want you getting arrested half way through our business trip. And if that means we need to pay for a few more “translation services” then let’s do that.”

He did take the assistance. And I did pay. But it was worth every penny. But Rheba and Selina were not coming to France with us, so the new Celeste would need to learn how to beautify herself without external assistance.

By the time we got into the cab to go to the airport, I was sitting beside a woman. Nobody would have said otherwise. She stood on the sidewalk at the airport, checking her hair in a compact mirror while I wrestled with the suitcases, hers unreasonably bulky for such a short trip. But as her heels clicked through the concourse and she turned heads, I felt proud that this was my wife, even if it was only pretending.

We passed through passport control without a problem. At the gate the cabin attendant seemed to check her passport a little too long, but then she welcomed us both aboard as “Mr and Mrs Pendarvis”.

Later she would come to our seat and say to my wife: “I could help notice your age – what is your routine for such great skin?”

The new Celeste was able to reply with details. She told me: “I am sure it is not the first compliment I will get. It’s all what Rheba and Selina have me use. Feel it. Touch my face.”

It was smooth and warm, and lightly powdered. She smelled like summer garden after a light shower. I suddenly realised that I missed the intimacy of being with a woman. Somehow, I think she knew it. She took my hand and held it to her face. It was a strange moment of closeness. She said: “It’s going to be a good trip.”

I am not sure that I knew what she meant by that. Would we win back our agencies? Would we find new and better ones? Was there something else going on? Or was there the promise of happiness, somehow?

French Customs Service, Nice. Sour faced officers who refused to speak English. I had some memory of this from a prior visit. I decided to follow her through. I think she spoke with the officer. He smiled as he handed back her passport. She walked through and then turned to blow me a kiss in her moment of victory. Then she was gone.

When I got through I had a moment of panic. I had a sudden thought that she had been seized. Or worse still that she was not really here for me, and she had run off. Then I saw her at the baggage carousel, talking to a good looking young man.

As I walked up, she said: “Oh, here he is, this is my husband.” She took my arm in both of hers and kissed me on the cheek, lingering there with her warm breath affecting me somehow. I wanted to seize this woman there and then, and kiss her passionately to show this total stranger that this was my woman. But none of this was real.

“Hello,” I said, thrusting out my hand to him.

“Your wife tells me that you are a New York wine importer,” he said, in a heavy accent, that was not French. “I have just returned from your city, representing producers in four countries, but I have not had much success in finding reliable distributors there…”.

His name was Aldo Mantini. He was Italian, but like us he had just got off a to Nice so that he could visit customers in Provence and the area that we were headed for known as “Bouches de Rhone”. We exchanged contacts and arranged to meet him for a meal the following night in Grasse, in the heart of the nearby wine country. He said that he knew just the place.

My “wife” had arranged a rental car and accommodation. After what seemed like a full 15 minutes in the ladies’ restroom “freshening up” after a 7 hour flight, we were quickly on road to our first hotel. We checked in just before dark. It was a double room.

“I am sorry,” she said. She had used nothing but her carefully cultivated feminine voice over the last few days. “I did not think to ask for separate beds. But it is very big. I think we can share it with a pillow in between.”

She was smiling. I wondered if this whole thing was deliberate. It was as if the cheeky Benoit was trying to embarrass me, or even trying to lure me into some kind of … I did know what.

We decided to dine in the hotel. Just casual I thought. But she said that she needed to change into a dress. And she wanted to put her hair up in a style she had learned from her new friends. She was late down to dinner, but she looked fabulous.

We talked wine over dinner. The hotel restaurant had a very respectable wine list of local appellations. We tried the smaller bottles that they serve in that part of France, so that we could sample three different wines. She talked regions, and sub-regions, soils and vines, the pitch of the land, the type of sunlight. It was fascinating and I was transfixed. Although not entirely by the words, sometimes it was enough just to look at her and watch her lips move.

I thought that when we went to bed I would be brought down from this weird romantic plane that I seemed to be living on. He would strip off the feminine costume and a man would be there, and at least overnight my wife would be dead again. And I would be at peace.

But the person who came to bed was her, not Benoit. She was wearing a nightgown and her hair was loose, but it was hers. She had cream on her face, and the eyelashes were natural only, but she looked no less attractive to me. She sat on the bed for a moment brushing her hair. When she saw me gazing at it she said: “No wig needed. It just needs some proper treatment. Including brushing before bed.”

As she continued, in my loose-fitting pyjamas an erection was rising. I reassured myself that it was not the sight of a man that was having this effect. This was a woman, to all intents and purposes. She could not see it, I thought. I jumped in quickly and pulled the covers over it.

I had my hand on it when she finished and put the brush down. Just before she turned out the light she smiled at me and said: “Bon nuit” – good night. I came immediately, soaking my pyjamas and the sheets. There was nothing I could do but sleep in the wet. I could not show her what I had done.

I found out later that she had seen the erection in the mirror, had watched my face and could smell the sex in the bed we shared. And she had found the dried semen on the sheets in the morning, but she did not let on.

In Grasse the small hotel had another double room, but this time the bed was not so big. We both laughed. As a married couple travelling together we should expect this, but this time I guess we knew one of us would be on the floor, but nobody volunteered. She spent some time getting herself ready to go out to dinner. She had a curling tool and she put her hair up in a wonderfully feminine style. She arranged her bra and padding so that she could squeeze into what I understand is called a “LBD” – a Little Black Dress. She looked incredible.

We met Aldo at a village where the restaurant sat over the river. We took a taxi so that we could enjoy some wine. It was a warm night. We talked business. After the Eastern Provence we were headed to the Rhone Valley, to visit one problem supplier near the town of Orange, then the long trip to the Bordeaux region, to visit the other. Aldo would be headed back to Piedmont close to his home on the Ligurian Coast. But in addition to France and Italy he could supply us with wines from Spain and Portugal. Meeting him was fortunate indeed. It opened our eyes to so many other great wines. Aldo ended up being a major source of product for our business, but that was to come later.

Throughout dinner Aldo and Celeste seemed to be flirting with one another. Sometimes he said something to her in French, although she always replied in English so as to include me. I liked Aldo and it was clear that he would be important, so I said nothing and smiled. But I was getting increasingly upset with being disregarded in this way.

I said nothing on the way back, so she knew I was not happy. It was not until we got up to the room that I told her: “I am supposed to be your husband. You were flirting with him all night.”

“You are my husband,” she said. She reached into her handbag and pulled out her passport. Celeste’s passport. Mrs. Celeste Pendarvis. My wife.

I felt somehow betrayed or cheated. I am not sure what I felt. It seemed that all night I had been a husband so proud of his beautiful wife, and now I was just a fool for believing such nonsense about a young man in women’s clothing.

I looked at the bed. It was a double bed, but not with as much room as the king bed we had shared the night before.

“Dare I suggest that seniority gives me the first right to the bed?” I said.

“We are to be equal partners,” she said. “We can share the bed.”

“There is no equal partnership until you tell me what you did, until you tell me why the French police are looking for you,” I reminded her.

“Very well,” she said. “With all that has happened in the last few weeks I think that I need to tell you.” She pulled some pins from her hair so that the curls fell around her shoulders. I felt my penis stir as it had the night before, but fortunately it was constrained by the clothes I was wearing. No matter what, she had that effect on me. It was beyond rational explanation. No man could have this effect on me. This was a woman.

“I am accused of killing a man,” she began. “I did kill a man. It was an accident. But the circumstances were … embarrassing. You see, I was dressed as a woman. He thought I was a woman. When he found out, he attacked me. It was self defense. But, I could not face a trial. It would mean disclosing my secret.”

“So, you are telling me that you have dressed like this before?” I asked.

“Can’t you tell?” She looked annoyed. “It was just a thing that I did. I liked to be admired by men. I wasn’t looking for anything except admiration. But after the … the death, I put all of it behind me. I cut my hair and I went to America, and I vowed that I would never dress as a woman again. I kept that promise to myself, until you asked me.”

“So, are you gay?” I asked.

“I told you, I just wanted men to be attracted to me. That does not mean that I was attracted to men. I wasn’t. Not until now.”

I looked at her, uncertain as to what she was saying. I thought I knew, but I did not want to think it. I was bound to be disappointed. Was she saying that she was attracted to me? Were our feelings mutual?

I cannot tell how long we stood in that small hotel room looking at one another. Neither of us seemed ready to make the move that both us were praying the other would make. Our stares were accusing and begging at the same time. I am not even sure who moved first. But after what seemed like an age, there we were, in each other’s arms. Just holding one another as if dangling by a thread 1,000 feet up.

We pulled apart to allow ourselves to look into one another’s eyes, and then to understand and be fall back into one another’s arms and to kiss as only lovers can do.

“I want you to make love to me,” she said. “I know you want to.”

“How is that possible,” I replied. I could hear the bitter disappointment in my own voice.

“I need you inside me,” she said. “I have done it before, before I left France. But that was for them. This I want for me. Just give me a few minutes and I will be ready for you.”

Honestly, by this point I was so fiery that if she had been muscled and covered with hair I would probably have been all over her, but when she came out of the ensuite bathroom, after what seemed like an age, she looked so beautiful my heart leapt.

She was naked from the waist up. Her small panties were black, and obviously contained a package, but one ignored. Her body was pale and smooth, and on her chest were two very small but quite distinct breasts, with large feminine looking nipples.

“This is what is left over from my first attempt at transition, many years ago,” she explained, cupping the tiny but exquisite orbs. “I could not afford surgical removal. Now I am glad of that.”

I walked over to her to examine everything about her more closely. I ran my hands over her, she gasped and quivered with excitement. I kissed one perfect nipple and then the other. She whispered a groan. A woman’s groan.

She reached down and unfastened my belt allowing my pants to fall to the floor. With seconds my prick was hard enough to cut a diamond. She held it and backed away to the bed. She only turned to arrange the pillows to keep her butt high enough for me to penetrate her and to make love face to face. She pulled her panties to one side so that I was spared the sight of her maleness, but the truth is that I was looking in her eyes.

“Slowly, my Darling,” she begged.

That is what I wanted. For it to last forever. There was a warm hole, lubricated and twitching with anticipation. I entered her and heaven at the same time.

“We can share the bed now,” she observed moments later.

We had. We did.

We woke in the morning in one another’s arms.

She said: “I want to live like this forever.”

I said: “Would you marry me? I mean really marry me?”

“Only if I could truly be a wife to you,” she said.

I said: “I want us to be partners in every way.”

She kissed me tenderly, her sweet-smelling hair falling in my face. “Agreed’” she said.

The End
My new Celeste showing off her engagement present.
© Maryanne Peters 2018