Hi everyone.

Sorry about being off the grid for a while, but my muse bit me on the bum and I got active. I got an idea just four weeks ago, and have been manic with my keyboard.... the result is now on Kindle.... SKIN.

The idea was simple, if fish and other amphibians can adapt to their surroundings, replace lost body parts, and even change gender when the gender balance is out, why can't humans?

I have many faults, and one of them (or so I'm told) is that I am a realist, sometimes to the detriment of the ability to stretch one's imagination into fantasy. You see, I like my fantasies to be realistic enough to be believable.

I like the Whateley and SRU stories (and many others), but in my heart of hearts I know they are just too fanciful to be real. It doesn't stop me enjoying them, but when one dreams, one likes to pretend that they COULD actually come true, or am I alone in this?

Anyway, enough of that, here's the blurb:

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SKIN — a fantasy set in reality, by Tanya Allan

Just for a moment, imagine you are a normal human being, living a relatively satisfactory existence as one of the two genders that form our race. You think you are content inside your own skin.

Now imagine being sentenced to live in the skin of the opposite gender for the rest of your life. There is no parole and no early release for good behaviour.

You must serve the sentence.

There is only one escape: -
- It involves physical pain in the form of surgery.
- It involves emotional pain in the form of family conflict and aggression.
- It involves social pain in the form of unemployment and isolation.
- It involves mental pain in the form of depression, anxiety and stress.
- It involves spiritual pain in the form of uncertainty, doubt and guilt.
- It involves financial pain in the form of expensive drugs and many different treatments, operations and procedures.

My name was Edward Abbott; it isn’t any more.

I thought I was normal, but then I realised that I was different. Now I am what I should have been.

After many harsh experiences in my life, I met a man.

This man forced me to answer a question,

“…Surgery aside, what is the main thing that prevents you from going for the existing procedure?”

I thought about it for a moment.

“I suppose having to live in the body of a male, trying to look like a woman just to prove that I’m able to do it. I’d be terrified of being discovered.”

The man also said, "…My research has reached that point whereby I believe it possible to change gender without the surgeon and his scalpel.”

“In theory, right?”

“No, the theory time is passed. I believe that it can be done for real.”

“So what’s the catch?” I asked.

Is there a catch, or can it really be done?

Join me as I found out.

LINKS:-

SKIN ON AMAZON.COM

SKIN ON AMAZON.CO.UK

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It is a real voyage of discovery, involving a roller-coaster ride for the main character. It is a little different to my usual stories, partly due to the fact it took only four weeks to write. It was amazing to write, for I genuinely did not know what was going to happen and when the end came, it surprised the hell out of me, as it wasn't where I thought my muse was taking me. I like how it ended, as I can see a possible universe related to the ‘L’Altro Modo Centre for Natural and Holistic Healing’. I believe that it's a little more realistic that SRU, but has enormous potential for those writers who seek to balance fantasy with reality.

~o~O~o~

Here is the introductory chapter....

SKIN, by Tanya Allan

This Excerpt Copyright 2012 Tanya J. Allan
The author asserts her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone.

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Introduction.

2012 — Friday 6th July.

Huffington Hall, set in the heart of the beautiful Sussex countryside, is an archetypal example of Englishness at its finest. The summer, so far, had been a wash-out. June had been anything but flaming-June, more like squelching-June, and up to now even in five days, the forecasters were predicting the wettest July on record.

It was something of a blessing, therefore as the sun put in a brief appearance from behind the dark clouds, allowing the Hall to look its best, bathed in the golden light.

The main house was acquired and rebuilt by Sir Thomas Huffington when the first Elizabeth ruled England. Given to him, along with the title of Baronet by his queen for services rendered at sea. The original Norman manor was crumbling into ruin after its previous Roman Catholic occupants had long since disappeared after Elizabeth took the throne and began a purge of her sister’s Catholic supporters.

The intrepid naval commander took his prize money from his battles against the Spanish and, using the finest craftsmen of the day, built the majority of the house as it still stood today. The chapel was added by Sir Roger Huffington in the Victorian era, just to show how his neighbours just pious he was, while the stable block was rebuilt to house Sir Nigel Huffington’s Rolls Royce motorcars in the 1920s, It even had a large underground petrol tank, so that visits to the local petrol filling station could be avoided. Indeed, in the 1920s, the local petrol filling station was more than twelve miles away.

Sir Thomas still looked down at all who entered the main hall from his portrait half way up the stairs. The other ancestors, including Sir Roger and Sir Nigel had their places on walls at different parts of the enormous house. There were eight portraits in all. In the background of Sir Nigel’s portrait in the library, sat a 1925 Rolls Royce New Phantom. It was the best bit of that particular painting.

There was something about Sir Thomas’s expression that caused most people to stop and stare at him. Dressed in typically Elizabethan attire, complete with embroidered codpiece and frilly ruff, he sported a wicked looking sword and a small, jewel-encrusted dagger on his belt. His fine moustache rolled beautifully to two delicately curled ends just below his eyes, and his small beard looked sharp enough at the point to do someone damage. He wasn’t exactly smiling, as his thin lips seemed set in a firm straight line, but his eyes, no doubt the most striking of his features, seemed to be laughing at the whole world.

In the background, complete with cliffs and turbulent ocean, was a British, three-mast sailing ship in full sail. This vessel was obviously the very ship that Sir Thomas commanded when embroiled in his hostilities on the Spanish Main. One could just see the end of a building that was part of this very house, despite the fact that the sea was a good eighteen miles to the south.

Michael Huffington, the heir apparent and great-grandson of Sir Nigel (the Rolls Royce lover), glanced upwards at the painting. He felt mildly uncomfortable under his ancestor’s gaze, but was unaware why. Certainly there was much of his late uncle’s expression in the eyes, but very little else that came to mind.
Despite it being a lovely sunny day, it wasn’t a good day for Michael. It was the day of his uncle’s memorial service, and as with everything to do with his eccentric uncle, nothing seemed to be going as planned.

It had been his uncle’s wish that the memorial service be held in the chapel at Huffington Hall. It was proving a logistical headache because there were no public transport links to within fifteen miles of the place and he had absolutely no idea as to how many people would attend, or indeed, if anyone other than immediate family would bother to make the effort at all.

He was grateful, however, that there was not internment or cremation to deal with. Sir Thomas’s wish had been to rest on his beloved island, in perpetuity, or, to quote his exact words, “Until some greedy bugger digs me up to make room for a hotel!”

However, it was now a done deal, so to speak, with those who wished to attend now filling the chapel. He was quite surprised, for it could only seat around forty, and at almost that number had already arrived. His wife Caroline and two teenaged sons, plus his sister Joanna and her three children were already in the chapel.

A tall and distinguished man in his forties, Michael liked to be described as doing something in the City. He was, in fact, a merchant banker, which was not something one shouted about in the current economic climate. The banking world had been good to Michael, so he was now a wealthy man in his own right. He privately admitted to feeling more than a little annoyance at inheriting this mausoleum of a home from his late uncle. He glanced around, taking in the antique leaded light windows and wooden panelling that the Elizabethans seemed to favour. To maintain this place required a small fortune, and that’s before you even eat!

A recent letter from his late uncle’s solicitor held a hope that perhaps he needn’t actually take up residence, but nothing more concrete had been stipulated at this early stage. It seems that something might have happened to change the last will.

However, he was secretly pleased to be in line for the title, as it might prove very useful in the commercial and social circles in which he operated. Caroline had been delighted with the possibility of holding the title of Lady Huffington.

It was, therefore something of a blow to receive notification that there might be a hitch. Particularly as Caroline had already had the stationery printed, including the coat of arms and the newly, or not quite acquired title.

His uncle, another Sir Thomas Huffington, had died a month ago to the day. Before the news of his death had appeared in the obituary columns of the Times and the Daily Telegraph, and according to his wishes, his funeral had already been conducted in private on his beloved little private island in the Mediterranean, just off the Spanish coast. No one from the family had attended, but even if they had known, Michael doubted than any would have gone, as their relationship with their uncle had hardly been particularly close.

Michael, a not very regular worshipper at the local Anglican parish church near his home in Sunningdale, had no idea as to the spiritual status of his late uncle, or indeed, whether he had any religious views whatsoever.

Home?

He grimaced at the thought of moving from the home in which his sons had grown up. He liked his home, and wasn’t at all keen to take up residence in this monstrosity!

Taking out the letter that only arrived this very morning, he glanced at it again, as if to glean some more information. It was brief and to the point, although lacking specific details. It told him that changes to circumstances in relation to his uncle and the Hall had been received late and those circumstances might affect his inheritance in both land and title, plus there was a distinct possibility that the future of the Hall might not become his problem.

A meeting was arranged for that very afternoon, following the memorial service. He dearly hoped that he wouldn’t get saddled with the place.

As far as he was aware, his uncle had died without prodigy, and indeed, had never married. Michael’s father, William, had been Tom’s younger brother, so should have inherited the title and Huffington Hall had he not been killed in a light aircraft accident in the 1980s. The other sibling, Madeline, Michael’s aunt, was the younger sister. She had married a moderately successful Yorkshire farmer and produced several offspring, none of which were close to their uncle. Such was their lineage that the female line was ignored for succession.

By and large, the family greeted the news of the old man’s death with a measure of relief. It was generally known that he was a wealthy man, so many of the extended family hoped that their days of financial concern were over. Apart from the family seat — Huffington Hall, there were several properties dotted around the world. Unfortunately, the family had had so little contact with him over the last forty years that no one really knew what he had and what he didn’t have any more. The will was clear, and everyone was moderately content that at least they came away with something. However, that relief had rapidly changed to anger, frustration and bewilderment after details of the possible change in circumstances was released by his lawyer. Pending the forthcoming meeting, the will was frozen, and no one would inherit anything, even the title.

Clearly Sir Thomas had been considerably wealthier than anyone has supposed, so many were now regretting not keeping in contact with the old man.

Cutting aside the legal gobbledegook, and after the list of small legacies to charities and loyal retainers, the gist of the last known will was excruciatingly simple: -

…To my five nominated charities, I leave the sum of two million pounds each, in the knowledge that poverty, want and greed will always be with us, but in the hope that my gifts will in some small way make a few peoples’ lives richer and better.

…I leave my title and country seat, Huffington Hall, together with all contents, vehicles, rights and entitlements to my heir and nephew Michael.
To my sister Madeline, if I should predecease her, I leave the farm at Goldstone Moor.

To my five nephews, four nieces and their eleven children, I leave the sum of one hundred thousand pounds each.

To my faithful retainer Manolo Garcia Ramirez, and his wife Camilla, I leave the house in Calella De Palafrugell for their retirement, plus one hundred thousand Euros. To their daughter Juanita, I leave one hundred thousand Euros.

To my loyal factor, Henry Watkins, I leave the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, for many years of loyal service under difficult circumstances, plus an apology for being absent for so long. It is also my wish that whosoever retains the Hall, retains the services of Mr Watkins until such time as he retires or is unable to continue, for whatever reason.

The remainder of my estate, consisting of my island property and the contents thereof, the ski lodge in Colorado; the home in Nassau and the apartment in London, including all contents at the time of my death, plus any watercraft, aircraft and motor vehicles at each of those locations, and any other worldly goods, I leave to Signorina Emilia Novetelo, my good friend and companion for the latter part of my life.

All instructions have been given to Messers Chomondeley, Tannadyce and Collins of London, with a view to ensuring that my wishes are complied with fully.
Any contest to this will by any individual nullifies any legacy to the individual that makes such a contest. If this is the case then that sum will be donated to my nominated charity.

Signed by Tom Huffington in the presence of three witnesses.

It was dated 11th May 2011, one year and one month before his death.

Due to the aforesaid lack of contact, no one could, with any honesty, even begin to guess how much the old man had in investments, stocks, shares and even cash squirreled away in foreign banks. Born in 1930, and therefore just young enough to avoid going off to fight in World War Two, Tom had left Britain under a Labour government in the seventies, vowing never to return to England while it was governed by idiots. He died without ever returning, which says a lot for his opinion of the succession of British governments. He almost returned when Maggie Thatcher was prime minister, but his opinion of women in politics was such that he still couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Tom had been an eccentric for as long as anyone could remember. He was known as the mad scientist by most of the family. Michael recalled his father telling him that Tom was expelled from a prominent public school for conducting illegal experiments in the chemistry labs after midnight in an attempt to construct a cheaper and less harmful version of what was to become known as LSD.

In all, Tom attended three other public schools, eventually getting into Oxford, from which he graduated in the early 1950s. Here he obtained a first class honours degree in Chemistry and Biology.

After Oxford, he was dragged in to serve in the army for National Service. Commissioned into the Intelligence Corps at the time of the Cold War in Germany and of the war in Korea, he actually thoroughly enjoyed it, almost signing on as a regular when his time was up.
It wasn’t to be, for he was snapped up by one of the fastest-growing, post-war, multi-national pharmaceutical companies, he worked as a research scientist for a number of years. Bored by the mundane repetition and the tedium of corporate work, he left to form his own research company, which meant he could follow his own ideas and trials.

It helped that he was independently wealthy, as his father had died just after the war and left him the house and a goodly amount of invested capital. His company had grown, as he became more and more involved in the work of genetics and reconstructive surgery, looking initially at products to assist burn victims and others whose skin was damaged by injury or disease.

Latterly, he created a whole division dedicated to assist plastic surgeons in all aspects of their work. He was convinced that the human body contained immense capacity to correct and heal itself, if only we learned how to tap into the secrets and boost them in a natural way. He was fascinated at the way other species regenerated limbs and even initiate rapid change to contend with an altered environment. These examples of adaptation turned him from a proponent of evolution to a believer in creation.

How come, he argued, that if the latest version of a species in the most efficient, why are there remnants of earlier models, but nothing left in between? Surely, if a man is more efficient than a monkey, it would be reasonable to assume that the next examples up the rungs of the ladder would be each more efficient than the last. We still had the monkey and we now have the man, where are those who came in the middle?

It was adaptation, not evolution that formed the existing world as we knew it, so he found himself bucking the trend in modern thinking. Not that he cared in the slightest. He just kept working.

It was where the money was, so he grew even richer as a result. He dabbled in the UK property market in the late seventies. By selling in the early nineties, he quadrupled his initial investment, only to repeat it just before the crash in the ‘Noughties’. With the proceeds, and in a falling market, he bought property all over the world, but resisted returning to Britain, claiming it was the climate that he disliked, but most knew that his pride would not permit him to return.

Once the shock of the possibility of not inheriting their legacies had worn off, the family employed as many lawyers as they could afford to see if they could contest it. In the end, all it proved was that Tom’s lawyers had been better paid and that until all details were known, nothing could be done.
Rather than risking their ample legacy in an attempt to try to get more, none tried and settled to wait and hope they would receive what he promised in the will. They weren’t happy.

The next move was to try to identify this Emilia Novetelo, who had inherited the bulk of the estate. Once more, Sir Thomas’s lawyers had done a good job. Despite three different private detectives being employed, no clue as to her origins was gleaned from any of the homes that had passed into her possession. The Italian Embassy confirmed that she was a naturalized Italian, but nothing else.

It was known that she was a director of a new Spanish based company that provided therapeutic assistance at a couple of special centres in Europe, but that was all; a name on a list.

One of the detectives was arrested by the Marine Division of the Spanish Guardia Civil trying to land illegally on the island at three in the morning. All he reported was that there were lights on and he thought he saw someone at a window. He was too far away to ascertain any further details.

In the past, rumours had abounded concerning Tom’s sexual preferences, and had done for years. Most of the rumours were stared by those who were jealous of his wealth and lifestyle. Nothing specific was truly known. No evidence of any misconduct or weird behaviour could be found. With the possible exception of this Emilia Novetelo, no ex-partners of either gender (or any in between) were forthcoming, which would often be the case. Neither was any alleged and illegitimate offspring suddenly being identified by newspaper reporters to get in on the act.

Michael’s father, William, had firmly believed that his brother, who was eight years older, was just one of those people for whom sex just wasn’t something they greatly concerned themselves with.

Michael smiled, as he was strangely relieved that Tom had left his estate to a woman, so the old boy might have been normal, after all. Not that he personally cared one way or the other. He was broadminded enough to accept that people were free to make their own life choices and as long as others weren’t detrimentally affected, he couldn’t care what they did.

Wondering briefly as to the kind of woman that Tom would have left his fortune to; he imagined a grey-haired European dowager, with gnarled fingers decorated by too many diamonds and possessing more wrinkles than a walnut. He smiled again, trust the old man to play a joker at the end.

As Michael made his way from the Hall towards the entrance to the chapel, he reflected that most of those who had attended had come out of curiosity and not out of respect for Tom. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a popular man. In his day he had been quite a socialite, hobnobbing with celebrities and royalty in all the best places. The problem was simple; those days were gone. Most of those he associated with had passed on or were in homes for the elderly of deranged (or both).

Apparently, his uncle had spent the last twenty years on his beloved island in the Med, never venturing further than the local town in his boat for supplies. Therefore most, if not all of those who now filled the pews had probably never met Tom, or at least not for the last twenty years or longer.

It was something of a shock when the immaculate green Aston Martin convertible, bearing Spanish plates, glided to an elegant halt outside the chapel door and the woman alighted.

She was dressed in black, which was fitting for the occasion, but in a style and nature that Michael found quite disturbing. The black dress shimmered with hidden colours, like mother of pearl, hugging her almost perfect figure as if it had been painted on by an artist, or perhaps a car body painter. The hem of which stopped just short of the knee. When the light caught it at a particular angle it appeared golden, but from another way it shimmered in turquoise. One thing was certain; it was not a cheap garment.

The dress was sleeveless, so she carried a short, bolero-style jacket, displaying her arms, tanned to a golden brown. There was a glint of a diamond on her five pointed starfish pendant that lay just above her ample and equally tanned cleavage held by a fine platinum chain. She wore matching stars in her earlobes, while a larger starfish containing many diamonds was pinned to her jacket as a brooch.

He glanced at her legs; and what legs!

Her long legs, clad in faintly darkened stockings with a straight seam running down the rear were about the finest Michael could ever recall having seen. Her hair, blonde and shiny was probably quite long. However, as she wore a chic black, Spanish-style hat with the suggestion of a veil, her hair had been put up, elegantly platted into a unique style that he found very attractive.

As it was sunny, albeit briefly, she wore designer sunglasses that hid her eyes. If the rest of what he could see was anything to go by, her eyes were probably spectacular.

She was tall, as tall as he. He glanced at her feet and saw she wore elegant black patent leather shoes that possessed four inch heels. In a way, he was quite relieved, for that meant she was only five foot eight. He rarely felt intimidated or threatened by a woman, but even before she uttered a spoken word, he felt as tongue-tied as a schoolboy.

She was truly magnificent.

One seeing him, she smiled and took off her sunglasses. He’d been perfectly correct, her eyes were stunningly attractive. Clear and emerald green, but made up with subtlety and some artistic skill. They dominated her face. She almost had the effect of turning his legs to jelly. When she smiled, it was as if another sun rose. Momentarily he allowed himself to bask in her glow.

“Hi, you must be Michael. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she breathed. Michael found he was sweating. Her voice was husky and incredibly sexy. Although her English was perfect, and cultured, there was the vaguest suggestion of an illusive foreign origin. He tried to guess her age, and failed. She could be anything from late twenties to late thirties, with almost flawless skin.

He held out his hand, which she took. Her hand was cool and smooth, with dark red nail varnish on her immaculately manicured nails. Her grasp was firm and precise, which did not surprise him in the slightest. Here was a woman in control of her life, and probably everything around her.

“Oh, nothing too bad, I hope?” he stammered, realising that he still had no idea who she was. Reluctantly, he relinquished her hand.

“No, you were the one person that Tom had nothing bad to say about,” she said, smiling again. Her whole presence exuded confidence and sophistication. Whether in Monte Carlo or Vienna, London, Paris or New York, this woman would command respect and attention wherever she went.

This time his curiosity beat his discomfort.

“And you are?”

Her smile broadened, as if at a private joke.

“I’m Em,” she said, not elaborating and turning to look at the glorious view across the beautiful gardens. “My goodness, what a lovely spot; I never realised how beautiful it is here. Tom was a silly sod running away. What a wonderful day; quite unusual for a funeral. By the look of those clouds, I don’t think it’s going to last.”

“M; M what?” he asked, confused. Such was her presence and that of the Aston Martin that he immediately thought of the James Bond movies, and of the head of the double zero department. But at that moment, as it dawned on him what she had said, the penny dropped.

“Oh, Emilia!” he said, signifying he had added up two and two and made four.

She laughed at his discomfort and confusion, but did not help him in any way.

“Tom always called me Em, so you can just call me Em,” she said casually, looking at her watch. He couldn’t help but notice that it was a ladies Rolex. He also noticed that she wore a single wedding ring on her left ring finger.

“Shouldn’t we go in?”

Once more on the back foot, Michael had to agree, so held his arm out to her to take.

“Please, let me escort you,” he said.

“Thank you, but you should be sitting up front with your family. I’ll slip into the back, if that’s okay.”

“Then let me escort you that far at least,” he said. Smiling, she took his arm and together they walked into the gloom of the chapel. He breathed her scent, wondering what exotic perfume she wore, as he was almost intoxicated. He had about a hundred questions for her, but had to hold them back.

~o~O~o~

It was fun to write, I hope you enjoy it.

Tanya