After the Pantomime

By Susannah Donim

A spare time hobby slowly turns into a lifetime choice for Nick.

Chapter 9 – After the Birth

Is Nick’s future, Daisy? Or is Daisy’s future, Nick?

Our weekend began with my weekly appointment at Transformations. This was one of the long ones, so Ruth dropped me off and went to the shops. As usual Vera removed all my prosthetics, waxed away the small amount of stubble I now had, and soothed the irritated skin with hormone-laced balm. Then she injected another few horrid ounces of fluid into my baby bump.

As she was finishing and I was putting my bra and knickers back on, Ingrid came in to look me over.

“Excellent!” she said, rubbing her hands together. “You’re one of our best transformations ever, and certainly our best pregnant lady. How do you feel?”

“Horribly bloated,” I said. “I’ll be really glad when this is over.”

“Don’t forget that at eight months a real pregnant woman would be feeling a range of symptoms that you can’t share: leaky breasts, heartburn, indigestion, Braxton Hicks contractions… You’re getting off lightly.”

“I’m certainly getting indigestion,” I protested.

“Yes, that’s probably because of the weight pressing down on your digestive system,” she said, learnedly.

“I’m also short of breath; I’m tired all the time; my back hurts; and my ankles are swollen.”

“Well, try and keep off your feet,” she said briskly. “See you next week.” She swept out.

“Not long to go now, Daisy,” said Vera, more sympathetically. “Have you thought what you’re going to do next month? You’ll soon be overdue to give birth.”

“All options are on the table,” I said, “but I think I may be back for a new, slimmer prosthesis.”

“I’ll speak to Ingrid. Maybe she’ll do it at a discount for repeat business.”

* * *

I hadn’t got around to insuring Ruth to drive my BMW (and with her driving I wasn’t sure I wanted to), so we went to Bath in her Fiesta. It took three hours via the A10, M25 and M4, stopping for lunch at Reading services for a fast-food meal you shouldn’t give to pregnant ladies.

Ruth hadn’t been back to Bath since her university days and was excited to revisit her old haunts. She was disappointed to find that her favourite restaurant had closed down. She dragged me round the Green Park Station market and then up to the rest of the shops. I soon discovered that Bath is very hilly and not designed for a woman in my condition. I began to wish I had worn flats rather than a pair of my new one-inch heels.

Nevertheless, we found an excellent hotel that Ruth had always wanted to stay at when she was a student but hadn’t been able to afford. It certainly wasn’t cheap, but she blithely assumed I was paying. I did, but I used my new company credit card. Well it was a business trip, wasn’t it?

I had been concerned that someone might object to two women sharing a room with one double bed, but nobody raised an eyebrow. If anything, they were even more welcoming to us apparent lesbians than to their straight guests. The town was trendier than I had expected.

After a nice dinner, we took a bottle of wine upstairs to our room (so that no one could see me drinking) and made the most of the double bed, though our coupling was getting increasingly difficult as my baby bump swelled. Ruth was always on top now.

In the morning she showed me round the famous Roman baths, which I enjoyed immensely, despite having to do more walking. After a light lunch we headed to MoCap Studios. Ruth told me that Josh’s father had helped him buy part-ownership of the business, which was currently booming.

Josh was the archetypal computer nerd: short, bearded and bespectacled. He was also a human dynamo. He whizzed around the studio switching banks of computers and cameras on and off, and talking nineteen to the dozen to Ruth whenever he passed her on his travels. He covered everything he had done in the three and a half years since he had last seen her in about ten minutes. She was surprised that he had met and married the girl of his dreams in that time, and his wife was now three months pregnant with their first child.

I sat on a comfortable leather-bound swivel chair in front of a huge ‘green screen’ with my feet up on a soft tuffet. I hadn’t been so comfortable for weeks. I thanked him sincerely for his kindness.

“I thought you’d appreciate it,” he smiled. “I know how my Lizzie likes to put her feet up to ease her back. She wanted to come along and meet you guys, but she had bad morning sickness today and I made her rest up.”

“It should be starting to fade now,” I said. “It usually doesn’t happen much after twelve weeks.” I had done my homework.

“Oh, is that when yours stopped?” he asked.

“Well, I didn’t get much morning sickness,” I said. I could see that Ruth was stifling laughter. She loved hearing me talking about all my feminine experiences.

“You were lucky!” he said.

“Or male!” Ruth mouthed silently behind his back.

“Anyway, I think we’re all set up now,” Josh said. “I’m afraid you’re too…”

“Fat!” said Ruth happily, filling his pause.

“…too pregnant to fit in one of our lycra motion capture suits, so we’ll have to cover you all over with our micro sensors.” He turned to Ruth. “Do you want to do her face as well? I’ve noticed models on catwalks don’t show any emotion at all.”

“Yes, please. The figure in our current animation template is laughing and smiling and being sexy. So we’d like that for the one based on Daisy as well.”

“So when you superimpose your customer’s face on the template you want her features to move realistically too?”

“That’s the idea.”

“OK. I’ll have to ask you to strip to your underwear, please, Daisy. I need you to get down to just your bra and knickers. Any loose clothing will interfere with the sensors doing their job.”

“I’ll help,” said Ruth, who never missed an opportunity.

This was worrying. I knew the Transformations prostheses were really good, but would my fake flabby female flesh stand up to such close examination?

For the next twenty minutes the two of them stuck tiny little sensors all over my prosthetically-enhanced, heavily pregnant body. Fortunately the studio was well-heated.

Josh was a little stunned by the sheer extent of my gravid figure, clearly not looking forward to his Lizzie being at the same stage. However he showed no sign of realising I was anything other than what I appeared to be. He apologised profusely and unnecessarily when sticking sensor dots in my more intimate places, apparently not realising that most of my female private parts weren’t really mine at all.

He had the experience to know how to position the sensors on my face. There were far more of them than anywhere else on my body, and they had to go in every little crack and crevice and move with my facial muscles.

“These will capture every movement,” he said, “so feel free to express yourself as much as you like.”

“But no pulling silly faces,” Ruth added.

“I hope they come off easily,” I said.

“Oh yes, they’ll just peel off – like post-it notes. In fact, they’ll fall off by themselves in about an hour as your perspiration dissolves the adhesive, so we’d better get busy. I’ve got a few props – bits of household and office furniture, and so on. You can do things like working at a computer, doing housework, or pushing a shopping cart. We can superimpose the backgrounds later. You’ll have to mime in front of a green screen.”

It was a strange afternoon. To begin, he took a few general shots which could be used for static poses, then we moved on to various scenarios. First, I pretended to be typing emails at my workstation, frowning with concentration. Those pictures would be used for selling maternity office wear.

Then Josh brought out an ironing board and a steam iron, and I mimed pressing my husband’s shirts, with a happy, vacant expression. Then I pretended to do some vacuuming and dusting. For the housework I was supposed to be singing along to the radio, so – more smiles. The animated me would be wearing slacks and an apron, or maybe a housedress.

Next, I pushed a shopping cart around a non-existent supermarket to sell outdoor maternity wear. Finally I mimed arriving at a restaurant. Josh, wearing a proper motion capture suit, played the waiter, helping me off with a motion capture coat, and sitting me at the dining table. This clip would be used for evening maternity wear.

We finished at about half-past four. Ruth helped me pull all the sensors off, enjoying checking out all my nooks and crannies. She helped me get dressed again while Josh processed all the captured video. It still needed suitable backgrounds, which he would add later. He promised to get it done over the next couple of days.

Ruth thanked him enormously and tried to press him to accept some payment. He told her he would wait till she was rich and famous, then send her a bill. He invited us to come to their home when my baby arrived, so that Lizzie could get a little practice with a newborn. I thanked him for the invitation without exactly accepting it, and Ruth promised not to leave it so long before her next visit. He expressed an interest in coming to see us at MyOwnCouture.com and she said we would be delighted to have him.

We set off on our three-hour journey home at about five o’clock. When we got back, we went straight to Agnelli’s for dinner. I drank white wine and to hell with anyone who looked askance.

We got back to the Manor House at about eleven. I was knackered. I sat at the dressing table in my nightie removing my make-up.

“I think my next project will be clothes for little girls,” Ruth said with a twinkle in her eye. “Again, the standard template won’t work because little girls don’t have breasts. Now who do we know who has a feminine stance and mannerisms but no breasts?”

“Well don’t look at me,” I said, looking down at my ample bust. “These are glued on.”

“I can get the solvent from Transformations. You’d look sweet in a gymslip or a party dress…”

“I think you’d better start looking around for a real little girl,” I said, getting up and heading for the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me to show what I thought of her idea.

I think I heard her laughing as I sat down to tinkle.

* * *

A call for Nick from Will Holford came through early on the Monday morning after our weekend in Bath. Each of us had our own direct line on the Barn network, but I had diverted all of Nick’s calls to my, that is, Daisy’s phone. It had a little screen which showed both the incoming number (if the caller hadn’t withheld it) and the extension they were calling (which was how I knew it was for Nick).

I looked around quickly. I was alone. I had been catching up on emails while Ruth and Vicky were down in the cowshed. Now was the perfect time for a confidential talk with my lawyer.

“Will, hi!” I said in Nick’s voice, struggling a little to recall what it should sound like. “What’s up? Good news? Bad news?”

“Both, in a way, I suppose,” he said. “Gerry and Steve have received an offer for their company from one of the big pharmaceuticals. I can’t name names over an open line, but trust me, you’ve heard of them. They’re required to make the offer to all shareholders through their agents, and that’s me, of course, so I’m calling you.” He paused to allow me to catch up.

“Is it a good offer?”

“Very good for Gerry and Steve, fairly good for you. They value the company at £7.5 million, which means your 20% holding is worth a million and a half.”

“Whew!” I sat back in my chair on my inflated buttocks, feeling the weight of my distorted stomach pressing down on me. “So what’s the bad news?”

“You’ll be out with just the cash. The deal is contingent on Gerry and Steve staying on, but the bidders aren’t offering you a role. The other two have to sign three-year contracts and most of their remuneration will depend on them not leaving in that time. They will hand over all their shares immediately but will get bonuses in the form of new share options if the company does well. They could be multi-millionaires by the time their contracts are up.”

“Or they could go broke. I think a fifteen-fold return on my investment in about eight months is quite satisfactory.”

“Less my fees, of course.”

“Of course.” I was glad Will was finally getting something for all his hard work.

“I’m glad I let your father, talk my father, talk me into getting involved in Rawlinson Ventures,” he said.

“You’ve more than earned it, mate, and hopefully there’ll be more to come. I suppose Gerry and Steve will want to take this, won’t they?”

“Oh, I expect so. They’d be mad not to. They’ll be continuing to do what they enjoy at much less personal risk, earning six figure salaries, and with three million each in the bank. But I called you first, so I don’t know how they’ll react yet. The deal depends on all the current shareholders agreeing to the sale. Even though Gerry and Steve own 80%, the bidders won’t proceed if there are any maverick hold-outs. Pharma is a sensitive industry; they can’t afford to have someone they can’t control attending their Board meetings, even if he can always be outvoted. He’d have lots of inside information to spill to outsiders – the Government, the press, their competitors…”

“I get it. Anyway you can tell the boys that I won’t stand in their way, and give them my congratulations. I can afford that Aston Martin Vantage now!”

Not that I’d be able to drive it till I stop being Daisy…

The next question was: should I tell anyone about this? It would be bound to affect the power balance between me and Ruth. She might decide she’d been right about the rich posh boy all along and end the relationship. On the other hand, if she found out before I told her, she would accuse me of hiding things from her again. OK, I would tell her, just not yet…

I didn’t think I would tell the family now either. My mother would never be able to keep such a big secret, and if not her then Tom or Josie would be sure to blab about something so exciting. But I would have to tell Dad. My big score was only possible because of him; he deserved to know his faith was justified, and maybe I should pay him back what he lent me?

Anyway, no need to do anything for the moment. I hadn’t got the money yet.

* * *

Meanwhile office life went on. Eddy had finished his specifications for our new equipment and they were with a machine tool maker, but it would be another four weeks before anything could be delivered. Meanwhile orders continued to rocket and completion times were getting longer. We now needed to operate sixteen hours a day, so we were working in shifts. Because of the stress we were putting on the machines, either Mike or Eddy had to be on hand at all times to deal with any breakdowns.

A gap between shifts was essential or the old machines would overheat, so one week Mike and Vicky would work from seven a.m. till three, then Eddy and Ruth would take over from four till midnight. Then the following week they would swap over. I had to be there throughout the day because the secretary and Office Manageress was needed to run the company throughout business hours – and I never seemed to be off the phone dealing with suppliers, couriers or customer enquiries.

When Ruth wasn’t on shift or sleeping, she was trying to keep our designs fresh and add to them. Josh had sent her all the processed videos and the pregnant lady template, and she was hoping to get our maternity wear up on the site as soon as possible. So now all the housework and shopping fell on me. I got used to pitying looks as I staggered round the supermarket, straining to reach the handles of the shopping trolley over my huge tummy.

Half-way through this difficult period, we had to introduce daytime shifts on Saturdays and Sundays, just to catch up. Mike and Vicky put up with it all like heroes. We Directors set aside some cash to give them hefty bonuses.

The upside of this frenetic and tiring activity was that we were starting to make serious money. Profitability was way up and we were beginning to attract attention from both the fashion industry and the business world. Rixi’s paper asked her for a follow-up article in greater depth. Also, one of the women’s journals called. They wanted to do a six-page spread with colour photographs. Daisy would have to hide or pull a sickie that day. I couldn’t afford to have my picture appear in a national magazine.

Ruth was getting ratty because taking her turn in manufacturing was cutting into her designing time. It was about to get worse as she would be involved in interviewing potential secretaries, although she understood that additional staff would ease the situation a little. The first candidates started appearing the following week. As Office Manageress and now Head of Human Resources (apparently), I did all the first interviews. The secretaries that I liked I passed to Ruth for their second interview; the operators I passed to Eddy.

We had to make it clear to all the candidates that until our new machines were on stream, they would be expected to take their turns on evening and weekend shifts, although we hoped that situation would only last for a month or so.

* * *

I saw six candidates for the secretary job. We didn’t – couldn’t – specify the sex of the post, but we could demand a standard skill set, and as it turned out, the candidates were all women. At the first interview it was fairly easy to rule out a couple of them who seemed to be looking for an easy life. No way would they be able to stand the pace at MyOwnCouture.com. Of the others, one stood out: Sherry – spelt like the drink, not Tony Blair’s wife, she insisted. Her CV actually had a date of birth (most didn’t) which put her at twenty-six, the same age as me. I guessed that she was a little older than the others.

She was from a country family, though her father was ‘something in the city’. Her mother worked part-time in a local auction house, being their expert on porcelain. Sherry had listed riding as her main hobby and her CV including a long list of prizes from shows, point-to-points, and gymkhanas. She seemed very bright and I asked her why she hadn’t been to university.

“Puberty, mainly,” she said with a smile. “I was very academic in my early teens. I went to a grammar school, which was a bit of a crammer, and they pushed me to take my GCSEs at fifteen.”

I looked down at her CV and saw a cluster of As and A*s.

“I did OK in them, but in the sixth form I discovered boys, somewhat belatedly. After that, schoolwork rather took a back seat. I blew my A levels and gave up on university. I went to secretarial college, for something to do really.”

She paused. I smiled encouragement. I had interview technique training at Atkinson Stern, and I remembered being told that if you, the interviewer, keep quiet, the interviewee becomes desperate to fill the silence and often tells you things they wouldn’t usually have talked about. I noticed from her CV that she graduated from her college with a Distinction.

“I did OK there, and had no trouble finding a good job, but after a couple of years I got married and was out of the workforce for a couple of years. That didn’t take, so here I am again. I don’t really see my work as my life, to be honest, but I love fashion, so when this opportunity came up, I leapt at it. I saw a couple of articles about Ruth Braddock – this is her company, isn’t it?”

“She is our chief – well, only – designer, yes. She is very ambitious for MyOwnCouture.com. Anyone who gets in on the ground floor, as it were, can hope for great things in time. The job is advertised as a secretarial post, but I expect you’ll be taking on more and more responsibility later – especially if you know fashion.”

“Would this job be to replace you?” she asked, clearly thinking of my forthcoming ‘confinement’, as they used to say.

“Not really. This…” I patted my bump. “…was a mistake and I’m giving the baby up for adoption the moment it’s born. All the arrangements have been made.”

She looked surprised, but knew better to inquire further.

“I’ll probably only be away for a week or two, then we’ll be working side by side. At the moment I’m the only secretary, and I support both Ruth and our Finance Director, Nick Rawlinson. I also seem to double as Office Manager and Financial Controller, so in the first instance I expect you’ll be taking over most of my secretarial tasks. How are you on a computer, by the way? You appreciate that MyOwnCouture.com is an entirely digital company?”

“I’m not bad,” she said. “Fully trained anyway. We did a lot of work with Windows, MS Office, SharePoint and the Internet on our course.”

Judging by her modesty about her GCSEs and her college diploma, ‘not bad’ probably meant she was a wizard. We would be lucky to have her.

“OK, I think I have all I need for the moment,” I said. “I’d like you to meet with Ruth. As her secretary – at least at the moment – I manage her diary, so let’s see if we can find you a slot. Could you do tomorrow morning by any chance?”

“Yes, any time. By the way, I love your website! I bought two dresses from it a couple of days ago, before I even knew there was an opening here.”

“Oh, well, if you like I’ll take you down to the cowshed and see if they’re ready. You can take them with you and we’ll save on postage.”

“Cowshed?”

* * *

“I liked her, and I agree she’s the best candidate…” said Ruth after meeting Sherry the next day. “Well, judging by the CVs, as she’s the only one you’ve actually let me meet.”

“I think she’ll be great,” I said. “You’ll be making her your assistant in no time. She might even have what it takes to help with the designs.”

“You’re my assistant. Don’t you want to… assist me anymore?”

“I want to assist you all our lives, dopey, but as Nick, not as Daisy. You’ll need Sherry when I hang up my bra for good. Anyway, don’t let’s think too hard about the future. We need another secretary right now, and Sherry will be great.”

“OK, but… look, I can trust you around her, can’t I?”

“What on earth do you mean? Look at me! From her point of view, I’m a nearly nine-months-pregnant, obviously heterosexual woman. Even if I were inclined to hit on her, she’d run a mile. For God’s sake, haven’t I proven myself to you yet – with all this?”

I waved my arms up and down around my distorted, distended, hyper-feminine figure.

“Well, yes, but she’s one of your lot, isn’t she? The horsey set? And I’m obviously not.”

“I haven’t been on a horse since I was eight,” I said, “and I hated it then. Our family are more the Range Rover-y set.”

I rang Sherry to say she was hired if she still wanted the job.

* * *

I went through a similar process with the six youngsters the Agency sent along to interview for the machine operator post. We would have to train anyone we hired to work with our unique machinery, so we offered this as an unskilled post. All I could really do was try and find candidates who seemed personable and eager to learn. They were all seventeen and eighteen-year-olds.

I introduced myself as secretary to the Directors. A couple of the boys seemed to think that meant their three or four low grade GCSEs would place them above me in the hierarchy. That in itself didn’t bother me in the slightest, but I took it as a strong indicator that they didn’t get the idea of ‘starting at the bottom’. They would probably be arrogant and difficult to train. The others showed much more humility. Unfortunately in one case it was because she was just thick. That left two girls and a boy. I asked all three to come back and meet with Eddy and Mike. Let them work out which of the kids they liked. Hopefully at least one of the young candidates had some mechanical aptitude.

Eddy believed in practical tests so he had them all change a plug, fix a puncture on my old bike (yes, it had three punctures), and set up a flat screen TV from scratch. Only Ginny, one of the girls, managed all three tests. Eddy and Mike were pleased because they both liked her the best anyway. She was a great kid. She was bright, eager to learn, and so full of energy it made me in my current state feel tired and envious.

So now we were seven. I spent the next week showing Sherry how things worked in the office, and how to find important documents in the filing cabinets and on the network. Ruth gave her as much of her time as she could and agreed with me that she might be able to help with design work in due course. Meanwhile Eddy and Mike showed Ginny the ropes down in the cowshed. We soon had two more people to take their turns on the manufacturing shifts.

Margaret came down for our third Board meeting. She didn’t suggest dinner the night before, so I didn’t have to explain anything to a jealous Ruth. We took the opportunity to introduce her to the new girls. She was pleased to see we were hiring and after spending a little time with each of them, heartily approved our choices.

Sherry took the minutes of the Board meeting. She was a little surprised that I was in the chair, as she had believed that I was only the senior secretary. I explained that as Financial Controller I reported directly to Nick the Chairman and FD, and had his proxy when he wasn’t able to attend. I deflected her further enquiries about when she would meet Nick.

I was able to report that our financial situation was even healthier than last month. We were now seeing significant repeat business. As anecdotal evidence I cited one of our earliest clients who had now bought three more dresses in different styles. Also, although we still weren’t offering wedding gowns, one bride-to-be had bought three bridesmaid dresses in our mermaid style, and one matching baby doll for her little flower girl. We engaged Polly and her team to finish them off with lace and flounces.

In his report Eddy described his progress in assembling and testing our new production machines. He hoped that one would be ready within the next two or three days. If that performed as he expected, they could get the second running very quickly afterwards. He proposed to work with two fully automated lines while he and Mike took our original machinery out of action to give it a thorough overhaul and upgrade. He suggested we would need another new operator when we had three machines up and running.

Ruth was ready to launch several new products including maternity clothes and uniforms, but was waiting for the new equipment to be ready, as Eddy had promised it would be much easier to add accessories and more complicated designs with the custom-built machines. She and Vicky had nearly finished all the programming. She wanted the next big development project to focus on the website. It would need a fundamental revamp soon. Navigation had become cumbersome as we had added so many new product lines.

She and I had discussed it a lot and I had offered some ideas, but I was still surprised when she proposed that I help her with the site structure and layout, now that Sherry was available to take over my secretarial tasks. I realised that would lock me into being Daisy for a little longer, but I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse. We would engage Mo again to do the actual development.

* * *

Eddy and Mike managed to get the first new production line working on schedule and Ruth and Vicky began testing their new design software. There were a few bugs in the more complicated accessories but the team’s experience made short work of those. So the face-lift to the website had now become a priority. One change that Ruth wanted to make was to introduce colour photographs of real women wearing our clothes. She proposed to email our customers asking for volunteers to send us pictures of themselves modelling the dresses they had bought from us. We would put the best photos submitted, with the customers’ comments, up on the site alongside the existing pictures – which were all Ruth’s own sketches, because we had never had the money to pay proper models.

This ingenious idea seemed to have lots of benefits: our customers would be delighted, Ruth believed, to be fashion models in a small way; we could get their testimonials; and of course, we wouldn’t have to pay anyone anything. Win – win – win! Always assuming the photos and comments were good enough to publish.

“Of course, we don’t have any customers for the maternity dresses because they’re new,” Ruth said. “So you’ll have to do it,” she added casually.

“What? I can’t do that!”

“Why not? You’re tall and pretty and preggy enough.”

“No, I mean, I can’t have my face in a maternity dress – or any dress – on our website. Someone is bound to recognise me as Nick!”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I invited Josh to come for the weekend and take the pictures. He’s bringing some kit. You won’t be recognisable. We can use the big hall at the Manor House, can’t we?”

“Only if my family all promise to go out.”

Fortunately there was a major agricultural show that weekend and they were all going. So I spent another Sunday afternoon being photographed. Josh plastered my face with his little sensors again, this time so he could disguise my features. Ruth had made up one of each of her designs – six in all – in my size. She did my hair and make-up (around the sensors) for each dress and the two of them told me how to pose for each.

“Am I supposed to smile, or what?” I asked. “Because you won’t actually be using my face or expression, will you?”

“Oh yes,” said Josh. “My software will let Ruth change your features however she wants, but your expression will still come through.”

“So smile, babe,” said Ruth. “Try and look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

I was. As Daisy I was loving this. Well what girl doesn’t secretly dream of being a model? I felt Nick cringing a little inside, but it was getting easier and easier to ignore him.

The photo session was a success and the pictures were soon up on the site, along with a message that said, “All these garments are available off the shelf in size 16”. I hated the idea of parting with these gorgeous dresses, but I suppose selling them was only reasonable as I now had very little time in which to wear them. Maybe I could keep them in case we decided I should have a second baby…? (Joke.)

The pictures seemed to get a lot of favourable attention. Josh disguised my features using his technology just enough that I was unrecognisable, but all the team claimed they could still see that it was me. I couldn’t see Nick in them at all, so I’m not sure how that worked. Sherry and Ginny didn’t understand why my face needed to be changed. I suppose they assumed I was just shy.

We now had two full-time, fully automated production lines running, but we had added lots of new designs, which had increased orders again, so we were still running flat out. We needed the old machines back up as soon as Eddy and Mike had overhauled them, and then we would need another operator. We started thinking about a fourth production line. Eddy reckoned we could increase throughput still further if we customised each line for specific garment types.

* * *

My weekly visits to Transformations continued. The discomfort of my pregnancy was becoming extreme now. I could only put up with it because I knew the end was in sight, but I couldn’t complain because in this, as in so many other ways, I was just like any pregnant woman.

Both Ginny and Sherry were asking when I planned to go on maternity leave. I couldn’t keep putting them off with claims that we were still overstretched. Babies don’t care that mommy is busy. Finally the time came when I couldn’t realistically be nine months pregnant any longer. Ruth wanted me to disappear for a week and then come back as a slimmed down Daisy. I agreed but emphasised that I couldn’t be her, pregnant or not, for much longer. I needed Nick to come back soon.

We discussed the situation with Ingrid and Vera. We agreed that at the next session, which was one where Vera would be removing all my prostheses for cleaning them and waxing me, I would need a new slim bottom half. Ingrid said that the new prosthesis should have stretch marks because I had been so big, and it should look as if I still had to lose my ‘baby weight’. When I protested, the others laughed and said that women take a lot more than a week to shed the extra pounds put on in pregnancy. Eventually I agreed when Vera pointed out that a little pot belly would help conceal my wedding tackle, just as Josie had said back when this all started. Otherwise she would have to bind my genitals up tightly and that would be uncomfortable.

And so the great day arrived. Ruth and I showed up at Transformations with a suitcase of clothes from Josie’s mother’s stash, and a brand-new bra and panty set in my proposed post-maternity sizes. Vera applied her magic solvent to remove my breast forms and ease me out of my now-gigantic abdominal prosthesis. She was gently rubbing me down with her soothing lotion, and Ruth was watching with a lustful eye, when Ingrid appeared. Vera handed me a robe.

“I still have your original measurements,” Ingrid said, “but I think we should take another set. You’ve been carrying some heavy weights around for three months now. That’s like going to the gym every day and pumping iron. You may have lost a few pounds.”

She set up the photographic suite and I went in and dropped the robe. As I stood on the little platform I was astonished at how much lighter I felt, almost like I could defy gravity if I jumped in the air. I felt stronger too, which made sense, I suppose. If it had been like I was carrying weights around all the time, of course I would have developed bigger muscles. My arms looked no thicker than before though, because I’d been bearing the load in my legs and trunk, not my biceps. That was just as well; it would have been awkward if Daisy’s muscly arms were bursting out of her blouses.

Ingrid was right. It turned out that I had lost nearly six pounds since my original photographic session.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t make the new prosthesis with your old measurements,” she said. “We would have needed a lot of adhesive to make it fit properly. Anyway it will take an hour or so to make one with your new statistics. Do you want to wait or come back later on?”

Ruth was about to answer when I had a thought.

“Actually, can we come back one day next week?” I said. Ruth looked at me in surprise. “Daisy can’t be seen around for a week or so, and I’d like to spend some time as Nick. Is Sharon available to maybe give me a unisex hairdo, remove my nail polish, and so on?

“Yes, I think we can manage that,” said Ingrid.

She and Vera went off to make the arrangements. I started to get dressed. Nick would look odd in Daisy’s smock and tights, not to mention her high heels, but I could probably get home without being seen. I eventually left with my hair smoothed back with some greasy stuff and gathered in a low man-style ponytail.

Ruth was looking disappointed now.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “Daisy will be back at work a week on Monday, but she’s supposed to be resting up this week after having her baby, so she can’t be seen around anyway. This is an opportunity for Nick to reconnect with friends and family. They haven’t seen him for nearly three months.”

“I suppose so,” Ruth said, “but we need Daisy back as soon as possible. She’s essential to the company. And you realise you and I can’t be seen out together this week?”

“But Nick can show up in the office for once.”

“Are you sure about that? You don’t think Sherry or Ginny will recognise you?”

“I’ll risk it.”

“They’re bound to notice that Nick has pierced ears…”

“I’ll just laugh and deny everything.”

She gave me a scornful look. “You need to decide what you want. Till then I’ll move back to the flat. Good thing we haven’t sub-let it yet.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’ll be back here next week to become Daisy again.”

But she was adamant.

“I’ll see you next week then. Come on, I’ll drop you off at the Manor House and collect my toothbrush.”

* * *

It was good to be Nick again, although it took me a day or two to shake off my feminine movement and mannerisms. Tom helped enormously there by laughing his head off whenever I did anything girly. We played squash. He teased me about my shaved legs and beat me hollow because, although I was lighter and stronger, I was badly out of practice. I went on a lads’ night out with him and some old mates from school. I drove him and Josie to the seaside in my BMW 230i and we had a great day.

But none of it was as much fun without Ruth, as Josie pointed out.

I didn’t go into the MyOwnCouture.com office as Nick in the end. I knew Ruth was right. Our new girls would be sure to recognise me. I would probably have to come clean eventually, but I wasn’t ready to end the deception yet.

I did go to meetings with my other ventures though. The anti-nausea virtual reality headset project was ticking over. I had asked Will to help them apply for a patent for their design. He had engaged a patent lawyer he knew and they were cautiously optimistic. The team still wanted to manufacture and sell their equipment themselves, thinking that was the way to get really rich, but I didn’t think they appreciated the work and cost involved with that. I argued that having a patent first would both protect them and expand their options; for example, selling the rights to an existing manufacturer to make and market the product under licence. Fortunately they saw the sense in that.

The data analytics guys had hit a roadblock: there were too many areas where they wouldn’t be able to get permission to fly their drones. At the moment they were building complicated spreadsheets to determine whether their business model would be viable with no-fly zones in critical places.

Gerry and Steve were delighted to see me – it had been a while – and we had a happy, boozy lunch catching up. They made a very generous gesture. They promised that if their business took off as they hoped, and they received share options as bonuses, they would transfer 20% of them to me. Gerry said he thought that was only right, and in the spirit of our original agreement. There was no contract for this, and nothing could compel them to do it if they changed their minds when the time came, but knowing them as I now did, I believed they would keep their promise. Time would tell. Meanwhile I could expect my £1.5m (less £100k for Will) by the end of the month. The accountant in me knew that would complicate this year’s tax return, but in a good way.

I went round to see my father that evening. He was glad to see me as Nick again. I managed to get him alone while my mother was out on some veterinary emergency or other. I told him about my windfall. He was delighted and felt vindicated that just one of my ventures had tripled our total investment, but agreed to keep the news to himself for the moment. He refused point-blank to take any money back. I decided to pay for him and Mum to have a really good foreign holiday and made him promise not to object.

I reminded him that MyOwnCouture.com was going from strength to strength and was even more promising in terms of returns. I told him that he would soon be getting rent money from them for the offices.

“And how is the lovely Miss Braddock?” he asked, with a slightly sardonic expression on his face.

“She’s fine – I think. I haven’t actually seen her since last weekend. I can’t go into the office as Nick now, and she still can’t afford to be seen out with me.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Go back to being Daisy for a while, probably – at least until the situation is clearer. But I can’t be Daisy forever.”

“Well, it’s not impossible, but it would certainly be very difficult,” Dad agreed. “At the very least, you probably need to set up a bank account and get a driving licence in her name. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. I do like Ruth, but you have to admit that she’s…”

“A mad Northern bitch?”

“…unusual, I was going to say. Little cracker, though, eh?”

“Da-a-a-d!”

* * *

To my surprise I began to miss being Daisy. I didn’t miss being pregnant but I missed the pretty, delicate clothes. I missed wearing tights or stockings. I missed silk panties. I missed make-up. I missed having breasts, for God’s sake! I even missed wearing a bra. Could Vera’s hormone-laced lotion be responsible for this? Or had it been a gradual but inexorable process beginning from when I first dragged up as Daisy, and exacerbated by being Sarah the Cook, and Auntie Elsie?

So I didn’t put up a fight when Ruth dragged me back to Transformations. I wore a smock and leggings, the baggiest of Josie’s mother’s stash, as we didn’t know how big my new prosthesis would make me. Vera gave me a check-up as usual, with Ingrid supervising, but I escaped waxing this time. In fact, it rather looked as though I was now growing no more body hair than the average twenty-something woman.

First Vera stuck my old breast forms back on. Without my massive lower half as a counterweight, my 42Cs felt heavier than ever.

“Your breasts get bigger in pregnancy, as you know,” Ingrid said, “and they won’t shrink again until you stop nursing, so there’s no need to change them for smaller models yet.”

I loved that she was treating me as though I had just given birth and was now nursing my baby.

Then Vera brought out my new abdomen. If I thought the pregnancy prosthesis was hideous, it was nothing compared to the new one with its flabby tummy, stretch marks, and cellulite thighs and buttocks. It had the same fastenings underneath, but that was about all I liked about it. It was also smaller and stiffer than its predecessor, and more of a struggle to get on. I donned a new bra and panties as quickly as I could.

I stood in front of the mirror, aghast at the sight. I could almost feel the adhesive starting to set, imprisoning me in this hideous object for the next month. It was sickeningly realistic. I could pinch a good fistful of my new flabby flesh.

“I don’t believe any woman would have a baby if she knew she’d end up looking like this,” I said.

“Some women don’t have a choice,” Ingrid snapped.

I must have touched a nerve. Ruth tried to lighten the mood.

“You’ll just have to work hard to get your figure back, Daisy,” she laughed. “You can start coming with me to aerobics. I’ll buy you a leotard.”

“It’s like I have middle-aged spread! Sod aerobics. I’ll just get a tummy tuck - and then a new prosthesis.”

“Sharon’s ready for you,” said Vera. “She’s got lots of ideas for your new hairstyle. It’s long enough now to give you more choices.”

Ruth persuaded me to try a tint and perm, for the full feminine experience. Who was I to argue? As this would take at least an hour and a half, she went off to the shops again. She took my new measurements and promised to buy me more panties and tights. My old bras fitted of course, but they were practically the only clothes I had that did. I wanted to shop for new outer clothes as well, but Ruth wouldn’t hear of it. She said she had a much better idea, but left me wondering what she meant.

I always enjoyed Sharon’s company and we chatted about Transformations; how it got started; how she liked working there; and the strangest things she’d had to do. She told me that the overwhelming majority of their work was for men becoming women. Very few women seemed to want to make the reverse journey. She supposed that most of their clients were transgendered but they never asked about their motives. In some cases, she thought they were going into hiding, on the run from the police or a criminal gang. In those instances, it was much better that the Transformations staff didn’t know.

She described two recent clients she had found interesting. The first was a wealthy, educated man who wanted to become a working-class housemaid. Everyone had wondered what made him do that. At first they had thought he was transitioning, but that wasn’t it. The second was a young man whom they transformed into a fat Hispanic cleaning lady. They thought there was some complicated financial reason for that but couldn’t imagine what. Both transformations were totally convincing and the clients seemed very pleased with the results.

I didn’t volunteer my motives, and she didn’t enquire. She did say one more thing, and with a twinkle in her eye: in all the most interesting cases, the client had a strong-willed female partner.

I eventually emerged with new make-up, bright scarlet nails, and medium length curly hair. When Ruth came back to pick me up, she was delighted.

“I knew you’d clean up nicely, Daisy,” she said. “Just wait till I get you home.”

She certainly kept that promise and our lovemaking was so much more satisfying without my massive baby bump. I even got to go on top once.

* * *

The next day, Sunday, Ruth revealed her master plan. She drove us into the empty office – with the new machines we had no need of weekend shifts just at the moment – and set about making me a whole new wardrobe using the company’s facilities. I would now be dressed exclusively in Ruth’s designs.

“It’s like having my own live action dress-up dolly,” she said, taking all my most intimate measurements.

We were there alone most of the day and I was continually stripping down to my bra and knickers to try on another of her creations, straight from the fabricator. She made me model them all and took photos but promised not to put them on the website, at least not without photoshopping my face to make me unrecognisable.

Because of the modern cutting and sewing tools Eddy had added to the production lines, Ruth’s new designs could be fancier than before. She was planning to add wedding dresses to our portfolio soon. Eddy had checked that the new machines could handle much softer and more delicate fabrics without damaging them, so Ruth was confident she could produce gowns as intricate as anything a bride could buy in an expensive shop. Furthermore, they would be much cheaper, could be delivered more quickly, and would fit better!

Ruth was particularly proud of a beautiful pale blue skirt suit, which made me look like the Duchess of Cornwall. She insisted she had designed it for the office with me specifically in mind. The skirt had pleats, which we hadn’t been able to do before. The jacket had a high collar, buttons down the front, and a belt. She had had to buy in things like the buttons and the belt buckle but our new machines were capable of sewing the buttons on and finishing the belt automatically. She also made me an identical suit in pink and a very smart form-fitting sheath dress, which I wasn’t sure I would wear very often as it really highlighted my baby weight pot belly.

* * *

I returned to work as Daisy the next day. I had only been out of touch for nine days but during that time I had – theoretically – given birth, handed my baby over to adoptive parents, and recovered from labour enough to be up and around. Sherry and Ginny were astonished at my fortitude. I told them I couldn’t afford any more time off, as you forfeit maternity leave rights if you give up your baby. Ruth and Vicky feigned equal amazement in support of the fiction. At coffee break on the day I got back, we five ladies were sitting downstairs in the casual meeting space by the kitchen.

Everyone had questions, real or pretend. They wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl, of course. I said, boy. Did he look like me? Well, no, he looked like Winston Churchill, as all new-born babies do.

“How much did he weigh?” asked Sherry.

“Eight and a half pounds,” I guessed, hoping that sounded plausible.

There were pursed lips all round. Was that too much?

“Still, you’re a big girl,” said Ruth, “so you must have a wide pelvis.” She was loving this.

“How long were you in labour for?” asked Sherry.

“About eight hours.” I thought that was about average for a first-time mum.

Ginny, being the youngest female in the office, had been particularly enthralled to watch me coping with my pregnancy, and was fascinated and terrified in equal measures by the birth process. I remembered that during her interview she had mentioned that her mother had died when she was little, and she had had no one to learn ‘women’s things’ from when she was growing up.

“Did it hurt?” she asked, transfixed.

“Well, yes, it did, I’m afraid.”

“A lot?”

“Quite a lot, yes.”

“Gosh!” she said, then, diffidently, “Can I see your stretch marks?”

Bloody hell! Is that the sort of thing women ask each other when there are no men around? Or was it just innocent little Ginny?

“I’m not sure that would be appropriate here in the office…” I said, looking at Ruth, Vicky and Sherry for support, “and we don’t know really know each other that well…”

“Oh, go on, Daisy,” Ruth said, being about as supportive as she ever was. “You know she’ll only keep pestering you till you show her.” She glanced at the outside door. “You’re safe. The boys are busy in the cowshed.”

I sighed and stood up, appreciating how much easier it was now to get out of an armchair. I untucked my blouse and lifted it up as high as my bra, exposing my hideous tummy flab and stretch marks. I hoped the prosthesis was as realistic as I had been promised. I also hoped she didn’t ask me to lower my skirt and panties, because there would surely be a lack of realistic recent scarring down there.

The look on Ginny’s face was worth the embarrassment.

“Oh, that’s it!” she whispered, appalled. “I’m never getting pregnant.”

Ruth and Sherry, both ten years older than Ginny, laughed. Vicky joined in with a little less enthusiasm. They all promised Ginny would feel differently when she met the right boy. I retucked my blouse and sat down again. The conversation returned to more pleasant aspects of the working woman’s life.

“By the way, when will we get to meet Nick?” Sherry asked, out of the blue.

“I don’t know really,” I said, concerned at this new direction. I could feel Ruth tensing beside me too. “He has a lot of other businesses to look after.”

“He’s not really interested in fashion, so he delegates all our day-to-day financial stuff to Daisy,” added Ruth. “She has a much better understanding of our business.”

“Still, isn’t it a little odd that our Finance Director never comes into the office?” suggested Ginny.

“He travels a lot too,” I said. “But he and I talk often. We’re very… close.”

I suddenly realised what they might make of that.

“So is he the father of your baby?” asked Ginny, guilelessly. “Is that why he’s never around now?”

“Ginny!” said Ruth and Sherry, more or less simultaneously.

“Sorry, sorry!” Ginny said quickly. “Gosh, that was really insensitive, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t worry, dear,” I said, feeling like an elderly aunt. “I’m not upset. And no, Nick wasn’t my baby’s father. He’s a good friend and has helped me a lot. He’s just very busy, that’s all.”

More lies and deception. How can I ever own up to being Nick now?

* * *

We were all too busy for the story of Daisy’s week off to interfere with our work for long. MyOwnCouture.com was really making waves now. Ruth was doing an average of two interviews a week and she was even invited onto the local television news magazine, Look East. When the crew came down to film everyone at work in the barn and cowshed, I hid myself away in the Manor House. Later we all gathered at the local pub to watch Ruth’s segment. She was brilliant, and in her element.

One of the magazine articles claimed that Ruth’s designs and the quality of our products were serious competition for established designers, at least for those whose clothes the average woman could buy in the leading department stores and shopping centre boutiques, if not quite rivalling the trendy Paris fashion shows.

As a result, our orders took another quantum leap. Eddy and Mike finished the overhaul of our original machinery and added the new tooling to it. That gave us three operational production lines. We needed to hire another operator. I called the Agency.

We had our next monthly Board meeting. I declared that we were now able to pay the salaries of our four junior staff out of revenue and recommended a bonus of 25% of their annual salaries to Mike and Vicky. I added that now would be a good time for that as they had just announced their engagement.

Ruth and Eddy approved my suggestion, which was therefore carried. Margaret made no objection but asked when I expected that the three of us were going to start taking more than notional salaries, presumably in the form of dividends. We agreed we’d look to do that before the end of the financial year.

That would mean Ruth and Eddy would no longer be dependent on financial support from the Deveres, and they could break off their phony engagement…

Meanwhile Ruth was insanely busy with all of the publicity and was struggling to find time for new designs. She had been invited to present at a fashion show in Berlin and speak at a conference in Rome. There was talk of nominating her for ‘Young Businesswoman of the Year’, which I felt was a little ironic as she still didn’t have much of a clue when it came to running a business. That was down to me, supported by Margaret and Sherry.

But Ruth was living the dream. She was also too knackered in the evenings to do much more than eat the meal I cooked, drink the wine I poured, and join me in bed for a good seeing-to.

I had no complaints at all about the sex, but I wondered how I had become a secretary by day and a housewife by night. I made the mistake of pointing that out once. The next thing I knew I was being presented with a 1950s housewife dress, fresh off the fabricator. It was pink with white polka dots and low-cut to emphasise my big bust.

She had also got hold of a ‘dumb blonde’ wig from somewhere, a ribbon that matched my dress, and white high heels in my size, and that’s how I had to serve dinner that night.

I felt very silly, but loved it, and I knew she had done it for fun, and because she cared and was aware that she had been neglecting me.

* * *

But living and loving with Ruth was worth any sacrifice. At bedtime, just to tantalise her, I would strip off my outer clothes and stand in just my bra and panty-girdle in front of the bedroom mirror removing my make-up and combing my hair. Well it seemed my role was ‘sex object’ now, so why not live it to the full?

I wouldn’t get very far before she would push me backwards onto the bed and start unzipping my prosthesis to liberate my blunt instrument. Usually I let her straddle me and use her strong thigh and bottom muscles to propel herself up and down, but every now and then I would flip her over and make love the normal way, just to prove I was still stronger than her. To be honest I didn’t enjoy that as much because of the way our breasts mashed together. I couldn’t feel anything in mine of course, but I was always afraid of hurting hers.

* * *

One night we were getting into bed. I was in a lime-green baby doll nightie and Ruth was fiddling with the zip on my prosthesis. I was trying to decide how to break it to her that I wanted to set a final limit on my time as Daisy.

I was just drawing breath to open this potentially difficult discussion when she spoke first.

“I think we should make it official.”

“Make what official?”

“Our relationship.”

“Fantastic! Does that mean you want to get married?”

“No – well, not to Nick.”

“Well what did you mean then?” I asked, puzzled.

“I mean we should tell everyone about us – Ruth and Daisy.”

“What?”

“Well, why not? Everyone who matters already knows anyway.”

“But I don’t want to live as Daisy indefinitely!”

“Why not? You’re obviously loving it, and you know I prefer Daisy, the chick with the dick, to Nick, the rich posh boy.”

She couldn’t still be living under her previous delusion that my family were loaded. She’d been to our house several times. My parents’ cars were ten years old and they didn’t even have a flat screen TV. But I still hadn’t told her just how rich I was now.

“I admit that Nick sometimes makes me feel inferior because he’s so good at everything, but I like you being Daisy, my subordinate at the office. I suppose it’s because it lets me be dominant, but it’s not just that. It’s like Polly said, you get my motor running hotter when you’re Daisy.”

For some reason I couldn’t phrase the most obvious objections – something to do with me actually being a man.

All I could come up with was, “What about the company – and the Deveres’ money? Are you ready to do without it yet?”

“Well, we don’t need it as much as we did – in fact, if the business continues to grow, we’ll soon be completely independent. Anyway, they won’t stop supporting Eddy. They still want him to succeed. I suppose they’ll cut it back, as they won’t want to help me anymore…”

“But you said…”

“…that they’d cut us off if Eddy came out as gay and called off the engagement. But that isn’t what would be happening. I’d be coming out as gay and calling off the engagement. They won’t care about that. I don’t think they ever liked me much anyway.”

“You’ll need to talk to Eddy first.”

“I already have. He’s fine with it.”

She looked at me hopefully, but sensibly gave me time to think. I didn’t need long. I just wondered what my family would say. Then I realised that what they thought didn’t matter to me as much as giving Ruth what she wanted.

“OK then.” I said. “I suppose I should take my fake my wedding ring off. Everyone already knows it didn’t work out.”

“Right, but keep the fake engagement ring on. Now that you’re engaged to me, I don’t want anyone trying to steal my honey.”

Epilogue

To be honest I wasn’t sure whether this would work. I would have to create a new identity for myself as Daisy Duquesne and the State doesn’t make that easy. Sure, it’s not illegal to live under two different names, as long as it’s not for the purpose of fraud; I didn’t need to change my name by deed poll; and I didn’t want a sex-change (and Ruth certainly didn’t want that for me).

But I might have to get a Gender Recognition Certificate, which can take up to two years. It would also require evidence from a qualified doctor that I have gender dysphoria, which was moot, to say the least.

But without a GRC, I wouldn’t be able to get a driving licence as Daisy, well not one that said ‘Female’ on it anyway. Also, you can’t – legally – have two driving licences in different names, so if I get one as Daisy, I would have to surrender Nick’s. Much the same applies for a passport.

So for the time being I had to accept that I would only be able to drive when I was Nick. Fortunately, having bought some of their special solvent from Transformations, I could change to Nick relatively easily – albeit a rather effeminate version of the original Nick with pierced ears and girly hair. So far I have resisted the temptation, despite Ruth’s increasingly determined pleas, to get breast implants, which would make it much more difficult to be Nick occasionally.

To get a bank account in Daisy’s name would require full disclosure. You might think it would be like trying to open an account for your professional name – after all ‘Daisy Duquesne’ was originally Nick Rawlinson’s stage name for performing at the Club. This is perfectly legal in itself, but banks are reluctant to do it. To prevent money laundering there are extremely strict laws about banks having to ‘know their customer’. I would have to disclose all of my – Nick’s – real details, but even then they would be issuing me with cards, cheque books and statements under a totally different name. I could then go to another bank and set up an account there with an independent false identity.

In the end I compromised. I made an appointment at my bank as Nick and took all the relevant evidence of my real identity – passport, utility bill, etc. I explained that I was working in the fashion industry and I needed to do so with a female persona. That raised eyebrows in itself but they didn’t enquire further. Also I occasionally did a drag stand-up act. So there might be transactions on Nick Rawlinson’s account in the name of ‘Daisy Duquesne’, and I would be grateful if they would accept them. When they saw the scale of my assets, they were only too happy to oblige me and made an appropriate note on my file.

I would also need a GRC if I wanted Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs to deal with me as Daisy, so that was out for the moment too. Fortunately I was MyOwnCouture.com’s Financial Controller, so no one else ever needed to see that any payments from the company to Daisy actually went into Nick’s account. I also signed all company cheques as Nick, being careful not to let anyone at the office see me doing it. We didn’t use cheques much anyway.

On the bright side, MyOwnCouture.com is succeeding beyond our wildest dreams. We’re making out like bandits. I took home £50k in dividends in our first year; Ruth and Eddy made half as much again, so whenever we are out together, Ruth pays. She likes to emphasise my status as ‘the little woman’.

“I’m treating my secretary to dinner,” she says to the waiter, proffering her credit card, “because the little dear works so hard.”

I love that, but I really must pick a moment to tell her about my revenue from Gerry’s company. I’m still considerably richer than she is, although she’s slowly gaining on me. The value of our shares has rocketed. My original 20% of £100,000 is now worth fifty times that. Margaret keeps offering to buy me out but I won’t sell while I’m still with Ruth. Anyway, I bet we would get even more if we took the company public.

Ruth has become a big noise in the fashion industry, and is bringing Sherry along as her chief assistant – she seems to have a real nose for trends. I’m glad about that because Ruth is happy to send Sherry to some of the shows and conferences on her behalf. Having to do them all herself had meant that I hardly saw her. I couldn’t go abroad with her as Daisy of course, having no passport. I did go with her as Nick once, praying that no one asked me to open my luggage to find Daisy’s underwear and dresses, not to mention her prostheses. I never went again. Apart from the whole process being too nerve-wracking, fashion events bore me rigid.

So do I think Ruth and I (Daisy) will make a go of it? Well, not really, no. There are lots of reasons to be pessimistic – not least that I’m still a man and don’t want to live as a woman all the time. I need my couple of days as Nick every three weeks. My best hope is that when she tires of her she-male lover, she might settle down with Nick, with marriage and children. (When she gets pregnant, I’ll have the chance to put her through everything she put me through!)

It’s all possible – if we both want it. But she is a mad Northern bitch, after all. Anything could happen.

The problem is that I have probably burnt my bridges, as she put it. Daisy can’t just disappear – questions would be asked. If I want to go back to being Nick permanently, I’ll have to own up to everything.

I also miss stand-up. Living as Daisy makes it difficult for me to perform as Nick. Lee keeps pressuring me to do another gig as Daisy, and I might just do it.

But Nick will have to be back soon, though still in dresses – it’s nearly Panto season!

The End

Author's note

I think Nick's probably right. Despite their current passion for each other, I doubt he and Ruth will make it in the long term. She's too controlling; too determined to have her own way. He's easy-going and willing to give in to her most of the time, but he's no submissive and he'll dig his heels in over anything that really matters to him – as we saw over the first tranche of bank funding. Their relationship was saved then when she realised she was in the wrong, but what will happen when she doesn't?

She's also paranoid and has a mighty chip on her shoulder about the difference in their backgrounds. He still hasn't told her that he's a millionaire now. Maybe that doesn't matter; MyOwnCouture.com is doing so well that all three of them will be millionaires soon - perhaps a buy-out, maybe an IPO? On the other hand, if she finds out he’s already rich (despite his earlier denials) before he tells her, she's likely to be furious.

How long will Nick stay as Daisy? At the moment he's enjoying living her life, but how long will that continue if he breaks up with Ruth? And what of Daisy's future? She seems to be playing a lot of roles at the company. Will they be enough for her? Also, she needs to be allowed to be Nick from time to time. Ruth never likes that.

But then I suppose everyone's future is uncertain – Nick’s and Ruth's maybe more than most – but things look good for the moment, and I suppose that’s all any of us can ever hope for.