PART 1 - MEGAN

“Pippa, up!”

She stood, stretched, shook, and her whole body wagged vigorously under my hand. I fitted her harness and we headed for the lobby, where I pressed the lift call button. We were only going up one floor, but stairs can be treacherous. Born nearly blind, my eye surgery fifty years ago proved to be primitive and less successful than the modern equivalent.

“Good girl, Pippa!” I praised, as I leaned down to fuss her.

When we arrived at the eighth floor, my canine friend, my fourth guide dog, led me unerringly to Alan’s desk. He served as Customer Services Manager for the IT department.

My ID badge opened the electrically powered doors; it also told other people that I’m Megan Taylor, Personnel Consultant. We didn’t go in for that “Human Resources” nonsense at Global Synthetic Developments UK Ltd — GSD for short. You aren’t a human resource, or a number. You’re a person; a necessary part of a successful company, one that depends on you to do the best job that you can and rewards you accordingly.

Alan kissed me briefly, tacitly promising more that evening.

I shivered in anticipation. If I were Pippa I’d be wagging my fool tail off.

“Hello, darling,” he said. “What brings my wife to the eighth floor this bright, sunny day? Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

Pippa was used to these occasional visits, so she settled beside Alan’s smooth, mahogany-veneered desk.

I smiled in Alan’s direction and sat in the visitor’s chair. “I’ve been working at the computer most of the morning so I thought I’d let my husband treat me to lunch. I’m ready for a break, and I’m sure that Pippa was also glad to stretch her legs.”

He chuckled, wrapped up what he was doing and rode his scooter chair out from behind his desk. He glanced over his shoulder and waited until Pippa and I were in position. “Hold very tight please,” he said, before riding out of the office. He’d already been using a scooter chair when I first met him, having lost most of the use of his legs in a car crash.

I acknowledged greetings with a smile and a wave. I couldn’t see who was who, but I recognised voices. Pippa, as usual, garnered her fair share of adoration as we made our way out of the department.

Alan laughed. “You and that dog get around so confidently; if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you could see where you’re going.”

I smiled as we waited for the lift that would take us to the restaurant on the ground floor. “You know that it’s just a matter of having confidence in the dog — and it did take a while to train her to take over when Honey retired.” My mood suddenly changed; I sniffed a little and cringed at the memory.

He put his arm protectively around me and gave me an affectionate squeeze. “I know; I miss her too. That heart attack came right out of the blue. She had a good life, though, and a companion in her retirement. Pippa and Honey bonded so quickly and I wouldn’t be surprised if Honey passed on a few tricks.”

Honey had been my previous guide dog and was with me when I first visited the new Health Centre. Alan had been a member of the welcome team and very helpful. Love blossomed after that meeting.

We selected a quiet table in the garden in the centre of the ten-storey, bronze mirror-glass clad, ring-shaped building. We were enjoying our lunch, when, as is sometimes the case, our conversation turned to work.

His job frequently brought him into regular contact with a lot of people in the company. Without giving away any secrets, he’d tell me if he heard of a situation which required a more personal touch. “I’ve heard that Gerry Boland, one of the Financial Analysts, seems somewhat distracted. He’s well-liked and doing a good job, according to reports, but he does seem to be quite depressed.”

“If I remember rightly, I dealt with his application when he came for his interview last year; he seemed quiet, though obviously qualified. It’s just as well he came to work for us; I reckoned someone as gentle as he was would get eaten alive out in the wild world. Thanks, love; I’ll have to find a way to get him to talk to me. You never know; if something’s worrying him, he might open up.”

“You didn’t do so badly with me, did you?” he asked with a hint of mirth.

We finished our lunch in amiable conversation.

~ O ~

The next day, Gerry popped in, at my request, to give me some basic tax advice. When we finished, I made some coffee and we briefly discussed his career, his ambitions - he was training as an internal auditor - his hobbies, where he lived, that sort of thing. He seemed very reticent; he was very carefully choosing his words.

I asked him if he had a girlfriend and he said that he didn’t; he was holding something back. I’d detected a fragrance in the air when he came into the office; it could have been a particularly light aftershave or maybe hair shampoo but, after a while, I felt sure that it was perfume. It wasn’t very strong but, then again, it wasn’t the sort of thing a man would usually wear. The more we talked, the more convinced I became that it was intended for women; I was even sure that I could give it a name. I touched his hand; it wasn’t the large, rough hand of a working man, like my Alan, but more the small, smooth hand of a woman.

”Gerry, that’s not aftershave you’re wearing, is it? I really want to help you but please work with me here.”

He sighed and began by answering with an unrelated story, but I just let him talk.

“I’ve been singing since I was a child, although I never sang at school because I didn’t want to get killed. Fortunately, Dad had no idea then that I sang at all; I usually made very sure that nobody was in earshot. In my teenage years, I knew that I would suffer if my peers discovered that my singing voice wasn’t as manly as it should have been — my voice never completely broke when my body passed through puberty - so, at assemblies and such, I’d just mime the words. I made the excuse that I couldn’t carry a glass of water, let alone a tune, and didn’t want to put off my neighbours by singing off-key. I sang to pass the time as I walked to and from school.

“I know what they say about shower acoustics, but I’ve always found the bathroom to be an ideal place to practice. If my early morning warm-ups don’t sound off-key when bouncing off the tiled walls, they can’t be that bad. When I was in my late teens, my father came into the bathroom unexpectedly while I was having a shower one day. He heard my singing and decided that I should join his choir; just one of my more stupid mistakes. Dad’s voice isn’t particularly loud, but it’s a voice that commands a choir’s respect and attention. For me, it was always the voice of authority, a voice that demanded the impossible. My parents have always been about as sensitive as a ton of wet concrete. Nobody ever asked what I wanted; they always knew best. Anyway, Dad blabbed, and Mum insisted on a demonstration there and then. She went on for ages afterwards about how I should use my ‘wonderful gift’.”

I had an idea where this was leading, but really wanted him to confirm it.

Gerry sighed again and continued. “Dad’s latest effort was a nightmare; the Mayor’s induction last Saturday. I was lumbered with a solo first verse — purgatory. I love to sing, though not with that particular choir. . . . Oh hell!”

“Gerry,” I soothed, “I think I’ve worked out your little secret but please believe me when I say that it’s not a problem for us, and GSD will support you as much as we can. Some years ago, I was in a similar position to that which you are probably in now, although without the luxury of a bolthole that I could escape to when the going got more rough than usual.”

He stammered. “B…but you’re married, and you’re Megan, and you’re. . . .”

“It’s been a long and bumpy road, but yes, I’ve arrived. The last part of the jigsaw is a lovely man called Alan Taylor, whose desk is on the floor above us. People like us often have to fight for the right to be ourselves, and it’s rarely an easy journey.”

We talked for a while longer. I assured him that my story, while it wasn’t a secret, wasn’t public knowledge either and asked that he please treat it with discretion.

“Thank you for telling me; you’ve given me a lot of hope,” he said at last, and sounded relieved. “Although I live with my parents, I hope they don’t know about my apartment on the other side of town. It’s not huge, just a small lounge, a bedroom, a kitchen and bathroom are enough for me at the moment. My requirements were quite specific though; my own front door, not overlooked; decent interior lighting, and plenty of storage. It also helps that there’s a large garage in which I keep my car and my spare possessions. No one else knows the person who uses the apartment, as I don’t socialise; not in that area, anyway.”

“I knew about the studio apartment because that’s where we send your payslip and other correspondence. The studio apartment isn’t in Gerry’s name, is it?”

“No.” He paused for a moment, perhaps deciding how much to tell me, then he continued. “I’ve been very fortunate. As you know, I started working for GSD last year. I was lucky to find a job soon after I left school, and they were kind enough to let me off one day a week to go to college and get some more qualifications. I inherited a fair amount of money from my mother’s parents. I managed to save a good portion of my income; this was achieved by the simple process of declaring only half to my parents, and keeping the payslips and bank statements somewhere else, and eventually at my apartment. In addition, I’d had a school-friend whose family developed and encouraged a few less-than-honest contacts. I managed to acquire a birth certificate, with which I was able to obtain a bank account, passport and such other necessities that I deemed to be essential for life. Bill is the only other person on Earth who knows that I have two distinct identities — well, other than you now — and, even if he remembers, he won’t say anything as he could be in trouble for forgery. I long ago fell foul of the parental heavy-hand and so knew not to mention my two identities, or my means of separating them, at home. Gerald Bentley Boland — Gerry - sings tenor with the Gallery Choir and Geraldine Abigail Bentley — Gabi - sings contralto with Uptown Voices.”

I summarised. “The Gallery Choir is a male voice choir and Uptown Voices is all women? Sort of like the Sweet Adelines?”

”Yes.”

I asked, “How long have you been singing with Uptown voices?”

“A year or so.”

“And this has become a particular problem now, why?”

“I found out this week; both choirs will be at the music festival, on the same stage, on the same night.”

“Can you plead illness?”

“Not really; my father runs the Gallery choir and Uptown Voices is run by Catherine Wentworth, who is a psychologist. Either would see through me in a flash.”

“What can we do to help? I presume you need help?”

He sighed again. “Yes I do, but I’ve no idea. I’d love to transition, but what do I tell my parents? They’d go crazy; I’m an only child.”

I recalled my own parent’s reaction to my telling them that I was transsexual. They told me that they no longer had a son — well, I knew that. They said that I should never darken their door again — not unexpected; I really didn’t need bigotry to add to a condition that I neither sought nor wanted. At least they didn’t turn violent; an all too frequent reaction to the news.

“I’m not a trained counsellor, but as I see it, you have three choices. We can arrange for you to be elsewhere for the duration of the music festival, but that doesn’t solve the long-term problem; something similar is bound to happen again, and it’s not really a satisfactory closure to your old life. Or, Gerald could disappear off the face of the earth, leaving just Gabi, but your parents might worry; they know where you work and could find Gabi anyway. A last option might be that you tell your parents and hope for a positive reaction. It has to be your decision and we’ll support you as much as we can. You need good advice and I have no idea where in this area you could go. Perhaps there’s a national group that can help. But what do you think?”

Gerry considered my suggestions for a few moments. “As regards option two, I couldn’t do that to my mum, she’d probably be heartbroken; Dad only seems to worry about his precious choir — when he’s not being the great ‘I AM’. I’m probably being unfair to him, but that’s the way he’s always come across to me. Hmm, option three; my parents would hit the roof; they have a go at me every chance they get about settling down, which I understand to mean getting a girlfriend. Can we try the first option? At least that might give us time to come up with a long-term solution.”

I nodded. “So we’ve about six weeks to come up with a plan to avoid a conflict at the festival. Leave it with me.”

Gerry left my office and, once again, my memory was drawn back to my own childhood. Then I shook my head to try and clear it. I tried to think. I hope that I can buy him some time. Sorry, buy Gabi some time

~ O ~

I spoke with Charlie Rochester, the Finance Manager and Gerry’s boss: I explained what I needed to achieve. We came up with a plan. Then I called Gerry. “I hope it’s okay with you, but I’ve arranged with your manager that you have to work in Scotland the week of the festival. I couldn’t think of anything else that would save you having to lie to anyone. Charlie will go over the work that he wants you to do. I know it means that you’ll miss out on both choirs, but it does solve the geographical problem in the short term. It buys you a little more time to come up with a more permanent solution.”

Gerry’s main task was a review and report of all the financial routines entailed in running a factory and warehouse. Charlie reckoned that Gerry was ideal for this; he was being groomed to be an internal auditor anyway. He’d always found Gerry to be a quiet person who, although he didn’t seem to make friends easily, got on with everyone with whom he came into contact.

~ O ~

A couple of months later, I was no further forward with Gerry’s problem than when I first heard about it. The Scottish trip seemed to go well. Charlie was very pleased with the result and thought that they might make it a regular thing. Both choirs told him/her that they missed him/her but understood that work came first. Gerry wasn’t sure that his father believed him but he couldn’t argue when presented with the evidence of the rail ticket and the hotel reservation.

I asked Gerry to come and see me. “The only permanent solution to your situation that I can think of is that Gerry goes and Gabi stays. If you really can’t face your parents, can you write them a letter? Your job here is secure, there’s no doubt about that; how you present yourself is not a problem — I presume that you must be passable to be in the choir. Could you come out to the woman who runs Uptown Voices and see how that goes? Do you think that she doesn’t know that something is different about you? If all else fails, we find somewhere else for you to work; nothing is impossible.”

“I suppose I could,” he agreed. “That might go better than my talk with my father. I’ll try to talk to Catherine Wentworth.”

~ O ~

Gerry came to see me a few days later.

“I spoke to Catherine — we all call her ‘Hawkeye’ Wentworth, because nothing seems to escape her attention. As you suspected, she already had an idea but, as she said, I look the part and sound the part so, as far as she’s concerned, there’s no problem. Now all I have to do is tell my parents; that’s going to be tough. Maybe I’ll sound out my mother and see what she says.”

“How do you think it’ll go?”

He shrugged. “Badly. Despite my denials, they both tell me that I’m gay and that I just need to meet the right girl. Honestly, they haven’t a clue; even I know that gay men aren’t usually interested in girls.” He threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m not interested in a relationship with a woman or a gay man. Your option two seems more attractive as time goes on. Maybe I should just disappear off the face of the earth, move away, and get another job - anything to avoid the confrontation.”

I sympathised. “What do you think you’ll do?”

“Panic,” he said, morosely, as he got up from the chair.

~ O ~

I had a call from Charlie Rochester. “I’ve just had a long talk with Gerry; he told his mother, who told his father. After they’d ranted and raved, and again accused him of being gay, they threw him out, and said that they never wanted to see him again.”

“Hmm; I’m not really surprised. It’s amazing how some other people seem to think that they can tell us what’s best for us, despite the fact that they’re really telling us what’s best for them. At least he’s got somewhere to stay for the moment; I’ll speak to him as soon as I can. If he wants to be Gabi full time, that’s no problem.”

I didn’t see any reason why Gerry shouldn’t become Gabi, live at the flat, and complete her Real Life Experience here at GSD, if that’s what she wants.

PART 2 - DAVID

I shared an office on the first floor and a workshop on the tenth with the other two engineers. I looked after all the heating, ventilating and air conditioning equipment. It was definitely a full-time job, but I enjoyed it. We all reported to the Head Office building manager, but he only got involved if something went wrong, otherwise I was my own boss.

The others weren’t around so I answered the telephone.

“Hello David, it’s reception. Jim’s here.”

I emerged from the stairwell at the ground floor and collected my package. As I said goodbye, I asked, “Still okay for Saturday?”

He nodded, smiled and walked out of the building.

Jim Herbert always struck me as a bit of an oddball. He wasn’t a big beer drinker; neither was he a sport, cars, chasing women, and night-out-with-the-lads type of bloke.

Mind you, I wasn’t that type of bloke either.

Listening to a live concert or watching a movie was about my limit as far as anything artistic goes. When I was at school, I was hopeless at art. Matchstick men? I was never that good. I tried the violin once; it sounded as though I was playing it with someone else’s feet. I was good at most practical things, though, and thought I might like to be an engineer or something. That clearly involved more years of full-time education, and went down like a lead brick with my parents, who’d already decided my future. I rebelled. When a degree course came up, I took the opportunity to leave home and move away from my birth town. I graduated and moved to the south of England. I worked at the big school on the edge of town for a few years to gain experience, rented an apartment and eventually landed the job at GSD.

“That blonde on the end is a bit tasty; why don’t you chat her up during the break?” Jim said one night. He’d often come with me to a concert and seemed to enjoy it. As a matchmaker, though, he’d probably make a good road-mender.

“She’s probably married with kids.” I resisted all his attempts to get me a date; I knew they’d go nowhere and what was the point of starting something that would end quickly as soon as it came time to reveal your past? What do I tell her? Do I make up another string of lies? It was alright for Jim; he’d been with Bev for several years and she was expecting their second. A proper little production line they had going.

“She’s not wearing a ring; you never know, mate, you could be in with a chance there.”

Yeah, right!

I sometimes wondered if that was the only reason that Jim came with me to the concerts; to eye up a ‘tasty bird’ as he called them. No idea why; Bev was as tasty as they come. Most males between ten and ninety would fancy Bev, but Jim adored her and she knew it. My murky past - deeply buried, miles away and several years ago — put a damper on any romantic inclinations I might have.

We were an unlikely pair, Jim and I. About the only things we had in common were music, darts and a taste for a decent pint of bitter. He’d often bring our parcels and we got talking one day. We went out for a couple of pints and our friendship developed from there, although the words ‘chalk’ and ‘cheese’ regularly sprang to mind. Still, it was good to have someone with whom to socialise at last; the novelty hadn’t worn off yet.

We usually got together one night a week, often went to a concert or a movie, and then to a local pub for a couple of pints and a chat. On one our excursions, Jim waved a pair of tickets under my nose. “Fifth of next month”, he said, triumphantly.

That had been a surprise; Jim interested in a choir.

Still, I should worry; it was a night out, and Jim had paid for the tickets.

This wasn’t the first time we’d heard that particular choir. Last time they’d opened with some Russian thing, closed with ‘Ole Man River’ and sung a very varied programme. ‘Ole Man River’ without a bass male voice; now that was something to hear — fact is, it sounded pretty good.

Jim was right, though; that woman on the end was attractive. His not-too-subtle attempt to kick-start my love life was met with the usual gentle smack around the head. I didn’t need the interference and I was sure that the blonde didn’t either.

She was just a couple of inches shorter than me, and like the rest of the choir, clearly loved to sing. Her smile didn’t waver from start to finish. I was mesmerised, and Jim, bless his cotton socks, could see that I spent most of the concert with my attention glued to one particular person on the stage. Naturally, he took full advantage of my being distracted and joked about it afterwards.

“Told you! You were gone, mate, weren’t you? You had your eyes on that blonde all night!”

“Well, she is a good singer,” I said lamely.

“And how would you know? It’s a choir for Pete’s sake! The only way you’d know that is if she had a solo.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have any crap singers, do they?”

“Come on; the ‘Cormorant’s’ got a couple of pints of ‘HSB’ with my name on them.”

I shrugged and followed him up the road to our usual watering hole.

~O~

For days afterwards, I couldn’t get the blonde singer out of my mind. I was quite busy at work; winter was approaching fast, and it took all my time to make sure that the heating was up to the job of keeping our office building warm for the next few months.

Jim and I did get to other concerts and, at our local entertainment venue, which doubled as a cinema, we saw some good movies. At least one night a week, Jim stayed at home and looked after Sherry, their first-born, while Bev went out with the girls.

Concerts were my thing, though, and I took every opportunity to attend - usually with Jim but if necessary on my own - especially if a particular choir was on the bill. Whether it was just good music, or the presence of a certain blonde singer, I wasn’t telling. I always looked out for her, and literally bumped into her during the break in one of their performances. I’d briefly spoken with the Musical Director, who conducted their concerts, and told her how much I enjoyed their singing. I backed away and collided with someone.

“Oh, I’m very sorry; I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Then I turned and realised that it was the blonde, and any train of thought that had just left the station met the buffers with an almighty thump. She was even more attractive close up, especially when she smiled. She wasn’t supermodel unattainable beauty, just…WOW!

“H … hello,” I stammered. “I’m David.”

“I’m Gabi.”

Her voice was like warm, dark chocolate, mellow and breathy and did the most wonderful things to my insides.

I shook her hand and racked my brain for something sensible to ask her; having got this far, I didn’t particularly want to let her go too soon. The best I could come up with was, “Gabi, short for Gabrielle?”

“Geraldine Abigail Bentley. Everyone calls me Gabi.”

“Oh, I see. I’m David Turner; no middle name.”

I could see Jim smiling at me and mouthing, “You’re in there, mate”.

We managed a few words of small-talk. I established that she’d been with the choir for about five years and worked ‘up the road’ - she didn’t say where and I didn’t pry. I managed to tell her that I was an engineer, but our conversation was curtailed by the call to take our places for the second half of the concert. The evening eventually came to an end, and Jim and I adjourned to the ‘Cormorant’ for a couple of pints.

Naturally, Jim kept on about the blonde, to the point where I almost said something rude.

Our drinks consumed, we said our goodnights and made our way to our homes.

~ O ~

“Lunch?” asked Rutger, our electrical engineer.

I glanced over at him and nodded.

“I’ll just put this hub on test and I’ll be with you.” Lisa West joined us. She looked after our building’s Communications systems.

It was very rare indeed for us three engineers to be in the office at the same time and to have the opportunity for lunch in the restaurant together. Usually, we managed with a sandwich in our workshop, a big room on the tenth floor, equipped with some workbenches and a dozen storage cabinets. That day, we trooped into the restaurant, collected our meals and found a table.

As usual, I sat with my back to the wall. It wasn’t a power thing; I’m slightly hard of hearing and I’ve found that having a wall behind me helps to focus the sound. I glanced around the crowded room and my eyes settled on a blonde head that I knew only too well.

“… so shall we use the hydraulic or electric ones?”

I realised that I’d hardly heard a word that Rutger had said to me.

“Well, it looks like our David’s caught at last; I wondered how long we’d have to wait for cupid to strike,” Lisa observed. “Now which of these eligible females has he got his eye on? It is a female, I presume, David?” she teased.

I nodded numbly, not even realising that she was trying to wind me up. Again.

~O~

I was distracted all through lunch; I couldn’t get Gabi out of my mind. I remembered that she said she worked ‘up the road’, but I had no idea that her employer was GSD. I had the greatest difficulty concentrating on what the other two were saying to me — and they noticed.

Rutger kept smiling, and so he should. He’d come over to the UK for a holiday, and met Jodi. Twenty four hours later, they were engaged and within a couple of weeks they were married. Jodi already worked at GSD, so she recommended him. Sweden’s loss was definitely our gain; he was an excellent engineer. I know that he and Jodi both wanted a large family. I had no doubt whatsoever that our part of the country would be soon be teeming with little Ericcsons.

We’d gained Lisa when she defected to us from British Telecom. In her late twenties, she had a wicked sense of humour and kept making little comments with which to try and needle me. “Have you asked her out yet?” and “I wonder which department she works in?” So it went for most of the lunch break.

It would be nice to have another friend, even someone with whom I could just enjoy a night out, but Gabi? WOW! Finding out which department she works in shouldn’t be too much of a challenge, but I do wonder if I’ll be treading on someone else’s toes — and if he’s bigger than my five foot ten, medium build, I could end up with my face rearranged. I resolved to make subtle enquiries to find out more about her.

We finished lunch and returned to work. I was well into servicing a valve on the heating system when reality hit me between the ears. SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! You stupid arse! What do you think you’re doing? There was still my past, which could get in the way of anything except a platonic friendship — assuming, of course, that she was single and unattached.

~ O ~

We engineers, naturally, had free access to the whole building. Lisa, being Lisa, was on first-name terms with virtually all the staff, especially the women, and soon told me all I wanted to know, but daren’t ask, about Miss Bentley.

“Gabi is an Internal Auditor in the finance department on the seventh floor. She’s twenty five years of age, is un-married, lives alone, is straight and doesn’t presently have a boyfriend.”

I was stunned; it had taken her just a couple of hours to uncover this information. I wouldn’t have known where to start, except to do a ‘walk-through’ of the whole of Head Office in the hopes of seeing her.

Not knowing anything that could prove an obstacle to the development of my love life, Lisa apparently went ahead and, completely without my knowledge, started to play cupid. While it was obvious that I was interested in Gabi, I hadn’t planned to take it further. This didn’t stop Lisa who was completely oblivious to the implications of her meddling.

~ O ~

In the course of my work, I visited the personnel department on floor seven. I’d pre-arranged to visit all the offices and had a list of the disabled staff members, including Megan Taylor who was blind.

I knocked on the open door. “Hello Megan, it’s David Turner. I’ve come to do your annual environmental check-up as arranged.”

“Hello David, come in. Everything seems fine. You’ve been with us about a year now; how are you settling in?”

As a Personnel Consultant, she obviously knew a little of my history, that is, after I moved south. Hopefully, she didn’t know anything about the time before and during my university career. Although I’d heard a rumour about her, I just couldn’t see it. She wore a wedding ring and was dressed appropriately for the office in a pale grey skirt suit and navy blouse. I decided that the rumour mill was alive and well at GSD, the same as at most places of employment. If you don’t hear a rumour by ten o’clock in the morning, start one, and hope that any flying mud doesn’t bounce back your way.

“I’m very well, thank you, and I enjoy the work. I’m very busy, but that’s great, as I like to keep occupied. I don’t know about the rest of the company but the people here seem just like one big happy family.”

We exchanged a few other comments and then she said, “I understand that you’re interested in one of our internal auditors.”

I said nothing.

“Well?” she challenged.

“What is this place, some kind of dating agency?”

“You’d be surprised how many couples met here.”

“Anyway, how on earth did you find out that I’m interested in Gabi?” I asked; then I realised that I’d just confessed.

She laughed. “I have my sources. I think you’d like to know her better. I know that you’re a fan of her choir, and I think you’d get on well together, particularly as you both have more in common than you might think.”

It’s as well that she couldn’t see the expression on my face. I gathered my thoughts and measured my words. “Uptown Voices is a good choir; my friend Jim and I really enjoy listening to them.”

“Your friend is Jim Herbert from the local Post Office?”

“Y…yes,” I said, hesitantly. How much more does she know?

“Amy Street, on the reception desk, is one of my best spies.” She laughed. “And you ought to know by now that you can’t keep much secret from us women for long. We’re not malicious, though; just looking out for each other.”

I’ll put salt in Lisa’s coffee next time I see her! She’s as tactful as a house brick. Five gets you ten that’s where Megan gets much of her information as well.

~ O ~

It was a few days later that Lisa gave me some bad news.

“You know Gabi Bentley, don’t you?”

“Sings in the choir? Works in Finance on the seventh floor?”

Lisa nodded, but looked serious. “She’s had an accident.”

PART 3 - GABI

“Gabi, you have a visitor.”

A nurse poked her head around the door. Moments later, a huge bouquet of the most gorgeous flowers arrived. The nurse left to scrounge some vases and David sat by the bed. I didn’t resist when he took my hand.

I kissed him on the cheek, and smiled at him. “Thank you for the flowers, they’re beautiful.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“All the traffic had stopped at the crossing and I was halfway across the road, when this boy racer in a souped-up something-or-another appeared from nowhere, overtook the whole line of traffic, and nearly knocked me into kingdom come. I stepped back when I heard him, lost my balance and fell over, hitting my head. My hair saved me from serious injury, apparently. A large truck was coming the other way so boyo had to take avoiding action. His car ended up in a shop.”

“Well, I always thought that you have beautiful hair,” he said, “It’s good to know that it saved you.”

We chatted for a while longer, until a nurse appeared and pointedly indicated the time on the ward clock. David gave my hand a squeeze and said that he’d see me the next day.

I looked forward to it.

~ O ~

We’d been seeing each other, purely on a friendship basis of course (MEN!), for a few months. I wanted to take it further; he was good-looking, kind, thoughtful, was a regular fan of our choir, didn’t mind sitting through the odd chick-flick at the local cinema, didn’t smoke and didn’t seem to drink excessively. Basically, he seemed like a nice bloke. How he’d handle my transition was another matter. He never mentioned it, so I didn’t either.

David, however, seemed reluctant to allow our relationship to develop beyond friendship, although I got the distinct impression at times that he found me attractive. I certainly treated our occasional outings as more than platonic, and hoped that he would eventually come to feel the same.

~ O ~

I was surprised one day by a visitor to my desk.

“Hello Gabi; it’s great to have you back at work after your accident. No ill effects?”

“Hello Megan; no, everything’s fine.”

“We’ve a little social meeting tomorrow in the Conference Room; would you be available for morning coffee? This is a new venture and if it’s successful, it’ll become a regular thing.”

~ O ~

I’d never been to the ninth floor before and felt a little trepidation. A tall good-looking man in an expensive Italian suit approached me.

“Hello, you must be Gabi. I’m John Andrews, and this is my partner Billy, our Chief Designer.” He introduced a man of medium height who had a dark goatee beard and sparkling grey eyes. Am I intimidated? You bet! I’m in the presence of the Managing Director of the company But he soon put me at ease.

As I nervously prepared to join the group in the conference room, a very tall brown-haired woman came over to me. She had an arm around another young lady in what looked like a “Hands off, she’s mine” kind of way. Not that the latter seemed to object.

“Hello Gabi, I’m Angela Bradfield, one of the security officers, and this is my partner Suzanne Fletcher, the IT Security Administrator. Let me introduce you to some other people. Sorry we’re a bit thin on the ground; some are away at the moment.”

She led me around the room and introduced me.

“Hello folks; this is Gabi Bentley, one of our Internal Auditors. It’s her job to make sure that all our financial processes are squeaky-clean. Gabi, this is Debbie Maxwell, our legal adviser; her sister and Marketing Manager Nikki Latham and Nikki’s partner Jackie Latham, the Premises Administrator. Then we have Maria Rodriguez, who is our Asset Manager. Harry Somerville looks after our fleet of vehicles and Megan Taylor you know. Her husband, Alan, the guy on the scooter chair, is IT Customer Support Manager. Ah! Here’s our late comer; I think you know this man.”

It was David Turner. He looked puzzled, but brightened considerably when Megan had a quiet word with him.

“I feel as though I’ve been set up,” I said, glancing at Angela.

“Simple,” she said with a smirk. “This is a social get-together to launch the GSD GLBTI group. Sorry for the acronyms but I’m sure you get the idea.”

~ O ~

Over the next couple of weeks, David and I cleared up a few hidden historical facts, so much so that we were soon able to announce our wedding date. UK law insists that marriage is between a man and a woman; David and I were both post-transition and post-operative.

Debbie found us a priest who was only too pleased to bless our union. Neither set of parents were present, however; they all took another opportunity to point out that we were perverted, an abomination or two and disowned us again. We were disappointed, of course, but hardly surprised. We had each other; that was the main thing.

Our friends and colleagues packed the church and ‘Uptown Voices’ sang — after I’d been dragged forward to join them for an anthem. I felt very self-conscious standing with the choir; they were all in their black skirts and multi-coloured tops, while I was in my white satin wedding dress. What made it worse was that they insisted that I stand at the front; I wasn’t used to that. I shouldn’t think that there have been many brides who sang at their own wedding.

Jim was David’s Best Man. He’d been shocked to learn of the transitions but David was a “good bloke” and I was a “tasty bird” — I giggled at that. Jim did extract a kiss, willingly given, which was for keeping my man on the straight and narrow all this time and for bringing him to choir concerts.

I told everyone that they should still call me Gabi; I was now officially Mrs. Geraldine Abigail Turner, but I’d been Gabi too long. There was no shortage of would-be bridesmaids; it felt like every unattached female in ‘Uptown Voices’ and GSD’s Finance department wanted to be in the wedding party. Catherine Wentworth cried with happiness when I asked her to be my Matron of honour. Charlie Rochester, my hunky and very understanding boss, gave me away. At the reception, I’m sure that I saw him dancing with one of the choir — and was that a kiss, or were they just whispering to each other?

Chief Guest was a lady with no sight, but a big heart and a four-legged friend who, as usual, stole the show.

Finis

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ o ~ O ~ o ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Taylors, and Megan’s guide dogs, first appear in “There’s Life in the Old Dog Yet.”

This story is fiction; any resemblance to real people and places is coincidental. Global Synthetic Developments UK Ltd (GSD) is a fictitious UK company. More details can be found at http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/18293/global-synthetic...

Once again, I thank the wonderful Angela Rasch for editing this story, suggesting the title, and teaching me so much.