You meant it for evil - 10 by Maeryn Lamonte We'd arrived. I climbed out and retrieved my new wardrobe from the back of the car. I was just about to wave Karen off when she wound down the window and leaned over “Oh, you'll be expected to have an escort for next week. If you can't find one, let me know by Wednesday and I'll arrange something.”

-oOo-
I climbed the stairs to Sharon's flat and let myself in. She was in the kitchen clattering about as usual, but stuck her head through the doorway when she heard me arrive.

“How was your last day?”

She'd spotted the clothes folded over my arm and I could see the sudden interest in her eyes. Still play along for a bit, might be fun. I let out a tired sigh.

“Oh it was ok. We finished ahead of time so we made the deadline easily. Had a bit of a rest and a celebration. It was cool.”

She licked her lips and I could see she was itching to ask about the clothes. I couldn't hold it in any longer and let the grin take over, Karen's parting words forgotten for a while.

“Apparently there's a tradition at these things. All the girls get to choose something they like from the racks and the models get a half-dozen. Andrew — he's the photographer — chose most of mine, but there was one I really liked. I've been wondering what you would think.”

I lay the dresses carefully over the back of the sofa and pulled out the bottom one, removed the plastic cover and held it up against her. It was a pure white dress with a plunging v neckline and what looked like overlapping ribs of shimmering satin. It came to about mid-thigh and showed a lot of skin. For Sharon's winter complexion it was perfect. Just holding it up against her and even with the shocked o of her mouth I knew it was made for her.

“Wow, you have to put it on. No I mean it, I chose it for you.”

I thrust it at her and all but physically pushed her into the bedroom. I figured it would take her a moment to get over the surprise and I made use of the extra time to slip into the bathroom and change into my own favourite of the whole collection. A week's worth of fast changing had me back in the living room and waiting with a patient look on my face by the time she reappeared.

I had no words. The dress fit her more perfectly than I could have hoped. Whilst it had looked good just held up in front of her, now she was wearing it, even with no other adornments, she filled the room. From the radiant look on her face to her bare stockinged feet she had transformed into a drop dead gorgeous, drool inducing, utterly desirable... and that's where I ran out of words.

“I could almost wish I was Ken again.”

“Don't you dare. I could never say thank-you to Ken the way I want to say thank-you to you.”

She ran and flung er arms around me, hugging me so tight it hurt. I could feel a damp patch forming on my shoulder and held her back.

It took a moment, but she noticed the difference in me. Whether it was the texture of the dress, or if she caught sight of the colours I don't know, but very abruptly she pulled me back to arm’s length and looked me over, her mouth turning circular for the second time in as many minutes. I broke out of her hold and twirled, a swirling pirouette of greens, yellows and browns.

“Do you like it? It was the first dress they gave me to wear, and I fell in love with it then.”

“Girlfriend, you had better not be too tired to go out tonight, because all of a sudden I feel like partying.”

“No extra guys this time?”

“I think we learned our lesson last week. But honestly girl, tonight you get to choose. You won't be going home alone unless you want to.”

That brought back Karen's parting comments and the dilemma they induced. It must have shown on my face because Sharon was suddenly all caring.

“What is it Liz? Sorry, am I being a klutz again, bringing up something you're still not sure about?

“It's not that. Well maybe it is a little, but it's more what Karen said when she dropped me off.”

“And that is?”

“That next Friday I have to attend the launch of this line of clothes, and I have to bring a plus one; you know arm candy.”

“Sh!t you mean that these dresses aren't even officially out there yet? Did anyone say anything about not wearing them until next weekend?”

She'd missed the point, but hit another quite valid one. I pulled out my mobile and punched in Karen's number.

“Hi Karen, it's Liz. Sharon here's just raised a point that I hadn't thought of. You know those dresses that we got to take away with us this afternoon? Nobody said anything to me, but is there likely to be any comeback if we, say, take them out for a spin a week before the line is released? Yeah. Uhuh. Mhmm. Yeah. Yes I get it. Ok. Bye.”

Sharon was twitching fit to explode and I let her hang a few seconds more just for missing my point. I really was going to have to practice hiding my grin though because it broke through again despite my efforts.

“She says she's kind of counting on us going out like this and dropping the Elle-gance name a bit. It turns out to be good publicity for the launch if the right people notice.”

“Yes!”

She grabbed me and swung me around while I looked back, bemused.

“You have no idea how hard it would have been to have something like this in my closet and not be able to wear it in public for a whole week. I'm going to change back out of it for now. I'd hate to spill something on it by accident. You should do the same. Meet you in the kitchen.”

And she was gone like a rabbit down a hole. I headed to the bathroom and changed back, hanging my Autumn Cloud back on its hanger. I took my time and Sharon was clattering about again when I stepped into the kitchen. She gave me an apologetic look and a more subdued hug.

“It only just struck me, what you said, and I steamrollered right over it. I'm sorry, but I was just so excited. I hope you're enough of a girl to know what I mean.”

I did and I hugged her back.

“What am I going to do Sharon? I don't want to go to this thing with some rent-a-hunk hanging off my arm, but I don't know who else I could go with. And no, not Pete before you even think about joking.”

“I wasn't going to sweetie. The thing is you have until Wednesday to think about it and you do know some nice guys; and I'll eat that dress if any of them aren't at least half-way in love with you right now.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Well there's Bob from yesterday and that manager at the Meet Market.”

“Now you are making fun of me. Can you imagine Bob in a suit, let alone a dinner jacket, and Richard I think you'll find is more in lust than in love. He may be a nice guy, but I'd rather not go that route.”

“Shame. I was thinking we could use those golden tickets of yours tonight. Mind you Phil might not be so keen. Still it's not time to worry yet. You never know, you might meet the man of your dreams tonight and be swept off your feet.”

We separated and I set about laying the table while Sharon brewed her magic on the hob.

“Are you going to call Phil and suggest he makes an effort tonight? It'd be a shame to turn up in that dress to find him in jeans and a sweatshirt.”

“Good idea. Can you watch these for a minute.”

I took over stirring something I couldn't identify that smelled out of this world and only half heard Sharon's conversation. I vaguely heard her suggest he call someone to call in a favour, but she was keeping her voice down so I didn't get all of it. I started to worry about her plotting again when she didn't come back immediately after putting the phone down, then it rang and she picked it up before it was halfway through the first tone.

“He said yes? That's great! Can you pick us up in an hour? Brilliant! See you then. Love you.”

The phone went down. She hadn't been able to keep her voice down for the last call, but it didn't seem to matter because she breezed in looking very pleased with herself and ready to share. She took the pan out of my hands and set it to one side, turning off the hob as she did so.

“Right that's settled then. These'll do nicely in an omelette for tomorrow's breakfast. For tonight we're eating out. Phil has an old school friend, Mike, who's started up a little restaurant a few miles out. It's doing really well, got good reviews and everything. In fact it's usually packed and it's only because Mike owes Phil big time that he's agreed to squeeze us in.”

“This isn't another matchmaking attempt is it?”

She tried to look innocent and outraged, and only vaguely carried it off.

“I've never met Mike so I don't know. Besides, you did say you might be interested in a guy who could cook. We'll just have to see how well hung he is when we get there.”

The mischievous grin had given her away ahead of the punch line, and I had managed to arm myself with a tea-towel, which she ducked.

“Hey we only have an hour to get ready, and if you still want me to help you with your makeup, you're going to have to set aside thoughts of revenge.”

We called a truce and raced for the shower. I won, but took pity on her by making it my fastest ever then reappearing in the living room wrapped in a towel and carrying my clothes.

You get used to dressing in front of feline eyes, and I've only creeped myself out once by wondering if maybe King Toby might be the reincarnation of some peeping tom. I had cured myself of the feeling by walking up to him topless and staring him straight in the eyes. When he turned and padded softly out the room I knew there could be no such lecherous instincts within him; at least not where human females were concerned.

I put on underwear and a new pair of tights. The packets said 'dark tan' and the overall colour, once I'd pulled them on, was warm and a good complement to the colours in the dress. I brushed out my hair and put on a light layer of foundation before Sharon made it out of the shower. She nodded her approval at my progress and suggested a few next steps while she got herself ready.

“Sharon?”

“Mmm?”

“You know those bronze pumps of yours?”

“Mhmm.”

Her conversational ability was hampered by the hair clips in her mouth as she went through what looked like a complicated but well-practised manoeuvre to put her hair up.

“I was wondering what you might think. Do they go with this dress? Would you mind me borrowing them for tonight?”

I had to wait a while until the last hair clip went in leaving her free to dig about in one of her wardrobes. She offered them up to the dress, along with a matching bag.

“Yeah they'll work. All yours. How're we getting along here?”

She had to correct a little of what I had done — not much which was encouraging — then she helped me into my dress I did the same for her.

We were standing side by side admiring the final result when the distinctive horn on Phil's beemer sounded.

We grabbed coats and bags, filling the latter with keys and wallets and stuff, then headed for the door.

“You know, this evening had better be mainly indoors. I don't think either of us would stand much of a chance exposed to the elements tonight.”

Phil apologised for not coming up, but it was easy to forgive as the street was lined on both sides with cars. Music was already blaring from an open window in one of the neighbouring houses, which further explained the lack of parking space. Sharon, as always, slipped in beside Phil and gave him a peck on the cheek. I took my usual place in the back and we sped off to destination unknown.

-oOo-
Mike's place was out in a leafy suburb, situated on top of a hill looking down into a tree-lined park. It wasn't that small either. I counted thirty cars in the car-park, with space for as many more. Sharon looked back over her shoulder to share a knowing look and I scrunched up my nose at her.

“It either means he's filthy rich or he'll be paying this place off until the sun goes out.”

“What was that?”

Oops, forgot Phil was listening.

“Nothing. Just part of an earlier conversation.”

The Maître D stopped us at the door then, as soon as Phil gave his name, sent a waiter into the kitchen and called another character to come and take our coats. At which point something close to magic happened. An entire restaurant full of people fell silent as every eye, both male and female, turned towards us. The Maître D developed something of a speech impediment and the only person who seemed unaffected was Phil; most likely because he was standing in front of us and hadn't seen anything unusual yet. He did notice the odd behaviour around us though.

“What is it, what's happening?”

He turned around and his jaw joined all the others on the floor. Sharon leaned over to his ear and whispered.

“This would be a good time to act really cool sweetheart. I mean after all we are with you.”

Just then a shortish man in a chef's whites — or rather nearly whites as the smock was covered in the distant echoes of hard to get out stains — stepped through the kitchen doors and broke the spell.

“Phil! How long has it been buddy?”

“Ten, twelve years I reckon. Too long anyway. Wow look at this place, you really are doing well for yourself.”

It was one of those starts-off-as-a-handshake-turns-into-a-hug kind of moves and it ended up with the newcomer — I presumed Mike — looking past his friend at us. He let out a low appreciative whistle.

“Wow, I could say the same for you too Monster Munch.”

He turned his attention more fully on us.

“What I can't figure is what you two incredibly lovely ladies are doing hanging around with old Mr Flabulous here.”

“Mr Flabulous?”

“Alright, so I was a bit chubby when I was younger. I grew out of it. More than you did short-arse.”

“Ouch. Watch where you swing that razor sharp wit of yours Phil; I'm running low on little blue plasters.”

Sharon' brow creased briefly.

“Why blue plasters?”

“They're required for anyone working in the food industry. They have a little metal strip which shows up under X-ray. Makes them easier to find if one drops off into the food by accident.”

I don't know where I learned that; I think maybe a first-aider at work course from some years back. Mike seemed impressed.

“Brains as well. Help me Phil, I think I'm falling in love.”

He was no Adonis it has to be said. Maybe four or five inches shorter than Phil, but that still left him an inch taller than my new height. He was unusually slim for a chef, or maybe I've just been taken in too far by the stereotype, with a kind if unremarkable face. It didn't really matter, I was warming to his sense of humour and feeling odd stirrings inside. Phil still didn't get the hint and it earned him an elbow in the ribs from his girlfriend.

“Ow, oh sorry. Mike can I introduce you to my girlfriend Sharon and her friend, recently come to London, Liz.”

He took Sharon's hand briefly then turned all his attention on me. I've never been kissed on the hand before — something of a redundant statement perhaps — and I wasn't ready for the thrill that coursed through me as he did so.

“Liz, or do you prefer Elizabeth? I am utterly enchanted to meet you. Allow me to escort you to your table.”

He held out a crooked elbow which I took gently in my own small hand. How was this very ordinary looking guy so entrancing. If he was feeling even a fraction of what was going through me right now, I couldn't understand how he could continue to move and talk so easily.

“So you're new to London. How do you find our fair city?”

I managed to shake off enough of the trance to find my own voice.

“Thank-you for the perfect feed to that old joke about following the M1 'til it runs out, but I won't take you up on it if you don't mind. London's a bit of a mixed bag; some really great people, others not so much.”

“Well it's my hope to fit into the former category, but please tell me if I'm in danger of finding my way onto your blacklist. I don't think I could live with myself if that were the case.

“That really is an exquisite dress; both you and Sharon in fact. Quite often I can tell whose, but this time I'm at a total loss.”

He held a chair for me and I settled demurely into it. Phil did the same for Sharon and then took his own place between us. Yet again Mike had given me a perfect feed, and now it was time to earn a few extra brownie points with Karen. I raised my voice just a touch above normal conversation.

“They're both from the new Elle-gance line that's going to be unveiled next Friday. I've been modelling them all week for the new catalogue. Sorry, did that sound too much like a sound bite?”

Mike chuckled. It was a pleasant sound and I found myself smiling then blushing.

“You'll get no complaints from me. Sound bite or not it's only going to be good for business if it gets out that a famous...”

“Soon to be famous.”

“...soon to be famous fashion model is eating in my restaurant.”

He was shamelessly expansive in the way he spoke, hamming it up to the point that my own minor indiscretion was covered over. I found myself liking him more and more with each passing second.

“You will have to excuse me but the kitchen does not run itself and I have already been away too long. Please will you let me order for you? It's something of a speciality of mine, to divine your perfect meal. For legal reasons I do have to ask if there are any foods to which you are allergic or for which your bodies have an intolerance.”

Sharon and I both agreed to his experiment, neither of us having anything to put on his no go list. Phil was not quite so keen, but he gave in under Sharon's and my combined glares.

“Ok then, but listen up Mike, if I end up with a plate piled high with Wagon Wheels and Monster Munch I will not see the funny side of things.”

Mike lifted his hands in a gesture of butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth innocence.

“Phil my very good friend, this is my business and I take my business very seriously indeed. Besides I owe you big time. Jesting aside, you are all my honoured guests and you shall receive my very best. Oh and my food is much better than my poetry.”

With that he disappeared back into his inner sanctum leaving us very much the centre of attention for a great many surreptitious glances. Sharon ignored the looks we were getting and bent her head over to catch my eye.

“Really?”

I bit my lip and looked over at the door to the kitchen, which was of course all the communication she needed. Phil missed it entirely, but then I think Ken might well have as well. Sharon and I had tuned in to each other amazingly well. It didn't help that the wine waiter arrived with a bottle of bubbles which he offered for Phil's inspection just as Sharon was trying to grab my attention.

The evening was a gastronomic epic. Phil was all ready to complain when the first course turned up with considerably less on our plates than on his, but both Sharon and I appreciated the gesture and eventually managed to persuade our great protector that smaller portions were actually a kindness.

And so it turned out to be. Plates and dishes were replaced over and again as a progression of exquisite and complementary flavours marched their merry way across eager taste buds. I found myself closing my eyes and shivering rapturously at each new delicacy. Now and again, it seemed, I opened my eyes just soon enough to see the kitchen door ease closed.

The night wore on with the occasional interruption from a group or couple as they stood to leave, asking either Sharon or me where we bought our dresses. I did my advertising bit for the people who were paying me so generously, and usually whoever had come asking would leave quickly, grateful for the information. In the end we were the only customers left in the restaurant.

A second champagne bottle stood upside down in the ice bucket and we all leaned back from our final course — a sort of tropical fruit sorbet — with aching sides and a desperate hope that this life changing experience was finally at an end. Phil was struggling worse than Sharon and me as his helpings had all been significantly larger than ours, and it had somehow been impossible to leave even the smallest morsel or to refuse the next course. He had also switched to water after the first two small flutes of champagne and was considerably less inebriated than either Sharon or myself.

Mike appeared at the kitchen door carrying a tray and we all groaned in protest.

“No, no, it's all good. Just a small cup of coffee to round everything off. The fruit in the sorbet will have sensitised the right taste buds so this will be, hand on heart, the best cup of coffee you've ever tasted.”

It was. Oh yes it was! It was almost an orgasm in a cup, and that was just the aroma. I had to say something. I placed a hand on Mike's cheek and turned him so he was facing directly into my eyes.

“I have never enjoyed a meal more, sorry Sharon, but that was amazing. I have just one question though.”

I paused for effect. My earlier nerves had faded into the growing alcoholic haze, and perhaps I should have taken that as a warning. I picked my moment.

“How big is your c...”

“Liz!”

Sharon managed to stop me from completing the question, but the meaning was still quite clear. Mike went beetroot with embarrassment as Sharon and Phil joined me in laughing. Then I caught a glimpse of Mike's eyes and the laughter died in my throat. I glanced across at Sharon who was thankfully still with it enough to notice. She nudged Phil in the ribs.

“Come on love, let's go walk off some of these calories.”

They left quietly, and I rather self-consciously reached across the table for Mike's hands. He flinched away leaving me with nothing to hold. I felt wretched. After the herculean effort Mike had put into this evening I had repaid him with a stupid joke. I looked at him, at the rigid set of his jaw, the downcast eyes. It was an expression I was all too familiar with, having worn it often enough as Ken. The fact that I knew the feelings that went along with it only made me feel worse and I scoured my muggy brain for words to rescue the situation.

“I've never wished more fervently that I could take back something I've said. It was a stupid joke, and not even a good one. Mike, I never meant...”

“Look, just stop alright? What's done is done and I... I think I'd like you to leave now.”

It was like being stabbed with an icicle; cold tendrils spreading sickly regret through me. For a moment I felt I might be paralysed, but when I tried to move my body responded. I stood and waited, hoping, but he remained still and wouldn't look at me.

Slowly, weighed down by all my unspoken words, I made my way over to the entrance and retrieved my coat. Turning back towards him I searched for one last thing to say, but my tongue was a lead weight and my mind a blank slate. I pushed on the door and headed out into the cold night.

“Liz, what happened?”

I was trying to dial the number of a taxi company into my phone, but my vision kept blurring. I wiped away the tears with the heel of my hand, careless of what it was doing to my makeup and tried again. A hand touched me on the arm and a shied away out its grip.

“He asked me to leave, and I can't really blame him.”

She made to draw me into a hug, Phil moving in as well with a sympathetic look on his face. I held up my arms to fend them off.

“No, I have this coming for being such an arse. You should go in and be his friends, God knows he deserves it more than I do right now. I'll see you later.”

I turned away and somehow managed to get the number into the phone. held it up to my ear, dimly aware of receding footsteps behind me as the ringing tone gave way to a bored voice.

“Hi I'm at Mike's place, the restaurant. In Highgate, yes. I need a ride to Stamford Hill. Well I'm standing outside now so as soon as you can please. Thanks.”

I stamped my feet for ten minutes before the taxi arrived, by which time the cold had well and truly settled into my bones. I pulled open the door and settled gratefully into the warmth, giving the address as we pulled out into the quite road.

We rode in silence for a while, the cabbie giving me the occasional glance in his rear view mirror. I caught sight of my half reflection in the window, all panda eyes and tear lines marked out in liquid mascara. I was a mess and there wasn't much I could or even cared to do about it. I hunted in my bag for a tissue and set about clearing up the worst of the smears.

“Rough night love?”

I couldn't bear it, couldn't bear his sympathy, couldn't bear to talk about it. I shook my head.

“I'm sorry, I really don't want to go into it.”

“Suit yourself love. It's just that I hate to see a pretty girl cry.”

“Even if she's been an absolute bitch and hurt someone who's really gentle and kind and didn't deserve it?”

“I suppose I could live it then, but only if she did so on purpose.”

I couldn't help it. I burst into tears, trying all the while to choke them back. It wasn't fair, the guy was only trying to help and I'm sure my performance only made it harder for him to concentrate on the road. Eventually I regained control of myself.

“I'm sorry.”

“Listen love, you do what you have to. I only wish I could be of some help.”

I thanked him then pulled out a compact, using the mirror to wipe away as much of the mess on my face as I could. Before long we were driving down familiar streets. I checked the metre as we pulled up outside Sharon's flat and I handed over the fare with a healthy tip.

“You don't need to that love.”

“I know, but you were kind so I want to.”

I stepped out of the cab and headed for the flat. The party down the road was still in full swing with a dance beat thumping out into the night through open windows. I could still hear it dimly, even inside the flat, not that it bothered me at all. I dropped my bag and coat, stepped out of my shoes and threw myself onto the bed, giving way to the tear-storm that had been brewing since I left the restaurant.

I don't know how long I spent like that, but when the flood eventually subsided, I lifted my head away from the dampness of my pillow and noticed the streaks of makeup all over it.

With an unladylike utterance, I pulled the pillowcase off and took it to the bathroom to soak in the sink with a generous helping of Vanish before sitting down in front of the dressing table with a tub of cold cream and a large packet of cotton balls. Half an hour and half a bin full of cotton wool later I was sufficiently degunked, cleansed and moisturised to consider myself no longer a hazard to soft furnishings.

I changed into my night things and gathered up the debris my entrance had strewn about the place. With everything hanging neatly or in its rightful place I checked on the pillowcase, now well enough rescued to go in the washing machine, and dug out a fresh one. The pillow was still damp, so I folded my second one over and lay on that, hugging the life out of the other and settling under the duvet with my legs tucked up in front of me.

I was still awake when I heard a key in the front door. Quiet footsteps and a sudden beam of light as the bedroom door opened a crack.

“Sweetie? Are you awake?”

I lay as still as I could, still in no mood for company or sympathy of any sort. The door closed and I was left in the dark, a muffled, half heard conversation coming through the walls.

“...I can't believe that he could be such a prat...”

Phil.

“...he's not, and I don't thing Liz would appreciate your taking her side in this...”

Sharon — when she's right she's right.

“...so what do we do?”

Phil again.

“...you give Mike a call in the morning, see if you can hang out with him. I'll stay with Liz.”

After Phil left, Sharon bumped about in the bathroom and bedroom with a little less subtlety than usual, testing my resolve. I held fast, keeping still until she climbed in the bed beside me and snuggled up, spooning her body around mine and reaching an arm over to give me a gentle squeeze.

“People will talk.”

“Let them. I want my friend to know I care.”

“I don't deserve you.”

“No, you deserve better, but until someone better comes along your stuck with me.”

I shuffled around and hugged her back, managing to do a fair job of soaking her nightdress before all the emotion drained out of me and all there was left to do was sleep.

-oOo-
I think we would both have appreciated a lie-in the following morning, but Mr Bryant, or whoever he may have hired to clean the flat, seemed to have hit on the idea that since the furniture was beyond repair, the simplest way to remove it was to break it up into smaller pieces and chuck it through a window.

Eight-o'clock on a Saturday morning and it feels like someone's trying to knock the house down; overall impression suitably enhanced by the magnifying effect of two sizeable hangovers. Sharon gave in first, answering nature's call before setting the coffee machine gallupiting. She came back to bed with two large glasses of water, one of which she handed across to my dishevelled form. I took it and drank as much as I could before my own bladder started complaining.

By the time I made it to the kitchen there was coffee and paracetamol. A minute later, with the pounding agony receding somewhat, Sharon slid an omelette under my nose and sat down to dig into hers. I picked up a fork and shuffled the food around on my plate but I really didn't want to eat anything.

“I don't know. Last night you find out what good food really tastes like and suddenly mine isn't good enough for you?”

“I was trying not to think about last night. I mean what was I thinking? I feel like I shot a puppy.”

“He wasn't the happiest of bunnies, if you don't mind me mixing your metaphor. I don't get what the big deal was though, I mean it was just a joke.”

“Except that he wasn't part of our conversation a few days ago, so to him it was crude, immature and thoughtless, and after all that effort he went to just to impress me, only to find out that I'm this insensitive gutter tramp.”

“But you're not sweetie. If you were you'd most likely still be on the streets because I don't have that high a tolerance for insensitive gutter tramps. It was the wine talking and you know it as well as I do.”

“Then sign me up for the tea total club. If it makes my say stupid things like that I don't want to touch another drop.”

I wanted to stand up, to make a scene, but my head was throbbing too much. Just then there was an almighty crash from next door and both Sharon and I grabbed our heads as the pain exploded into new life.

“Come on, we can't stay here.”

Sharon grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to my feet, shoving me in the direction of the bathroom where she more or less stripped me and shoved me into the shower. I turned the controls to extra freezing and shocked myself awake, then back to a more soothing temperature for a few short minutes before surrendering the facilities to my long-suffering room-mate. I dressed casual and would have left it at that had Sharon allowed it. She stood me in front of mirror to show me my puffy, bloodshot eyes. I couldn't give a monkey's, but she insisted I go back into the kitchen and hold a pack of frozen peas on them while she finished getting dressed.

I finished the remains of my coffee and went rummaging in the freezer. The peas, wrapped in a clean tea towel of course, eased the throbbing in my temples even further and by the time Sharon declared me human enough for the outside world I was no longer wincing at the hammer blows from across the hall.

“Where are we going?”

Sharon was walking ahead and pushing the pace beyond my comfort zone.

“We're going to spend some of your money of course. You need to decorate and furnish your new flat, so we're going to pick you out a few things, choose some paint, pick out a few carpet remnants. It'll be fun.”

How did she get to be so chipper and cheerful so soon after waking up full of morning-afterness? True she had eaten her breakfast and my turbulent stomach was a large part of my problem, but even so.

The bus arrived just as we reached the bus-stop and I let her drag me on.

-oOo-
The morning was hard slog for Sharon. I couldn't or wouldn't show interest in anything, shrugging shoulders and looking blank at everything she suggested. In the end she threw her arms up and dragged me to a nearby café. Armed with a tray full of coffee and sugary diet wreckers, she sat me at a corner table and did the whole this-is-for-your-own-good thing.

“Look, ok, yesterday was a bit of disaster, but it's done. Can you fix it? No. So what's the point of torturing yourself over it? Personally, between last night and this morning, I think you've paid penance enough. You need to leave it alone and get on with something different and, unless you want to be sleeping on a cardboard box in a building site on Monday night, I suggest you get interested in decorating and furnishing your flat. Now get some sugar inside you and come out fighting. You can starve yourself tomorrow if you need to.”

I'm not the biggest fan of pep-talks, every one that anyone ever gave me when I was younger did nothing to help since there was no way I could either share or shuck the burden I was carrying then, and all it did was make me feel all the more alone. But this was different somehow. Artificial fix as it was, the sugar did give me a kick, and I realised I could put aside the bucket-load of misery that made up my feelings for Mike because it would be waiting for me later to brood over when I was done with the business of the day.

For the next few hours, we wandered from showroom to showroom, picked up a books of paint swatches as well as small cut-offs from the carpets remnants I liked. I picked out a bed, a three piece suite, a TV with DVD player and a hundred other things both big and small. Most of the furniture was on interest free credit for the first few months so all I did was sign the contract and arrange delivery for late Monday afternoon.

By the time we made it back to the flat the noise across the way had subsided. I knocked on the door and a moment later a very grubby looking Mr Bryant stuck his head out into the corridor.

“Hi, I was wondering if I could show you the colours and carpets I've been looking at.”

He invited us in and indicated a couple of low crates that were the nearest thing to furnishings that remained. The walls showed some new scars from today's activities, but the floorboards looked in reasonable condition, if not good enough to varnish and leave bare.

It took us ten minutes. He even agreed to collecting the carpet, quite cheerfully too as with offcuts it would be a lot cheaper than he had been expecting. He said he liked the colours I'd chosen, and that he would be around during the day on Monday if I needed anything shifting.

Phil turned up a little while later to take me down to the local DIY place, where I picked up enough paint, rollers, brushes, white spirit and other materials to keep me busy for the week. I even bought a set of overalls since none of my clothes were scruffy enough to risk spilling paint on them. We barely managed to fit everything into the boot.

“How's Mike?”

I think I took him by surprise. We'd just climbed into the car and were putting on seatbelts when I sprang the question.

“Ok I think. He was a bit upset by the other night, but life goes on.”

I don't know what I'd been expecting but that wasn't it.

“Did he show any signs of still being interested in me? I mean did he ask about me or anything like that?”

“Are you telling me that you fancy him?”

“Well duh, isn't it obvious?”

“But you’re a guy.”

“Whatever I was Phil, I'm a girl now. You don't seem to notice anything unusual most of the time, and you didn't seem to mind trying to set me up with Pete.”

“But Mike's a friend.”

“And what's that got to do with it? It's not as if I have any surprises under the bonnet. Or are you saying that you're still freaked out by what happened to me and still consider me to be enough of a man that you don't like the idea of me dating your friends?”

“I, I er... I... don't know. Ok, yes I am still freaked out, how can you expect me not to be. I knew you as a guy for four years before all this sh!t happened, which means yes I find it weird that you fancy Mike. It's as though you're...”

“Gay?”

He nodded.

“I almost wish I'd let Mary kiss you now. At least then you'd be able to see things from my perspective. I can't believe how mixed up your thinking is in this. I mean if I made out with another girl would that make me straight?”

“Yes, no, I don't know. In a way yes because it would be the guy inside making out with a girl.”

“And yet you're ok with me sharing a bed with your girlfriend?”

“Sh!t, why did you have to bring that up?”

“Because I need to make the situation clear. When I was Ken I was happy enough to be a guy, even though most of the things you and your friends got up to didn't interest me. I tried dating girls, and I would have been happy to do so if I wasn't such an almighty klutz at chatting them up. Since I've been transformed into a girl, and that includes the physiology, the hormones and all the other crap, I've found that I like being a girl so much more. I don't think of myself as male in any way now. I don't get all aroused when I see Sharon in her underwear. I don't feel in any way tempted to take advantage of her when we're in bed together and yes I do find myself fancying other guys now, your friend Mike currently being right at the top of my list.”

Phil coughed and spluttered his way through my last sentence, which in retrospect wasn't very bright of me as he was also trying to drive us safely home at the time. I sailed on taking what I hoped was a slightly safer tack

“Even if I didn't fancy him, I really regret what I said. He's a really nice guy and he treated us like royalty last night. I wish I could think of some way to make things up to him. I hate that he thinks of me the way I'm sure he does, but I can't blame him for it.”

We pulled up and Phil jumped out to unload, grateful for the chance to escape. Why is it that guys are always supposed to be so brave and yet run away from conversations that make them nervous like this one? How come I can't answer that for myself?

I drifted back into a melancholy fug and was rapidly becoming the pooper to end all parties. I picked at my food again, feeling doubly guilty because I knew how seriously Sharon took her cooking. In the end I told them to go watch a film or something, that I wasn't likely to be good company tonight. They didn't take much convincing.

A long bath and half a mug of hot chocolate later, I was sitting on the sofa, absent-mindedly scratching Toby behind the ears when the phone rang. I thought about screening it for a moment, but decided not to.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it's er Mike.”