Penny Hawker had also attended, every sensitivity seminar she arranged for her staff. She knew the professionally correct way to deal with issues from disability to body odour; knowing, however, does not mean understanding. Tact, sympathy, sincerity, Penny could fake them all, but why a man would choose to dress as a woman escaped her. On one level it was simply comic — Steve in panties had been hilarious — and yet at the same time, it angered her. Was it not enough for men to withhold so much from women, that they had to steal from them what was undeniably theirs? Her real difficulties began when Stevie’s face replaced Steve’s.

Computer-literate rather than computer-fluent, Penny had spent the previous evening piecing together a new blog for Stevie. The photographs had been an obvious place to start, which kept them on the monitor all the while Penny struggled to put words into Stevie’s mouth. It was almost impossible to look at those images without remembering Stevie’s infectious enthusiasm for Belinda Hanford’s make-up skills. It made the job ahead seem to Penny, easier, and somehow, harder. Never one to shirk hard work, or turn down an opportunity for advancement, the head of HR fired her camera’s shutter.

“How’s my good girl this morning?” A startled Stevie looked up from her desk, surprise at the flash, receding before a resentful memory of the day before.

“Mr Thornwell’s in a meeting I’m afraid,” she said, through her best impression of a smile. Ms Hawker perched on a corner of the desk, setting the camera down, alongside Stevie’s coffee cup. She complimented Stevie’s top, but wondered aloud if it complied with the letter of the dress code.

“I wasn’t sure myself, but both my bras are black,” Stevie blushed crimson at the confession, “I thought it would be better to wear something they didn’t show through.” Ms Hawker’s approving nod, brought a huge sigh of relief.

“Speaking of bras, these look impressive,” she jabbed a finger at Stevie’s nearest breast, then closed both hands around them, “they even feel real.”

“Mr Thornwell’s not expected back until eleven, can I take a message?” Stevie hoped her voice did not betray her anger. Nerveless silicon they might have been, but Ms Hawker may as well have gripped the heart that lay beneath it - the pain was no less.

“Actually, it’s you I wanted to see,” Ms Hawker released her grip on Stevie’s chest, “we need a few more photographs for your blog.”

“About my blog, Ms Hawker,” Stevie was on uncertain ground, “I’m not sure I’m happy about you...”

“Of course,” Ms Hawker brushed a stray hair away from the junior’s eyes, “and I don’t mean to exclude you, but let’s talk about it after we have the photos, shall we.” She left her hand rest on Stevie’s cheek.

Ms Hawker explained that she wanted a series of shots of Stevie doing her job; nothing special, just a typical working day, starting with a picture of Stevie at her desk. She brushed aside a suggestion that they take it at Miss Hanford’s desk, “we wouldn’t want the computer hiding your pretty face, would we?” Propelled by this combination of intransigence and flattery, Steve allowed herself to be posed, and smiled when prompted.

“I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing for her, Ms Hawker,” Mrs Green kept half an eye on the kettle, but found other two in the kitchen area much more interesting. “I hope you’ve thanked her young lady,” there was an emphasis on the last two words which galled Stevie, though she continued to smile inanely in her direction.

“Oh she has, don’t worry,” Ms Hawker answered sweetly,”why don’t we take a photograph of the two of you together?” The matronly secretary’s day had been made, and gladly accepted direction, “can you hold the kettle up to show her Mrs Green?” Taking Stevie by the shoulders, Ms Hawker arranged her pose so that her face was clearly visible to the camera, “look up a little at Mrs Green, a little bit more, and smile...”

Their progress back along the corridor, photographed from every possible angle, brought almost everyone to their door. Balancing coffee cups on a tray, even empty ones, was difficult enough in heels, but doing so with an audience, was unbearable. Though she kept smiling, Stevie wanted nothing more than to return to Uncle Bob’s office, and lock the door behind her.

“You file too, Sweetie, don’t you?” Stevie nodded, and lead Ms Hawker to the collection of shelves, and cabinets, where the office’s paperwork was stored. At least these photographs might suggest that she could read. After half a dozen shots over an open drawer, alternately smiling or looking puzzled, as instructed, Ms Hawker turned her attention to the uppermost shelves, and the set of steps used to access them.

“That’s it, put your right foot on the fourth step, and your left on the third, there’s a good girl, now pretend take out one of the boxes.” Stevie held the pose, her arms and back stretched as far as she physically could, for another four shots, and then Ms Hawker was beside the steps helping her down. “We don’t want you phoning Claims Direct, do we?”
Stevie laughed, glad to be off the steps, whose grilled metal surface had threatened to trap her heels, “is that it?”

“For today, now let’s get you back to your desk before old Bob comes looking for us.”

“About my blog, Ms Hawker?” Stevie was very conscious of the hand at the small of her back, propelling her briskly down the corridor, if she did not mention it now, who knew when the next opportunity would arise.

“I’m a little pressed for time now, Stevie,” Ms Hawker flashed her a smile, “and I’m out for most of the day, but why don’t you come to my office for a chat at... say four thirty. A final”OK?” was accompanied by two pats on Stevie’s bottom.

Disconcerted by the continued presence of the hand stroking her bottom, Stevie could only stutter out a dry mouthed, “that’ll be fine, Ms Hawker, thank you.”

“Good girl,” Ms Hawker squeezed the soft flesh under her fingers, adding, “this I know is real.” Without waiting for an answer, she left a blushing Stevie, a few feet from her office door.

Miss Hanford accepted Stevie’s explanation, for her absence without question, and surprised her junior by placing a small wristwatch in her hand. “Mr Thornwell doesn’t like clockwatching, and you kept taking a man’s watch from your bag yesterday, it was very noticeable,” she closed Stevie’s hand around the watch, “and then I realised you didn’t have one of your own.”

“You’ve saved me from the corner again,” Stevie laughed, “thanks, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“Don’t mention it, we girls have to stick together you know,” Miss Hanford gave her arm an encouraging squeeze, and added, “now don’t mind me, your young man is at the door.”

“My young what?” Steve turned to see Daniel advancing behind an enormous bunch of flowers.

“I hope you like roses,” the bouquet obscured half his face, but the crinkling around his eyes told her he was smiling. “I just wanted to say goodbye before I shoot off.”

“I’ll put these in water for her, Mr Barrack” Miss Hanford relieved Daniel of his burden, and stepped quickly from the room. Leaving an awkward silence in her wake, which Stevie rushed to fill.

“No one’s ever given me flowers before, I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s been an honour to meet you Stevie, I want you to know that.”

Stevie bobbed forward and kissed his cheek, realising too late, that Daniel had extended his hand, for her to shake.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I did that,” she gushed, amazed at how her face burned.

“It’s what girls do, don’t you know,” Daniel returned the kiss, “well I’d best be off before Bob accuses me of waylaying you. Goodbye Stevie, I hope you’re still here when I’m next in the UK.”

Stevie managed to croak, “goodbye Daniel,” and flopped into her seat. What had just happened?

“You were just caught up in it,” Miss Hanford laid a soothing hand on Stevie’s shoulder, “he was right, someone treated you like a girl, and you responded the right way.”

“You don’t think I’m...” Stevie’s voice trailed off.

“Not for a second,” Belinda lied, “now pull yourself together. It’s almost time for Mr Thornwell’s elevenses.”

Stevie looked apprehensively at her wrist, when the lift doors opened to reveal the waiting Ms Hawker. “You’re not late, don’t worry,” she eased her arm through Stevie’s, “there’ll be less distractions if we do this in one of the interview suites.”

Stevie, who had been working herself up about the meeting all afternoon, could think of nothing worse than being alone with the head of HR, but there did not seem to be an alternative; she had to find out what had happened to her blog, since surrendering her passwords. Numbly, she followed Ms Hawker into the windowless room. She had sat in its twin not six months before, and remembered how the only sound to be heard was the air conditioning, so efficiently were they soundproofed.

Ms Hawker steered her towards two chairs that had been drawn up against the table at its centre, on which a laptop was quietly purring. “Let’s sit down shall we, Stevie, and I’ll show you what I’ve done so far.”

The URL in the address bar was familiar, but the whole appearance of the page had changed; the background colour was set to a pale pink, and the title rendered in a swirling, cursive font. At the head of the page, Ms Hawker had set a photograph similar to that which now graced Stevie’s keycard. Beneath it was a short introduction, which appeared to have been lifted, almost verbatim, from the old blog. Among the things it still listed, Stevie noted wryly, were the very personal details, which had led to her discovery. She scrolled past another photograph, to the new first entry, purporting to be from her own hand.

Tuesday 8th April 2008

I know many of my colleagues will probably continue to read this blog now that they know about it, and I hope they will understand what it is I am trying to achieve, and wish me luck for the days ahead.

“So what do you think?” Ms Hawker leant across her chair, eager for Stevie’s reaction.

After a long pause she answered quietly, “well it’s not really true is it? I haven’t been asking myself if I’m a girl all my life.”

“It’s as true as it needs to be, Stevie.”

“But how can I go back to being Steve now, I’ll never live this down,” Penny heard the catch in her voice, and clasped Stevie’s hand in hers.

“It could never be the same once people knew about you,” she spoke very softly, stroking the back of Stevie’s hand, “but this way Steve can come back, if he wants to, and I can protect him.”

“What do you mean, ‘if he wants to’?” Stevie pulled her hand free from Penny’s grip, “you don’t think I want to stay like this do you?”

“All I know Stevie, is that in the last two days, you have been a perfect girl,” Penny looked directly into her eyes, taking up her hand again, “it has to make you think, doesn’t it? You must have wondered sometimes what it would be like, to be girl instead of a boy.“ She took a tissue from her pocket, and dabbed at the tear running down Stevie’s cheek.

“Sometimes, I suppose,” Stevie blinked back another tear, “but it wasn’t like that. Steve will be back.”
Penny’s arm wound around Stevie’s shoulders, “OK honey, I believe you. Here, blow your nose, and we’ll have a look at the photos we took this morning.”

“Do they have to make me look like I’m on work experience?” The photographs were very good, Stevie had to admit that much and Ms Hawker had selected only those that flattered her most, but every one showed her performing a menial task.

“We’ve taken you from Accounts, and moved you up to the eighth floor Stevie,” Ms Hawker closed the preview window, “if we gave you more important work it would look like favouritism, think of how that would affect for your Uncle Bob.”

“Sorry, Ms Hawker” Stevie pulled a face, she had not really thanked either of them for what they had done, “I’ve been a bit silly haven’t I?”

“Just a little bit,” Penny patted Stevie’s knee, “but we should have told more about what we’ve been doing, but you’ve been so good these last two days...” she reached down under the table, and produced a bag from what Stevie knew was the most expensive lingerie shop in town, “you said you didn’t have any white underthings, so I picked these up for you while I was out.”

Inside Stevie found a white bra, and two pairs of knickers to match, “thank you Ms Hawker, but I can’t accept these, they must have cost more than fifty pounds.”

“I’m not quite as cheap as my name suggests,” Penny laughed, “but you will take these Missy, I insist.” The head of HR had lightly poked Stevie’s ribs to emphasise each word, sending her into a fit of giggles, “it’s ten past five, so get along home.”

Penny leant back in the chair, Stevie’s parting kiss warm on her cheek, and watched her dash through the door. Most of her time was spent sorting through candidates resumes, or counting days lost to absence, it was refreshing to have a challenging project fall into her lap, especially with the latest news from India.

Author's note: this part a day malarkey is harder than it seems, and I'm sure this is full of all manner of typos, spelling mistakes, repetitions and who knows what else. I think I'll have a small lie down now :)