“Morning Miss Weston, nice new pictures on your blog.”

“Thank you, Ms Hawker is a good photographer isn’t she?” Stevie would never have put Frank down as a silver surfer, but then the whole world seemed to have booked a ringside seat on her life.

“A photographer’s only as good as her model, Miss,” for once Frank’s face betrayed him, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth, “you have a good day Miss Weston.”

“Call me Stevie, please,” she patted his arm, though she did not for one minute think that he ever would.

Whoever had switched on the office lights was nowhere to be found; “and this one was just right,” Stevie giggled, as she sat at her desk — the mystery visitor had left a packet of her favourite biscuits. Her Nan had loved Lincoln biscuits too, and always kept the barrel well stocked, even though they were not easy to find anymore; supermarkets only seemed interested in chocolate biscuits. Rotating the packet in search of the ‘tear here’ tab, Stevie found instead, a post-it note with a neatly lettered ‘sorry’ on it.

There were too many likely candidates to even begin guessing who had left the gift, and as CSI were not at hand to gather fingerprints, Stevie started to destroy the evidence. After a look left and right confirmed that Uncle Bob was not lurking anywhere — it was another of his pet peeves — his office junior dipped the Lincoln into her coffee. She had not yet had a chance to retrieve her private stash from her desk in Accounts, and Stevie’s eyes closed as she savoured it.

“It’ll go straight to your hips,” Ms Hawker stood in the doorway, laughing.

“I wish it would go straight to my hips,” Stevie answered wistfully; her narrowness in that department restricted the styles she could wear.

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re older Missy,” Ms Hawker dropped a buff folder on Stevie’s desk, “more email messages, but if you’re busy...” her voice trailed away, until Stevie protestations brought her back to the point. “You’ve a lot more mail today, quite a bit of it from outside the company, so we’ll have to go through those together.”

“This is quite long I’m afraid, but I’ll type it if you like,” Stevie handed over the four page reply she had written to Alison’s message; hours writing longhand had made her feel like a Jane Austen heroine, though she doubted her spelling and grammar were up to that standard. What to include in the reply had involved some careful consideration, she did not want anything too personal, or that could be taken the wrong way, passing under Ms Hawker’s eyes; even if the head of HR seemed less daunting after their last interview.

Ms Hawker’s vision was at least the equal of her namesakes’, and the slight changes Stevie had made to her make-up, and her success at putting her hair up, had demanded fresh photographs.

“I hope you’re getting the going rate, Stevie,” Uncle Bob had arrived as Ms Hawker was putting her camera away, “if she’s paying you in biscuits, you should at least get Hob Nobs.”

“OK, but not chocolate ones,” Ms Hawker beat a hasty retreat. Bob Thornwell was a legendary negotiator, who would talk her up to Jaffa Cakes in very short order, “see you at four-thirty, Stevie.”

“Laters,” how differently the week was ending for her, from how it had begun. There was no stifled laughter, no whispering, and the secret that had been tormenting her was almost a thing of the past. Steve would need to tell a few other people, or maybe she would tell them herself; after a week like this, Stevie would rule out nothing.

“Stevie, if that’s you making that infernal racket, get in here now!” Bob hated to hear someone humming, almost as much as he hated a whistler. She scurried into his office, brimming with apologies, but only one thing would satisfy Bob’s temper, “into the corner Stevie, until you learn not to make annoying noises.” No doubt, she would wear a smirk for as long as she faced the wall, just as Belinda always did.

Steve had from a very young age, been Bob’s favourite of all his friends’ children. Always quiet, almost withdrawn at times, he would surprise his ‘uncle’ with an insight beyond his years. Bob had long suspected that Steve’s reserve masked a secret, but had never dreamt that it would surface as it had. In fact, it was nearly impossible to reconcile his memories of the boy, with the figure in the corner; the piled up hair, earrings, stockings, and tight little skirt reminded him of someone else — especially the skirt. “That’ll be all Stevie, back to your desk.”

“That was quick,” Miss Hanford checked her watch, Stevie had been in Bob’s office for less than five minutes; humming had earned their last temp an hour facing the wall. She shot Stevie a concerned look, “I’d better see what’s wrong.”

“I couldn’t look at her Bel, I had to send her out,” Bob chewed an arm of his reading-glasses, while worrying his tie’s knot with the one hand.

“Was it her legs, or her bum, Bob?” Belinda had not seen her boss so rattled for years; she tried her hardest not to smile.

“It was the wristwatch, Bel; the one I gave you, the first Christmas we worked together,” Bob finally loosened his tie enough to open his collar, “that was a sneaky trick.”

“She needed a watch, Bob,” Belinda lost the battle with her lips, and hid the smile by changing the subject, “if things had worked out differently, you know, we might have had a daughter about Stevie’s age by now.”

“We haven’t talked about this for a long time,” Bob knew his PA’s moods, almost as well as she knew his, “what’s up?”

“I don’t know, maybe having Stevie around the office has made me a tad broody,” Belinda gave an embarrassed laugh, “fixing her hair, teaching her about make-up, all that stuff.”

“There’s still time, Bel,” Bob reached for his now cold coffee, “for both of us.”

“Did I really hear that?” it was the closest he had ever come to proposing.

“Maybe,” Bob took another sip, “but it would mean breaking up the old team, I’d need to find a new PA.”

“Tough job; she’d need to be able to put up with all your pernickety ways, your foul temper, know exactly how you like your coffee...” Belinda pursed her lips, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That you’re a devious woman, Belinda Hanford?”
Stevie wondered what they found so funny, but had a premonition that it somehow involved her.

Miss Hanford had spent the morning showing Stevie how Mr Thornwell’s diary was kept; it would be important according to his PA if, for any reason, she was unavailable. Stevie could not help thinking it would be so much quicker to use a computer, but said nothing, as it made a pleasant change from removing staples. Lessons continued after lunch, and she began to look forward to her four-thirty meeting with Ms Hawker. It would end the strangest, and in some ways most enjoyable, week of her life. Miss Hanford, however, had other plans.

“How do you fancy another trip down to Accounts?” Stevie knew the question was rhetorical, and took the envelope from her superior, “you may as well go straight up to HR on the way back. Have a nice weekend Stevie.”

Purely by coincidence, Ms Hawker’s PA, Debbie, rode down in the lift with her. Only a few years her elder, she appeared to have the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Stevie remarked that she looked tired, and was told, “when the Hawk comes in early, so must all the little hawklings.”

Stevie had never heard the nickname before, but could well imagine what it must be like to work under the HR head’s beady eye, “I’m afraid that may be my fault.”

“Oh no, she’s always the first in, don’t worry,” Debbie gave her a weary smile, “to be honest, she’s been a lot easier to get along with the past few days. This is the floor you want, isn’t it?”

Accounts held no fears now for Stevie, and her passage to Mr Posnan’s office went off without event. Belinda’s wristwatch told her that she had ten minutes until her meeting, ample time to take a detour to her old cubicle, which she found, had not been allocated to anyone else. Steve had not been taken off the payroll yet, it seemed, Stevie however was more interested in his biscuits.

“Hey, what you doing in there again?” a familiar face popped over the partition, “Stevie, you’re back!”

“Only for a few minutes, Stace,” the two of them caught up quickly, unsurprisingly, as most of the office gossip was still about her. Tim Witlock had taken a day off, with ‘his nerves’, according to Stacy, who regaled Stevie with an impression of his face when she walked out.

“What did you mean by ‘again’, Stace?” Stevie did not know if it was important, but that one word piqued her interest.

“I thought you were Tall Paul from IT, he was in here yesterday, rummaging around in your desk,” Stacy had a poor opinion of IT, which was not uncommon, “I thought he was back to have another crack at your biscuits.”

Was there a connection, Stevie wondered, as she made her way back to the lift. She was sure that it had been someone from IT, who leaked her blog details, and they were the most likely people to be on site very early in the morning. Stevie was certain on one point - absolutely certain - it would take more than a packet of biscuits, to make amends for the damage done her. Frank might know who had been in first this morning, and she had just resolved to ask him on Monday morning, when the lift arrived.

Waiting for lifts to open still had an element of tension for Stevie; with no way of knowing who the doors would reveal, she could only hope for a friendly face. Every journey between floors, now made her feel like an entrant in a low-budget, daytime game-show. She thanked her good fortune, when her prize on this occasion, was Phil from the post-room. In the six months she had worked there, he had never failed to greet Steve with a joke every time they met. Squeezing past his trolley, she pressed the button for floor ten, and turned to face him. Phil had never seen Stevie before; still she was sure that her story had reached the post-room. “Hi Phil, remember me?” she said brightly, “I look a bit different now.”

His answer took an age or emerge, “nice tits, when are you getting a c**t?”

Tim Witlock’s remarks had been easy to fend off, they were intended to amuse others, and could be turned against him. Delivered in a flat, impersonal tone, the obscenities were meant only to be offensive, to provoke a reaction from her. Phil was not a large man; Steve had certainly tangled with bigger boys in school, but always with the luxury of friends nearby, or a bolthole. The mirrored walls made it difficult to look anywhere without meeting his gaze and its contempt was palpable. Stevie pressed herself into a corner, as far from him as was possible in the cramped car, and prayed that someone else would join them at the next stop.

When the doors opened, no saviour waited in the third floor corridor, and had the trolley not barred her path Stevie would have pushed her way out. Any fear of physical assault had dwindled - if Phil meant her harm he would have acted between floors - she simply wanted to be out of his sight. Not until the doors had begun to close again, did he nudge the trolley between them, leaving her alone.

His final snort of derision echoing around her, Stevie crouched in her corner, weeping uncontrollably from floors three through nine. For her dignity’s sake alone, she was fortunate that few travelled away from reception so near the day’s end. As the lamp blinked out behind the number nine, she was able to collect herself, straightening her clothing and running a tissue across her nose, while she thought about what Ms Hawker would say.

Note: I resorted to the dreaded asterisks as I didn't want to offend anyone with a particularly nasty word, but one I think Stevie's reaction required.

Bit of an early break again tonight, I wanted to take the story up to the end of the evening, but used up a lot of time on the final paragraphs - I really did honest - so it'll have to be tomorrow :(