On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Penny Hawker’s first instinct was to take Stevie into her arms the instant she stumbled from the lift. Her eyes were red with tears, and her make-up streaked, but there was a distantness in the girl’s bearing, that kept the older woman at bay. Something dreadful had occurred that much was apparent, but getting her to talk about it would require great tact. Penny dealt with sensitive issues every day of her working life, and yet that was no help. She was far too personally involved, for convention to apply.

“This is assault, Stevie,” Penny crumpled the paper on which Stevie had written her assailant’s words, “no one has the right to treat you like this.”

“But they will,” Stevie spoke dispassionately, as though all emotion had drained from her, “from now on, everywhere I go, there will always be someone.”

“Tell me his name honey, and I can make sure... ” Penny checked herself, unsure if she was pursuing Stevie’s interests, or her own desire for retribution.

“He’s a good bloke really, it was probably just a shock to him, you shouldn’t sack or him, or anything.” A victim pleading the attacker’s case was not uncommon, Penny knew as much, but that knowledge did little to quell her growing anger with him, whoever he was.

“It’s not your fault, believe me,” she covered Stevie’s hands with her own. It might take days to find out exactly what had happened; Stevie was intent on maintaining the wall she had built between it and her. Penny picked up the telephone,

“Bob, it’s Penny.”

“Don’t tell him!” Stevie hissed.

“I’m giving Stevie a lift home... no there’s not a problem,” she squeezed the hand beneath hers, “it’s on my way, and we can have a good old natter - girls’ stuff you know.”

Avoiding the lifts seemed wise, so Penny led Stevie down the service stairwell; the basement exit was also closer to where she had parked. Their progress was slowed somewhat by Stevie’s heels, and the hour had passed by the time they arrived at the smokers’ door, through which Stevie had crept on Monday morning.

A knot of male staff was still clustered around the exit, enjoying a last cigarette before dispersing for the weekend. As the two women approached their conversation died; it was a familiar experience for the head of HR, but Stevie appeared unnerved, pressing close to Penny. When they had passed by, the group erupted into laughter of a peculiarly nasty timbre.
Most of the men were from the post-room, Penny noted.

Ms Hawker’s car was identical to Uncle Bob’s, if you ignored the litter, which evidently she did. “Do you need directions?” Stevie was still unsure of the older woman, who had acted so unpredictably throughout the week. At that moment she was kindness itself, but experience told Stevie it might swing to the other extreme without warning.

“It’s OK, I took your address from your personnel file,” she typed Stevie’s postcode into the car’s GPS, “we’ll soon have you home.” They drove in silence, interrupted only by the GPS prompts, and were soon parked outside Stevie’s building,

“I’ll come in with you for a few minutes, make sure you’re all right.” Penny was surprised by the flat’s neatness, for someone whose life was in such tumult, Stevie — or perhaps Steve — kept an exceptionally ordered home. Considering that she spent almost all of her free time at home, there was very little of Stevie to be found; even in what should have been a haven, she was hidden from sight. Penny remarked as much, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“Mum and Dad come around once or twice a week, “Stevie shrugged, “and they don’t always call first.” How could someone live in such secrecy, Penny wondered, and how terrible discovery must have been. Suddenly feeling very much the intruder, yet unwilling to leave the girl alone, she searched for a way of staying.

“Show me the kitchen, and I’ll make the coffee.”

“I’m out,” it was not however, the stark dismissal she feared, Stevie added, “there’s camomile tea, if you like.” Bustling about the kitchen together, Penny managed to coax a few smiles from her hostess, but little conversation.

The furniture in rented accommodation had not changed significantly it seemed since Penny Hawker’s college days; the sofa’s springs squeaked noisily as they sat down, and she sank lower than was perfectly comfortable. She was just about able to reach the DVD case lying open on the coffee table, and flipped it over to read the title. “I love this film,” not many eighteen year olds’ tastes ran to foreign cinema, she had expected a frat-pack comedy, or banal rom-com, not ‘Cyrano’, “I have a bit of a thing for Monsieur Depardieu.” Stevie’s giggle warmed her heart.

“It’s one of my favourites,” she went onto explain how it had been shown in French class, and she had bought her own copy because she liked it, “I don’t know why - the sword fights are cool, and some of the jokes are hysterical, but the ending is so sad.”

“But he at least had his panache,” it was a terrible in-joke, but Stevie laughed all the same. All week, Penny had watched the girl emerge from within, a truly remarkable girl, “you know you’re a lot like Cyrano — no not your nose — he had so much beauty no one knew about, because all they could see was what was on the outside.”

Stevie bit her lip, but a smile peeped through, “ah but you’re Cyrano, the letters he wrote for Christian are like the blog entries...” Penny pressed a finger to Stevie’s lips.

“The words are you Stevie, at most I’m the postman,” she chucked Stevie’s chin, “why don’t we watch the film and decide?”

When she could tear her eyes from the divine Gerard, Penny noticed that in places Stevie reacted to the dialogue slightly in advance of the subtitles, “do you speak French Stevie?”

“I have quite a bit, it was one of my ‘A’ level subjects,” she did not embellish, but returned her attention to the portable television’s tiny screen.

Penny had looked through Stevie’s CV several times, and there was no mention of the advanced examinations. A lot more kids entered higher education than they had in her day; every potential recruit now seemed to have a degree in something, and Stevie was brighter than many of them. “Why aren’t you in university Stevie?”

“I needed a job to be Stevie,” she shrugged, as if that was the obvious answer, “in college I’d have been reliant on money from Mum and Dad, they’d have wanted to know what I was spending it on.”

Penny marvelled at the logic, and at how the need to be Stevie informed every aspect of her life. For the first time she began to understand the drive - if not the reasons - to be female. An eighteen year old had succeeded where all the sensitivity courses she had attended, all the books she had read, failed. Penny wrapped an arm around Stevie’s shoulder, kissing her lightly on the temple, “and I’m glad you did, Stevie.”

Stevie snored softly, her head on Penny’s chest, where it had lain since Christian had been killed at Arras. Penny reached cautiously for the remote control; she could not bear to watch the film’s beautifully tragic conclusion, but neither did she want wake her companion. No trace of the day’s turmoil marred the sleeping girl’s serenity; there was the suggestion of a faint smile Penny fancied, and hoped that she was its inspiration. Keeping extraordinarily still, she watched Stevie’s chest gently rise and fall, until her wristwatch told her she must leave, “hey sleepy girl, I’ve got to go.”

Stevie’s eyes flickered open, “please stay, I have ‘Germinal’ too, we can watch that.”

“HR doesn’t come out too well in that one,” Penny struggled to feet, not least because it was a wrench to leave Stevie go, “I have some stuff to do, but I will come around in the morning, promise.” She planted a kiss on Stevie’s forehead, “now go to bed Missy.”

Yesterday’s Starbucks cup crunched underfoot as Penny sat in her car. She took out her mobile, and tapped in the familiar number, “Hello, Frank... good thanks... yes they are nice... she is very pretty... look, I need your help with something... great, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

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Note: apologies for referencing one of my favourite films so heavily in this, but it really is wonderful.