After the Pantomime

By Susannah Donim

A spare time hobby slowly turns into a lifetime choice for Nick.

Chapter 7 – The Secretary

Ruth makes Nick pay for keeping secrets from her. His ‘transformation’ becomes more permanent.

Ruth stood with her hands on her hips and demanded an explanation.

“I don’t know why you’re so angry,” I said, wearily. “This is nothing to get upset about. I had a lot of jokes that only worked from the viewpoint of a woman. Before Christmas Josie persuaded me to do a stand-up in drag. It was just for fun, but I looked passable and it sort of got out of hand. People seemed to think I was really a woman. Tonight was only the second time I’ve done it, and definitely the last – Daisy Duquesne’s farewell appearance.”

Ruth didn’t seem to have been listening to my perfectly reasonable explanation of my unexpected apparel.

“I thought we were becoming… close, but you never told me about… any of this!”

“Well, obviously…” I stuttered, too embarrassed to be coherent. “I wasn’t going to tell a girl I… liked… that I was dressing as a woman... I didn’t want you to think…”

I ground to a halt. What on earth could I say? I felt ridiculous. I was sitting at Lee’s desk in my wig cap, streaky make-up, maternity dress and padding. My handbag was on my knee, and I was rubbing my nyloned feet. I had a flashback to my time as Sarah the Cook, when I often entertained visitors in my dressing room, half-in and half-out of extravagant women’s clothing. But this was completely different.

If I’d ever hoped that Ruth and I might have a future together, I could definitely forget that now. She must have thought I was a total pervert. But she was just getting started.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve been lying to me ever since I’ve known you!”

That was below the belt and completely untrue.

“I’ve never lied to you. Not once! Sure, I haven’t told you everything about me, but then you haven’t told me everything about you either.”

“Well I certainly don’t have a secret as big as this!”

“As big as what? I’m an amateur stand-up comic; you knew that. And I’ve done a couple of gigs in drag. So what?”

“Not to mention the whole Pantomime Dame thing. You obviously get your kicks dressing as a woman!”

“For the purposes of entertainment only!” I said, angrily. She was actually getting too close to the truth as I was beginning to realise, but it wouldn’t do to admit it. “I won an award for my Sarah!”

Josie had closed the door and was leaning on it, trying to be inconspicuous, but now she must have felt she had to say something.

“Ruth, please! It’s true – it was all my idea. Nick’s not… weird… or anything.”

We both turned to her. She must have realised that the ship was sailing and it would be better to jump on it and leave us alone.

“OK, I’ll just… Let me know… somehow… when you’re ready to change back, Nick.”

She left and closed the door behind her. But her intervention might have helped, because I got the sense that Ruth might be calming down a little.

“But why did she make you pregnant, for God’s sake?”

“Her little joke. Also it draws attention from anything that might give me away, and it covers up my, you know… things.”

“Oh yes,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Good idea. ‘Cause they’re so huge.” She raised her eyes to heaven.

“Look,” I said, ignoring her belittling of my manhood, “you and I… we’ve never made a commitment to each other. And you’re the one who said she couldn’t be with me, given the difference in our backgrounds. You even said your parents would disown you for going out with a toff.”

“Don’t give me that! You know we were getting past all of that. I thought you cared about me.”

“I do care, you idiot! Why do you think I keep asking you out? You keep turning me down.”

“You know why I…”

“Yeah, yeah, but if you cared about me, you’d have found a way to make it work.”

We stared at each other for a moment. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was tempted to go to her, but I didn’t see how being embraced by a man in make-up, a wig cap, and a maternity dress with a huge baby bump was likely to improve her mood. So I just looked at her, helplessly. I was about to give up when she slumped down in Lee’s other chair.

“OK… OK… how about this?” she said eventually. “I’ll go out with Daisy!”

“Huh?”

“Well, I didn’t recognise you – Nick – I recognised Dame Sarah! Nobody will connect Nick with Daisy. We can go out together then. You can be my girlfriend or secretary or something. It won’t matter if the Deveres hear I’ve been seen out with another woman. Maybe Eddy can come with us sometimes. He and I can act all lovey-dovey in public and his parents will think everything’s tickety-boo.”

“So you want me to drag up every time I go out with you? Do you know how long it takes to get this lot on and off? I’ll be spending half my life getting in and out of ladies’ underwear!”

“Oh well, if you think I’m not worth a little of your time…”

She trailed off when I didn’t respond. I thought about it for a moment. It was mad! I couldn’t do this… could I? True, I had admitted to myself that I enjoyed the outings with Josie as well as my act at the Club. It was really no great imposition being Daisy. But my disguise wasn’t good enough for everyday, was it? It was OK on stage, not moving about and with the nearest person ten feet away, but I’d never get away with it close up, in normal light… would I? I recalled what Josie said about the unnatural stiffness of the padding.

“I don’t think it’ll work,” I said at last. “I don’t think my disguise is good enough.”

“Oh well, forget it then,” she said, getting up and not bothering to hide her disappointment.

I couldn’t leave it like that.

“If I do this bizarre thing, what will you do?”

“What do you mean?” She sat down again.

“I’ll be humiliating myself, and God knows what else, to prove my commitment to you. What will you do to prove your commitment to me?”

It felt a bit petty when I put it like that, but I sensed it was now or never with Ruth.

“Oh, I see. Do you want me to dress as a French Maid or something?”

“No, that would be stupid. I mean, you’d look fantastic…” Was that a hint of a smile? “…but it’d be stupid. I’m looking for a commitment, not fancy-dress games.”

“Well... I could say ‘I love you’. Would that help?” She looked a little embarrassed, which didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

“It might – if you meant it. But words are just words, aren’t they? And sex is just sex. Love is something else. You have to show it, not just talk about it.”

“Wow! Deep!” she said. Her anger seems to have abated. “I don’t suppose the way I lost my rag when I discovered you’d been keeping important things from me would count, would it?”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“Well, I suppose it would be a start…”

She came over and kissed me – hard.

“How come every time I touch you these days, you’re wearing a bra and a girdle?” she said, smiling. I relaxed a little and returned her smile. “But I mean it about you being Daisy, if you’re going to be seen with me in public.”

“I understand,” I sighed. “I’ll try and work something out. What about tonight? Are we…?”

“If you put your wig back on, you can come back to my place – Daisy.”

I reached for the wig as I got up to go.

“By the way, you haven’t said what you thought of my act. Was I any good?”

“Let’s just say you’d better perform better than that tonight.”

My sternest critic.

* * *

We lay in bed, post-coitally content. Ruth’s bedroom floor was strewn with two dresses, two bras, two pairs of panties, two pairs of nylons, and quite a lot of unnatural-looking padding.

“How come everyone had seen you as Daisy except me?”

“Well, I didn’t know how you’d react. I never know where I am with you…”

“Are you ashamed of performing as a woman?”

“No, but that’s performing. You’re asking me to pretend to be a woman in real life.”

“Rubbish! It’s just another performance – you’ll be playing the part of my secretary. It will save us the cost of another member of staff. It’s not as though you have anything better to do.”

“Come on! You met the people on all my other ventures before Christmas. I have lots to do.”

“Hah! Occasional meetings that you can easily take by phone. You’re just too stuck-up to work for a woman in a menial position!”

“Again with the class prejudice?”

“Yes – to prove to me you’re not a full-of-himself toff. Besides if you can look as good as a woman as people say you do, we can go out together all the time. I’m fed up of hiding. No one can be suspicious about a boss having dinner with her secretary, especially if she’s six months pregnant. If you want to be with me, you need to prove it.”

“But why do I have to be pregnant?”

“In case we bump into someone who’s seen Daisy at the Club, dumbo.”

* * *

The following day I called Polly and asked if she could meet with us in private. She readily agreed, obviously intrigued when I mentioned I would be with Ruth.

We called in the late afternoon. Arthur was in the lounge watching the football results on television. He grunted hello but expressed no interest in why we were there. Ruth being with me would have allayed any suspicions he might have had that I was up to something with his wife. I doubt that was in his nature, but in the dressing room Polly and I had been as close as an unmarried couple should ever be.

The three of us settled in the breakfast room with cups of tea and chocolate biscuits. I explained what I was trying to do and asked if she had any ideas as to how my Daisy disguise could be improved.

“Seriously?” said Polly.

“It seems it’s the only way to persuade this mad bitch that I love her.”

Polly raised an eyebrow at my description of my beloved.

“Are you sure you two want to be together?”

“Yes, we’ve reached the ‘terms of endearment’ stage,” said Ruth. “I’m ‘mad bitch’, apparently. I’m trying to come up with something for him. ‘Lying pansy’ is favourite at the moment.”

Polly sighed. “I warned you about keeping secrets from the people you love, didn’t I?” she said to me. “How long do you intend to do this for?”

We hadn’t actually discussed this.

“A week,” I proposed, nervously.

“A couple of months,” Ruth said, firmly.

“What!”

“A week is nothing like long enough,” she said. “It would be too easy to laugh it off as a joke. This is about commitment. You know that.”

“But I have other commitments. We have a contracts meeting for MyOwnCouture.com next week. And I still have to meet regularly with my other ventures, and solicitors, and banks. I can’t go as Daisy!”

“Conference calls – without video, of course. Say Nick is away on business. You don’t have to speak much at these meetings anyway, do you? You hardly said a word at our session with the Bank.”

She was right about that at least. Apart from progress meetings with my project teams, I only really needed to be there to listen to keep up to date, which I could easily do over the phone.

“There must be some other way I can show you I’m serious about you.”

“Such as what?”

“Can’t I just slay a dragon or something?”

“Sure – if you can find one.”

I tried one last tactic.

“But are you sure you’ll want to be with me after all this? With everyone laughing at me and my reputation in tatters?”

“You’re exaggerating,” she said breezily. “Anyway, I’ll take the risk. So, do you have any suggestions for a better disguise, Polly?”

“Well, if you’re really sure…”

She paused. Ruth held her gaze. Polly sighed.

“Arthur has a friend, James, who cross-dresses. He uses a service that does realistic prostheses, wigs, make-up, and so on. Apparently, they’re really good. James reckons he’s never been ‘read’ as a man and he’s nowhere near as… uh, pretty… as Nick.”

She had the grace to look a little embarrassed at describing me thus.

“That’s what we need,” Ruth said firmly. “How do we contact them for an appointment?”

“They’re very discreet. They don’t advertise at all. You have to know someone. I’ll ring James.”

She went into the sitting room to make the call. Ruth came over to me.

“She’s right to be concerned though,” she said. She touched my face, almost tenderly. “There’s no point in doing this if we’re just going to resent each other afterwards.”

“No, it’s OK,” I said. “I think the problem is that we both hate showing any weakness… No, I don’t mean weakness, I mean vulnerability. We need to overcome that – with each other at least. I’m learning – playing Sarah helped – but you need to let me in more. Can you do that?”

Before Ruth could reply Polly returned, still on the phone. She gave Ruth a scrap of paper and a pen.

“James says he can’t give us Transformations’ number, but if you give him yours, he’ll get them to call you.”

“They’re called ‘Transformations’? That sounds ominous,” I said.

Ruth wrote her number down. Polly returned to the other room, reading it out into the phone as she went.

“I take your point about vulnerability,” Ruth said when Polly had gone again, “and I think you’re right. I’ll work on that. I may find it easier to share with Daisy.”

“But I’m Daisy… oh, never mind.”

Polly came back and we chatted while we finished our coffee. The ladies discussed how the LADS wardrobe team might support MyOwnCouture.com with the frilly bits (not their terminology). Ruth was keen to start selling wedding dresses as soon as possible but couldn’t see how our existing machinery could do more than make the basic garment, after which there would still be a lot of work which would have to be done by hand by skilled seamstresses. They agreed that Polly would come in on Monday afternoon to discuss designs.

We were just getting ready to go when a call came through to Ruth’s mobile – ‘Number Withheld’. She answered quickly. It was Transformations. She listened.

“Pregnant, yes… six months. Good enough to pass close up in good light… Well, the sooner the better,” she said, “but weekdays are difficult… Yes, I appreciate you must be busy at weekends…”

She turned to me. “Looks like we’ll have to put aside a weekday morning or afternoon. What works for you this week?”

I checked the calendar on my phone. “I could do Tuesday or Wednesday pm,” I said

“Wednesday afternoon looks best,” she said into the phone. “How long would we need…? Really? As long as that…? Oh yes, I could drop him off and come back later, I suppose… ‘Daisy’… Yes, that’s right… Yes, we have some suitable clothes. We’ll bring them with us… Thank you. Can you text me the address…? Good, we’ll see you on Wednesday at 2 o’clock.”

She hung up.

“You didn’t ask how much it would cost,” I said.

“Why would I? I won’t be paying.” She smiled. “You know I don’t have any money, posh boy.” She stood up. “Thanks for everything, Polly. We’ll get out of your way now. See you on Monday.”

Polly led us out. We’d come in separate cars due to Ruth’s paranoia at being seen alone with me. She left first and told me to wait five minutes before following. After waving her off, Polly turned to me.

“Are you really going through with this?” she said.

“I know. It’s a pretty big deal. I don’t think Ruth appreciates that. It’s one thing to do a drag act a couple of times, or play the Dame in a Panto, but dressing as a woman in real life… I’m not happy about it, but I think I have to do it.”

“Dressing you up as Daisy may not be the real point, you know,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, LADS did The Canterbury Tales a while ago.”

I looked at her as if she’d gone senile.

“It’s relevant, trust me,” she said. “Have you ever read The Wife of Bath’s Tale?”

“Remind me.”

“A young knight at King Arthur’s court commits a rape and is to be put to death for it, but the queen intercedes on his behalf and presents him with a challenge: to discover, within a year, what women want most in the world. He roams throughout the country asking every woman he meets, but they all give different answers, none of them convincing. On the last day he meets an ugly old woman who tells him she can save his life, but if she succeeds, he must pledge himself to her in return for her help. He agrees.

“Back at the court the knight gives the queen the answer the old woman gave him: what women most desire is for their husbands to let them have their own way. All the women at the court agree that that was the right answer, and the queen spares the knight’s life. The old hag then demands the knight marry her. He is horrified but keeps his word.

“On their wedding night she reveals that she is a fairy and offers him a choice: he can have her ugly but loyal and good, or he can have her young and fair, but also coquettish and unfaithful. Finally, he replies that he would trust her judgment, and asks her to choose whatever she thinks best. Because his answer gave her what she most desired – the right to choose for herself – she becomes both beautiful and good. They have a long, happy marriage, and the woman is always completely obedient to her husband.”

Polly looked at me, expectantly. I looked at her blankly, clearly not the reaction she had hoped for.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You’re giving Ruth what she wants, to prove your love for her. The more of an imposition it is for you, the more certain she can be of your love. It’s touching really.” She paused. A cloud came over her face. “But a fourteenth century parable is one thing… I just hope she doesn’t come to regret what it does to you – both.”

* * *

The next day I had lunch with my parents. They would have to know what I was planning to do, so I tried to explain my absurd predicament.

“Did you lose some sort of bet?” asked my father.

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “It’s about commitment and trust. Ruth and I… well, let’s say we’re attracted to each other, but she feels she can’t trust me because I kept things from her.”

“What things?” asked my mother.

“Well my Daisy Duquesne act mainly, but I didn’t mention I was doing stand-up in the first place. Mind you, back then we were barely even friends, and anyway I thought she was engaged to Eddy. So as I said at the time, there was no particular reason why I should have told her that, or anything else about myself. I also kept my involvement in the Panto from her for as long as I could.”

“I don’t think you can be blamed for not telling a potential girlfriend you were dressing up as a woman,” said Dad, “particularly if you thought she was engaged to someone else at the time.”

“But you can see how it looks now, can’t you?” said Mum. “You claim to be in love with her, but you haven’t exactly been sharing, have you?”

“No,” I sighed. “If I had known then what I know now, I would have told her everything from the beginning, especially as she seems to find my female impersonation sexy.”

They both raised their eyebrows at that.

“So she sees this as a way of testing your – what word did you use? – commitment?” said Mum.

“That’s about it, yeah.”

“Bloody funny way of testing boyfriend material, if you ask me,” said Dad, “checking out what kind of girlfriend he’d make.”

* * *

At ten to two on Wednesday afternoon we sat together in the Transformations Reception waiting for our consultant. Ruth was surprisingly quiet. She clearly had something on her mind. I assumed she would share it with me when she was ready.

I passed the time by comparing her with the receptionist, Angela, who was a total babe. Ruth was leading 5-4, and I was hoping to see Angela stand up so I could complete my analysis by comparing their lower halves, but she remained resolutely seated behind her desk, her caboose and legs concealed from my view.

Ruth cleared her throat.

“You don’t actually have to do this, you know,” she said, to my astonishment.

“What? But you…”

“It was always more about you showing you were willing to do it, than actually going through with it.”

So Polly had been spot on.

“Where’s this coming from?” I said.

“I’m just afraid that you’ll… hate me for making you do this.”

She looked thoroughly miserable now.

“OK, who are you, and what have you done with Ruth Braddock?”

She gave a wan smile. She looked… vulnerable – a first for her?

“I’m serious,” she said.

“Well, don’t be,” I said, putting my arm around her. “I want to do this. I need to do this – to prove myself to you. I have no problem being Daisy for a while if you’re my prize at the end of it.”

She buried her face in my shoulder. I distinctly heard a sniff.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” I said, “and I certainly won’t hate you for it.”

No response.

“Anyway, if I quit now, even after what you’ve just said, you’d never really know if I would have gone through with it, would you?”

She looked up at me, her expression a mass of contradictions. I had no idea what else I could say. Fortunately, I didn’t need to speak. A large, tweedy woman had appeared from nowhere.

“You must be Daisy?” she said to me. “I’m Ingrid McLaughlin. I’ll be your consultant.” She turned to Ruth, who was doing her best to recover her poise. “I don’t need to know your name, madam, or your relationship with Daisy, but I assume you’re in charge?”

She obviously believed that Ruth was going to be Daisy’s boss, and I suppose she was right. She had also called Ruth ‘madam’, not ‘miss’, so she was probably assuming we were married. She was clearly used to dealing with ‘alternative’ marital relationships, which meant we could probably rely on her discretion.

Ruth had recovered her composure by now, and quickly confirmed her authority over me.

“If you would like to follow me,” said Ingrid, “I’ll show you our facilities and explain what we propose to do for Daisy.”

It felt odd to be referred to as Daisy while I was still entirely Nick, but that was the least of my forthcoming humiliation. Ingrid and Ruth discussed me as though I wasn’t there. Presumably she was used to dealing with submissive husbands and dominant wives. But if Ruth thought that was going to be the way of things in future, she had another think coming. We were going to be equal partners or not partners at all.

I picked up the suitcase of Daisy’s clothes that Josie had put together for me and followed the two women, who seemed to be getting on very well. We went first to Ingrid’s office where she reviewed her brief.

“As I understand it, you want Daisy to be able to pass as a woman who is six months pregnant in ordinary, everyday settings?” Ruth nodded. “So, in the office, at the shops, in restaurants, and so on?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you need to be able to deceive people who know her real identity?”

“No, all her friends and family are aware of this arrangement,” said Ruth. “We only need to fool people who don’t know Ni… her male self.”

“So you probably don’t need any special prosthetics to disguise her face then.” She turned to me. “May I?”

Without waiting for an answer, she reached out and lifted my chin up with her hand, which despite the painted nails and jewelled rings, I noticed was surprisingly large. She was staring intently at my neck.

“Her Adam’s apple is quite small,” she continued, “barely noticeable, but she should probably wear high collars as much as possible.” She dropped her hand. “Now, may I ask: how much experience does Daisy have of female impersonation?”

“Quite a lot, actually. She played the Dame in an amateur Panto before Christmas and won ‘Best Actor’.”

I hoped Ingrid didn’t live anywhere near us or she would be able to identify me quite easily. But she didn’t seem interested – or impressed.

“A Pantomime Dame is hardly proper female impersonation.”

“He… sorry, she has also performed stand-up comedy and no one realised she wasn’t a woman.”

“Indeed?” said Ingrid. “That’s much more like it. You might get away with just the physical disguise and no training then. Now, how long do you want this to last? Because if it’s for more than a week or two, Daisy will have to get bigger – a lot bigger, as she nears full term.”

I hadn’t thought of that! That was a good reason to end the whole thing sooner rather than later.

“So it might have to be just a couple of weeks then after all,” I said hopefully.

“Shush, dear,” Ruth said. “If we want it to last a couple of months, say, can you help with that?” she asked Ingrid.

“Oh yes. We’ve taken several men all the way through full nine-month pregnancies.”

Good grief! There must be some truly perverted people around, I thought. Perhaps what I was doing wasn’t so far out after all.

“We can make a prosthesis which can be enlarged gradually,” Ingrid continued. “You could even do it at home by adding water, but we don’t recommend that. The prosthesis tends to distort and swell unrealistically. We use a special gel, so it would be best if Daisy comes to us once a week for her top-ups.” She turned back to Ruth. “I do agree that you should be thinking of months rather than weeks, by the way. Our services don’t come cheap, and as it will be a fixed price, the longer she is Daisy, the better the value for money. We won’t charge for the weekly top-up visits. Anyway, you don’t have to decide now.”

She paused to gauge our reaction. I was resigned. Ruth was excited.

Ingrid resumed. “There is one thing you do have to decide now – a slightly delicate matter. Will Daisy need to appear naked?”

“She certainly won’t!” I said.

Ingrid looked at Ruth, the ghost of a smile on her otherwise professional countenance.

“May I ask why you need to know?” asked Ruth. “Although I think I can guess…”

“Because we can make the prosthesis ‘anatomically correct’ down there, and it would be good enough to fool anyone that Daisy is completely female – short of a trained clinician performing a ‘hands on’ inspection…”

I was gaping at them both in horror.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Ingrid,” Ruth said, smiling.

“Very good. The reason I ask, you see, is that the full prosthesis would need to be secured with adhesive for the duration of the exercise, completely denying access to Daisy’s male parts. It could then only be removed by a highly skilled operator using a special solvent.”

“Absolutely not happening!” I protested vehemently.

“Calm down, dear,” said Ruth. “And the alternative?” she asked.

“If she doesn’t need to be anatomically correct in her private parts, the bottom of the prosthesis can be secured using an almost invisible fastener. In both cases the subject’s testicles will need to be returned to the abdominal cavity for maximum comfort, and the subject will then need to sit to relieve herself while wearing the device. Its orifices will be perfectly aligned with Daisy’s own, of course. However in the second option, the full male equipment can be liberated without too much trouble, albeit with a little assistance from her partner.”

“Yes, option two would be best,” Ruth said, to my relief. “I do like the idea that he can’t get at his tackle without my help, though.” She giggled for only the second time that I’d known her. “Would Daisy be able to wear a swimming costume?”

“Oh yes, although I’d recommend a one-piece,” said Ingrid, with a smile. “She’ll need prosthetic breasts that match of course, and they will have to be secured with adhesive for them to move properly, and to avoid the danger of them falling out of her bra.” Ruth nodded. “Well, I think that’s everything. Are we going ahead?”

“Oh yes, I think so,” said Ruth. “Are you happy, Daisy?”

“I’m content to proceed,” I said, resignedly. “‘Happy’ is not the word.”

“You need to know our fees, of course. I’ll just print off our invoice and a contract for you to sign.”

She turned to her desktop and opened a menu. She selected some options and clicked Print.

She folded the invoice in two and gave it to Ruth. She passed it straight to me without looking at it. When I saw the total, I almost fell off my chair. This would severely deplete my savings. I would have to put off changing my car for another year, or even two. MyOwnCouture.com had better start making me rich soon. Meanwhile Ruth was happily signing the contract.

“Right,” said Ingrid, briskly. “The first step will be to get an accurate 3D image of your body. Follow me. Our photography suite is next door.” She turned to Ruth. “If you’d like to wait here for a moment, please, madam. I’ll be right back.”

I couldn’t help noticing that I was given brusque orders, but Ruth received polite requests. I was pretty sure Ruth had noticed too.

The photography suite was a small dark room with a dim red light. There was a sort of dais in the centre.

“You stand on there,” she said. “The cameras move around you on the rails.” There were three cameras at different heights. “They build up an accurate three-dimensional composite image of your body. The software helps us design the female shape you want. Then we use 3D printing to make the prosthesis. Strip off, then.”

When I was down to just my underpants, she got me to climb up onto the little platform. There were footprints on it showing me where to stand, like at airport security X-ray booths. She made for the door.

“When I’ve gone, drop your underpants on the floor,” she said. “I’ll tell you what you need to do next over the loudspeaker.”

When I was sure she’d gone, I stripped naked, as instructed. I wondered if she and Ruth could actually see me. Well there wasn’t much point in being bashful now.

In a moment Ingrid’s voice came through. “Are you ready?” she said. “The lights will be going off in a moment. Stand as still as you can with your arms horizontal and out to your sides.”

I complied, and the little red light went out.

“Starting the process now,” she said. “The camera lights will be very bright. Try not to blink.”

The lights were incredibly bright after the darkness. The cameras starting orbiting around me, snapping pictures every second or so. After two circuits they stopped. The bright lights went off again and the small darkroom lamp came on.

“There’s a dressing gown on the back of the door,” Ingrid said over the speaker. “You can put it on and come back to the office.”

The robe was a plain pink woman’s dressing gown. I supposed I would have to get used to wearing such garments. I returned to Ingrid’s office with my arms full of Nick’s clothes.

Ruth and Ingrid were at the computer console. Ruth turned as I entered and grinned when she saw what I was wearing.

I noticed that my suitcase was now open and empty, and the clothes, underwear, and accessories Josie gave me for Daisy were strewn across Ingrid’s table, together with my wig on its stand. I stuffed my – that is, Nick’s – clothes into the case. This would probably be the last time I would see them for a while.

I looked over Ruth’s shoulder at the monitor. I was embarrassed to see a revolving three-dimensional picture of my naked body, with my private parts pixilated out.

“Now I’ll superimpose an image of a six-months-pregnant woman over your body, using measurements that correspond to the clothes you brought,” Ingrid said.

A new figure appeared, a pregnant female but with my face. I realised then what Josie had meant when she said I was ‘androgynous’. I knew it was my face with my short hair, but it really didn’t look out of place on the very female body.

“As you can see, the figure is mostly green, which is good as it means that Daisy’s male anatomy is well inside the pregnant female shape. The red areas are where his body protrudes beyond the female template – just the shoulders and upper arms, where his male musculature exceeds that of a female of a similar height. There’s nothing we can really do about that, but if you keep those covered up in something feminine and lacy, I doubt anyone will notice. There would normally be red areas around the waist and chest too, but of course they are subsumed within the expanded breasts and the baby bump.”

I had to admire the technology despite my misgivings.

“So now I can make an abdominal prosthesis and breast forms to fill out the green zones.” She turned to Ruth. “This printing stage will take about half an hour. Then we have to fit him and get him dressed and made up. I would guess it will be about two hours before Daisy will be ready to leave.”

“OK,” said Ruth. “I think I’ll go off to the shops. See you later, Daisy.”

She made to leave, then turned back. She closed the suitcase and picked it up.

“I’ll take this with me, shall I? Remove any temptation to bottle out.”

She laughed at my forlorn expression and left me to Ingrid’s mercies.

* * *

While Ingrid organised the 3D printing, I was shown into a treatment room where I had to remove my robe and lie down naked on a massage bed. A jolly lady called Vera covered my private parts with a towel for decency’s sake, and then began to subject me to an all-over waxing. I queried the need for this torture but Ingrid made it clear that it was necessary. They couldn’t attach breast forms to my chest if there was any sign of masculine hair there, let alone glue a pregnancy belly over hairy loins and genitals.

Vera offered me a stiff whisky as a kind of anaesthetic and I accepted gratefully. That turned out to be a good decision. I had no idea waxing would be so painful! How could women do this regularly?

Vera finished by massaging me all over with a soothing lotion, which helped a lot.

“Since you’ve said you’re going to be Daisy for at least two months, I’m using a lotion with a low dosage of female hormone.” I must have looked alarmed. “Don’t worry, it’s not strong enough to affect your virility or make you grow real breasts, but it should slow the growth of your body hair. I take it you didn’t enjoy the waxing?”

She then turned me onto my back again so that she could attach my breast forms. She had brought several pairs and checked each of them against my chest to get the best colour match.

“Ingrid said to give you 42Cs,” she said. “If you’ve never had forms attached to you before, these may take a bit of getting used to.”

She wasn’t kidding. They were nearly as big as the ones I had worn as Sarah, but those had been of springy foam. These were seriously heavy and immediately affected my balance when I stood up, but they jiggled as I moved, just like the real thing.

“You should put your bra on straightaway, dear,” said Vera. “You need the support. Otherwise the forms’ weight might hurt the skin of your chest.”

She held up the bra that Josie had packed for me. It was pale blue and lacy; very pretty, in fact. I slipped my arms through the shoulder straps and she fastened it behind me, expertly adjusting the sliders on the straps and fastening the clasp.

Ingrid came in then with a huge lump of smelly, flesh-coloured plastic on a trolley. She saw me wrinkling my nose.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “the latex smell soon disappears.”

The ‘abdominal prosthesis’ was basically a pair of shorts, but with a very high waist and coming down to just above the knee. But it didn’t look much like shorts because of the blubbery flesh round the buttocks, hips, thighs, and especially the huge dome round the front where my baby bump would be. What was most impressive was its texture. The buttocks and thighs wibbled and wobbled at my touch, but the baby bump was smooth and firm, like a fully-stretched pregnancy belly. It looked and felt just like the real thing. At Ingrid’s invitation I tested the weight and found it a strain to lift even with both hands. No wonder she had brought it in on a trolley.

“The material is precisely the density of actual flesh,” she said. “So now you know how much weight a pregnant woman has to carry around. And of course this is only the equivalent of six months. If you do as your… mistress… suggests, and see out the full nine months, it will get a lot bigger and heavier. You will find you will have to move exactly as a real pregnant woman does.”

She said all that in a ‘and let that be a lesson to you’ manner. It didn’t seem worth the effort of pointing out that whatever Ruth was to me, she certainly wasn’t my mistress. Let the tweedy old bat think what she likes.

With a sniff, Ingrid left it to Vera to help me on with this appalling device. I stepped into it and she helped me pull it up. It was incredibly heavy. There was a sort of zip, like the seal on a freezer bag only much finer, which ran from inside one thigh, up to the groin, and down the other thigh. It was open at the moment and my male parts were exposed and available for use (as it were), but the discomfort and embarrassment of the experience had ensured that my member remained flaccid and quiescent.

“Now the next part is tricky,” said Vera. “Let me help you. You might find it a little uncomfortable at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

She had to kneel down in order to reach under my now enormous stomach and inside the opening between my legs. She deftly levered my testicles upwards into the abdominal cavity from which they had descended when I was thirteen (if I remember rightly), and manoeuvred my penis into a special tube. She then closed the zip, up one leg, across, and down the other. All my male parts were now packed tightly and invisibly under fake female flesh. Only an expert eye would have been able to distinguish the view from what one would expect to find between a real woman’s legs.

“Good,” she said, standing up. “You should now find that when you need to wee, just relax, and it will flood out of your faux vagina. Of course, it will spray – realistically – so you’ll need to sit down, and wipe thoroughly afterwards. Also, make sure you open the zip and wash yourself inside and out at least every couple of days. You’ll find it easiest and most comfortable to do that in the bath.”

She paused, no doubt to enjoy the horrified look on my face.

“Now, as you will have noticed, the prosthesis is quite heavy, and it would soon slip down, as there’s nothing to hold it up. So we’ve lined it with a special adhesive that also prevents perspiration. That will have set by now. It should be quite secure.”

“What? You mean I’m stuck in this thing?”

“Well, yes, but you don’t want to be walking along the street and suddenly find your abdomen around your ankles, do you? The adhesive does break down after a while, but the prosthetic will loosen anyway as you lose the top layer of skin cells – about twelve to fourteen days.” She grinned. “Don’t worry, we have a solvent for the adhesive in case of emergency, and we’ll check you out every week when you come in to have it enlarged. We need to make sure you’re not developing a rash or anything, but we rarely see any problems like that.”

I needed to sit down. This impersonation was going to be much more convincing and comprehensive and irreversible than I had expected. Was it too late to back out?

“You’d better put some panties on, dear. You’re a naked lady down there now.”

I scurried across to the pile of clothes on the table and with some difficulty stepped into a pair of maternity panties that matched my bra. They came up well above my waist which wasn’t surprising because I didn’t have a waist anymore.

Maintaining my balance was a challenge with all this additional weight in unfamiliar places. The foam padding Josie had used was awkward and cumbersome, but at least it was light and I could take it off at the end of the evening. My new breast forms and this humongous prosthetic were really heavy, and they moved just like real female flesh. I would have to move and sit and stand and waddle just like a real pregnant woman. And I couldn’t take them off. What had I done to myself?

I caught sight of my ungainly pregnant figure in a mirror on a cupboard door. I felt feminine and vulnerable. I was beginning to see why they called this place Transformations.

Josie had packed the pleated dress she had bought me the previous week, some knee-highs, and a pair of black one-inch heels, presumably on loan from LADS. I might have to buy some more shoes if I’m going to be Daisy for a while, not to mention more bras and panties. They would have to allow for my tummy getting even bigger. More expense.

Next on the agenda was a session with a lady called Sharon who would be my beautician. She put my wig on and brushed it into shape. She didn’t approve.

“Tell me,” she said, “did a relative of yours buy this wig when she lost her hair due to chemotherapy?” I nodded. “Thought so. It’s a bit obvious, I’m afraid, and it really doesn’t suit you at all. It’s for a middle-aged lady. We can do much better.”

I must have looked dubious. She hastened to reassure me.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s included in the price. Now what hair colour would you like?”

“I think I’d better stick with my natural colour.”

“Good choice. Then when your own hair grows out, you may be able to dispense with wigs entirely.”

I didn’t tell her that by the time my hair was long enough for a girl’s hairstyle I wouldn’t be Daisy anymore. The way I felt at the moment I wouldn’t be Daisy next bloody week. I just hoped Ruth would let me out of this ridiculous enterprise without ending our relationship before it got started.

Sharon tried a number of wigs out on me.

“Now this one is somewhere between a long pixie and a short bob,” she said.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, “but I do like that one.”

“Good, and it’s not much longer than your own hair is now. In about a month or so, I’ll be able to do a style just like that for you.”

Despite my growing misgivings I actually enjoyed my hour with Sharon, learning what colours were right for me, and how to apply my make-up properly. She also persuaded me to let her do my nails. I never kept them particularly short and she filed them to a better shape and painted them bright red.

I enjoyed her piercing my ears rather less, but she promised me that most women of Daisy’s age and class (what class?) would have pierced ears. She gave me some antiseptic swabs to use on my lobes until the bleeding stopped, and put some silver posts in the holes, which I needed to leave in place for forty-eight hours before putting real earrings in.

When she’d finished I couldn’t deny that Daisy looked a lot better, and much more convincing. I added all the products she’d used to my handbag.

I stood up and examined myself in Sharon’s full-length mirror. My face and hair were perfect. My new feminine flesh moved realistically as I turned. I could now be confident that Daisy would fool anyone.

* * *

I called Ruth to collect me. When we met in Reception, she was clearly impressed.

“You look fantastic!” she gushed, as she led me out to her car.

With all my additional weight wobbling unpredictably, I was struggling to keep up with her. I was forced to waddle, my enhanced butt swinging from side to side. The one-inch heels weren’t helping. Why hadn’t Josie packed flats?

“Look at how you’re walking! No one would ever suspect you were a man. Your Daisy disguise is perfect!”

“It had better be, considering how much it cost.”

“How much?”

I didn’t see any reason not to tell her, so I did.

“Shit! You’re kidding!” I shook my head sadly. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty?” she said.

“I wasn’t, but feel free.”

“I thought you said you were poor?”

“Well, I certainly am now.”

It was a lot of money to throw away if I was only going to be Daisy for a few days. On the other hand, being stuck – literally – with this preposterous figure was no joke.

Ruth opened the passenger door for me. I suppose I would have to get used to people treating me like a pregnant lady. That wouldn’t be so bad, I supposed. I’d always get a seat on the bus; not that I ever travelled by bus. There was no way I could step into the car, so I turned sideways and plumped down bottom first. Then with some difficulty, I swung my legs in.

“Wow,” she said, “this is great! I’m going to get to see what it’s like for a new father-to-be looking after his pregnant wife! We’ll have a nice dinner tonight, just the two of us, then back to my place.”

“You still want to be with me? Even when I look like… like this?”

“Even more so, for some reason! I don’t understand it myself. Perhaps it’s just the novelty, knowing it’s really you under there. I don’t know.”

“I always said you were weird.”

I just hoped the novelty wouldn’t wear off.

It certainly hadn’t by that evening. We had the nice dinner that she had promised at our favourite restaurant, where – ironically – we didn’t see anyone either of us knew. Afterwards, at her flat, we worked out how to free my ‘belongings’ from the diabolical prosthesis, and lever my balls down again into a fully functional position. There’s a knack to it, which I hoped we would master quickly, because it certainly wasn’t a comfortable process.

But it was worth it. Ruth was an animal. Being encumbered as I now was, I had no choice but to lie back and take it.

* * *

Ruth insisted we both went into the MyOwnCouture.com office the next day.

“You’re going to have to get used to seeing people in your new guise. Might as well get it over with straightaway. I’ll explain it all to them.”

She oversaw my dressing and make-up. When I mentioned that Sharon had given me a cosmetics lesson, Ruth had me do my own make-up while she supervised.

“I’m impressed with your make-up skills, Daisy,” she said, stifling laughter. “But we’ll have to get you more clothes. You can’t get by with just the stuff you borrowed from Josie’s friend and the couple of dresses she bought you last week. You need everyday office wear and especially more underwear.”

For my first appearance in the office I decided to wear the denim smock dress Josie bought me, with the pretty white lace cardigan I wore for my stand-up performance.

When Ruth had finished helping me get ready, and returned to the bathroom to complete her own ablutions, I stayed sitting in front of her dressing table looking at myself. I could just about see Nick’s androgynous features behind the wig and make-up, but I didn’t look the least bit masculine. I had to admit to myself that I wasn’t too upset at what I saw. I was relieved that I would almost certainly get away with my disguise – that is, that no one was likely to call me out in public as a cross-dressing pansy – but it was more than that. I was excited that Daisy was going to have a life of her own. I wanted to get to know her better.

I realised that being Sarah had made it possible for me to be Daisy. More to the point, maybe being Sarah had made it necessary for me to be Daisy. I needed to keep that from Ruth. I couldn’t let her know that this might not be an endurance test but almost a pleasure.

But that didn’t allow for the ordeal of pregnancy…

* * *

When we got to the MyOwnCouture.com upstairs office, a little later than usual, I waited by the barn office door while Ruth went into the cowshed. She emerged with Eddy and Mike in tow. They looked at me curiously. We all went into the barn and upstairs to the open plan office. I hadn’t realised what a struggle the stairs would be in my condition. I wondered whether we could afford to put in a lift.

Vicky was already in and sipping her first coffee of the day.

“This is Daisy Duquesne, everyone,” Ruth announced when they were all seated. “She is going to be our Financial Controller, reporting to Nick, as FD.”

Everyone looked at me and then at her. Vicky started to giggle, until Ruth shot her a look.

“Come on, guys, what’s this really about?” said Eddy, who wasn’t afraid of her. “We know the two of you have been doing the deed, but what’s he dressed up like that for?”

Mike and Vicky looked at him, shocked. They had not been in on the odd couple’s deception. Eddy was quite open about his sexuality now but left it to Ruth to explain about their need for the Deveres’ money.

“I’m sorry we kept the two of you in the dark about the true nature of our relationship, but I hope you can see why? And I need hardly say that we need to keep it a secret between the five of us?”

They nodded. The confirmation that Eddy was gay obviously didn’t come as a surprise to either of them.

“It all makes sense now,” said Vicky.

“Except for why Nick is dressed like that!” said Mike.

“So are you gay too?” asked Eddy, still a couple of paces behind the conversation, “’cause if you are, I wish you’d told me sooner.”

It seemed Eddy was another ignoramus who equated cross-dressing with being gay. I was a little disappointed in him.

“He’s not gay,” said Ruth firmly. “The point is, I can’t be seen out and about with Nick, but no one can object to me being with my secretary, can they?”

“Hey, I’m not your secretary!” I objected. “You just said I was the Financial Controller!”

“Yes, but that’s not enough work for a full-time employee, so you’ll have to double up as my secretary.”

“No way!”

Ruth sighed. “All right you can be joint secretary to me and Nick. How’s that?”

“Hardly any better at all!”

“Well, it will have to do.”

We locked eyes, each demanding the other back down. Mike interrupted our battle of wills.

“Aren’t you embarrassed, being dressed like that?” he asked, clearly fascinated.

I welcomed the distraction.

“Not really,” I said. “I might have been, before the whole Panto Dame thing and doing stand-up in disguise, but I’m getting used to impersonating a woman now. I don’t see anything to be embarrassed about. Half of mankind are women.”

“The better half,” Ruth stressed.

“And people say I can get away with it…?” I added.

“Absolutely!” Vicky gushed. “You’d never be mistaken for a man!” then she realised what she’d said. “Oh, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…”

“No, that’s all right,” I smiled. “That’s precisely the point. It feels like Daisy is a performance, a live improvisation. I’m creating a new persona, so Nick is away for the moment and I’m trying to make Daisy real.”

“It’s partly the pregnancy thing,” said Vicky, trying to cover her embarrassment. “I mean, it’s so totally womanly…” She realised she wasn’t making it any better and decided to stop digging. “I think I’ll shut up now.”

I hoped Ruth was paying attention. I wanted her to see that, if her objective was to embarrass and humiliate Nick, it wasn’t going to work, because I wasn’t Nick at the moment. I was Daisy, and why should Daisy be embarrassed dressed like this? Being pregnant without a male partner was another matter of course. Lots of girls would be embarrassed about that. Daisy would have to be a modern feminist. A woman – even a pregnant woman – needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

“Fine,” said Ruth triumphantly. “If Daisy is real, she can be my secretary. We have to find you something to do while you’re here, and where else are you going to go dressed like that? Now come on, we were out for an entire afternoon. Things will have been piling up. I’ll have filing and typing for you, Daisy.”

She got up to go into her office. The others hadn’t moved.

“That can’t be the only reason why Nick’s come in as Daisy,” said Eddy, obstinately.

“It isn’t, but it’s all I’m prepared to say at the moment,” Ruth said.

“And for the avoidance of doubt, it’s not because I’m transitioning,” I added. “This is purely temporary… to prove a point.”

They clearly weren’t satisfied with our partial explanation but realised they weren’t getting any more.

“Well, whatever floats your boat, guys,” Eddy shrugged. “Come on, Mike.”

The meeting broke up. Eddy and Mike returned to the cowshed and Vicky went back to her workstation. I followed Ruth into her office, still a little put out about being appointed her secretary.

“Since when has anyone here ever filed anything?” I said. “Or had anything worth filing? All our important documents are online.”

“There’s lots of paper invoices from suppliers, and copies of order forms, and letters from the local council and the Health & Safety Executive. They’re all over my desk. All your responsibility now, Daisy. You’ll have to sort out the network drive too. I can never find anything.”

“That’s because you give every document a stupid name and file it as either ‘Temp’ or ‘Miscellaneous’, and you leave incoming documents as email attachments, so no one else can see them.”

“And now I have a secretary who can organise everything properly.” She dropped her voice. “Think of this as part of your ‘commitment’.”

“You’re taking advantage,” I hissed. “We’re supposed to be lovers – equals – not mistress and servant. I can still walk away from this, you know!”

“Well I suppose that’s up to you, but you need to understand: we can be equal partners when we’re alone together, but here at the office, I’m the boss,” she insisted. “At least as long as you’re Daisy. Nick may be my equal, but you’re not him, and you can’t be for a while, can you?”

I was about to raise further objections, but she pre-empted me.

“Look, Latham was quite right when he pointed out that our staffing levels were dangerously low, but we can’t afford to take anyone else on yet – you know that. And I need a secretary. Nick and I both do. Daisy will be a godsend. Say you stay until it’s time for you to go on maternity leave? By that stage we should be on our feet, judging by the rate that orders are coming in now, and the new services we can provide with the Bank’s support. Then we can hire more support staff and you’ll be off the hook – as Daisy and as my secretary.”

“I just hope you appreciate what I’m going through for you. This doesn’t feel like a fair deal.”

She nodded. “I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise.” She seemed sincere.

“Well, all right, but you can make your own bloody coffee, boss!”

Still feeling I’d been manipulated I settled down to be Daisy the secretary without further complaint – for the moment.

It was still a mortifying experience. I found that my bump got in the way of working at my desk because it was hard to get close enough to my workstation to use the keyboard and mouse properly. This gave me an excuse not to work too hard. It wasn’t much, but childishly I decided that any little opportunity to annoy Ruth was welcome. To be fair, Ruth really did treat me as an equal out of the office – an equal girlfriend, unfortunately.

“Can’t you at least call me Nick when we’re alone together?” I said in bed the next night after another frantic coupling.

“Too dangerous. I might forget in company. Anyway, I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face. You really don’t look like a Nick anymore.”

Since she had me wearing a long maternity nightie – which she thoroughly enjoyed burrowing under – I could hardly dispute that.

* * *

To reinforce my acceptance of my new life, on the Saturday of that week Ruth invited Josie to join us to go shopping for more clothes for me.

Being six months pregnant – or at least being the same shape as a woman six months pregnant – affected everything I tried to do. Walking – waddling – was an effort and I could hardly keep up with the others. I didn’t dare drive, as Daisy didn’t have a licence or insurance in her name and I would be exposed if I was in an accident. But even getting in and out of Ruth’s car, a Ford Fiesta, was a struggle because the seat was so low, and as for a sofa or an armchair – forget it.

We began with shoes, as I was still wearing the one-inch black heels Josie had borrowed from LADS. I had no other options, apart from the flats from the same source. We found that in ordinary shoe shops the choice was limited as my male feet were at the very top end of the size scale for women’s shoes. Fortunately at the shopping centre there was a large discount store with a bigger range. I bought two pairs of comfortable one-inch pumps, and a rather frightening pair of very elegant two-inch heels – for formal wear, the girls said. I wasn’t sure when Daisy would need formal wear.

We spent the rest of the afternoon traipsing round the women’s departments of the big stores with me trying on nursing bras and maternity panties, skirts, tops, and dresses. We made multiple trips back to the car with bags.

“That should see off anything still remaining in my bank account,” I said, but Ruth wasn’t the least bit concerned.

I hardly saw another man all afternoon. I began to be concerned about oestrogen poisoning.

In the middle of the afternoon they took pity on me and we stopped for coffee and pastries. During this break they bombarded me with expectant mother conversation.

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

“Have you decided on a name yet?

“When is your next scan?”

“Is your hubby excited?”

“Eat up, Daisy! It’s too late to worry about your figure now, you know.”

And of course I had to respond in kind, pretending to gush at the excitement of giving birth. The others laughed loud and long, but eventually I had them laughing with me, not at me. It was just like what Polly had said about playing the Dame: don’t let anyone see that you’re embarrassed or afraid of making a fool of yourself. You want them all to be saying ‘Wasn’t the guy who played the Dame brilliant? I could never do that’.

When we were finally ready to leave, the car park had filled up and there wasn’t room to open the passenger door wide enough to allow a pregnant lady of my girth to get in. So Ruth had to back out first, leaving me clutching my Mothercare bags, with my handbag over my shoulder, while the January wind whistled up my skirt. I made the mistake of grumbling about it when I eventually flopped into my seat. She just laughed. I made a silent vow to impregnate her as soon as I possibly could to see how she liked it.

* * *

Eddy was now co-habiting with some boyfriend, so I moved into Ruth’s flat. We shared her bed. I didn’t have to put up with my baby kicking me of course, but I still had to sleep on my back because of my oversized breasts and tummy. The continual pressure on my bladder meant I had to cut down on my drinking in the evenings or I would have to get up several times in the night to go to the toilet. I couldn’t drink alcohol while at a pub or restaurant either, or I would face disapproving looks from all the other diners.

And, yes, I was well aware that real pregnant women had to put up with all this and much more, but at least they could expect a fulfilling reward at the end of it in the form of a lovely bouncing baby. I wasn’t sure what I could expect at the end, or even if it would end at all.

The rest of my disguise had to stay in place, but being able to open up my prosthesis and make love to Ruth in a semblance of normality was some compensation. She had to go on top, but this just seemed to make her even wilder and her orgasms even more thunderous.

So the sex was better than ever, but everything else was a nightmare.

* * *

My – Daisy’s – role as Financial Controller was becoming increasingly important to the fledgling company. I was responsible for ensuring that all accounting allocations were made appropriately and documented. I also managed our cash and oversaw accounts payable, accounts receivable, disbursements, payroll and bank reconciliation. It was important, but with only five of us, not onerous – yet.

A couple of days after my introduction as Daisy, the secretary, I was in the office on the phone to a supplier ordering material. I was aware of Mike and Vicky watching me open-mouthed. Mike liked to hang around Vicky on his frequent breaks. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she encouraged him.

“Wow!” said Vicky, when I hung up. “Your Daisy voice is really good. You didn’t sound like that in the Panto.”

Patiently I explained that a Dame isn’t trying to hide the fact that she’s really a man, but people are supposed to believe Daisy is a woman, hence the higher-pitched voice.

“I thought you’d have to do some awful falsetto,” Mike said.

“No, I guess I have a naturally flexible voice, but I did do a little research,” I said, conversationally. “Finding a higher pitch is the most critical part. On average a male voice is about an octave lower than a female’s. The books say: try humming at a higher pitch until you become familiar with the sound and can imitate it without thinking about it.

“I’ve also tried to train myself not to talk loudly or forcefully. Not only is that not feminine, it’s also more difficult to maintain a higher pitch. You try to limit the space your voice comes from, using your tongue and the back of your throat to reduce resonance. It takes practice but if you get it right, your voice sounds smaller, less boomy.”

“Eddy said you practised by doing stand-up as Daisy?”

“Daisy’s back story is a bit more complicated than that.”

This seemed an appropriate time to explain to my junior colleagues. I’m sure Ruth’s explanation had left them wondering what was going on.

“It just sort of… happened,” I said. “I’d done stand-up at the Open Mic night a few times, and we all noticed a sad lack of female comics. I had some good jokes for a woman comedian, and my sister-in-law persuaded me to a do a spot dressed as a woman. When she’d finished with me, I looked quite convincing, so we decided not to make it a drag act, but to create a new identity – Daisy Duquesne.”

“Is that how you got the part in the Panto?” Vicky asked.

“Sort of. We borrowed some shoes from LADS which meant that their director was in on the secret. When their usual Dame was in an accident, they asked me to step in.”

“But why did you make Daisy pregnant?”

“Josie’s idea again. The baby bump concealed my, er… wedding tackle, so I didn’t have to wear anything uncomfortable. Also she had a smock for me which was the sort of thing women wear when they’re pregnant. Anyway I got away with it. Nobody suspected Daisy wasn’t real, but now I’m afraid to let anyone know she’s really Nick. There might be some serious backlash. People might say I was being sexist; that I was patronising women; mocking expectant mothers; and so on. So now I need to stay pregnant, in case we bump into someone who saw me performing at the Club.”

At this point Ruth came rushing out of the office. Her main concern at the moment was preparing for the contracts meeting with the Bank. She had been reviewing the material we’d produced, and trying to get her head around my five-year business plan.

“Daisy, I need you to explain Nick’s financial model again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. If neither you nor Nick are going to be there next Wednesday, I need to be able to answer all their questions.”

We’d both got used to treating Nick and Daisy as separate people, but Mike and Vicky looked a bit puzzled.

“Nick will be on the speaker phone. He can explain if you get stuck.”

“Yes, but I’ll still look a fool, won’t I?”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” I sighed.

* * *

Ruth worked me hard as her secretary. She was a visual person, really good at drawing and sketching, particularly fashion, but she wasn’t a great wordsmith and had never been taught to write a business letter. So she was delighted to leave all that to me. She didn’t dictate, as such, she just said things like, “Daisy, order forty yards of lightweight calico.” She never remembered who we might have got the stuff from last time, or whether the product was satisfactory, or whether the supplier had been reliable. So I would have to check all that out and identify the appropriate product code, or maybe browse other suppliers’ websites to get a better deal and delivery times. I would then arrange payment in my other role as Financial Controller. Ruth, Eddy and I were all signatories on the company bank account, but I decided that for the moment only I would have a debit card. I was also responsible for consolidating customer payments from PayPal and WorldPay into the company bank account.

In between dealing with Ruth’s correspondence and my financial tasks, I reorganised our network drive so that ‘born digital’ documents were saved in folders with meaningful names. I sorted out her mail client, filing emails that other members of the team might need to see in a shared network folder. I created a user ID for Daisy and arranged for all of Ruth’s and Nick’s emails to be forwarded to me as their secretary.

I sorted out Ruth’s office filing cabinet – in which she only seemed to keep fashion magazines and Jaffa cakes – and set up a proper system for paper documents. This meant that it was now possible to see the surface of her desk, which in turn meant that I had to clean it.

Dad and I weren’t renting the barn and cowshed to MyOwnCouture.com as ‘full service’ offices. That is, we hadn’t engaged cleaners, so the team had to tidy up after themselves. As Nick I had dodged these duties because I hadn’t been around much, but now that I was there every day, and in a more junior role as Daisy the secretary, Ruth insisted I did my share. The rule was that the boys kept the cowshed clean and tidy, while the girls did the barn offices and the downstairs kitchen. I assumed that my unique circumstances meant I could do either, but Ruth laughed that off. I would be a cleaning lady like her and Vicky. There was no way I could work around the heavy machinery in my condition.

It was true that washing cups, dusting and vacuuming were more my speed now. Privately I was glad about that. There was no way I could do any heavy lifting in the cowshed, and didn’t feel that my masculine pride was affronted. I only had to look in the mirror to have any remaining male ego crushed.

The first time I had to do the washing-up, I got rather a lot of soapy water down my dress due to my clumsiness and ungainly shape. So when it was next my turn Ruth took great pleasure in dropping a comedy bib apron over my head ‘to protect your lovely dress, Daisy dear’, and tying the straps round my waist in a granny knot so that I was trapped in it till she released me at the end of the day. I hate washing dishes and arranged for a dishwasher to be installed in the kitchen at the earliest opportunity.

I organised the supply cupboard up in the barn office and the store cupboard down in the cowshed. In the kitchen I replenished our refreshments, brought the milk in every morning, and called the local delicatessen every day with our sandwich orders.

In other words, I did all the menial jobs around both the upstairs office and the cowshed, except make coffee. I can’t honestly say I didn’t enjoy my new life, though it was hard work for a woman, I mean person, in my condition, but as I did my humble secretarial tasks I found a strange sense of satisfaction and contentment. Nick the entrepreneur faded into the background and Daisy the secretary took me over. This was useful work. It helped my bosses, I mean partners, be more productive, and that was good for the company.

It was a good thing that my other ventures didn’t require my personal involvement. Most of them didn’t involve large machinery like MyOwnCouture.com. Their costs were mostly salaries and expenses. I dialled in to a few meetings and approved expenditure remotely. So far I hadn’t needed to attend in person or expose my new persona to anyone else.

On the Friday night Ruth and I went out to our favourite restaurant. She was much more relaxed as it wouldn’t matter if we were seen together. Again we saw no one we knew, which was slightly irritating as it meant I could have gone as Nick, but we had a wonderful evening – and night.

* * *

At the end of the first week I returned to Transformations for a ‘top-up’. I lay on my back on Vera’s massage bed, while she searched for the tiny, almost invisible inlet valve on my prosthesis. She was holding a fearsome looking hypodermic.

“Don’t worry,” she said, when she saw me looking at her apprehensively. “I’ll be injecting this fluid into the prosthesis, not you.” She smiled. “The process is completely non-invasive.”

Ingrid, who was supervising, said, “You should be aware that the foetus grows most rapidly between 23 and 27 weeks,” she said. “Typically, the baby doubles in size during this period, going from about eleven inches long and weighing just over a pound – the size of a grapefruit – to nearly two pounds and fourteen and a half inches long. That’s about the size of a head of broccoli.”

“Why should that matter to me?” I queried. “I don’t have a real baby in there.”

“No, but to be realistic we will need to add 3-4 ounces of fluid each visit for the next month and a half. You will definitely notice that after a few weeks.”

Terrific. I was already feeling the discomfort and inconvenience of being pregnant. But it was going to get much worse.

* * *

The Bank contracts meeting went well. Ruth, Eddy and Will went in person. I dialled in but Will was happy to represent my personal interests as well as those of the company, so I didn’t need to contribute much. Despite Ruth still not really understanding how spreadsheets work, my financial model wasn’t criticised, largely because we had already exceeded the sales estimates – which I had originally been afraid were over-optimistic. I wondered whether I should have inflated them even further, but I couldn’t see any upside to that. We seemed to be getting what we wanted. There was no need to start setting targets we might then struggle to meet.

The Bank was prepared to offer up to half a million pounds additional funding in four tranches of £125,000, each of which would require the transfer of 5% of our shares. We now desperately needed the money, as we had more or less run out of cash. We would need to declare precisely how each payment would be spent, but the Bank understood that a good quarter of the first payment would go towards salaries for Mike, Vicky and Mo, and some of the ever-patient Will’s fees. All payments needed to be approved by both the Bank’s representative and our own Board. That might have seemed odd, but Richard Latham explained that they wanted to make sure we all supported our growth strategy and would work together to achieve it.

The Bank’s representative was to be Margaret Villiers, and she would be a Non-Executive Director. The arrangement was that shares would be issued in such a way that Ruth and Eddy would each transfer 2½% of their shares to the Bank.

Ruth wanted to know why I, also a Director, didn’t have to part with any shares, but Will was quick to point out that according to the contract he had drawn up for me, they would have to buy them back at the rate I originally paid – effectively £5,000 per share – plus interest. They certainly couldn’t afford that, and in any case I could always refuse to sell.

When the complicated sums were done, Ruth and Eddy had 37½% each, I still had my 20% and the Bank had 5%. This meant that as long as Ruth and Eddy were in agreement, they could still do whatever they liked, but otherwise either of them would need my support. If I were to abstain, the Bank could decide which of them to back.

As the meeting was closing down Ruth asked Margaret how she wanted to work with us. She said we needed to arrange a proper Board meeting within the next couple of weeks and she would attend. It was set for Friday week, to give us time to prepare a full breakdown of how we intended to spend the first tranche of the Bank’s money. As Finance Director, that would be my – Nick’s – job, and he would task his secretary – Daisy, i.e. me again – to prepare the paperwork. Hopefully, the Board and the Bank would be able to approve the proposal with no difficulty.

* * *

Orders were coming in thick and fast now. Eddy and Mike were swamped, so Vicky and I had to help them out. It was back-breaking work for someone in my condition. The manual parts of the process – organising the dyeing and printing designs when an order required that; the mounting of different bolts of material prior to cutting; and the never-ending carrying of cut pieces to the fabrication platform – were now starting to cause delays. I had humped the heavy bolts of cloth from the storeroom to the cutting machine and back many times before I became Daisy, but I couldn’t manage it now. The weight I was already carrying and my cumbersome figure made it too difficult. So I joined the distaff side of the operation, working on the dyeing and printing, or passing cut pieces between the machines. We knew that Ruth was busy up in her office – she was no shirker – but we all slightly resented that she never put in a shift down here at the coal face.

It was frustrating that all this manual work was necessary because eliminating the need for human intervention in the manufacturing process was the whole concept of MyOwnCouture.com. Eddy hardly had any time to do any proper engineering, but he had managed to design a sophisticated belt mechanism to move cut shapes from the cutter to the fabricator. This was now a full-time job for one person. So if his design worked, it would save an average of twenty minutes per garment and an entire person’s time.

He had also come up with a dyeing and printing machine, which was driven by NC like the other equipment, and could be linked into the conveyor belt mechanism. These two additions to our little factory would genuinely revolutionise our manufacturing process.

Both new machines could be built by modifying some existing machinery which Eddy had sourced second-hand, but they would still cost nearly a hundred thousand, and would therefore use up most of the first tranche of the Bank’s funding. Without them we couldn’t scale up, and we couldn’t grow.

But Ruth wouldn’t approve it.