After the Pantomime

By Susannah Donim

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

Chapter 2 – A Stand-up Comedienne

Nick makes his debut as Daisy Duquesne.

It’s difficult to describe how I felt dressed as a woman. I felt vulnerable, ungainly, defenceless. I felt weak. All of which was ridiculous; I still had all my male strength, and why should a woman in my position feel helpless anyway? I was determined that Daisy Duquesne was going to be a strong, independent, modern woman. It was just that the additional weight on my chest, my big round padded butt, and my baby bump, were all throwing me off-balance and undermining my confidence.

At the pub I fancied a pint after the evening’s shocks and exertions but of course I had to stick to girly drinks, and non-alcoholic ones at that, because of my non-existent baby. Over the next hour I had three orange and passion fruit J2Os and no one would let me pay for them. As it was nearly ten o’clock when we arrived, the football was finished and the pub’s large TV had been switched off. We sat with Tom and his friends. They nodded politely to Josie and me, but they were mostly discussing the match. As a stranger, and a not totally hideous young woman, I naturally drew some attention, but as each man saw my condition he lost interest – an unexpected benefit of letting Josie talk me into being pregnant.

I was astonished that I seemed to be getting away with it. I sat demurely with my handbag on my lap and contributed as little as possible to the conversation, concerned that my voice would give me away. After he got over his astonishment at my appearance, Tom was a good sport and didn’t expose me, but he said he’d never known me to be so quiet on an evening out.

After my third J2O I needed to powder my nose, as Josie called it. Together we got up and headed for the Ladies. Having to pull my tights down and extricate my penis from its spandex prison, it took me a little longer than her to do my business. When I emerged from the cubicle, she was already at the mirror, repairing her make-up.

“You need to do this too,” she said, smacking her lips together. I dug my lipstick out of my handbag and copied her actions. “Make sure you don’t get any on your teeth,” she grinned. “I hope you’re enjoying learning all these girly secrets. It’ll make Daisy’s performance all the more convincing.”

Just as we were leaving the Ladies a small group of men were getting up to leave. I hadn’t seen them when Josie and I went in, because they had been around the corner in the lounge bar away from the television; clearly not football fans. One of them was Eddy. Fortunately I saw him before he saw me and I was able to turn my head away and avoid eye contact. I was shaking like a leaf when we got back to Tom and the others. Josie asked if I was alright. I explained about nearly being recognised by Eddy and she laughed about it all the way home.

I realised I would have to tell him eventually though. He was a regular at the club and would be bound to recognise me, but I decided to wait till I was a little better at female impersonation…

* * *

Back in the office MyOwnCouture.com was progressing nicely. I was amazed at how quickly everything was coming together, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Most of the individual components had been developed and tested before I had even met them. The real challenges had been to join it all together and scale up to production levels.

It had been clear from the outset that they would have to limit the number of designs they offered, with just a few variations permitted within each dress type. Also the machines would not be capable of anything too fancy in terms of embroidery or stitching. Any patterns that couldn’t be created at the initial dyeing stage wouldn’t be possible.

We had a big team meeting for Ruth to show us all the dress types she wanted to offer for our initial launch. This was so that Eddy could verify that the machines could cut and stitch them all; that Vicky could write the necessary software instructions; and that Mo could arrange to update the website with appropriate photos, descriptions and prices.

We took our places, armed with coffee and pastries.

“I’ve narrowed it down to eleven basic products,” Ruth began. “We’ll want to offer some options for each product, such as neckline, skirt length, shoulder straps, and with or without sleeves, and we’ll charge extra for any variations from the standard design. When we’ve agreed the designs and variations we can make, we will still have to decide what materials to offer each product in, which of course will affect the machine settings and might introduce additional constraints. Eddy, could you let me know what problems you see with any of the designs? And Vicky, could you just take some notes on what we decide?”

Ruth had connected her laptop to our cheap digital projector. Bright coloured dresses started appearing on the screen. She picked up a pointer.

“First, the BodyCon. This will probably be one of our most popular products, a standard. It’s designed to make the most of a woman’s figure. We need to be able to vary the length and the neckline, so it can be appropriate for casual or formal wear.”

“That looks pretty tight-fitting,” said Vicky. “Can we offer variations in… er, snugness?”

Eddy and I looked at each other. Vicky was lovely and definitely not overweight, but we knew she was conscious that she wasn’t exactly petite. No way would she ever wear anything as figure-hugging as this.

“I don’t see why not,” Ruth replied. “Let’s offer it in different fittings then. Is there any reason why we shouldn’t be able to do that for all our clothes?”

“Sure,” said Eddy. “What do you want to call the fittings – snug, loose, and er… medium?”

“Something like that,” Ruth said with a smile. “Of course, some fabrics are quite stretchy, so a tight fitting would be fine. Let me think about that.”

She clicked the mouse to bring up the next picture.

“This sheath dress is also form-fitting and simple. The length will usually be to the knees or lower thighs, and is therefore appropriate for the office. It could also be made for formal wear, typically in black. I’d like to offer it with and without sleeves.

“Both these first two can be elegant and smart-looking, but will be easy – and cheap – to make, so I’d expect them to be our main money-spinners. Moving on to the more exotic…”

She brought up the next slide.

“This is the Baby Doll, a sleeveless shift. The basic design has spaghetti shoulder straps and will only be available with a rounded neckline. It’s simple and convenient both to manufacture and to wear, not to mention to look after. This picture shows a very short style for a sexy party dress, but a knee-length version would be suitable for many other occasions including office or casual wear. I suppose at full-length it could even serve as a formal, though that might only be suitable for tall thin women.”

“Yes, a short girl wearing a full-length Baby Doll would look like she was standing in a tent,” said Vicky, who was 5’ 4”.

Ruth moved on.

“This is an Empire Waist. The waistline of this type of dress rises above the wearer’s natural waist, giving the illusion of additional height and helping to disguise any heaviness of the lower half of the body. Again, we should offer it with or without sleeves. It’s more formal, suitable for a posh party or a night out.”

We had no comments so Ruth brought up her next slide.

“This A-Line dress helps to hide a heavier figure or emphasise slimmer figures. This style offers a narrow top down to the waist and gently flares out towards the hem. This one is great for the office, casual wear or formal. The standard model will be sleeveless with a scoop neckline, but we should be able to offer variations again.”

Eddy interrupted. “I don’t foresee any specific problems with all these variations,” he said, “but the only way to be sure is extensive testing. We may have to set limits when we first go live, then add variations later. Either that or delay the launch.”

Ruth accepted this, with some disappointment.

“That’s what we’ll have to do then,” she said. “We certainly can’t delay the launch. We must be up and running before we meet with the Bank.”

She clicked the mouse again.

“This Wrap Dress is versatile. It splits down the middle with one tie at the waist. The front wraps from one side to the other and creates a V-neckline. The ties go around the waist and meet in either the back or front. Obviously there won’t be options for other types of neckline.

“This dress can be for casual, work, or formal wear. With long sleeves I think it’s likely to be very popular with older customers.”

Eddy, Mo and Vicky were scribbling notes but no one had anything to say, so Ruth moved on to the next slide.

“We should offer a long and flowing Maxi Dress like this. It’s not suitable for work but should be popular for parties and formal wear. We could make it from various materials, but I’d expect cotton to be the best-selling fabric. It’s perfect for holidays in the sun too, being cool and comfortable with a flattering fit, especially for older customers.”

“I’m not sure about this next one,” she said. She clicked the remote again.

The slide showed a rather prissy, ankle-length dress with some sort of petticoat. To my uneducated eye it looked like the fabric was chiffon or something.

“It may be a little old-fashioned,” Ruth went on. “It’s still quite popular with the rich in the States where it’s called ‘Tea-Length’. Typically, the hemline falls just below knee level. Women of fashion consider any dress falling between the lower knee and ankle a Tea-Length. This picture is clearly a formal design, but in other fabrics it may be suitable for the office.”

“You ladies need to decide,” said Eddy, “but personally I can’t see us selling many of those.”

“Why don’t we all show the picture to women we know and gather more opinions?” I suggested.

I guessed that Josie would laugh her head off at a ‘Tea-Length’.

That was agreed and we moved on.

“This is the last dress,” Ruth said, “for formal wear only. It’s called a Mermaid Dress, for obvious reasons. It fits snugly from the bust to the lower calf area, and then the material flares outward. It’s usually worn strapless and sleeveless but variations are possible.”

“Again, we probably won’t sell many, but we should definitely have something like that on the site,” said Eddy.

We all agreed.

“I don’t get invited to the kind of affairs where you wear something like that,” sighed Vicky.

“That’s all the dresses,” said Ruth.

She clicked the mouse.

“This is a peplum. It’s a short skirt that attaches to a form-fitting jacket. The skirt flares downwards from the waist. The jacket can have long sleeves, short sleeves or be sleeveless like in the picture. Depending on the design and the fabric, this could be worn in the work place, or in a more casual setting, or even formal.”

The team were enthusiastic about the peplum. It was different and up to date.

“That’s right,” Ruth confirmed. “Ironically it first came into existence in Renaissance Italy. It was briefly popular in the 1980s then fizzled out, but it came back in 2014 and has been popular ever since. It accentuates your curves to enhance the illusion of an hourglass figure.”

“So we make this in two pieces, do we?” said Eddy. “How are they attached?”

“Velcro, maybe?” suggested Vicky.

“Moving on,” said Ruth. “Finally I thought we should offer some skirts, so this is a fairly simple full A-line skirt design. It will have a form-fitting waist, flaring outward to the bottom. It’s intended to go with a variety of tops for casual, or office wear. We should probably offer mini, midi or maxi length.”

“Aren’t there more styles of skirt than that?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Ruth replied. “There’s the asymmetrical skirt made from different fabrics with varying lengths at the hem. Or a bell-shaped skirt. Or a 1950s style bubble skirt.”

“Okay, okay, sorry I asked.”

Ruth smiled. “We can offer more variety later. It’s just that I think we should focus on dresses for the moment. We can do a wider range and charge more for pretty much the same costs.”

It was agreed that we should offer A-line skirts with ‘above the knee’, ‘knee-length’ or ‘below the knee’ options in our usual fabrics.

“This may be a stupid question,” I said, apprehensively, “but where did you get all these designs?”

“They’re all mine, of course,” she said, with a look that confirmed that it was a stupid question. “We couldn’t go offering other designers’ creations through our website, not without entering into all sorts of contractual arrangements.”

“But they’re all…”

“What?”

“Brilliant!” said Vicky, and immediately went scarlet.

“Yes – brilliant,” I agreed.

“Well, thank you, both,” said Ruth, as though she had expected nothing less. Though I could see she was actually quite pleased at our votes of confidence. “They are all a bit simple, I’m afraid, because Eddy has warned me that it will be too difficult to make complicated accessories – frills, flounces, pleats, other decorations, etc.”

“Pleats ought to be quite possible eventually,” said Eddy, “but we will need a special attachment, and it wouldn’t work with either of the old machines we have now.”

“By the way, I thought you originally intended to offer wedding dresses?” I said, as she switched off the projector and disconnected her laptop.

“And we will,” she said, “but a wedding dress is much too complicated to make with the simple machines we have now – too much lace, too much embroidery, too delicate fabrics…”

“We can sell a maxi dress or a mermaid dress in white silk,” Vicky suggested, “but most brides would want something much fancier than that.”

Ruth nodded. “I suggest that our pricing strategy should be to charge about 20% less than high street prices. That should attract lots of customers but still give us great profit margins. We can always hike our rates later when we’ve built our customer base.”

I left the team discussing what she had presented. Everyone seemed happy and excited although Eddy was looking thoughtful. He knew he and Mike had a lot of work to do.

* * *

A few days later, on the Wednesday before my debut as Daisy Duquesne and with just under two months to go till the meeting with the Bank, we were ready for our first end-to-end test. Ruth had finalised the ‘customer experience’ process model she wanted, and Mo and Vicky had rebuilt the website to deliver it. The user would enter her measurements first. Then she could select any of the eleven basic designs and in some cases change the fit, colour, neckline, skirt length, and so on. If she made any modifications, the picture would then show what the revised design would look like.

They had also added an off-the-shelf freeware package to run the animation. Vicky had written the software to turn the customer requirements into NC instructions for the printing and cutting machines; and Eddy and Mike had configured them to accept and follow the instructions. But would it all work together?

Well, no, of course it wouldn’t…

Since I was the only member of the team who hadn’t been involved in any of the development, I was selected to run the test. In other words, I would design a dress and upload a photo and a set of measurements. MyOwnCouture.com would then show my model wearing the dress in various animated scenarios. We could make some modifications if we wanted, then get the system to produce the dress. To make sure it would work properly for an external user not directly attached to the MyOwnCouture.com platform, I used my personal laptop which was connected to the internet by our house wi-fi.

Eddy thought it would be hilarious if we used my face and body for the test, but to my relief he was shouted down. We decided that Ruth was too close to the website process design so we all agreed that we would make Vicky a new dress for the test. She didn’t have a photo, so Eddy took a few shots on his smartphone camera.

She wasn’t sure of her measurements, so she and Ruth went into the office with a tape measure and shut the door. They emerged with Vicky’s vital statistics for me to input. She was 38-34-40, dress size 12, which Ruth, the fashion expert, assured her was bang on average for the modern British woman, but Vicky was embarrassed that her ‘barrel’ shape was revealed in front of her workmates.

Mike immediately blurted out that he thought she was gorgeous anyway. Was something going on there? Both of them quickly went bright pink. To save them further embarrassment, I announced that I would start the test and navigated to the website to set up an account in Vicky’s name.

Ruth explained that the system would work with just the vital statistics and dress size, which most girls would know, but a really good fit required several more measurements: neck, front waist length, back waist length, shoulder, and arm length. The website had instructions on how to take the more obscure measurements. She had taken all of those too, so I began entering all Vicky’s data. So far, so good.

Eddy sent the photos to my e-mail account and I uploaded them too. All that remained was to select a dress type. Vicky was expecting to go to a wedding soon – as a guest, not a bride or bridesmaid – and she asked me to select a three-quarter sleeve wrap dress in powder blue, with a subtle floral design. The dress style, colour and pattern were all standard, so that part was easy. Ruth intended to add many more styles and patterns later.

With all the specifications entered, I was able to bring up a still photo of Vicky in her chosen dress. She looked great – perfect for a young wedding guest. The next step was what we had all been looking forward to – an animated clip of her in her new dress, strutting down a catwalk!

It didn’t work. Some unidentifiable blocks of colour juddered across the screen then everything went black. I had to reboot my laptop to recover control. When I went back into the website, all of Vicky’s details were still there in her account, but there was no record of it ever having moved on to the next step.

I repeated my request for the animation. The website repeated its lack of cooperation.

Ruth sighed. “Well, I think that’s all for today, boys and girls.” She turned to Vicky. “We have some de-bugging to do. It must be something to do with the data interface to the package. We probably shouldn’t have trusted freeware. You get what you pay for, I suppose.”

“You don’t think it’s worth doing the manufacturing part of the test?” I asked.

“Well we can’t be sure we’d be sending the right instructions to the machines,” Eddy said.

“So it’s not worth the risk of wasting material,” Ruth agreed.

I had to go to a finance meeting with one of my other clients that afternoon so I left a slightly dispirited team to it.

* * *

I hadn’t intended to return to the MyOwnCouture.com office that day, and it was dark when I got back to the Manor. When I drove past the barn offices I could see there was one light still on upstairs, so I parked outside and went up to check everything was alright.

It wasn’t. Ruth’s door was open. She was alone in her office, staring at her monitor and snivelling quietly to herself. A glass and a nearly empty bottle of whisky were close at hand. She looked up, startled, when she sensed my presence in the doorway.

“Oh, hello,” she said, attempting a smile. “I was just…”

She trailed off. This was worrying. I had always seen Ruth as hard-boiled, if anything, too much so. I was concerned for her, but I had no idea what to say.

“It can’t be that bad,” I began. “I’m sure you and Vicky will crack the animation problem.”

She snorted. “Oh, we’ve already done that.” She paused. “That’s not why I’m… a little upset.”

“Then, what?” I said.

She looked at me, appraisingly, and after a moment seemed to come to a conclusion.

“If I tell you,” she began, “you must promise to keep it to yourself.” I nodded. She continued, “It’s me and Eddy.”

“Oh,” I said. “I had noticed you didn’t seem to be as close as…”

I was about to say, ‘as close as you had been’, but that would have been wrong. They’d never been as close as I would have expected an engaged couple to be, but then my only model was Tom and Josie, who had never been able to keep their hands off each other, even in public. It was sweet, really.

“The point is, we never intended to get married,” she said. “The engagement’s a fake. Eddy’s gay, but he hasn’t come out to his parents. They’re fairly well off – not like you, of course – but they’re very… old-fashioned.”

By which I assume she meant prejudiced.

Over the time I had known her I had gradually pieced together a little of Ruth’s family history, and it explained why she had something of a chip on her shoulder about my family’s wealth. Her father was a bus driver; her mother was a nurse. They had never had the money to help her in her career. It had given her a steely ambition and a determination to succeed, which was actually one of the reasons why I had been so keen to support MyOwnCouture.com.

She was wrong about my family though. She assumed from the Manor, the land, and our ability to provide venture capital, that we were rich. In fact, due to the punitive tax regimes of successive governments since the war, we’ve found it increasingly difficult to meet our expenses. We still had decent amounts on deposit – which was how my father was able to support my investments – but last year our family income barely exceeded our outgoings. So my parents hadn’t bought a new car, or gone abroad for their holidays, for quite a while. All of which made my Dad’s faith in me all the more touching, and nerve-wracking.

“Eddy’s mother is a real piece of work,” Ruth continued. “She’s a religious fruitcake and rules his poor father with a rod of iron. She’d have Eddy disinherited like a shot if she found out he’s gay. He knows he has to tell them eventually, and has no expectations from their will, but at the moment, he – we – depend on them.”

“For what?”

“For everything – rent, clothes, food, our cars, everything we need to keep going. And to give potential investors the impression we’re financially sound and stable. The Deveres are our only hope. My parents can barely support themselves. They helped me as much as they could through university but they have nothing left to give now. And I still have a massive student debt to repay. That’s why we announced our engagement – to keep the Deveres happy. I’m Eddy’s cover story. I suppose, essentially, he’s paying me to be his ‘beard’.”

She smiled bitterly. I struggled to think of anything sensible to say.

“Didn’t you ask them to support your business in the first place?”

“Of course we did, but they wouldn’t hear of it. Eddy’s parents expect him to be a successful engineer and me to be a housewife, popping out their grandchildren. They think that he’s doing an advanced degree and I’m still an unpaid intern – just the little woman getting the fashion business out of her head before settling down with their son. On that basis they’ve supported us – actually, quite generously – but we have to keep up the illusion until we’re independent.”

“Couldn’t you both just get jobs like everyone else?” I asked.

“Yes, we probably could have got ourselves nine-to-five jobs,” she sniffed a little, “but this is our dream! We need MyOwnCouture.com to succeed. Your seed money was a life saver after we couldn’t get support from anywhere else, but we need it all for the business. It isn’t enough for us to live on for the next year or two.”

She fell silent, staring into space. It was as if I wasn’t there. I sat back in her office guest chair and thought. This odd couple’s behaviour made sense now. I couldn’t condone the deception, but I could sympathise with their situation. They were in deep. The success of MyOwnCouture.com was really their only way out.

“I promise I’ll keep everything you’ve told me to myself,” I said, “and if there’s anything I can do to help, please just ask. Not financially, I’m afraid,” I hastened to add. “My father has set very firm rules about extensions to the seed capital.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’ve never felt comfortable deceiving you about us…”

“It’s OK,” I said. “I’m glad you told me.” Something still didn’t add up though. “But if you’ve cracked the software problem what has got you so upset today?”

“Oh, Eddy told me he’s had another letter from his mother – she can’t abide e-mail, which I suppose is a blessing – asking when we’re going to set a date for the wedding. She’s keen on next Spring. I don’t know if we can keep putting her off.”

I tutted, but I still wasn’t convinced.

“I can see how that would be upsetting,” I said, “but that bottle was half full yesterday. Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

She sighed. “Eddy is out most nights with his friends – his male friends,” she said hesitantly and with a smile completely lacking in humour. “And he’s not much… consolation… for me when he is around. I don’t really know any other women in the area, and it wouldn’t look good if I went out with a man, so I’m home alone most nights. It’s boring.”

By which she meant she was lonely. I thought about inviting her to the Club for Open Mic Night, but I quickly dismissed that thought. My next appearance there would be as Daisy Duquesne and I certainly didn’t want anyone else at MyOwnCouture.com to know about that. Eddy knowing would be bad enough, though he would be sworn to secrecy, as were Tom and Josie. Anyway I had a better – and more immediate – idea.

“Well it must be OK for you to have dinner with your business partner after you’ve both been working late. Come on, I know a really good Italian not far from here.”

“Oh, I can’t…” she began.

“Well you certainly can’t drive yourself home after a quarter of a bottle of whisky, so I insist.”

Ruth wasn’t used to people insisting with her, least of all me. I grabbed her coat, helped her on with it, and led her downstairs to my car before she could muster any further argument.

“All right then,” she said, “so long as it is ‘just business’ and not a date.” She gave a half-smile. “My parents would never speak to me again if I ditched Eddy for a posh boy from the landed gentry.”

I took her to Agnelli’s, my favourite restaurant. It was busy. I saw several people I knew, including Will Holford, my friendly lawyer, and his wife, Emma. They waved as we came in but they were dining with another couple I didn’t know, so we didn’t join them.

We had a very pleasant meal, though it was hard work persuading Ruth to limit the red wine she was adding to the whisky already swilling around inside her. I had never known her so friendly. I put it down to the alcohol.

We were still on our main course when the Holfords got up to leave. They had to pass our table on their way. Will and Emma stopped for a moment.

“Good to see you, Nick,” said Will. “How’s business?”

“Going very well, thanks,” I said, “at least partly because of your fine work.” Emma was trying to signal something, and I realised I was being remiss. “Sorry,” I said, “this is Ruth Braddock. She’s the MD of MyOwnCouture.com, one of my ventures.”

“I remember it well,” said Will. “Looks very promising.”

“Ruth, you’ve met Will Holford, my solicitor, and this is his brilliant wife, Emma. She’s just been made a full partner in our local GP practice. So I get all my lawyering and doctoring done in one place.”

“So this was a business meeting, was it?” Emma said, mischievously.

“Well there’s no harm in mixing business with pleasure, is there?” Ruth smiled.

She was totally unpredictable. But then, aren’t we all?

By the time I had run Ruth home after the meal she was practically asleep and I was afraid I was going to have to carry her up to the flat she was sharing with Eddy – presumably with separate bedrooms. That thought made me feel a little sorry for her. Anyway she made it through the front door under her own steam, muttered a slightly slurred thanks, and closed the door behind her. I assumed she’d get a ride back to the office tomorrow with Eddy.

* * *

I was in and out of the MyOwnCouture.com offices the following day, having to go to meetings with my other ventures. Ruth was busy and made no mention of the previous night. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she didn’t remember any of it.

That evening I was back at Tom and Josie’s for a dress rehearsal. I had shaved carefully before leaving the Manor and arrived early as Josie had promised me dinner. She was ebullient. She opened with a terrifying announcement.

“We have a table booked at L’Auberge for eight o’clock, so we have a little under two hours to get you ready.”

I began with the usual protests, but Josie quickly cut me off.

“Oh shush, it’ll do wonders for your self-confidence. I’ll be able to observe your stance and mannerisms and correct you as we go. By the end of the evening we’ll have you sitting, standing and walking just like a woman.”

Tom, who had been sitting in the corner reading his Daily Telegraph, broke into a verse from Dylan’s Just Like a Woman, but shut up quickly when his wife glared at him. I looked to him for support. He chuckled, shrugged, and went back to his paper.

Josie grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs and into their guest room. Everything she dressed me in before was ready on the bed, together with a pile of strangely shaped yellow-brown objects made of what looked like sponge.

“Upholstery foam,” she said. “The material is flexible, like sponge, but firmer and heavier. It’s quite easy to sculpt to the shape you need with a Stanley knife and some strong glue.”

Was there no end to this woman’s talents? And how long had she spent on this?

“I’ve already produced some pieces which match the padding we did last time. They should be easier to manage and won’t look all uneven and lumpy like the cotton wool did. And if they don’t fit perfectly, we can cut some smaller pieces to fill in the gaps.”

So I struggled back into her mother’s shapewear and we spent the next half an hour filling it out with the pieces of foam. My resulting feminine figure looked very much like it had last time, but my sumptuous curves were much smoother. Also I felt more secure; nothing was going to pop out this time.

The foam was noticeably heavier than the cotton wool had been, but I suppose that was a good thing – it meant that I had to adapt my stance to my changed centre of gravity. My new heavier chest tended to pull me forwards, so I had to hold my shoulders back. My big bottom meant I couldn’t stand up straight like a man. I had to bend my knees slightly, lean back a little, and pose with one foot slightly in front of the other. Also when I walked, my hands and arms wanted to spread outwards to help me maintain my balance, the way a tightrope walker uses a heavy pole. I realised all of this comes naturally to a woman as her figure develops in her early teens, but it was new to me.

Josie’s first job was to shape my nails and paint them a bright red colour, so they could be drying while she got on with everything else. As instructed, I had refrained from cutting them and they were quite long now – for a man, that is. Painted fire engine red they were unmistakably feminine, their length and colour distracting attention from hands that were on the large side for a woman.

Next she insisted on ‘tidying up’ my eyebrows before she did my make-up. It hurt like hell and I made sure she knew it.

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” she scoffed. “Now close your eyes and keep very still.”

I realised she was gluing something to my eyelid.

“False eyelashes? Really?”

“It all adds to the illusion,” she said. “We’re going out to a posh restaurant. You need a heavier evening make-up.”

The make-up did indeed take quite a lot longer than last time. She had turned me away from the mirror so I couldn’t see what she was doing. She had bought a wig cap, as promised, and a stand. She had washed and styled the wig. After fitting it, she put it up in a tight bun.

“This style will show off your earrings,” she said, clipping the big hoops on again. “I’ve got a matching necklace for you too, and a ladies’ watch.” She swung me round to face the mirror. “There! What do you think?”

The unmistakably feminine figure in the mirror looked like one of the girls you see outside nightclubs making eyes at the bouncers. She had bright purple lips, silvery eyelids, massive mascaraed eyelashes… and where the hell were my eyebrows? It looked like I just had a couple of thin black lines painted on with eyebrow pencil.

“I look like a teenage tart!”

“Yes,” she giggled. “I might have got a little carried away. Shall I see if I can find you a pair of hot pants?”

I drew in a breath to vent my feelings, but she pre-empted me.

“I’m sorry, Nick, I’m still experimenting on what will work best for you. This is only a rehearsal.” She checked her watch. “Look, it’s too late to change it now, but don’t worry, I’ll tone it down for tomorrow night.”

Still grumbling, I got dressed in the smock and a clean pair of dark tights. The three-months-pregnant Daisy Duquesne was back. Finally, with a flourish Josie produced a pair of black, patent leather high heels. They looked huge.

“Size 10½,” she announced triumphantly. “I called Charlie Todd. He’s the secretary of LADS, the Lavenden Amateur Dramatic Society. They do a Panto every year, so they have a range of large women’s shoes for their Dames. He was happy to lend you these. Also he and Arthur Whitmore will come along to see your performance. Arthur’s been their Dame for the last five years, so he’s taking a professional interest.”

Whoa! No pressure, right?

“Well, he’ll probably be disappointed,” I said, slipping the shoes on. They fitted perfectly and felt quite comfortable over my tights. “We’ve agreed that Daisy isn’t going to be a Panto Dame, or even a standard drag act. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder exactly what Daisy will be.”

“She’ll be a woman stand-up comedian,” Josie said firmly. She stopped and looked at me. “I hope after all my hard work that Daisy is going to be good tomorrow night,” she said. “I won’t be pleased if she bombs.”

Great. More pressure.

I stood up, took a step, wobbled, and nearly fell over. Josie just caught me.

“I think you’re going to need a little practice walking in those shoes, Daisy,” she said, laughing. “It’s a good thing we’ve planned an evening out.”

“I assume Tom is our designated driver?” I said. “I certainly won’t be able to drive in these, and Daisy doesn’t have a licence anyway.”

Tom and Josie were well-known at l’Auberge, so I went as her sister. The three of us had a very pleasant evening once I relaxed. It was marred only by her continual instructions to keep my legs together; speak softly with a rising inflection; use my hands to illustrate and emphasise what I was saying; and smile, smile, smile.

I was conscious of curious eyes watching me throughout. The looks were mostly appreciative from the men, though I could almost hear some of the women muttering, “Little madam! Pregnant at her age!”

At least there were no suspicious looks, and no one was saying, ‘Look at the pansy cross-dresser’. Reluctantly I had to admit that Josie was right. My face was quite androgynous and with heavy evening make-up I looked ‘just like a woman’. Tom had a great time, though he claimed that keeping a straight face at the sight of his little brother, the pregnant schoolgirl, was a major challenge.

When we got back to their place afterwards, Josie set about removing my over-the-top make-up and nail polish. It took ages to unglue the false eyelashes. She had to use some sort of solvent which made my eyes water. We decided not to bother with them anymore. They just made me look tarty anyway. Josie assured me that with the pencil highlighter removed from my eyebrows they weren’t as bad as I thought. They still looked a bit sparse to me.

It wasn’t till later that I realised that my anxiety and feelings of vulnerability the previous evening had vanished. I had even become reconciled to my ungainly figure and all the unfamiliar weight. I had become comfortable as Daisy.

But I didn’t much enjoy the hour it took to remove the eyelashes, make-up and nail polish so that I could appear as Nick the following day. And I would have to go through it all again that evening.

* * *

The big night finally arrived. I went back to Tom and Josie’s in the late afternoon and changed to a more restrained version of Daisy with Josie’s help. To my alarm she took some photographs on her phone.

“These will be useful if I ever need to blackmail you,” she grinned. “Or maybe if Daisy needs publicity shots.”

Thanks to her hard work I was confident that I wouldn’t give the game away by doing anything too masculine. Quite the reverse – I’d almost embarrassed myself during the day at the office with some exaggerated hand gestures and an effeminate stance. I got some suspicious looks from Ruth, and Vicky clearly thought I was trying to be funny. Also, thanks to my naturally medium-pitched voice and Josie’s training, I could now fake a girly way of speaking, and there was an embarrassing moment when I had answered one of Ruth’s questions in a breathy, feminine voice. I tried to pass it off as some kind of elaborate joke, but she didn’t get it.

That evening as I waited in the wings for the act before me to finish, I chatted with Lee. He had to be in on my secret, of course. I was more nervous than on any of my previous performances. I’d taken a brief peep round the corner to check on the ‘house’. I didn’t see where Josie and Tom were sitting. It was quite busy tonight with the usual party groups and lots of people I didn’t recognise. Hopefully they at least would take Daisy at face value. But there were also some familiar faces in the audience, regulars on Open Mic Night. Many were performers themselves and some of them would be bound to recognise me. What would they think I was trying to do with this?

The moment arrived. The previous performer came off and Lee stepped up to the mic to announce me.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “please put your hands together for a first-timer here. Treat her gently now – Miss Daisy Duquesne.”

There was a smattering of good-natured applause as I came out, my shoes clicking on the vinyl floor, my well-upholstered rear swinging sexily from side to side. At least my hours of practice meant I could handle the heels. I stepped up to the microphone. I caught a few whispers and noticed some puzzled glances. I’d expected this. I was an unusual sight on Open Mic Night; female, apparently, and they were wondering – was I pregnant?

I took the mic from the stand and acknowledged the polite applause. When it died down, I turned a little sideways and pointed sadly to my tummy.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you will have noticed I have developed a bit of a ‘cake shelf’. In fact a friend said recently, ‘Are you pregnant?’ I said, ‘Not unless I’ve been shagged by Mr Kipling’.”

There were a couple of friendly laughs and several polite sniggers.

“But I’ve always been a big girl. At nursery school I was picked to play ‘Bethlehem’ in the Nativity.

“In fact, I found a new way to tell when I’ve put weight on. There’s a car park near me which has a barrier that goes up when it senses a car is near. I was carrying two bags of shopping, but still…

“People say big girls don’t cry but that’s not true. They cry because they’re fat. They cry because they can’t get a boyfriend. And they cry because there’s no trifle left.

“I don’t like meals for one. It’s not that they make me feel lonely. It’s that they’re not big enough.

“I decided to start a new exercise regime but I pulled a muscle getting my sports bra on.”

Those got a few good laughs and even some whoops. It was time to take the bull by the horns.

“No seriously, ladies,” I said. I turned sideways and thrust my tummy out. “I admit it. Preggers; three months! But you know how it is – well, some of you will – you start to get strange desires at this stage. Some girls want pickles and ice cream. I wanted to stand up in front of a roomful of strangers and tell them about my private parts. My boyfriend thinks I’m crazy. Well, nothing new there.”

A couple of women in the audience cheered and there was even a smattering of applause. I was getting them on my side. Time to go for broke!

“So what’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a lightbulb?” Beat. “You can unscrew a lightbulb.

“The more pregnant I get, the more strangers smile at me. Why? Because I’m fatter than they are, obviously.”

People were now laughing all around the room, even the men.

“How do you win an argument?” Beat. “Be pregnant. That’s it! You’re done.

“What’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a terrorist?” Beat. “You can negotiate with a terrorist.

“A woman doesn’t know what happiness is until she’s married. By then it’s too late.

“Do you know how many middle-aged men go out for a pint of milk and never come back?” Beat. “Not enough.”

When I came to the end of my allotted five minutes, I got the best round of applause I had ever had on Open Mic Night – even calls for more. They were out of luck there. I’d used every female-oriented and pregnancy-based joke I knew. I bowed twice and hurried offstage.

Then I realised I’d forgotten to put the microphone back on the stand, but Lee was used to that. He took it off me, grinning.

“Don’t know how you’re going to follow that, mate!” he said with his hand over the mic. “I think Daisy might have to come again, don’t you? They seem to prefer her to Nick.”

He went back out to introduce the next act and left me standing there, wondering how I could possibly make a better female comic than male.

I didn’t want to mix with any of the audience as Daisy so, as we had arranged, I hurried into Lee’s office and closed the door behind me. I was now safe behind a Private sign.

A minute later there was a soft knock. I opened it cautiously and Josie hurried in with my suitcase.

“I don’t know why you’re so desperate to change back,” she said. “You’d get nothing but praise from your fans. Daisy is a big hit!”

“Daisy doesn’t exist!” I said. “And if she tried to mingle, she’d be found out in no time.”

“I doubt it.” She started unpacking my clothes from the suitcase. “I spoke to Harry and Mac just now. They said they didn’t realise it was you at first. They thought Daisy must be Nick’s sister – which I suppose is true in a way! But then they recognised your delivery. Harry said that every comic’s style is unique, so they knew it was you, but most people would never have guessed. They loved what you did and promised not to give you away.”

Harry and Mac were two fellow amateur stand-ups who I’d got to know quite well over the last three months. It was nice to know they were happy to keep the deception going.

“Sit down and I’ll get your wig off and remove your make-up,” Josie said, in her brisk, business-like fashion.

She took the wig stand out of the suitcase and put it on the desk. I stripped off my high heels, smock and tights. With me sitting in Lee’s office chair in just my shapewear, Josie unpinned my wig and put it on the stand. I pulled off the wig cap and tossed it in the suitcase. Then she smeared cold cream all over my face to remove the make-up. She wiped it all off with tissues and I went to wash my face. The office was often called upon to serve as a performer’s dressing room, so it had a little washbasin in the corner with a mirror over it.

“Thanks so much for doing all this, Josie,” I said, scrutinising my face for any remaining tell-tale signs of make-up. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t be silly,” she grinned. “It was a pleasure dolling you up.”

“Anyway, it seems to have been a success and I couldn’t have managed without you.” I dried my face on a none too clean hand towel.

“Too right, you couldn’t!” she said. She laughed. “I had a great time - really. Are you going to do it again?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Well don’t leave it too long. Daisy can’t get any less pregnant!”

That was a sobering thought. If I came back after Christmas, Daisy would have to be as big as a house! I’d have to have a miscarriage…

Josie helped me remove my padding and then left me to change my shapewear for boring men’s undies.

“Here are the car keys,” she said. “I’ll get you a drink in,” she said. “The usual? We’re at a table over in the corner by the fire exit.”

“Wait! My nails!” I called after her in panic.

She paused by the door.

“Yes, they’re very pretty, if I do say so myself. What about them?”

“I can’t go out there as Nick with red nail varnish on!”

“Well I didn’t bring any remover with me, so you’ll have to. Stick your hands in your pockets or something.” I looked at her, aghast. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s dark out there in the audience while the acts are on, and our table is right up against the wall. No one will notice.” She opened the office door. “Hurry up and get dressed,” she said, and left.

I remembered I had a pair of gloves in my coat pockets. It might look a bit odd to be wearing black leather gloves at the table, but that would be better than exposing my bright red nail varnish. I finished dressing and packed all Daisy’s things in the suitcase, which I put in the boot of their car. I came back in quietly, making my way over to their table around the outside of the room. The audience was mostly in the dark with the spotlights on the performer, so no one seemed to notice me sneaking in. I sat down and knocked back nearly half of my pint of cider in one draft. I nodded to Tom and Eddy. They grinned but were under instructions not to make a fuss congratulating me – Nick hadn’t been performing.

“You missed a great act tonight,” said Eddy, who clearly couldn’t resist saying something. “A little cracker called Daisy Duquesne – the crowd loved her.” He grinned like an idiot.

We stayed till eleven, when Open Mic Night officially finished. We were just getting up to go when two strangers approached. Josie waved to them and introduced us.

“Nick, this is Charlie Todd and Arthur Whitmore from LADS. You may remember I borrowed a pair of shoes from Arthur?”

Shit, I’d forgotten there were more people here who knew Daisy’s secret!

“Oh yes,” I said. “Many thanks for that. The shoes are in the boot of our car. I can get them for you now if we’re all heading out…?”

“No rush,” said Arthur. “I’m glad you were able to make good use of them.”

A smile appeared briefly on his face, then quickly vanished as though it had decided it had no business being there. He seemed a sad, almost melancholic fellow. It was hard to imagine him as the life and soul of the party, as the Pantomime Dame had to be.

“Well, we will definitely have to come to the Panto this year,” said Tom. “Then you can show Nick how it really should be done.”

“We’ll be glad to have you,” said Charlie. “I’ll make sure you get the best seats.”

“But the Dame is a very different act,” said Arthur, with a little more vivacity than he’d shown so far. “It’s important that everyone knows she’s really a man.” Charlie tried to shush him, but he was warming to his theme. “That’s part of the joke, you see – the most important part. Look at Arthur Askey and Les Dawson…”

“Arthur feels strongly about this,” Charlie interrupted, with a ‘Don’t get him started’ look of warning.

“I’d love to hear about that,” I said – truthfully. “Perhaps we can get together for a drink one night and you can tell me more about it?”

Arthur looked doubtful. Charlie grinned and raised his eyes to heaven behind Arthur’s back. We all went out to the car park together, talking about the evening’s triumphs and disasters.

 

Author's Note: As freely admitted, when it comes to telling jokes Nick and Daisy are plagiarists. The author therefore wishes to acknowledge the great comedians from whom their jokes have been, er, nicked: Victoria Wood, Jo Brand, Sarah Millican, Joan Rivers. My humble apologies to any I have failed to acknowledge.