Annie and her Granny

By Susannah Donim

Steve’s mother runs the secretive Transformations consultancy. This means he has a number of interesting jobs over the years.

Chapter 2 – Watching My Weight

Steve finds that fat isn’t just a feminist issue.

As Milly, I had been unable to meet up with my school friends. I had kept in contact by Skype and text as we needed to plan our holiday, though I obviously couldn’t use video. I had to pretend that my phone’s camera was bust. But now that I was me again, I was out every night playing squash or six-a-side at the leisure centre, or round at a mate’s place for Warhammer or PlayStation games. I blamed my absences on my job, and how hard my mother was working me. A couple of my nerdier friends were jealous that I was earning money and working with computers, but I turned their enquiries aside by claiming it was just a boring office job really. I was just glad that no one noticed anything odd about me. Apparently my two weeks as Milly hadn’t done me any permanent psychological damage. At least, nobody said I was walking funny.

I assumed that my leisure time would be my own until the end of August when we would be off to Newquay, but it wasn’t to be. The following Monday morning when I turned up at my workstation in the Bunker, I was dragged off to Vera for another defoliation.

“We were very pleased with how the first test went,” my mother explained while I was enduring ‘torture by wax’ again. “But Milly was relatively slim and her prostheses were quite small and light. Most men need to be padded out much more generously to make realistic women, to compensate for their wider shoulders and bulkier torsos. There is a risk that a bigger and heavier prosthesis might fall apart earlier.”

“So you’re going to make me into a circus fat lady?” I said, none too pleased with the way the conversation was going. “Owww!” I added as Vera ripped a strip of wax and hair off my chest.

“Oh, it won’t be that bad,” said Vera, reassuringly.

“No, no,” added my mother. “Not quite that bad…”

She removed a cover from the top of a trolley that had been behind me, up against the wall. I craned my neck to look. All I could see was a mountain of flesh.

“Couldn’t I be a man for a change?” I asked, hopelessly.

* * *

It was that bad, of course.

They had my measurements now so I hadn’t needed to be around when my mother was selecting the size of fat lady she wanted me to be, and printing the necessary prostheses. Not that she would have paid any attention to pleas for clemency.

This was a one-piece outfit, as I needed considerable padding around my trunk and waist as well as breasts, hips and thighs. It was like a grossly inflated, flesh-coloured one-piece bathing costume with long bulbous sleeves.

I had to strip stark naked – an embarrassing experience in front of two women (even if one of them had seen me in the nude many times before). I had to step into the ghastly thing, pull it up, and slip my arms into its big wobbly sleeves which came down to my elbows. Soft floppy flesh hung from my upper arms.

Then Vera had to repeat the process of manoeuvring my genitals into the suit’s safe haven. She invited me to flop down on her table (which creaked alarmingly under my weight) while she applied make-up at the suit’s edges.

“How big is this thing anyway?” I asked, gobsmacked at the size and weight of it.

“I estimate you’ll be somewhere around eighteen and a half stone – about 260 lbs,” said my mother. “It would be risky to make it any bigger. Even though you have a healthy, young, male musculature, you’ll still be carrying around 120 lbs more than you’re used to. You’ll need to take it easy.”

“I doubt I’ll have much choice.”

“You’ll probably need at least a size 20 dress, by the way,” said Vera. She’d finished playing with my tackle and was washing her hands.

“What about jeans?” I asked, hopefully. “What size would I need for pants?”

“No idea,” she said, “and they’d look awful. Anyway, you’d have to go to a store and try some on. Why bother?”

Good question. I felt that as a boy I shouldn’t be at ease wearing dresses or skirts, but they would probably be more comfortable than wearing tight trousers or slacks over this lot.

“We can do that if you want,” said Mum. “We’ll have to go out and about, just as we did when you were Milly, to make sure your disguise fools everyone.”

Terrific. Would I have to show this body off in a department store fitting room?

“Why is all this necessary?” I grumbled. “Surely none of your clients will want this amount of blubber?”

“It’s mostly about the testing,” my mother reiterated irritably. “We need to test the other extreme from petite little Milly. If this works as well as that transformation did, then we can be confident of everything in between. But actually some transsexuals need to be padded up a lot to look realistically female. Also, some men put on a lot of weight when they take hormones. So it will be helpful to let them experience what it’s like to be an obese female. That wouldn’t put off someone with real gender dysphoria, but it might be a rude awakening for a fantasist”

Vera was behind me now and I felt her closing a fastener which ran from my tailbone up to the back of my neck.

“Hang on!” I squealed. “How am I supposed to get out of this?”

“You might need a little help,” Mum admitted, “but it’s not much different from what any woman has to do when she’s taking off a dress that zips at the back.”

“I’ll lend you a Zipper Hook Helper,” said Vera, kindly.

“I don’t want you to take it off till we’ve finished the test anyway,” said Mum. “You need to eat, sleep, work and play in it. We want to subject the prosthetic to all the stresses and strains of daily life. If it’s going to break up from rough treatment, we need to know.”

That was fair enough, I suppose, but this thing was so heavy I couldn’t imagine doing anything strenuous in it. Getting in and out of bed would be as much ‘rough treatment’ as I could manage.

“Another objective of these tests is to assess how well the transformation supports the experience of living as a member of the opposite sex,” Mum added learnedly. “Does it all feel realistic?”

“How on earth am I supposed to judge that?” I asked. “I’ve never lived as a woman, let alone one this size!”

“You’ll have to use your imagination,” my mother said crossly, “and Vera and I will be watching and asking you questions. We’ll learn a lot from your answers, and we can use them when marketing the service to our clients.”

“Assuming my answers are even printable.”

Vera chuckled. “You’d better get some undies on, dear, for decency’s sake.”

She handed me an absolutely enormous pair of white granny panties and a bra like two parachutes. Realising I was now not only a fat lady but a naked fat lady, I put them on as quickly as I could. Both women smiled when they saw me expertly fastening my bra behind me, despite my vastly increased girth.

“I see your time as Milly has taught you some new life skills,” my mother said sardonically.

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll find your facility with bras very useful when you get yourself a proper girlfriend,” added Vera.

I ignored their woeful attempts at humour, never my mother’s strong suit.

Both my bra and knickers felt tight, although ‘felt’ might be the wrong word. All my unwanted additional flesh seemed to be trying to escape from my underwear, but I couldn’t actually feel anything at all. My bra straps were digging into my shoulders; my boobs were spilling out of the cups; and the crotch of my panties was disappearing up the gulf between my gigantic buttocks. All of which would no doubt have been very uncomfortable if all the flab had actually been me, but it wasn’t. I therefore ‘felt’ dangerously insecure, like something was going to flop out at any moment, or maybe something else was going to break with the strain. I envisaged my bra flying across the room and taking someone’s eye out. But all of actual ‘me’ was wrapped up tightly inside my cocoon of blubber.

The prosthesis was really heavy. I needed to sit down again. I collapsed in Vera’s desk chair like an elephant seal. It creaked even more alarmingly than the table had done, but I was distracted by the sight of my huge, flabby thighs.

“What’s the matter with the skin on this thing?” I asked. I peered over my shoulder to examine my mighty backside. “Has the 3D printer developed a fault?”

“No, dear, that’s your cellulite,” said my mother. “Sad to say, it’s quite realistic.”

I must have looked blank.

“Cellulite is a condition in which the skin has a dimpled, lumpy appearance – like that,” Vera explained, gripping a roll of fat on my thigh and running her fingers over the surface. “It mostly affects the buttocks and thighs. Fat deposits push through the connective tissue beneath the skin.”

“I never heard of it,” I said. “Do men get it?”

“It can affect both men and women, but it’s more common in females, because of the different distribution of fat, muscle, and connective tissue.”

“Do you have it?” I asked Mum, tactlessly.

“None of your business!” she said crossly.

Vera laughed. “Between 80 and 90 percent of women have cellulite, especially if they’re overweight,” she said.

“So at your size, it would be a virtual certainty,” added Mum. “Let’s do her head and neck now, Vera.”

“What?” I said, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

My mother spun the chair around to face the mirror.

“You look ridiculous with your skinny male head on a big fat female body. Vera will stick some additional prosthetic pieces on your face and chin. With Sharon’s make-up skills, your face will match your body.”

“Here,” said Vera, holding out a plus size dressing gown in the familiar pink cotton. “You can’t go round in just your bra and panties.”

I covered myself up gratefully and stepped into a pair of matching mules. Vera was now smearing adhesive onto a small piece of flesh-coloured flab. She sat me down again. Then she held my head back and pressed the fleshy thing onto my neck. It stretched from ear to ear.

“This chin piece will also cover your Adam’s apple.”

She held it in place for a count of sixty, then let go carefully. It wobbled like the rest of my new body but stayed in place. I now had a convincing double chin – actually more like a treble – but it was proportionate to the rest of my flabby body.

She reached for another piece and started applying her glue.

“Just one of these for each cheek now,” she said.

“I assume that’s medical adhesive, like you used on Milly’s breasts?”

“Spot on,” she smiled. “So don’t try and remove any of these without the solvent. You’ll hurt yourself.”

She pressed the cheek piece on me and held it in place, as she had with the chin. Then she repeated the process with the other cheek. When she finished I was able to see myself in the mirror. My face now matched my body – obese and feminine.

My mother, who had been watching the process with forensic interest, pronounced herself satisfied.

“Thank you again for doing this, Steven,” she said, and left, without giving me the chance to say ‘my pleasure’, which of course I wouldn’t have.

Vera led me next door. The first thing I noticed when called upon to move was just how ungainly I had become. My gait could only be described as ‘waddling’. My huge butt swung from side to side as I walked because it had no choice. I had to swing my arms out wide to keep my balance, and even to help propel myself forward.

The prostheses were so effective that Sharon only needed to apply a little plain foundation to smooth over the edges. Then she got on with the rest of my make-up. I was a little puzzled when she started peeling short strips of latex off a pad in her case.

“What are they for?” I asked. “They’re not normal make-up, are they?”

“I’d forgotten you’re an expert on cosmetics now,” she grinned. “No, Ingrid wants you to look middle-aged, because the majority of our clients are. Your own skin is too smooth for that, so I’m adding some latex wrinkles.”

There was no point in arguing. On the plus side, now that I was ‘plus size’, it would mean that I was even less likely to be recognised by anyone I knew.

When she had finished, and added a wig styled as a typical woman in her forties would wear her hair, I was allowed to check myself in her full-length mirror.

“Smile,” Sharon said. “That will bring out the effect of the wrinkles best.”

I did my best, though I didn’t feel I had much to smile about. She had done a very simple make-up: a little mascara and pale lipstick in addition to the light foundation. The latex wrinkles round my eyes and my double chin were very convincing.

An obese woman in her late forties smiled back at me from the mirror.

Vera started handing me clothes suitable for the ‘larger lady’, and got me to try them all on. I’d never really enjoyed ‘dressing up’ but I suppose it wasn’t too bad, though I was horrified at the size of my new bottom.

“You’ll have to wear opaque tights or stockings when you go out,” she said. “You’ve got great legs – well, below your great fat thighs, I mean – but they’re just a little too muscly for a middle-aged woman. With 50 denier hose, your male muscles could be mistaken for feminine curves.”

* * *

“So let me hear your suggestions for where I put Jennifer on display,” said my mother that afternoon in the tea room.

Yes, I was Jennifer now, just when I’d got used to being called Milly. But by popular vote, I didn’t look like a Milly anymore. According to my mother’s five minutes of research on the internet, ‘Jennifer’ was the most popular name for women born in the mid-seventies. (She’d wanted Barbara, which I vetoed.)

Now I was sitting with the Transformations team discussing their latest experiment, in which I played the key part – again. I was wearing a hideous floral dress, size 20, and struggling to keep my fat thighs together in a lady-like manner.

“Weight watchers,” said Sharon, to general laughter.

I, increasingly becoming Jennifer, failed to see the humour.

“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea.” My mother smiled and made a note. “The other ladies there are bound to check her out thoroughly.”

Gulp!

“In that case, what about the gym?” Sharon suggested.

“Much as I’m sure we would all find it amusing to see the fat lady in a leotard doing aerobics, there would be a problem there.”

“Yes,” agreed Vera, “perspiration. Those parts of her prostheses that would be visible wouldn’t be sweating, which would be very suspicious. It also wouldn’t be comfortable for her – she’d be sweating buckets under the prostheses.”

“Not to mention that it would be dangerous for her to do an active exercise session carrying 120 lbs of excess weight with muscles used to half that,” my mother added.

I was glad that Mum cared enough not actually to want to kill me, despite the evidence to the contrary.

“What about pushing a baby buggy around town?” suggested Vera. “That always attracts a lot of attention.”

My mother looked dubious. “I quite like that idea in principle, but I don’t think I could trust Jennifer to look after a baby, even if I knew where we could borrow one. Anyway she looks too old to be a new mother, and not old enough to be a granny.”

Well thank heavens for small mercies…

“But there’s nothing to stop her pushing a shopping cart around the supermarket,” she continued. “That’s a good everyday activity for a middle-aged woman.”

Could be worse, I suppose.

“I wouldn’t have thought parading me around as Jenny, the fat lady, is really necessary,” I suggested. “We already know that our prosthetic disguises are completely believable.” Sharon was nodding; the others non-committal. “I mean, if I can convince everyone around the shopping centre that I’m a thirteen-year-old girl, a middle-aged woman should be no problem.”

“What’s your point?” my mother said, testily.

“Well the only reason for me to keep this thing on for any length of time is to see if its bulk causes it to break up, isn’t it?”

“He’s probably right,” said Vera. “And if he’s not enjoying it…”

“Thank you, Vera, and I’m not,” I said forcefully. “I’m not one of your clients, Mum.”

My mother sighed. “Well, all right,” she said. “I don’t mean to torture you, but if you’re not prepared to make some small sacrifices for the business…”

“Okay, okay,” I said, aware that I might be in danger of losing my bonus. “Let’s compromise. Two trips: a supermarket run – with you – and maybe one other outing.”

* * *

I reported to Vera to be readied for my shopping trip. I told her how uncomfortable my knickers were and she dug out a gigantic pair of granny panties from somewhere.

Then she gave me a short-sleeved pink blouse and a tight blue skirt to wear. I looked terrible. My vulgar top was low-cut and my bra was visible. Also you could see my panty line through my skirt. I slipped my feet into a cheap pair of women’s trainers with Velcro fasteners. Seeing me struggling to bend over, Vera did them up for me.

“This is a horrible outfit,” I said, looking at my ugly, pudgy self in the mirror. “Why have you dressed me like this?”

“It’s another test,” she said, apologetically. “When you were Milly you went to a fashionable mall with lots of high concept shops. This time, Ingrid’s going to take you to a more downmarket shopping centre to see if the working-class women who shop there are any more observant. So she wants you dressed as a harassed housewife, the kind of poor woman who doesn’t have nice things, nor the time to make the best of herself when she’s only going out to get groceries.”

She completed my outfit with a hideous pink hoodie. Then she escorted me next door to Sharon who put my wig in curlers and covered it with a scruffy headscarf.

“No make-up today?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t fit with the image Ingrid wants,” Sharon said, a little crossly. “She seems to think that a fat working-class woman with three kids hasn’t got time to put her face on in the morning.”

“So I’ve got three kids, have I? That would explain how I got so fat.”

Sharon lowered her voice and checked that Mum hadn’t sneaked up behind her in that creepy way of hers.

“I don’t think your mother has ever met a real working-class woman,” she added conspiratorially.

We examined my reflection in her mirror together. She snorted.

“If you still look like this when your hubby comes home, you can forget about getting any tonight.”

I laughed but Sharon’s professional pride hated to let a client out of her salon looking anything other than the very best she could be. At this point my mother appeared behind me.

“That’s excellent,” she said when she saw me. “Come along, Jennifer, let’s see whether you pass muster at the supermarket.” She gave me a scruffy handbag, which I suppose was appropriate for my slatternly appearance. “You’ll find your shopping list and a purse with a hundred pounds cash in there.”

* * *

She drove us to the shops in the company’s anonymous white van. We used this for transporting any large equipment, and I certainly qualified. There was also a bench of comfortable seats in the back.

“I would have preferred you to be able to go by yourself, but you’re too young to drive, of course,” she said as she drove us into the less salubrious part of town. “Not that you look it at the moment.”

She chuckled – meanly, I thought. I sat in silence. I let her enjoy herself without commenting. If she found my lack of response irritating, she didn’t show it. But I didn’t consider her a friend at the moment, so I didn’t feel like conversation. She soon gave up on small talk, which she was generally crap at anyway.

Briefly I wondered why I was in a bad mood. I could only assume that Jennifer was in charge of my personality at the moment and resented having to look so slovenly. It seems I was finding my feminine side. Before I could pursue this line of thought any further, we pulled into the shopping centre. My mother parked outside a discount supermarket.

“Off you go then, Jennifer,” she said. “Get yourself a trolley and start shopping.”

“What? You’re not coming in with me?”

I looked at her in surprise and not a little trepidation.

“Oh, I’ll be inside in a minute, but I won’t be with you.”

“You mean someone as posh as you wouldn’t be seen dead with a fat lower-class slut like me?”

“Well, yes,” she admitted, “but mostly because I need to watch you, and check other shoppers’ reactions.”

I didn’t argue. I wanted this humiliating experience over with as quickly as possible.

“Remember all your lessons on feminine movement and you’ll be fine,” she said encouragingly.

I was dubious. ‘Feminine movement’ was one thing for a nimble thirteen-year-old in school uniform. It would be quite another for a middle-aged porker like I was now. My ass was almost exactly twice as wide as Milly’s had been and God knows how much heavier. I waddled off to collect a trolley from the stack by the entrance.

I made my way inside and soon merged in with the other shoppers, mostly working-class housewives dressed like me, although few of them were in my weight class. Lugging my 260 lb frame around the store was enough of an effort that I was soon sweating and panting. I received several sympathetic smiles, which I returned, but otherwise nobody seemed to pay me any special attention, apart from a couple of teenage girls who were browsing a display of cheap smartphones. One of them pointed at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. Her friend sniggered and grimaced.

“God, if I ever get as fat as her, shoot me!” the first girl said.

“Totally!” agreed her friend.

I found myself blushing under my facial prostheses. Either they misjudged how loudly they were speaking, or more likely they didn’t care if I heard them. I turned into the next aisle as quickly as I could.

Not knowing the layout of the place, my shopping took me longer than was necessary. Several times I saw my mother watching from a distance. The other shoppers probably thought she was a store detective. That would keep the shoplifting to a minimum today.

At one end of the shop there was a section devoted to women’s clothes. I decided it would be realistic for me to spend a little time browsing there. In the lingerie section, the shapewear caught my eye. That one-piece corsetty girdle thing would hold all my flab in much better than my tight bra and granny knickers. And I had another two weeks as Jennifer. Might as well be comfortable.

A smiling assistant had come up behind me.

“I see you’re looking at our corselettes, madam,” she said. “They’re really very comfy for fuller-figured ladies like us.”

She was definitely ‘fuller-figured’, though sadly not as much as me.

“I’m sorry,” she lowered her voice a little, “I couldn’t help but notice your…” She whispered, “…Visible Panty Line. You’d be much more comfortable in one of those. It will change your life – truly!”

Are shop assistants always as forthright as this with prospective customers? She must have been on commission, I thought.

“We’re doing a ‘two for one’ at the moment,” she added.

“Sold!” I said. “Can I have one in black and one in white?”

“Certainly, madam,” she beamed. “Size 20, is it?”

“It is,” I confirmed with a sigh. “You have a good eye.”

She rummaged in a drawer beneath the display and passed me two cardboard packets with pictures of sexy ladies in underwear on the front. They were both marked ‘Size 20’ though neither of the models could have been more than a twelve. The price of each was £29.99, but both packets had a ‘Two for One’ label.

“These have garters, by the way. You’ll want to wear stockings with them,” the assistant said, helpfully.

“How much?” I sighed.

She reached for a packet from the drawer.

“These are our cheapest. Twelve pounds for a packet of three pairs.”

I nodded. I put all my purchases on top of my groceries, prepared to leave them behind if they brought the total to over £100.

I made my way, puffing and blowing, and sweaty with the effort, to the check-out. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother over at the newsstand pretending to read a magazine, but actually watching me and everyone around me.

When the assistant rang up my purchase, the total came to £98.47. Mum wouldn’t be pleased to get so little change out of her hundred quid.

Well screw her. We poor, working-class women deserve a treat sometimes too.

* * *

“Why did you buy those?” she asked when we were unpacking our groceries in the kitchen of our flat.

“I think they’ll be more comfortable than the underwear Vera gave me. My bra is digging into all the parts of me that aren’t prosthetic, and I’m constantly afraid of snapping the waist elastic in these baggy knickers and they’ll slip down. This whole thing is embarrassing enough; that would be too much.”

“But we’re supposed to be monitoring the rate of decay of your prosthetic! That shapewear will support it. It will probably last much longer now.” She tutted. “Well, you’ll just be stuck as Jennifer for longer. You might even miss Newquay.”

“It’s all booked and I’m going – even if I have to break into Vera’s office for the solvent. What you mean is, you will spitefully withhold my bonus.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to make you so angry with me.”

“Apart from making me spend my summer holidays dressed as various women, you mean?”

“Oh stop moaning. The experience will be good for you.”

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“You’re learning what it’s like to be a woman in the modern world. You’ll be a more considerate boyfriend and husband, when the time comes.”

“Assuming this whole traumatic experience doesn’t lead to me preferring men!”

“Don’t be silly. A little harmless dressing-up can’t change your sexual orientation.”

“Well I hope you’re right, but I’d much rather we weren’t taking the risk.”

* * *

I took the shapewear and stockings up to the flat, and to the room I had used as Milly, which I now thought of as ‘the Girls’ Room’. Vera had taken away all Milly’s clothes and replaced them with Jennifer’s – mainly voluminous house dresses, huge bras and panties, large stockings, and nighties like tents. All a far cry from Milly’s delicate and fashionable things, which she took to the company wardrobe room.

I sat on the bed and regarded my new body sadly. Of course, I knew intellectually that all the flab on my face and body was fake, but it felt real, and it certainly looked real. The transformation was so good that the experience was exactly how I’d imagined a fat middle-aged woman would feel – ugly and alone.

I went into my – that is, Steve’s – bedroom to play a video game on his PlayStation. Sitting at the desk, the chair creaked ominously under me. My mother bought it for me when I moved up to the middle school at age eleven. I had grown a lot in the last five years and really needed a new one. It was barely suitable for a smallish sixteen-year-old boy. Jennifer’s eighteen-and-a-half stone corpulence threatened its very existence. My new hips were squashed in tightly at the sides anyway. Sighing, I stood up, and to my embarrassment, the chair came with me. After a struggle I managed to work myself free. It was yet another indicator of what a stout middle-aged lady had to put up with.

Defeated, I went back to Jennifer’s bedroom. I stripped off the ghastly top and skirt and unhooked my bra. I nearly fell over forwards as my huge floppy breasts were released from their bindings. I pulled my knickers down and stepped out of them.

I ripped open the box with the black shapewear in it. It fastened at the front, so it was quite easy to step into it, wrap it around me, and button it up. It was at full stretch over my obese body but it was surprisingly comfortable. All the wobbly flesh was now held firmly in place and the difference was astonishing. It even gave me something of a waist.

I opened a packet of stockings. I sat down on the bed and struggled into them, remembering Vera’s lesson on how to avoid laddering nylons. Attaching them to the corset’s garters took me a while. I hoped it would get easier with practice – not that I wanted to be Jennifer for long enough to get that much practice.

I stood up and caught sight of myself in the wardrobe mirror. I was astonished to find my reflection quite sexy, despite my obesity – or maybe even because of it? Chacun à son goût, I suppose, but what did it all say about my developing sexuality?

I went to the wardrobe and picked out one of my least repugnant dresses, a pink, floral, ankle-length number. I stepped into it and managed to do it up with a struggle (and Vera’s Zipper Hook Helper). My mother had provided me with several pairs of shoes from the company wardrobe. I slipped on a pair of low-heeled sandals.

I looked at myself in the wardrobe mirror again. For the first time I felt that being Jennifer might not be too bad. I would be able to live as her for a couple of weeks, as long as I didn’t have to play the seedy, down-at-heel housewife again.

Unfortunately, I only had two corsets, and I would be pushing my luck to ask my mother for another, so I had to get used to washing the one I’d worn during the day before going to bed each evening. There was a large mirror over the washbasin, and I’d look at the fat lady in her nightie and curlers, ironing or washing her underwear, and wonder where my life was going.

Sleeping was difficult too. The gigantic fleshy appendages on my chest and backside made it impossible to get comfortable. With my huge boobs it was awkward to lie on my tummy, and when I lay on my back, my buttocks lifted my lower half off the bed. I quickly developed a pain in my lumbar region, which wasn’t supported at all. I tried tucking a pillow under there for support, and that helped a little, but I rolled off it when I tossed and turned during the night, putting me back to Square One. That left lying on my side, which would be intolerable for a woman with real boobs my size, and wasn’t much better for me. I couldn’t feel any pressure on the breasts themselves, but their weight pulled down on my chest and hurt my skin where they were attached.

I gave my mother a full report, as part of my duties as a test subject, but she wasn’t very sympathetic.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said.

“I don’t want to get used to it!”

“Oh, just lie back and think of England,” she said, “and the money.”

* * *

So Fred had another new programmer to work with. For the next two weeks his assistant would be a fat, middle-aged lady in various gruesome floral house dresses and other frumpy outfits. He thought this was highly amusing. Also, female programmers of my age (and girth) were rare as hen’s teeth, so now we could claim to be a real equal-opportunity employer. I pointed out that he was now Transformations’ only male employee.

He treated me exactly as he always had, but called me ‘Jennifer’. Actually sometimes he seemed a little embarrassed about the whole thing, but he and the rest of the staff soon got used to seeing me waddling between the tea room and the basement computer suite (where I had to be allocated a large, reinforced desk chair).

* * *

I was dreading what my mother would choose as my second – and hopefully last – outing as Jennifer, but eventually it came as a pleasant surprise. I was to be her partner at the Bridge Club. She was a Bridge fanatic, and played to a high standard – possibly county level. She competed in regional tournaments regularly and often finished in the prizes. Locally, she played Duplicate Bridge every Wednesday night at a club in town often with Fred. He was a scientific player; he always tried to play mathematically with the odds. Mum preferred to rely on her instincts; she called it ‘flair’. With this fundamental difference in styles, their arguments were legendary but they often made a very effective team, each compensating for the other’s weaknesses.

She had taught me to play cards when I was little. I understood ‘tricks’ and ‘trumps’ when my hands were still too small to hold thirteen cards at once. She moved me up from Whist to Bridge when I was eleven. She explained the mechanics of the bidding and the play, and then gave me a pile of her favourite books to read: Mollo & Gardener’s Card Play Technique; Eric Crowhurst’s Precision Bidding in Acol; and Hugh Kelsey’s Killing Defence at Bridge. I was fascinated and read them all from cover to cover – twice.

Soon I demanded the opportunity to play against proper opposition, and throughout my teen years I played most Saturday evenings with Mum and Fred. Our fourth was Dolly, Mum’s elderly maid of all work. She was a member of the same club and despite her age was feared and respected as a cunning and unpredictable player.

I never played there myself. Wednesday was a weeknight and the sessions finished too late when I had school in the morning. During the holidays I always seemed to be either away from home, revising for exams, or busy doing other things with my mates. My mother told me I wouldn’t enjoy it much anyway. Not many young people went there. Most of the other players were dozy old ladies or sharp, aggressive middle-aged men. She said the former were poor players and the latter were rude and unfriendly. I thought her assessment of her fellow Bridge fanatics said more about her than it did about them, or why would she be so keen to go every week? It didn’t bother me anyway; our Saturday evening games were enough for me.

But now I would be going to the club as Jennifer and partnering my mother. I dug out my books.

* * *

So that Wednesday I put on my best – i.e. least worst – dress. It was floral, as all my dresses seemed to be, and still more tent than garment, but I had come to accept that as inevitable, given my portliness. It was also low-cut, emphasising my humongous bust, but perhaps that would put some of the ‘aggressive middle-aged men’ off their game. I wore a lacy cardigan over it for decency’s sake.

Mum lent me a pearl necklace, some clip-on earrings, and a smarter handbag. I was getting used to carrying this ultimate feminine accessory but still didn’t like it much. Sharon helped me do a middle-aged lady’s evening make-up and hairstyle.

When I felt as ready as I was ever going to be, I went downstairs to meet my mother in the hall. I was early. While I waited for her, I continued to revise our bidding system.

“Well, you certainly look the part,” she said, when she finally appeared. She must have seen my anxious expression. “Don’t worry. Just remember to act like a lady and you’ll be fine. Everyone here says how good you are at being a woman. You can do this easily,” she added breezily.

In this mood she always reminded me of my primary school headmistress, a ‘jolly hockey sticks’ harridan in twin-set and pearls. She wouldn’t take no for an answer either.

I wasn’t much reassured. I followed her out to the car. As with most SUVs, the passenger seat was quite high. The combination of my weight and my tight shapewear made it quite a struggle to get in. I was also wearing my highest heels, which I wasn’t used to, as I always wore the sandals at home. I smoothed my dress down under me, turned sideways, stretched up, and flopped down in the seat like a beached whale. One of my shoes nearly came off, but I managed to catch it just in time.

“Not a great start, dear. Not very lady-like,” my mother complained, as I swung my legs round. “You’ll have to do better than that when you get out again. There might be lots of people in the car park.”

“I’m not worried about getting out,” I said. “I’ll have gravity on my side.”

“Well, just make sure you don’t fall over,” she said. “It would take four strong men to lift you up again.”

She sniggered. I may have complained about my mother’s sense of humour before…

“Very funny.” I was now engaged in a different struggle – fastening my seat belt. “I don’t think this strap is long enough to go all the way around me.”

“Of course, it is. You’re not adjusting it right.”

She leaned over to help me. With an effort she managed to slide the clip all the way to the end of its travel, which was just enough to get the belt round my enormous tummy. If I’d been any fatter, we would have had to get an extension to it. As it was, I had to arrange it between my boobs in a way that would surely have been very uncomfortable if they’d been real. I was getting a good picture of how difficult everyday life must be for a 260-lb woman.

The club met in the function hall of the local church and there was plenty of space in the adjoining car park. When my mother had brought the car to a halt and switched off the engine, I released the belt and opened the door, preparing to get out. With my current lack of agility, it seemed like a long way down from the car’s high seat to the ground. I slid out. I felt my dress, sticking to the plastic seat, ride up behind me. When I got my feet on the ground, I quickly brushed it down and made myself decent, but not before two men, getting out of their car next to ours, got a quick flash of my behind and a good view of my corset and stocking tops. As they made their way inside, they were chuckling quietly, as was my mother. I wobbled a little in my heels as we followed at a distance.

Inside the hall the women greatly outnumbered the men, and elderly women outnumbered younger ones. A couple of the less decrepit men were unfolding card tables and putting out chairs around them. An officious-looking woman was putting name slips and personal score cards on each table.

“That’s the Honourable Harriet Bairstow, the club secretary,” my mother said, out of the corner of her mouth. “She thinks she’s a good player, but she can barely count to thirteen if you ask me. She’s also a royal pain in the…”

At that moment she saw Dolly, who was just sitting down at one of the tables, and waved. We went over to join her. She was playing with Fred tonight. He hadn’t arrived yet so Dolly was occupying herself with her knitting, which she carried everywhere in her huge handbag.

As we made our way across the room, we exchanged friendly greetings with several people, most of whom gave me unashamedly curious glances. Mum had warned me that might happen. It wasn’t a large club and everyone knew everyone. A new face was always of interest. I smiled at one and all and tried to keep up with my mother. This wasn’t easy as she took long, confident strides, while I was stuck with my fatty’s waddle and little steps, to try and stay ‘lady-like’.

“You look wonderful, dear,” rasped Dolly. “Completely convincing.”

Many years of heavy smoking had all but destroyed her voice, which was barely audible over the clicking of her knitting needles. She knew how nervous I must be feeling and was trying to reassure me, unlike my no-nonsense mother, who had never had a moment’s nervousness in her life. I thanked Dolly warmly, and lowered my bulk into a dodgy-looking chair to her right. It groaned a little but held firm.

Fred arrived and joined us. My mother filled in the name slips. Apparently my last name was ‘Smith’. The four of us chatted quietly about Bridge while we waited for everyone else to take their seats. We would be playing a form of the game called ‘Duplicate Pairs’. The idea is to eliminate the luck of the cards as far as possible. This is achieved by everyone playing the same deals. The bidding and the play are conducted as in ordinary Rubber Bridge, except that the cards are not mixed together as each trick is played. The players lay the cards they play in a line on the table in front of them. When the deal is over, the score is agreed with the opponents and recorded. Then the cards, still in their respective sets of thirteen, are placed in separate slots in a special board.

At the end of each round, one of the pairs moves up to the next table and the boards that they played on that round are passed down to the table in the opposite direction. So each hand is played several times during the evening by different players and the scores compared at the end. In this way it doesn’t matter how good or bad the hands you have been dealt may be; what matters is how well you played them. For example, if you defeated a contract that was successful all the other times it was played, you would get a top score; or if you bid and made a slam that no one else had attempted, that would also earn you a top. You get two points for each pair you beat on a hand, and one point for each pair you tied with.

Like most clubs we also used bidding boxes. These devices are plastic boxes with two slots, each containing a set of bidding cards: one with thirty-five cards with symbols of bids, and the other with cards for the other calls – pass, double and redouble. Bidding boxes have several advantages over oral bidding: they reduce noise in the room; they prevent the bidding being overheard at neighbouring tables; they allow easier review of the auction if you have lost track; and they reduce the opportunity to pass unauthorised information to one’s partner (whether intentionally or not) by the manner and intonation in which one makes one’s bid. They were first used at the World Championships in 1970 because the Americans were fed up with losing to the brilliant Italians, who they assumed had to be cheating. (They weren’t – mostly.)

Some clubs – and ours was one such – have invested in an electronic scoring system. Instead of writing the score for a deal on a piece of paper, you enter it in an app on your phone. The score is then sent to a laptop over a wi-fi link. This means that the overall results are available as soon as the last board of the evening has been played.

Eventually the evening’s Tournament Director rose to start proceedings.

“Good evening, everyone,” he began. “We have nine tables tonight, so we’ll be playing a Mitchell movement with three boards a round.”

There were some groans from the older members as that meant we would be playing twenty-seven deals, and that would make for a long evening. As it was after half-past seven, we wouldn’t be finished till well after eleven. Refreshments were available throughout from the hall’s little kitchen, so we wouldn’t need to stop for a break.

With nine tables, there would be eight other pairs playing the same hands as us, so the top on each board would be sixteen points.

“Take your pair number from the table you’re starting at,” the TD continued.

Out of deference to Dolly’s age, Mum and I would move at the end of each round. That made us East-West pair 3. Fred and Dolly would be North-South pair 3 and would be stationary throughout.

“The boards have all been pre-dealt by computer as usual, so you can start to play as soon as you’re ready.”

There would normally be a lot more instructions, but everyone there was experienced with duplicate pairs. And so the evening began.

It went very well for us. We started against Fred and Dolly with two straightforward hands that would probably be average scores for both pairs, but on the third Dolly misguessed the location of a key queen and made a trick less than she could have. Others might do likewise, but I estimated that would be worth about 75% - twelve out of the sixteen points available. It’s wise to keep a running estimate of your score, so that you can decide how hard to press in the later stages.

The TD called for the first move. Fred, who as the North player did the scoring, passed the boards to Table 2. Mum and I gathered up our things and prepared to move to the East-West seats at Table 4.

“Don’t forget your handbag, Jennifer dear,” my mother said sharply.

She was right. I had picked up my pen and personal scorecard but forgotten the one item that a real woman would have been most careful about.

“Charlie, by the way,” Mum whispered.

This was the code we had agreed. At Bridge, it really helps to know the standard of the opposition. Everyone in the room was a stranger to me but my mother knew them all. Our next opponents, North-South at Table 4, were ‘Charlie’, that is ‘C’ standard. Liberties could be taken against such opposition, which Mum quickly demonstrated. The cards lay our way on the first hand of the round and she pushed to a horrible slam.

“I’d better take this before the rats get at it,” said the little old lady to my left, leading out her ace, and showing beyond doubt that Mum’s assessment of her ability was spot-on.

It was the only lead to let the awful contract make, and I quickly wrapped up the rest of the tricks with the aid of a finesse and some even breaks. I was happy to estimate 90% of the match points for that one, and that was conservative. Our opponents congratulated us, without seeming to notice how badly they had been robbed.

One of them asked me where I got my lovely dress. I realised they weren’t here for the intellectual challenge, but for the social chit-chat. I had no idea where my ugly floral tent had come from, so I smiled sweetly and told her it was very old and I couldn’t remember where I’d originally bought it. Female courtesy conventions required me to compliment her in return, so I told her how much I loved her hairdo, which was an interesting mixture of colours not found in nature.

The opponents played the next hand and their declarer miscounted trumps. We had to do nothing clever in defence to beat a contract that would be made by everyone else.

As the evening progressed my mother pronounced most of our opponents to be ‘Baker’ with a couple more ‘Charlies’. She didn’t push the boat out again quite as far as she had against the little old ladies at Table 4, but we made steady progress, and I reckoned we were in with a good chance of winning. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed the game when things went right.

On the minus side, it was a constant strain to concentrate on the hands while having to chat to our opponents like a middle-aged lady with other middle-aged ladies; or put up with the rudeness and snide remarks of superior men who assumed I was just another dozy old biddy.

Constantly having to heave my plumpness into and out of the hard seats didn’t help either, and my feet were hurting in my unaccustomed high heels. Worse still, the weight of my prosthesis, combined with the tightness of my corset, pressed uncomfortably on my bladder. I had to make several embarrassing trips to the Ladies, a problem I fully intended to raise with my mother later. Well she said she wanted to know how the transformation made me feel.

“Handbag!” she hissed, as I got up for my third trip to the toilet at around twenty-past ten. “And don’t forget to check your make-up while you’re there.”

I realised I had left most of my lipstick on my coffee cup.

When I returned, Mum led me to Table 1 for the penultimate round. I was introduced to Harriet Bairstow and her meek-looking husband, George. It was immediately clear that Harriet and Mum didn’t like each other much.

“We’re always glad to welcome visitors here,” George said cheerfully, clearly unaware of the hostility between my partner and his.

I smiled and said hello. Harriet looked as though any friend of Ingrid’s would be an enemy of hers until proven otherwise. I took an instant dislike to her too, but that might have been because she was slim and expensively dressed, while I was neither (especially not slim). Internally I wondered at my reaction. Being ungainly and overweight, any woman might be jealous of someone as elegant as Harriet, but why would I feel that way? After all, I knew my flab was fake, though I found myself forgetting that more and more. Was Jennifer taking me over? Was I getting used to being a middle-aged fat lady? Something else to discuss with my mother later.

The first two boards against the Bairstows were uneventful. They bid and made game, probably average-minus for us; then we bid and made game, hopefully average-plus. The third board was much more competitive.

I had a decent balanced hand. I reached for the One Heart card in my bidding box. George overcalled One Spade. My mother bid Two Spades. As we would rarely want to play in a suit the opponents had bid, we used this ‘cue bid’ to show a sound raise of partner’s suit. Good, that confirmed that we had the majority of the high cards and the hand belonged to us.

Harriet put down the red Double card to show her partner that she had Spade support.

I put down the bidding cards for Three Hearts. This was the weakest call I could make; a pass would have transferred the decision to my partner and would have been at least an invitation to continue. I was near minimum with no useful distributional values.

George passed, as did my mother showing that she had nothing extra either.

Harriet bid Three Spades, putting the cards down crisply and confidently.

Well I knew what to do to that, and I certainly didn’t want Mum to bid Four Hearts. Out came my red Double card.

It was a massacre. My mother led a trump. Knowing we had the majority of the high cards, she realised it was important to cut down ruffs in dummy. We led trumps every time we were on lead and poor George finished three down, more than game our way would have been worth even if we had bid and made it, which we weren’t going to. Harriet was furious.

“What did you have?” she screamed at her unfortunate partner, though having watched the play with ever-increasing fury, she would have known by now if she was a decent player.

“King, Queen, Ten to five Spades and an outside Ace,” I murmured absently, having been working out his hand myself. “But the cards lay badly for you…”

It was a perfectly reasonable one-level overcall. Harriet had been worth a raise to Two Spades – just – but no more, and she had shown that by her Double. Her Three Spades bid was what sank their ship.

She looked daggers at me but quickly turned back to berating George. My mother caught my eye. She frowned and shook her head, almost imperceptibly. She was quite right. It was bad form to get involved in the opponents’ combative post mortem.

My mother was gloating quietly to herself as we moved for the last round. “I knew that would happen,” she said quietly, when there was no chance of being overheard over Harriet’s railing at her husband. “She hates being outbid.”

“It was a bit lucky to play her on that deal then,” I said. “It could have been tailor-made to exploit her weakness.”

We grinned at each other, which would have been a touching mother-son moment, except that at the moment I looked more like her fat younger sister than her offspring. When we reached Table 2, and my mother saw the opposition, she muttered ‘Able’ sotto voce to me for the first time. The good-looking older gentleman in the North seat introduced himself as Alf. His partner, Colin, was his son. Colin was only a little older than me – that is, than Steve – though obviously I – that is, Jennifer – had to pretend to be old enough to be his mother.

“A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,” I said. “And it’s so nice to see someone of your age playing with all us old duffers,” I said to Colin, who greeted my matronly comments with a stony look.

If these two were really ‘A’ class, we would have to be on our mettle. Three bad boards against them could cost us first place, although they would probably have inflicted equal damage on all the other East-West pairs too.

The first deal was a straightforward game in no-trumps with nine easy tricks, no more, no less; bound to be average. On the second hand, Colin pre-empted on a long weak suit, but Mum and I had no difficulty reaching our game, which was easy to make, knowing so much about Colin’s hand from his bid. I tried to estimate how many tricks Colin would make if we had simply doubled his Three Hearts for penalties. I thought his sacrifice would have cost less than the value of our game, so the board was probably average-plus for us.

On the last hand of the evening my mother got carried away again. I was strong enough to open and then stretched a little to jump the bidding on my long spade suit. Mum had a powerhouse, so I soon found myself in another slam; a grand, this time, Seven Spades. I needed all the tricks. Colin led a trump, the standard lead against a grand slam, trying not to give anything away.

When dummy went down, I saw that this was a much better contract than the earlier small slam, being no worse than finding the king of diamonds in Alf’s hand on my right, or an even break in the Heart suit.

I looked for extra chances. I drew trumps, cashed the Ace of Clubs and ruffed a club. Then I crossed to dummy with the Ace of Hearts and ruffed another club. Nothing good happened there; dummy’s Jack wasn’t a winner. Before testing the hearts or taking the critical finesse, I decided to run the rest of my long suit.

Colin usually played quickly. He flicked his cards out of his hand with an audible snap, and tossed them down on the table with an air of authority. No doubt he thought this affectation would intimidate us middle-aged ladies, and we’d make mistakes through our nervousness. Good thing I only looked like a middle-aged lady.

Nevertheless, he had an insufferable air of smugness, as though he knew the contract was going down. So I was very much afraid he had the crucial king over my ace and queen. But as I reached the end of the Spade suit, his discarding had slowed down considerably and he was looking increasingly uncomfortable.

It wasn’t hard to see why. I had kept all three of dummy’s remaining hearts, two of which were winners. They were on his left. If he had started with four or more hearts and also had the king of diamonds, as I suspected, the last spade would squeeze him. He would either have to let a heart go, establishing the small one in dummy, or bare his king.

On the last spade he reluctantly threw a diamond, as I thought he would. I discarded dummy’s last club. If I was right, he now held three hearts to the jack and the diamond king alone. If he was as good a player as he thought he was, he would have seen this position coming and bared the king smoothly earlier on. With no reason to suspect the odds-against squeeze had succeeded, I would cross to dummy and take the losing finesse into his stiff king.

I took the two remaining top hearts. Colin followed throughout but Alf discarded on the last one. So Colin definitely started with four and had the master jack left. But was his other card the diamond king? I would look silly if Alf had it all along! After all, I now knew that he had begun with five diamonds to Colin’s three, so the odds were that Alf had the crucial king…

But you have to follow your instincts, don’t you? I called for dummy’s diamond, Alf followed low, and I… played the ace. With hatred in his eyes, Colin dropped the king, and I tossed the now winning queen on the table to claim the grand slam.

“What made you play the ace?” Colin asked rudely. “You must have known Dad had more diamonds than me.”

“Female intuition,” I said sweetly.

“Well played, partner,” my mother said, for what I think were the first words of praise she had given me that year, or pretty much any year.

“Yes, indeed,” smiled Alf, graciously. (He did have a lovely smile, I – that is, Jennifer – noticed, and he was quite handsome for a gentleman in his fifties.) “But you did rather give the game away there, old son,” he continued, chuckling.

He was a good sport and appreciated competent card play, which was probably a rarity at this club. He entered the score. Colin had gone very red.

That board had taken a while to play, for obvious reasons, and ours was the last table to finish. The other players, who had all finished before us, were happily discussing the evening’s hands and making quite a hubbub. I hadn’t noticed the noise, having been concentrating on the play.

I remembered to pick up my handbag and thanked our opponents. Then we returned to Table 3 where Fred and Dolly were waiting for us.

“Any good?” Fred asked.

“Not bad,” my mother said, with her usual indifference. “Jennifer made a grand slam on a squeeze and a good guess on the last board.”

‘Good card reading’, I think she meant.

“Gosh!” said Dolly appreciatively. “Well done, you!”

“As soon as I discovered the layout of the hearts I knew the contract could be made as long as I could guess who had the king of diamonds,” I explained. “If Alf had it I could finesse; if young Colin had it, he would be squeezed down to the singleton king. Fortunately he didn’t see the squeeze coming and he made the situation obvious…”

“‘Young Colin’?” laughed Fred. “He’s older than you!”

“Don’t be silly, Frederick!” I said. “I’m old enough to be his mother!”

Everyone laughed at that, even Mum. Well, her mouth turned upwards at the corners a little.

Dolly lowered her voice, though its hoarseness rendered her attempts at secrecy unnecessary. “We middle-aged fat ladies can still have fun, can’t we?” she said, and winked.

She had obviously overheard me complaining about my condition earlier in the week. I was amused that she still thought of herself as ‘middle-aged’. She was seventy, if she was a day.

“I have the results,” announced the TD. Everyone fell silent. “The winners North-South with 57.5% are Alf and Colin Morris.”

Everyone clapped briefly. I was glad the last board hadn’t cost Alf the top spot.

“The winners East-West with a truly magnificent 71.8% are Ingrid Jones and our visitor, Jennifer Smith.”

The applause was much longer and louder.

We got up to leave. I would need to visit the Ladies again soon. As I struggled to my feet, Alf came over to congratulate us.

“A great pleasure, Jennifer,” he said, taking my hand. “I do hope we’ll see you again. Colin could do with a few more lessons like tonight.”

He was charming. I smiled. Then, still holding my hand, he drew me aside. He lowered his voice, and when he was sure no one else could hear, continued, “You know, my dear, my late wife was a fuller-figured lady too. You are undoubtedly the most beautiful – and sexiest – lady I have met since she passed. Could I persuade you to have dinner with me one evening soon?”

My God! How the hell did this happen? Blushing like mad, I explained that I was flattered but I was only visiting Ingrid for a week or so, and my time was fully committed.

He sighed. “Oh well, you can’t blame a fellow for trying.” Then he shocked me by winking and actually kissing my hand! “Faint heart never won fair lady,” he said.

Fair lady – me? At my size? Clearly there was no accounting for taste.

Jennifer’s heart was all a-flutter within me as we made our way to the car park. Dolly and my mother were giggling like elderly schoolgirls, which was completely out of character for Mum.

“Alf is a widower, by the way,” she said. “Colin’s mother passed away a couple of years ago. Breast cancer. Very sad.”

“I’m sure we could arrange to get the two of you together,” added Dolly, with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, there’s a mixed pairs event at the club next week,” said Fred. “Alf will be looking for a partner.”

For a moment I was tempted. Then I mentally slapped myself. What was I thinking? It would be tantamount to a date! I put it down to enjoying fooling people with my impersonation. Not everyone could play a person of a different age, sex, and size so convincingly.

Yes, that must be it.

* * *

I served out the remainder of my sentence as Jennifer, without my mother forcing me to make any further public appearances. Strangely, I got used to being a fat lady, and realised I might actually miss my shapewear, tent dresses, stockings, make-up, and wigs in various colours and styles. On my last night I asked Mum if we could go out for dinner to a restaurant where no one would know us. I wouldn’t have minded a second visit to the Bridge Club, but it was a needless risk.

It was a lovely evening. I was dolled up to the nines and I attracted some appreciative glances from male diners, despite my excessive bulk. I realised that we fat women can still be attractive to the opposite sex, if we make an effort.

My mother complimented me on my performance. We talked about my experiences as Milly and Jennifer, and I accepted they hadn’t been all bad. I also told her how the perfection of the disguise had an unexpected effect. I had found myself actually becoming Milly and Jennifer to some extent. I admitted I would miss them both. Mum looked quite thoughtful after that. No doubt she was wondering how she could exploit it in her marketing efforts.

In any case she made me pose for some photographs in lots of different clothes, wigs and make-up. I didn’t mind, as long as I couldn’t be recognised as Steve. It was actually quite fun.

My prosthesis held up for the whole of the two weeks, but Mum didn’t object to me removing it so I could go off to Newquay with my mates for the last week of August. The bonus she had promised proved to be surprisingly generous. I could now afford surfboard rental and lessons too. I could also have afforded to buy my rounds, except that I couldn’t convince any of the pub landlords that I was eighteen.

* * *

So now we knew we could photograph people with our high-speed, high-definition cameras; produce perfect 3D models of them in the computer; match them against their desired shapes; and produce perfect prostheses for their transformation.

As Vera had predicted, she, Sharon and my mother were soon inundated with customers old and new. Mum even had to take on a receptionist and a secretary to deal with enquiries and handle clients.

She remodelled most of the first floor to provide hotel-style accommodation for up to four clients whose transformations needed an overnight stay. Two local girls came in every day to keep the rooms clean and look after the guests. We also extended the kitchens and hired catering staff.

Soon there was call for additional services, such as training in feminine movement, which led to a lot more work for Alice Parr. Of course, all our staff were made aware that discretion was paramount. No one apart from my mother would ever know the real identities of any of our clients and even she always used their new names.

Business boomed.

Appendix – Jennifer’s Squeeze

Here is the hand on which Jennifer made a Grand Slam in Spades against Alf and Colin:

The bidding:

(1) Conventional – asking for aces
(2) Two aces plus the Queen of trumps (Spades)

The end position: when Jennifer leads her last spade, Colin is squeezed down to the singleton King of Diamonds. Declarer still has a guess: did Alf always have the key King or has Colin been squeezed? Jennifer guessed correctly because of Colin’s initial air of confidence, and his obvious increasing discomfort as he is forced to make five discards on the run of the Spade suit.