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 8 – My Wife’s Mother-in-Law

Steve’s new normal – and the 'little sacrifices' he has to make.

Annie and I were married on the 29th June at the local Registry Office. It was a completely conventional wedding; i.e. Annie wore the dress, and she looked absolutely gorgeous. I asked Fred to be my Best Man, and he was brilliant.

It was an opportunity for me to get to know Annie’s family better. I had only met them a couple of times, as they lived up North and didn’t like to travel much. Her mother was lovely, and I got on well with her brother, a big bluff guy with a great sense of humour. Her father was not exactly unfriendly, but he made it clear that no one was good enough for his little girl, and that I would be on probation for many years to come.

On my side of the family, there were two ‘mothers of the groom’. My real mother wore a skirt suit as usual, but at least she had temporarily abandoned her favoured battleship grey and gone for something in a royal purple.

My Dad, whom I introduced to everyone as ‘Auntie Rita’, my father’s sister, was radiant in a mauve floral-patterned dress with a matching hat. As far as I could tell, no one suspected him of not being what he appeared to be. He was actually slightly slimmer than my mother, which I think made her a little jealous. Everyone assumed my father was dead, or gone away, and none of us corrected that impression.

The previous six months had been hard work for us all. I was a third-year undergraduate with exams to pass and a dissertation to write – mine was on digital imagery and 3D printing, obviously. What Fred and I had done together was ground-breaking, but the really clever stuff was mostly him, and I didn’t want to take credit for his work (although he insisted he didn’t mind). Anyway, I had written plenty of original code which was very advanced for a third-year student, so I was quietly confident my dissertation would be well-received by the examiners. I didn’t mention how my mother’s work actually made use of our techniques.

In fact, Transformations’ new processes quadrupled our business almost overnight, though as I had predicted it was a little disappointing how many of our clients just wanted to look like Marilyn Monroe.

The number of new faces checking in and out meant that we had to hire an additional receptionist. My mother also decided we needed to beef up our security procedures, given what Treacher had got away with. She brought in a private firm to patrol the premises twenty-four seven. (She got an especially good deal as their CEO was a client. Now that we could make sure he was unrecognisable, he liked to spend his weekends as a Harijan dishwasher and cleaning lady at a local Indian restaurant.)

Both Ingrid and Annie were working flat out, as were Vera and Sharon, and with me still at Cambridge Fred had struggled without my support. Even Rita was hard pressed to keep the accommodation and catering running, and we had to refurbish two more empty rooms for overnight accommodation.

My mother was hoping that Annie and I would gradually take over the business and she didn’t want to hire anyone new until I was around to be part of the planning and decision-making. Annie was certainly happy with her role as it gave her the opportunity to practise her craft in ever more interesting and challenging ways. With that in mind, she was developing contacts within major film studios. She was confident that our transformations would reduce the need for expensive CGI when an actor had to look older, younger or monstrous.

But I wasn’t sure I wanted to make my career with Transformations. I was determined to keep my options open. My degree would qualify me for state-of-the-art jobs in Artificial Intelligence, secure networking, Virtual Reality, and lots of other great stuff. I had feelers out with both large, long-established firms and dynamic new start-ups. I was happy to defer a decision till after the wedding. We had a wonderful honeymoon in Italy: Rome, Florence, Venice and then a few relaxing days at Lake Como.

We got back on a Saturday evening in mid-July to receive a major, life-changing surprise. As I had long hoped for, but had more or less given up on, my mother’s attitude to Rita had softened. Now they wanted to go away together!

* * *

Mum and I were alone in the flat on that Sunday afternoon. Annie had gone to relieve Rita who had been keeping Dolly company while we were away.

“So does this mean you’re getting back together?” I asked.

“Not exactly, no,” she said.

She hesitated. Was she actually embarrassed? I couldn’t remember seeing my mother self-conscious before.

“The point is, we’ve both been lonely, and we’ve found we get on as well as we always used to.” When she saw my reaction, she rushed on. “But as friends, not lovers, at least so far.”

“So what are you going to do? Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet. Your father, I mean Rita, is organising everything.”

“But you’ll be going as two women, sharing a bedroom and everything?”

“We’ll be working all that out as we go along. That’s the whole point. But we’ll be starting off as mistress and maid, unfortunately.”

“Nobody does that these days!” I protested. “When did you last see a woman travelling with a maid – except for Saudi princesses and maybe Hollywood starlets?”

“Quite,” she agreed. “That’s what I told him; her, I mean. She said that if that doesn’t work out, she would be my ‘companion’.”

“What, like the financially embarrassed gentlewoman paid to accompany a noble lady or her daughter on the Grand Tour?” I laughed. “That’s straight out of Agatha Christie.”

“Even earlier, I’d say – Victorian.” She sighed. “I did manage to get a concession out of her. She will take a complete outfit of men’s clothes, and will wear them at least once for me. She wouldn’t hear of it at first. She said she’d feel a fool dressing up as a man and didn’t have any men’s clothes anyway. I said that wouldn’t be a problem. We have plenty in our wardrobe room. In the end, I told her it was a deal-breaker, and she gave in.”

“Well, I think it’s wonderful. I hope the two of you have a great time, and find each other again.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Steven. We’ll never be husband and wife again.”

“But maybe ‘wife and wife’?” She grimaced. “Anyway you’ll be together, and not lonely anymore. That’s the main thing.”

She smiled. It was an odd, unfamiliar sight. Then I realised why it looked weird. It was a smile that actually reflected some genuine inner satisfaction, even happiness. The most I could remember ever seeing from her before was a ‘conventional’ smile; a smile to be polite; a smile designed to fit the occasion.

Then she spoilt it. A calculating look came into her eyes.

“I’m glad you’re pleased,” she said, “because of course, Rita and I going away for an unspecified time will mean you and Annie will be in charge of the business.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage. Fred and Vera and Sharon will still be here, won’t they? And Miss Parr, and Angie, and the new girl. What’s her name? Edie? We may have to hire a new housekeeper…”

“I don’t think you quite understand. While we’re away, you’ll have to be me.”

“Well, I think I can do your job…” I began, not liking the sound of this.

“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean. You’ll have to do my job as me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because our clients don’t like new faces and they certainly don’t like their consultant to be a man. I’m sure you remember their reactions when I asked if you could sit in.”

I did. They were uncomfortable talking about their cross-dressing or transsexualism with a male who wasn’t their doctor or psychiatrist.

“Well, Annie can do the consulting, can’t she?”

“Not by herself, she can’t. The business has grown too much. I’ve been working a sixty-hour week while you were on your honeymoon. Anyway, she doesn’t know the ins and outs of the business as well as you do.”

I desperately tried to think of reasons why I couldn’t do this…

“We already know you give a perfect imitation of me,” she said. “No one saw through you at all last summer, did they? You did a good job consulting.”

She hadn’t said anything like that at the time of course. But now it suited her to lavish praise on my efforts.

“We’ve still got the specs for your prosthetics,” she added.

That was one reason gone.

“And it may not be for long,” she continued. “We’re still reacting to the boom that came from the new facial prosthetics. The business may die down to its previous level again, in which case Annie will be able to manage alone. Or we may be back in a couple of weeks if things don’t work out.”

There went another reason to refuse. She paused thoughtfully.

“If you can’t do this, I don’t think Rita and I will be able go away… together.”

How is she so damn good at this? This emotional blackmail?

“I’ve just realised,” she added, “I can’t remember my last holiday…”

Aarggh!

* * *

Annie took it very well.

“It’s not a problem, is it? You’ll be Ingrid during the day and Steve in the evenings – well, his lower half anyway.” She grinned. “You can’t remove your breasts or Ingrid’s face every night, obviously.”

“You can’t be happy about this!” I said. I looked pleadingly at her.

“I don’t mind – really,” she hastened to reassure me. “This is our family business. It’s worth making a few little sacrifices for.”

“Little?”

“I told you how much I like transforming you. It’ll be fun,” she continued, “and you can be Steve at weekends; well, every other weekend anyway. Or every third…”

The discussion continued all evening, but she gradually convinced me to go along with my mother’s plans on a temporary basis – for everyone’s sake (or at least everyone else’s).

So on the Monday morning, back I went to Vera, who took great delight in waxing me all over… again.

“You know, you really should have all your body hair removed permanently if you’re going to keep doing this,” she said. “I did that for your father, you know. It’s not painful; well, not as painful as regular waxing anyway; and I’m sure Annie will appreciate a totally smooth husband -or wife!” She giggled.

“I’ll think about it,” I said through teeth gritted against the pain.

Afterwards I lay on her table, smarting, while she rubbed me gently all over with the soothing lotion. This was the only part I liked.

“We don’t know how long you’re going to be Ingrid for, do we?” she said. I shook my head. “So I’m using a new lotion. It has a low dosage of female hormone.” I looked up sharply. “Don’t worry, it’s very mild. It won’t affect your virility or change your figure – much – but it should slow the growth of your body hair. You may not need any more waxing.”

By now my mother had appeared with new versions of my Steve-to-Ingrid prostheses, hot off the 3D printer. She stood and watched as Vera used a marker pen and the template from the printer to draw guidelines on me. That done, she began gluing on the prosthetic pieces.

It was fascinating, but dispiriting, to watch my mother’s face gradually replace mine. I had a new nose and chin; well, double chin. What little masculinity my face had once possessed was replaced by the familiar femininity of a middle-aged woman. My mother was in good shape for her age, but I’d really hoped not to have to put up with wrinkles and loose skin – again – for quite a few years yet.

The prostheses covered my face almost completely but they were soft and light, and they moved naturally as I changed my expression. Vera took up her paintbrush for the finishing touches, concealing the few remaining places where my own skin was still showing.

“Excellent,” my mother said. “I’ll call Sharon. Come up to the flat when you’re dressed, please, Steven. I have a lot to go through with you.”

Our resident beautician appeared moments later with a wig and her little case of cosmetics, brushes and sprays.

“I’ve got a client under the dryer in my room, so I thought I’d better come to you,” Sharon said. “This is weird, ‘cause I just left one Ingrid next door, and now here’s another one; or at least you will be when I’ve got your wig on you.”

She stretched a wig cap over my head, tucking any errant strands of my real hair inside. She paused.

“Actually your own hair is nearly long enough to give you an ‘Ingrid do’, maybe with some extensions. Would you rather I did that? You could go without the wig then.”

“But I want to be Steve at weekends,” I said.

“You could always brush it differently,” Sharon said. “Maybe wear it in a little man ponytail.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, “but I’m hoping I won’t need to be my mother for that long.”

In the mirror I saw Vera and Sharon exchanging glances. Did they know something I didn’t?

“OK, sure,” Sharon said, returning her attention to my head. “Just let me know if you change your mind.”

She pulled the wig down and adjusted it carefully, checking that it was secure. Then she ran a brush through it and gave it a good spraying. When she finished I turned my head from side to side. My mother’s familiar stern schoolmarm bun was clearly visible on the back of my head.

“If I’m stuck as my mother for any length of time, I am definitely changing my hairstyle,” I muttered.

“At last!” Sharon trilled. “I’ve been trying to get you to do something sexier with your hair for years! I mean, the other Ingrid, of course. Sorry, it’s so easy to get confused…”

She reached into her little case and took out some very plain cosmetics.

“You can do better than this lot too,” she said, applying some pale foundation.

“Maybe I will,” I said, very aware that my mother’s preferred make-up scheme was understated, to say the least.

Next she applied a little mascara, eye shadow, and a light lipstick. Then she moved on to my nails, filing them tidy and painting them a familiar pale pink with a gloss finish.

While they were drying, I lay on my back for Vera to attach my breast forms; droopier than Milly’s, but not as droopy as Dolly’s. When she was satisfied that the adhesive had set, she helped me into a new 42C bra, very plain.

“So, are we gluing you into your abdominal prosthesis?” Vera asked.

“I suppose we have to,” I agreed grudgingly. “It’s much more comfortable when it doesn’t move around, and there’s too much risk of it slipping at an embarrassing moment if it’s not stuck on. Just make sure you leave the usual opening ‘down below’.”

Vera smiled and helped me wriggle into the fearsome thing. My genitals were once again concealed and inaccessible to me, though if I knew Annie, she would find a way around that obstacle tonight. I stood up and stepped into a pair of sensible knickers which matched my bra. Sadly, they did nothing to conceal the roll of flab that now adorned my tummy.

“Here are your glasses, Ingrid,” said Vera. When I looked at her askance, she continued, “Well, you might as well get used to answering to that name again.”

I took the ladies glasses, put them on, and turned to the mirror. The familiar plump, middle-aged figure stared back at me, complete with cellulite on her thighs and buttocks, stretch marks, and the beginnings of batwings and a double chin. I shuddered.

“Your mother sent down a complete outfit for you,” Vera said. “It’s in the case on the desk. You don’t need my help to get dressed, do you? I mean, you’re an expert with women’s clothes now, aren’t you?”

My mother had left me a smart, black skirt suit (big surprise), with a white, nylon, long-sleeved, V-neck blouse. My legs were encased in plain tights and my feet in black, patent leather, two-inch heeled pumps, from our wardrobe store. They were three sizes bigger than my mother’s, and the only visible indicator of which of us was which.

My jewellery was next. I slipped the copies of my mother’s rings onto my fingers, the familiar ladies’ watch on my left wrist, and a silver bracelet on my right. The finishing touch was a fake pearl necklace, indistinguishable from the one my mother would never be seen without.

I made my way upstairs. She was sitting at her desk in the alcove off our dining room, where she kept her computer. The filing cabinet in the corner was open and several folders were piled on her desk. She motioned to me to pull up a chair next to her. I did so, and plumped my fake, rotund bottom down next to her real one, remembering to smooth my skirt under me at the last moment.

She began without preamble, or any comment about my appearance. Apparently she now took it for granted that our technology had once again made me her perfect double.

“I’d like the fact that you’re substituting for me to be kept to our little ‘Inner Circle’, if possible,” she said.

“Fine by me. The fewer people who know about this the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

I knew who she meant but for the avoidance of doubt she reeled off the list.

“That means Annie, Fred, Vera, Sharon and Dolly. Oh, and Alice Parr. She’d notice something wrong immediately anyway. In fact I’d like you to spend some time with her. She can get you moving like me, and she knows my mannerisms and speech patterns very well, and can train you to reproduce them too. Then your impersonation will be perfect.”

I wasn’t looking forward to that. Miss Parr was something of a martinet. I envisaged marching up and down with a pile of a books on my head. At least I would be the boss this time and wouldn’t have to learn to curtsey. I wasn’t even sure that would be possible in my tight skirt and three-inch heels.

“None of our other staff need to know,” my mother continued, “and it’s much less of a risk to the business if no one else does know. Agreed?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” I agreed tentatively. “But it won’t be for long, will it? I’m not sure I can fool everyone all the time. When I sat in for you last summer, doing a few client interviews, it was for less than two weeks, and I didn’t interact with the household staff much, but I’ll have to now, won’t I, as we don’t have a housekeeper? Also, you were always around if I needed you, and you still did all the admin.”

“True, but Annie was new then. She’s been here for a year now. She knows quite a lot about the business side, and you can always call her in for a ‘consult’ if there’s something about a client’s transformation that you’re not sure of. She’s probably better at that than I am now, in fact. You’ll manage between you.” She paused. “So she’ll be the Chief Transformation Consultant, but I want you to be the Managing Director of the business, and for that there are other things you need to know.”

She paused and reached for the folder on top of the pile.

“First, Fred and I have created a new identity for me while I’m away.” She saw my quizzical look. “Don’t ask how we did it. It’s better that you don’t know, in case something goes wrong. You’ll have ‘plausible deniability’. The point is, while I’m gone, you will be the only ‘Ingrid Jones’ and the only ‘Ingrid McLaughlin’.”

“Who will you be?”

“I’ll be going by Kathleen – my middle name – Johnson. That way Rita and I can be sisters if we ever have to explain ourselves, like to a hotel receptionist. I have a new mobile phone. Here’s the number – for emergencies only. Otherwise, don’t call me; I’ll call you.” I must have looked concerned. “Oh don’t worry. I’ll check in regularly to let you know we’re all right.”

She was obviously less worried about whether we would be all right.

“Now, in this folder are all my personal documents,” she continued. “You need to go through them and make yourself familiar with everything. Put everything back in the safe when you’re finished. You know the combination, don’t you?”

I nodded and took the file. It held all the usual stuff, very similar to my father’s documents which I saw in the bank safety deposit box: birth certificate; marriage certificate; school reports, exam certificates; and her Will.

“Your passport is in here. Won’t you need it?”

“No, but you may need it. I don’t know if Rita plans for us to go abroad but I have one for my new identity. Fred assures me that both our passports will stand up to any scrutiny, but it’s probably an unnecessary risk to use them.”

Far too risky, I’d say. You never know when you’ll be picked to be X-rayed when you go through security at airports.

“Are you going to change your appearance?” I asked.

“I’ve bought some new clothes, and I may change my hairstyle, but I’m not going to use any of our prosthetics, if that’s what you mean. I can’t be bothered with all that stuff.”

But she didn’t mind me having to put up with them – and indefinitely, apparently!

“Here’s my – your – handbag. Your purse is in there, with your driving licence and credit cards. You need to lock your Steven Jones IDs and bank cards away in the safe. Don’t try to use them while you’re me.”

“You mean I should use your credit cards? Isn’t that fraud?”

“Certainly not. You’re a signatory on all my accounts – business and personal. You’d only be drawing out your own money.”

“But I’d still be pretending to be someone I’m not!” I protested.

“But you’re not defrauding anyone; it’s your money as much as mine. You won’t even need to forge my signature, at least not very often. I do almost all financial transactions online. The PIN numbers and passwords are in the safe. I haven’t written a cheque for years.” She looked exasperated. “Oh, stop worrying. Firstly, nobody will suspect anything – your disguise is too good; and secondly…”

She took the file back from me and drew out some documents from near the bottom.

“…these are Lasting Powers of Attorney for Property and Financial Affairs, signed by your father for the estate and by me for the business. This shows that you have full authority over all our assets.”

Wow! I never thought she trusted me to that extent.

“That means you can be me all the time. You won’t need to change back to Steven at all.”

Why on earth would I want to be my mother all the time? I was about to protest, but she was picking up another folder and resuming her lecture.

“Now this next file is our family investments,” she said. “I’ve tried to diversify, but I suppose I’ve always been a little risk-averse. We’ve got Life Insurance, ISAs and Unit Trusts, but I don’t dabble in the Stock Market. Of course, there’s no mortgage on the estate.”

The numbers flashed past my eyes as we scanned the documents together. I didn’t take in the details but it was obvious we were comfortably off.

“I’ve always tried to fund new developments from profits, to protect our family assets,” she said. “Now this next file is all about the business – just the really important documents. All the day-to-day spending and receipts are in the top two drawers of the filing cabinet, but most of that stuff is on the computer anyway. Fred can show you if you ever need to know.”

We spent the next hour going through the business accounts. They weren’t complicated, but again I was surprised at how well we were doing.

“Fred and I only take notional salaries to minimise our tax burden,” she said, without bothering to explain what that meant. “We’re the only shareholders, and we take most of our remuneration as dividends from the company profits after corporation tax.”

She paused again, perhaps sensing that I was sinking under this deluge of information.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked.

“Millions, but I’d better look through all these files first.”

“Fine, but don’t forget I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll need to take the Range Rover to carry all our stuff. I’ve insured myself – that is, yourself – to drive your Yaris and I’ve insured Steven to drive the company van, so you should be all right for transport in both your guises.”

I sat back in the chair, exhausted and bewildered.

“Don’t slouch like that, Ingrid,” she said, without a trace of humour. “You’re not a navvy. You’re a respectable lady now.”

I snapped my knees together and sat up straight.

“Sorry, er, Kathleen,” I said with as much grace as I could muster (not much).

“You should make yourself comfortable as me,” she said. “I’m taking most of my casual clothes and all of my underwear. We’ve saved the lingerie you wore when you were me last year, but you’ll still have to buy a lot of new things. Do try not to be too different. There’s no point in deliberately attracting attention. You can make a few minor changes if you must, but you should live my life as closely as you can. Obviously you and Annie will want to go out together, but you know I don’t go out much, and I don’t have many friends, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to live as me. You can play Bridge with Dolly or Fred on Wednesdays.”

She sat back, watching me carefully. I think she realised I was feeling overwhelmed.

“I’m terrified, Mum,” I said, serious for a moment. “Not just that I’ll give myself away, but I might make some really bad mistakes and ruin the business.”

“I have confidence in you,” she said gently. “You’ve grown up a lot recently. I’m sure it’s Annie’s influence,” she added, not willing to give me too much credit. “I wouldn’t be risking this if I didn’t think you could do it. I’ll trust your judgement in deciding when you can let Ingrid ‘retire’ and go back to being yourself.”

It still sounded suspiciously like an actual compliment. But it sounded horribly like she was saying goodbye for ever.

* * *

My mother and ‘Auntie Rita’ were ready to leave after lunch the next day. Annie, Dolly and I saw them off from our private entrance round the back. If I hadn’t known it was her, I might not have recognised my mother. She was wearing jeans! They must have been new; they might have been the first pair she had ever owned. Her top was a T-shirt with the words, ‘I’m with Stupid’ and a finger pointing to her left, presumably where my father would be sitting in the car.

She had let her hair down; it was held back in a brightly coloured Alice band. She wore dark glasses, completing the job of making her unrecognisable. The combination also made her look at least ten years younger; certainly much younger and more attractive than me in my dowdy, business-like grey skirt suit.

Meanwhile Rita was wearing a simple black dress with white collar and cuffs. It looked like a maid’s uniform, but without a cap and apron it could have passed for a plain house dress.

My mother isn’t one for long drawn-out partings. We hugged briefly and she reiterated her confidence that Annie and I would be fine. She said no more about how long they would be away. She didn’t tell us where they were heading. She might not have known herself. She was driving; Rita was navigating.

After they’d gone Annie had to rush off to a client session and Dolly went back to the kitchen catering office. She had insisted on standing in as housekeeper until either Rita returned or we found a full-time replacement for her. That way, my contact with staff outside our Inner Circle could be minimised. Annie agreed to this only as long as Dolly promised not to do any hard physical work herself.

To make things easier – and so that Annie could continue to keep an eye on her – Dolly would stay with us during the week, sleeping in the Girls’ Room. She would go back to her own house for weekends. Annie and I would sleep in my mother’s room, better to help me get into the mindset of being her. Steve’s room would stand sadly and symbolically empty.

I went back to my mother’s – my – office. I took off my suit jacket and sat down at my desk. I put my handbag in the drawer. I kicked off my high heels and rubbed my stocking feet. I would have to get used to shoes like these.

I reached for the day’s mail, but then I paused, staring into space. Belatedly, I realised I was no longer just testing prostheses in the guise of Ingrid McLaughlin Jones, I was her now; indeed the only person answering to those names. This was real – and scary. For as long as my parents were on the road ‘finding themselves’, like hippy teenagers in some dopey seventies flick, I was a forty-eight-year-old woman, running a business, with people depending on me.

I opened Ingrid’s – my – computer and checked my diary. I had no appointments that afternoon, which would give me the chance to respond to the day’s post and incoming emails. Tomorrow I had prospective new clients both in the morning and after lunch.

Annie came in at a quarter past three; she caught me staring out of the window.

“Finding it all a bit overwhelming, Ingrid?” I frowned. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “You know I have to call you Ingrid even when we’re alone. Someone might overhear. And it’s not just that I don’t want to risk making a mistake in company, it’s because it’s the best way of helping you get used to your new role as the lady boss.”

“What if I don’t want to get used to it?”

She looked at me reproachfully.

“You can’t always have what you want.” She tutted. “I hoped that the boy I fell in love with, and the man I married, would realise people are depending on him, and suck it up.”

“You sound just like my mother sometimes.”

“Well if I sound like her and you look like her, we should be able to manage together, shouldn’t we?”

I sighed. She must have realised I wasn’t in the mood for humour.

“Look, Steve, it’ll be OK,” she said soothingly. “You can do this, really you can. You already know your impersonation is virtually flawless. No one caught you out last year.”

“That was a summer job. It was only two weeks.”

“It may only be the same this time.”

“I have a nasty feeling it will be longer, maybe much longer.”

“We’ll manage,” Annie said.

But that wasn’t what I was really worried about.

“Will we? And what about us?” She looked puzzled. “We’ve been married less than a month and your husband has gone. You’re living – and sleeping – with your mother-in-law, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Is that what this is about? I don’t care as long as we’re together. I lived with you as my Granny for most of last summer! Look, this…” She waved her arms at my plump, feminine body. “…doesn’t matter. We can be husband and wife in bed at night and properly every other weekend. We’ll be fine.”

I had nothing more to say. She came over and put her arms around me.

“Think of it as like wearing a uniform for a job. Lots of people do that – policemen, soldiers…”

“Maids?”

“Ooh, yes please. I’ve always wanted my own lady’s maid!”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Hey, I had enough of that when I was your Granny – and don’t expect me to curtsey!”

“Come on, it’s tea-time,” she said. “We need to go down and show everyone that the captain is on the bridge and everything’s ship-shape.”

* * *

Despite my misgivings I had to admit that the next two weeks went smoothly. The first thing I did was call our accountant and arrange to have Annie and Steve appointed as the third and fourth Directors and shareholders of the company. My mother hadn’t suggested this, and hadn’t given her permission, but if she didn’t like it, she shouldn’t have left me in charge, should she? Mr Nuttall, the Bank Manager, witnessed the signatures – Fred’s and Ingrid’s – mine. I was well practised in forging my mother’s by now.

I had no problems with my share of the client interviews, only passing one on to Annie. This was a rich young lady who wanted to impersonate her brother for a Fancy Dress party, and since Annie was the only one of us with any experience of female-to-male transformation, it seemed best that she handle it.

I accepted that outwardly I was now a perfect duplicate of my mother. My remaining challenges were to get her mannerisms, speech and behaviour right. So I had three half-day sessions with Miss Parr, who I had to admit was superb at her job. She began by reminding me of the anatomical reasons why men and women moved differently, and gave me exercises to help me stress the feminine. My prostheses helped here; my weight distribution was now emphatically female. My enhanced breasts, hips, thighs and buttocks in my tight skirts limited my ability to move any other way, so Miss Parr just had to make me more aware of their effects, and help me adapt.

Then she moved on to social behaviours. Society expects different things from men and women – aggression from men, compliance from women (or at least passive aggression) – and whatever our personalities, we mostly tend to conform. She agreed that this was less true of my mother, who had become fiercely independent over the years because of her circumstances. However her dominant personality did not display itself as a need to dominate social groups. She was more likely to remain silent in the background, listening – often with disdain – while others attempted to lead, and then do precisely what she wanted all along.

I wasn’t sure how this analysis helped me, but agreed that whatever else my mother might be, she was never chatty. I needed to learn to button my lip sometimes.

Miss Parr also helped me with Ingrid’s speech patterns, sentence construction and vocabulary. There were certain words she never used and others she used all the time. There was also a soft lilt to her speech, a rising inflection, and a faint East Anglia accent. I recognised all these when they were pointed out to me. I found imitating them quite easy, probably because my own speech was similar, having grown up listening to her.

Miss Parr finished my course of instruction with a list of mannerisms and gestures to learn – things she had noticed over the years that were distinctly Ingrid. My mother had a way of twirling the pearl necklace she habitually wore, as I now had to.

When outside she walked with her arms folded under her bust, especially in cold weather. I was sure there were complex psychological reasons for this, but all I had to do was remember to duplicate it. In any case it was more comfortable, as I could move quickly – at least as far as my tight skirts would allow – without getting a violent pendulum motion going on my chest.

The rest of the Inner Circle helped in their different ways, correcting me when I said or did something too unlike Ingrid. The essential message was: be brisk, brusque and business-like. Cut out the smiles and laughs, and don’t even think about telling jokes. Anyone would think my mother was a real gloomy Gussie. Oh wait – she was.

My mother often kicked her shoes off when she sat down at her desk. (She would have been mortified if she had known everyone had noticed that.)

She never fastened the buttons of her skirt suit jackets. She always fastened the buttons of her silk lace blouses right up to the neck. She also held her handbag in a certain way, often fiddling with the strap. I had to do that for fifteen minutes under Miss Parr’s watchful eye.

* * *

I played Bridge with Dolly on the first Wednesday and with Fred the next week. Annie and I went out to dinner a couple of times, during which she insisted on calling me ‘Mummy’. I could hardly object now. I paid with my mother’s credit card.

Otherwise I preferred to stay at home in the evenings. In the privacy of the flat, things could be different. I could let my hair down and change out of my stern business suit into one of the two or three casual dresses my mother had left me… that is, that I now possessed.

At home both Annie and Dolly encouraged me to be myself – my real self – as much as possible, although increasingly I was becoming a strange hybrid of Steve and Ingrid. This confused Dolly enormously, and I was sure that she often forgot that I wasn’t really Ingrid. Annie and I just found it easier to accept that.

Nevertheless the three of us got on well. We cooked and ate dinner together; we watched TV; we played board games; we laughed; and we shared the chores: laundry, ironing, cleaning, shopping.

As my male clothes were tidied away in Steve’s old bedroom, it was just like we were three real women sharing a flat. There was continual competition between us for the two bathrooms and make-up mirrors. Our female underwear, tights and stockings were always drying over the bath or draped over radiators everywhere.

At the end of the day Annie and I would retire to our bedroom and she would sit happily on the bed as I stripped off.

“I’ve missed this,” she said, as I stepped out of my dress. “It’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen you as Ingrid doing a strip-tease for me.”

I posed seductively in my shapewear: my boobs bursting out of my bra; and my striated tummy, cellulite thighs and buttocks clasped tightly by my girdle. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I was looking unashamedly sexy – for a plump forty-eight-year-old.

“It’s a bit odd though, don’t you think?” I said, provocatively. “I mean, I have to do this…” I brushed my hands up and down my voluptuous figure. “…but it must be some kind of fetish if you like it.”

“So what?” she said. “What’s a little dressing-up between consenting married adults? It’s not bondage, is it? There’s no unhealthy domme-sub stuff going on. It’s all harmless, isn’t it?” She grinned. “And for some reason it turns me on more than any ‘vanilla’ foreplay.

“Must be something to do with your obsession with transformation,” I suggested.

“And/or your delight in being transformed,” she said.

What would be the point in arguing? I certainly didn’t hate it anymore. Not sure I ever really did.

“Now, knickers down, Mummy darling,” she said firmly. “Let the dog see the rabbit…”

I think she liked it more because she got to go on top. My excess flesh and ungainly figure made it less comfortable the other way.

* * *

As she had done the previous summer, Annie would lie in bed in the morning watching me transform back into the stern lady boss. I would lift up my nightie and secure my wedding tackle back in my abdominal prosthesis. Most days I needed her help to ‘arrange myself’ comfortably. Then I would step into tight spandex knickers or a pantiegirdle, and she would fasten my bra for me. (I could do it by myself after all the practice I had had, but she was always keen to help.)

Wig and makeup were next, and from then on I was Mrs Ingrid Jones to my wife and friends, and Mrs Ingrid McLaughlin to clients. That would be the routine for the next two working weeks.

We managed to keep the weekend in between free for once. I desperately needed clothes as Ingrid, so Annie and I spent most of the Saturday morning at the nearest shopping centre. I had some difficulty persuading her that I wasn’t of an age or figure for Victoria’s Secret, and she grudgingly conducted me round the more prosaic secrets of Marks and Spencer.

“They advertise everything from light control vests to VPL-free knickers – styles to smooth out those lumps and bumps,” she said, reading from a pamphlet. “That sounds like exactly what you need,” she grinned.

I did find wearing just a simple bra and bikini panties very uncomfortable. My generous prosthetic flesh bulged out over the edges of any underwear that was too tight or brief. I couldn’t actually feel anything through the padding of course, but the overall sensation was that parts of me were trying to escape all the time. Annie therefore recommended firm shapewear, to keep all my synthetic blubber under proper control, and with the added benefit of emphasising my plump, curvy female form.

“Our collection of shapewear for women is designed to give you a sleek, streamlined silhouette with seam-free bodies, sheer slips and waist cinchers. Take advantage of the latest technologies for day-to-night comfort: shaping knickers, shaping bodies, waist and tummy control…”

“All right, all right,” I growled, grabbing the leaflet from her, and dropping it into our shopping trolley. “Bad enough I have to get all that stuff without you announcing it to the world.”

We made our way over to the appropriate section, my wife sniggering all the way. There was, as usual, no sign of any sales assistants, but for once that was a blessing.

“Do you want to try this body on, Mummy?” Annie asked innocently, holding up a colourful box with a picture of a plump model in her one-piece ‘Plus Size Body Slimming Shaper’.

For a moment I was confused, then I realised what she meant.

“No, I don’t! Look we know my sizes. Let’s just grab a range of stuff and go. This is M & S; I can return anything that doesn’t fit.”

“I’m not sure that’s true for lingerie, Mummy-in-Law dearest, not if you’ve actually tried it on, but anything you say.”

She dropped several cardboard boxes of matching longline bras and granny knickers, bodyshapers, girdles, and at least two dozen packs of stockings and tights into the basket. I tried to drag her over to the till.

“What’s the hurry?” she said. “You’re out clothes shopping with your daughter-in-law. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“Maybe for you, but I’m not comfortable browsing in Ladies’ Underwear, especially not in ladies’ underwear.”

She giggled. “OK, let’s head over to the dresses section.”

With little experience of shopping for women’s clothes, I didn’t really know what I was looking for, so I had to trust that Annie would choose dresses and skirts appropriate for her mother-in-law, and all with long sleeves, appropriate to conceal her feminised husband’s overmuscled arms.

I had to admit she had excellent taste and, against my better judgement, I found I was quite looking forward to wearing her choices. Mind you, anything would be better than my mother’s dull skirt suits. I particularly liked the look of a light blue sheath dress with a lace bodice. I just had to try it on.

It went well with my necklace and earrings. I realised that not so long ago I hadn’t even known what a bodice was, and I certainly wouldn’t have known what clothes went with what accessories. It looked wonderful on me. Annie didn’t have to work too hard to persuade me to buy it.

“We know your size, more or less,” she said, with a twinkle, “so there’s really no need to try on everything that catches your eye. We’d be here all day. Anyway you can definitely exchange any outerwear that doesn’t fit, or that you don’t like.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. “I’m not comfortable stripping off in women’s changing rooms.”

“I wasn’t aware that you made a habit of that.”

“Not a habit, no,” I said, blushing to remember my first girly shopping trip as Milly. “Look, can we go now? This is exhausting and our basket is practically full…”

“Sure… wait!” Something had caught her eye. “You don’t have any trouser suits, do you?” she asked. “Or any casual pants at all?”

“No, actually,” I said. “In fact, I think the first time I’ve ever seen my mother in trousers was the jeans she was wearing when they went away.”

“Well, you must try some on then!” she said, excitedly. In a lower voice, she added, “I’m dying to see that fabulous bottom of yours in pants.”

She quickly picked out a selection of trouser suits and threw them at me. She then pushed me towards the women’s changing rooms with my arms full of clothes on hangers.

I tried on a business trouser suit, and a floral one-piece suit which I wouldn’t be able to wear without its matching jacket as it exposed my masculine arms and shoulders. I even tried on a pair of jeans.

I was only too aware of the size of my big round rear in all of them, but there wasn’t much point in being embarrassed about it. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I thought, as I posed and gyrated for Annie’s delight. She insisted we buy them all. She was practically drooling.

As I emerged from the changing room, having put my own dress back on, I was alarmed to see a face I recognised, though it took me a moment to remember where I had seen her.

“Ingrid!” she called in a voice that would have been heard over in Menswear. “You’re back! Why didn’t you call?”

It was Maggie Tyler from the Garden Party.

“Oh… er, I meant to, but I’ve only just got back,” I stammered. “This is my daughter-in-law, Annie. Annie, this is Maggie Tyler. We met at a ‘do’ last summer.”

Maggie had finished her shopping and was heading for the café. We arranged to meet her there after we’d paid for my new clothes.

“I met Maggie and her friends at the Mayor’s Garden Party,” I explained to Annie in the check-out queue. “We hit it off.”

“You mean you got blotto with them,” Annie chuckled. “I remember that day. I’ve never seen you so drunk, before or since.”

“They were a good bunch. I had a great time.”

“Well you must arrange to see them again. Ingrid should have more female friends, especially as she’s not in a relationship.”

“What are you talking about? Both of us Ingrids are in relationships!”

“But the Ingrid you’re pretending to be isn’t in a relationship with a man, is she? So she needs women friends.”

“So you, my wife, are encouraging me to go out, maybe getting drunk, with half a dozen other attractive middle-aged women?”

She laughed. “It does sound odd put that way, doesn’t it? But you know what I mean. And I’m assuming that I’ll be the only one who actually gets into your knickers.”

By this time we had reached the café and located Maggie. She waved. She was at a corner table with three coffees and a tray of cakes. We made our way over and sat down, dropping our bulging shopping bags beside us.

“Wow!” Maggie said. “You look like you bought the whole store!”

“Well, I’ve been away working and I decided I needed a whole new wardrobe to celebrate my… return,” I explained, sticking as close to the truth as I could. “It’s lovely to see you again, Maggie.”

Maggie asked how long Annie had been married – she probably remembered that I hadn’t mentioned my son having a steady girlfriend the previous summer – and congratulated her. After the usual good wishes regarding married life, she turned to me.

“So are you back for good now?”

“Um, probably…”

“Because, if so, you must come out with me and ‘The Girls’. You were a big hit at the Garden Party.”

“Really? I don’t remember…”

“I’m not in the least surprised!” Maggie said. Annie laughed. “None of us remember much about that day, but we all enjoyed ourselves so much we’ve tried to keep the little group going. We have a slap-up meal in a restaurant once a month.”

“That sounds wonderful, Mummy!” said Annie, with a twinkle in her eye. “You must go. You can wear one of your smart new trouser suits! I’m sure Steve and I can find ourselves something to do while you’re out.”

I looked at her askance, irrationally feeling jealous of Steve making time with Annie when I wasn’t around. Maggie laughed, without really knowing what she was laughing at.

We exchanged details. (The other Ingrid had long ago thrown away the scruffy napkins from her handbag.) So now I had another date for my diary.

* * *

Our encounter with Maggie at Marks & Spencer convinced me that if I was to impersonate my mother convincingly for any length of time I needed to know more than I did about her personal history. I remembered my fellow Garden Party ladies as a nosey lot. They asked many probing questions on that drunken afternoon, and I had had to make up my answers, none of which I could remember, due to the amount of Sauvignon Blanc I had drunk. No doubt it would be much worse at our restaurant date. They would all know each other well by now. As the ‘New Girl’ I would be fair game for the Inquisition. That was how female bonding worked.

I realised that I knew very little about my mother’s early life. As a normal boy growing up, I had shown no interest in my mother’s girlhood, and she, being the taciturn woman she was, had no inclination to share.

Since I was now forced to be my mother, I felt no compunction in rooting through her belongings to get to know her better. I searched the whole building, looking in places I had rarely been as Steve. I searched the flat, especially her – that is, my – bedroom; then the rest of the Manor House, the attics, and the outhouses.

I found surprisingly little of use; endless bric-a-brac everywhere, but just the usual stuff: old toys in the attic; rusty bikes in the garage; souvenirs of places visited long ago and forgotten all around the flat. In dusty cupboards I found old school essays and end of term reports – hers as well as mine. There had always been lots of books everywhere, but I noticed for the first time that they were mostly non-fiction – politics, history, science, and school and university text books. There were very few thrillers and no romances at all.

In the bedroom there were old clothes she’d clearly never got round to sending to the charity shop. There were dresses and skirts, and – to my surprise – trousers. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her in pants. In fact, I didn’t think she even had any. I tried a couple of pairs on, along with some dresses and skirts that were lurking on hangers at the back of a little-used wardrobe in the spare room. Sadly my prostheses made me too ‘broad in the beam’ to get into any of them (especially the slacks). Judging by the styles, they had probably been fashionable when my mother was young and slender.

I considered making myself new, slimmer prostheses to replicate my mother as a young woman. I could say I’d been on a crash diet, but it would be highly suspicious if Ingrid went from a size 16 (OK, OK, 18, sheesh!) to a size 8 overnight. Anyway with a thinner figure, my smart skirt suits would then be too big for me. I needed to continue to wear them for work, to maintain my image as Ingrid McLaughlin with clients.

I didn’t find much to document the life of a forty-eight-year-old married woman and mother of one. Two things stood out: where were the photos, and why was there nothing – nothing – of my father’s? Were the contents of that safety deposit really all she had kept of his?

Finally in a cardboard box, under a dusty pile of old curtains, at the back of my mother’s wardrobe, I found four photo albums. I had a quick look through them. According to the notes and labels, each seemed to cover about five years; the oldest starting in 1979; the most recent going up to 2001. It was fascinating to see familiar faces, decades younger. But the pictures just raised more questions...

So one evening, when Annie was out with Dolly at bingo, I went along the third floor corridor to the other wing and Fred’s rooms. He had mentioned that he would be staying overnight as he was running a long program down in the bunker and it would require his attention at around midnight. I knocked.

“Oh, hello, Ingrid,” he said, clearly surprised. “I thought you went to bingo…?”

“No, I’m ‘excused bingo’,” I said. “I have to do a lot of embarrassing stuff to pretend to be a middle-aged lady, but Annie and Dolly know how much I hate that silly game, so they let me off.”

He laughed. “OK, come in,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing for Ingrid, but Steve needs your help.”

I stepped inside and went into the flat’s elegant sitting room. Fred shut the door behind me. I dumped the photo albums on his coffee table, and sat down on the sofa, sweeping my skirt underneath me, pulling my knees together, and crossing my legs at the ankles. Fred chuckled.

“What?”

“You’re really good at that,” he said.

“What?”

“The feminine movements and mannerisms,” he added. “No one would ever suspect…”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” I interrupted, grumpily. I felt myself blushing. “Never mind that. I want you to tell me about some of these old photos.”

“Oh,” he said, his face falling. “Where did you find those?”

“It wasn’t easy.” I explained about my current quest for Ingrid’s background. “But the most recent of these albums finishes about eighteen years ago. My mother seems to have stopped keeping photos not long after I was born.”

“I’m sure it was nothing to do with you, old son.” He chuckled. I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, it’s just that you don’t look like anyone’s son nowadays. Old, maybe…”

He chuckled again. I folded my arms under my bust; an Ingrid gesture of disapproval that was thoroughly ingrained in me by now. Fred recognised that look.

“OK then, but I’m going to need a drink. What can I get you?”

I requested a glass of red wine. I was in the habit of asking for feminine drinks now, but I actually preferred a glass of wine to a pint of bitter. He got himself a whisky and soda. He brought the drinks over and came to sit down beside me. I scooted along, tidying my skirt as I slid.

He opened the first and oldest album. He sighed and turned back to me for confirmation. I nodded.

“Well, if you’re sure. I just don’t see what good will come from raking over the past. We’re all very different people now.”

“I’m very different – obviously,” I said, indicating my dress and figure. “You’re all just older.”

“All right, all right.” He turned a few pages, skimming faded black and white photos. “OK, the first few pages here are obviously pictures your grandparents took of your mother when she was little. I’ve never seen these.”

I looked at the pictures of an unfamiliar little girl. She could have been my mother, I suppose. She was often accompanied by little boys, her younger brothers. They were usually smiling and engaging in rough and tumble games. She was an aloof and serious child.

“Your grandmother died young, didn’t she?” Fred said. “Your Mum would have been eight or nine at the time, I think?”

“Eight,” I said. “Both my grandmothers died before I was born, but I never thought about the effect that losing her mother at that age would have had on Ingrid. She must have had to grow up fast. That was – what? – 1979? I suppose my grandfather would have expected her to take on maternal responsibility for her brothers.”

“Spot on,” he said. “Certainly when I started going to their place to see Ingrid, she was always in charge – of the house, the catering, and of the behaviour of your uncles. What happened to them anyway? I lost touch with them after Ingrid and I left school.”

“One lives in America; the other went to Australia. We exchange cards for birthdays and Christmas. They used to send me small amounts of money until I turned eighteen. We don’t really talk about them much. I think Mum is afraid they emigrated to get away from her, or maybe they were disgusted by my father, their brother-in-law, and how his… oddities… would embarrass them.”

He nodded. “It’s a shame when families lose touch.”

Fred’s parents were old-fashioned, or what nowadays people would call ‘bigoted’. I assumed they had disowned him for his sexuality. Even though he wasn’t ‘out’ as such, he would have had to open up to them. There would have been conversations about girlfriends, marriage, children… wouldn’t there?

I turned over more pages, Fred making appropriate comments as I went. The little girl in the photographs had turned into an unsmiling teenager. There was a birthday party at which she was grudgingly attempting to blow out thirteen candles on her birthday cake. The only person in the picture who wasn’t family was a very young Fred.

“I first got to know her when we were in our early teens.”

“Yes, you met at school, didn’t you?”

“We were in the same class at the local grammar school. We were thirteen. Neither of us found it easy to make friends. I was a nerd, and Ingrid, well… she didn’t seem to have much in common with the other kids. She played hockey and netball – quite well, actually – but she didn’t hang around with the other players. She didn’t watch TV; she wasn’t interested in pop music, or make-up, or clothes. Also, having to look after her brothers and get them fed and off to school had made her a little… bossy.”

He was struggling to describe the thirteen-year-old Ingrid without making her out to be a dragon-in-the-making.

“So everyone thought she was a stuck-up little cow, when actually she was just… shy?”

“She was never exactly shy, but she had no small talk, no social graces, no time for fools or silly kids behaving like silly kids…”

“So the two of you became friends on the ‘misery loves company’ principle?”

“Sort of,” he smiled. “I got teased a lot; she was largely ignored. Then we were put together for a nature project in science class, mainly because no one else wanted to partner either of us. Actually that’s not quite true. I was good at science, but I knew that the kids who offered to work with me were just hoping I’d do it all. So I approached Ingrid, and that was the beginning of our friendship. Our project won by a mile, and your mother more than did her part. I could do all the science and the maths easily enough, but she organised us and kept us focused. She’s been managing us both ever since.” He paused. “I probably wouldn’t still be around without her.”

There was a moment’s silence while we digested what he’d said. I thought this might have been the first time he’d admitted it to himself. A gesture of sympathy seemed appropriate. Instinctively I put my hand, with its rings and pink, polished fingernails, on his. In my mind I was Ingrid now, a woman, and Fred’s oldest friend. Then I realised that my mother probably wouldn’t have done that, and I remembered who I really was. I withdrew my hand, embarrassed. Fred just smiled, not fazed in the least. I sipped my wine.

We reached the end of the first album. I opened the second. There were more pictures of family events – outings, holidays, school activities. There was one of my mother in the junior school play, which presumably sparked her interest in theatre. Next to it was a clipping from the school magazine praising her performance. Then, suddenly, there was my father. His first appearance in the album was in a group with Fred, my mother, and some of their classmates. It looked like a school outing. They were all in hiking gear.

“Your Dad arrived in the fourth form, at the beginning of GCSEs,” said Fred, seeing that I had spotted him in the photo. “He’d been at a private boarding school before that. No one ever told us why he had to change school at fifteen. It might have been something to do with his mother dying. The disruption could only have made a horrible situation worse for him.”

I turned more pages. The photos were still mostly of the McLaughlin family, but any that included outsiders were invariably of Fred and the young Richard Steven Jones.

“He was funny, charming, and good-looking,” Fred said wistfully. “His family were well off – obviously, since they owned this place – but his mother was sick and his father was always away on business. Richard believed his Dad kept a mistress in a flat in London, but he has never known for sure. Anyway, he fell in with Ingrid and me immediately. No idea why. Perhaps he realised we were outcasts; each damaged in our own way. Perhaps he saw we needed him.” He laughed.

“It was a kind of ménage à trois, I suppose. We loved each other, in our different ways. Ingrid loved Richard for his gentleness, kindness, sweetness. I’m not sure when that love became physical – it was none of my business – but I was happy for them both. I was never jealous of either of them…”

He seemed to think that remark needed further explanation. Perhaps I’d looked sceptical.

“I’ve never been very passionate – physically, I mean,” he explained, almost apologetically.

I looked at more pictures of the three best friends: the independent, serious girl; the gay boy who wouldn’t admit he was gay; and the gentle boy who perhaps should have been gay but wasn’t.

“So when you first met my father, he was… just a normal teenager?” I said.

“No, but it was a while before Ingrid and I realised that he was just as damaged as we were. Don’t forget: most of the time he was an only child rattling around by himself in this huge Manor House with a bedridden mother and a mostly absent father. When his Mum died, his Dad hired Dolly as their housekeeper. She was a widow, and on her own; her son and daughter had left home. So she moved in here and rented out her house in town. Richard wondered whether she and his father were… intimate, but I don’t think so, looking back. The London mistress theory was always more likely. Anyway Dolly soon became crucial to young Richard. I think that may have been when his desires started to take root...”

“You mean that watching Dolly made him want to be a maid?”

“It was a lot more than just watching. She was his everything – mother, father, big sister, nanny, cook, all rolled into one. He admired everything about her. He used to follow her around. Then he started to help her look after the house.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “It’s huge; far too big for one person to clean.”

“Agreed, but perhaps she shouldn’t have let him wear her spare apron and cap when he did it…”

No, I thought, that was probably a bad idea. I’d found there was something about dressing as a maid…

“She had to wear a uniform?”

“Yep. That was going out in private houses by the eighties of course, but remember your grandfather was born well before the war. The Manor House would have had several servants when he was growing up, and they would all have been uniformed. And Richard’s mother had a full-time nurse – also uniformed. In fact, I think it might have been the cost of his wife’s twenty-four-hour care that made your grandfather decide to get rid of all the other servants. But when he hired Dolly, I doubt it would have occurred to him not to have her wear a uniform, although from what she’s said, she actually liked it, and obviously Richard did too.

“Too much, in fact,” I said ruefully.

Fred grunted. I took another mouthful of wine. He went back to the album and turned a few more pages. Some of the pictures now included more teenage faces.

“With Richard on our team, as it were, we fitted in better at school, or perhaps it was just that we were all growing up. Whatever the reason, the teasing stopped and the three of us found we had a wider circle of friends. We had regular gatherings at the Manor, often as many as a dozen kids, making use of the pool, the tennis court, the putting green, and the grounds. None of the rest of us had access to anything like the Manor House or its facilities, and with your grandfather away on business all the time, there was virtually no adult supervision. Dolly kept her eye on us as best she could, but frankly it was just good luck that no one got hurt. Or pregnant…”

I recognised the backgrounds in some of the pictures now. Some of them were taken here at the Manor.

“So who took all these photos?” I asked.

“Well up to 1987 your grandfather would have taken them using the family camera, but Ingrid got a Polaroid for her sixteenth birthday, so she took most of the ones in these pages. Richard and I insisted that she let us take some, so that she could be in them herself.”

He stared at the pictures of happy teenagers, at first just the three of them, then gradually many more joined in. I assumed Fred was remembering the faces of the other kids, some of whom he wouldn’t have seen for more than thirty years, and was trying to put names to them. Or maybe he was just staring into space.

As I watched, a solitary tear escaped from the eye nearest me and rolled slowly down his cheek. He brushed it away without seeming to notice. I pretended not to either. I was beginning to regret asking him to relive these times. Perhaps he was right; no good could come from raking up the past. He cleared his throat.

We returned to the albums. The next batch of pictures we saw was of the three of them at a fancy-dress party. It was labelled ‘Christmas 1987’.

“I remember that very well,” Fred said. “It was the first ‘grown-up party’ most of us ever went to. Richard managed to persuade his father to let us hold it at the Manor, and with no chaperones. I don’t think the old man was being particularly kind or generous; he just didn’t care enough to say no. He wasn’t planning to be at home then anyway. Dolly was totally against it but she was overruled. Richard even got his Dad to pay for her to have a long weekend with her son and his family up North, so that she wouldn’t be there to spoil our fun.

“We were all around sixteen, so of course in theory no alcohol was allowed, but a few bottles of some unspecified spirits found their way into the punch, and there were quite a few six-packs of cheap lager around the place if you knew where to look. Most of the vomit went into the flower beds round the back, fortunately.”

He laughed, but I hadn’t been listening that closely. I was looking at the pictures of the guests in their costumes. Fred was a cowboy in a Clint Eastwood poncho; Ingrid was a very pretty Alice in Wonderland; and my father was a maid.

It wasn’t a sexy French maid outfit with frilly petticoat and fishnet stockings. It was an old-fashioned, working housemaid uniform, a black dress complete with starched white bib apron and mob cap. Presumably the dress was one of Dolly’s, but he must have hired the apron and cap because there was no way Dolly would have worn such archaic items in the eighties. Fred saw me looking at the picture.

“Richard’s hair wasn’t really long enough for a girl,” he said, “but with his maid’s cap on you couldn’t tell. He was wearing proper make-up, quite well done, and he looked totally convincing. He would have fooled anyone who didn’t know him. He did fool some of the strangers who had come as ‘plus ones’.

“But it was how he behaved at the party that got me and Ingrid worried. He answered the door as a maid; he curtseyed to the guests as he let them in; he took their coats. Then he ran around all evening carrying trays of food and drinks, always curtseying, and addressing his class mates and their friends as ‘madam’ and ‘sir’ and ‘Miss This’ and ‘Mr That’. Most people thought it was a hoot and happily treated him as a maidservant, which he obviously loved. A few of them, mainly boys who had never had time for him at school, made quite nasty remarks about his sexuality, deliberately intended to be hurtful, but he was oblivious. He just kept the act going, behaving exactly like a lowly domestic.

“Ingrid was distraught. She was desperate to dance with him and maybe sneak off for some innocent smooching – we were only sixteen – but he just played the maid all evening. By about nine-thirty she’d had enough. She grabbed him and told him to stop acting the fool. He broke away from her and said she must excuse him. He was just the maid and he had his duties. I could see that she was really upset so I joined in at that point. He must have realised he’d gone too far and apologised, saying it was just a bit of fun. He took his cap off and they went over to the dance floor.

“She was mollified then, but when she and I met at school on the Monday morning she asked me what I thought he’d been up to. What could I say? Most of the time they were great together, and they were obviously falling in love. I didn’t think he was gay and I hoped that everything would be back to normal when he was back in his own clothes. I didn’t tell her what he told me later; that on the Sunday, when everyone who had slept over had left, he had put his full maid uniform back on and worn it all day while he cleaned and tidied up. When she got back on the Sunday evening, Dolly was astonished at how tidy the place was. She was delighted that her fears had been unfounded.”

“She might have been more concerned if she knew why,” I said.

Fred nodded. “Of course, none of us knew anything about cross-dressers then,” he said, “and even if we had, we might have just accepted it. So what if your heterosexual boyfriend likes to wear women’s clothes occasionally? It isn’t necessarily a show-stopper. It might even be stimulating to a relationship, in a kinky kind of way. Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

He laughed. I couldn’t help blushing. I pressed my knees together more tightly and pulled my skirt down to cover them better. Embarrassed, I took another sip of wine.

“But your father was – is – a very particular kind of cross-dresser, isn’t he?” Fred continued. “That wasn’t apparent back then. He may not even have known himself. Certainly, his need to live and work as a humble domestic didn’t become overwhelming for another ten years.”

He paused. What he had said filled in a lot of gaps and made good sense. He got up to fetch the wine bottle and refilled my glass, chuckling slightly at the lipstick on its rim. I thanked him and took another slurp.

I realised he was watching me carefully, and I immediately guessed why.

“You’re thinking that the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree, aren’t you?” I said. He didn’t reply. “Well you’re wrong. I’m doing this…” I indicated my Ingrid face, boobs, and dress. “…for my parents’ sake. I’m cross-dressed, yes, but I’m not a cross-dresser. When they return, I’m hanging up my bra and knickers for good.”

“I think you’re doing it for Annie too, aren’t you?” he said quietly. “And you wouldn’t dress as a woman if you really couldn’t stand it, even for her, would you? I think you’re ‘a very particular kind of cross-dresser’ too. Just not the same kind as your father.”

I was on the edge of anger, but I wasn’t going to quarrel with Fred. I respected him too much, and he had always looked out for me.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” I said. “Let’s just whiz through the other two albums, shall we?”

There wasn’t a lot more to see. If my father dressed up again, he didn’t do it in any photos that found their way into my mother’s albums. GCSEs passed, then A levels. All three of them did well, and Fred and Richard went off to Cambridge. But my mother had to stay at home and settle for the local Technical College. Her father didn’t want her to go to university and leave him and her brothers to fend for themselves. But the separation was only a few miles and she and Richard saw each other every weekend. There were far fewer pictures of their college years, and there were lots of new faces. Pictures of Fred often included other men, rarely women. I didn’t comment.

Their Graduation photos came next, at the end of the third album. Then my parents’ wedding photos appeared early in the last album. They would have been about twenty-four. Fred was Best Man, of course, so officiating for Annie and me twenty-something years later must have given him a bitter-sweet feeling of déjà vu. The nuptial pictures were clearly taken by a professional. A framed copy of the one of my parents as bride and groom was also on the wall of the sitting room of our flat. My mother looked beautiful and happier than I had ever seen her. My father was very handsome; I could see no signs in his face of Rita Johnson, the worn and haggard cleaning lady he would later become.

I scanned my other relatives: my two grandfathers, both deceased, and my uncles who now lived on other continents. There was Dolly too, at the back of the group photo, beaming with happiness. Immediately after the wedding photos in the album were some taken on their honeymoon, in the beautiful Sicilian resort of Taormina. Some kind soul had taken a picture of the newlyweds in the Roman amphitheatre, and they looked as happy as could be. There were a few more photos of my father when they returned home, doing things that newlywed husbands did. He and my mother fixed up the unoccupied wing of the Manor House, and moved in. It was in a separate part of the building from his old rooms and my grandfather.

“Richard mostly kept busy taking over the family’s business interests,” Fred said, getting up to refill his drink. I declined another glass of wine. “I gather they were extensive and quite sufficient to keep him and his new wife comfortable. Ingrid was working at the local theatre, as you know, although they didn’t need her salary.”

But, as Fred explained, major changes were coming.

“I didn’t see as much of your parents in the next two years,” he said. “I had joined a start-up software house which was growing quickly on the back of the Dot-Com boom. I learned a lot, but in those days, I always seemed to be travelling, mostly to the USA, especially the Pacific North-West. So I missed the key events. Firstly your grandfather died – that was less than a year after the wedding – and your Dad inherited the estate.

“With the old man gone, there was nothing to stop your father from indulging his growing obsession. He started going to cross-dressers meetings and making contacts. Then he bought himself a set of modern maid’s uniforms and spent his days as Rita, the Manor’s new uniformed housekeeper. At first he promised always to change back into men’s clothes before Ingrid got home, but that didn’t last. Soon he was cooking their evening meal in his uniform, and then he was sitting down to eat dressed that way too. I know Ingrid hated it, but she still loved him, and she learned to tolerate his strange hobby – even when he started calling her ‘madam’. It’s amazing what you can put up with when you love someone, isn’t it?”

He paused again. Was that another comment on my relationship with Annie? If so, I didn’t rise to the bait.

“She even used what she had learned working backstage at the theatre to make him a more convincing woman,” Fred continued. “His new friends were impressed with the improvements in his feminine appearance and begged her to do the same for them. She reluctantly agreed but charged them hefty fees for her services. That led to her starting Transformations later, of course. She had the skills and the client base.”

“Was Dolly still working at the Manor? What did she make of it all?” I asked.

“No, she and Richard had a falling out over his dressing and she left, much to Ingrid’s dismay. I think Dolly blamed herself for what she thought of as his perversion. He begged her to stay. He said it would be just as it had been when he was at school; they would be two maids working together in the big house. But she couldn’t take it. She was really upset. I don’t think you’ll see any more pictures of Dolly in this last album. She didn’t come back until after your father left and Ingrid started the business. That’s when I returned as well. I think you know the rest, don’t you?”

I nodded. I scanned the remaining photos. There weren’t many more. In some, there was a blurry uniformed maid at the back of a group, or in the corner of the room. You could never quite make out her face, but you could tell it wasn’t Dolly.

“Your father converted one of the attic rooms into a ‘maid’s quarters’ and put all his feminine things up there. His men’s clothes stayed in the wardrobes and cupboards of the master bedroom, and he still slept there – in a nightdress – but Ingrid told me he used to get up at six, get dressed as the maid, and go off to do his morning duties, bringing his mistress breakfast in bed at seven-thirty. When she went in to work at the theatre, he’d start the day’s cleaning or cooking or laundry. He even started going out to the shops dressed as Rita, and bought some cheap second-hand clothes from the local charity shop.

“He worked very hard, but only at being a maid. He sold off the portfolio his father had left, so that he could devote all his time to housekeeping. Ingrid put up with this weird life because she loved him, but she wasn’t happy. That’s when she really started to…”

He paused, trying to find a diplomatic way of expressing himself. I saved him the bother.

“Turn into the humourless harridan she is today?”

He frowned, but didn’t argue.

“Then she got pregnant,” he said. “Ironic, really.”

The last few pictures in the album were my baby pictures. In a couple of them you could just make out the uniformed Nanny in the background, but again you couldn’t see her face.

“He stayed for a while after that, as you know, but eventually he decided that he was just going to ruin the lives of his wife and son. Ingrid helped him create Rita Johnson properly and put Richard Jones to rest, and he left.”

Fred fell silent. We both sat back, lost in thought. I checked my little ladies’ watch. We had been talking and drinking for nearly two hours and were both emotionally wrecked.

“I’m sorry for putting you through all that, Fred,” I said, getting to my feet and smoothing down my skirt. “I hadn’t realised it would be quite so… draining.”

“It’s OK,” he said. “It was cathartic for me. Good to get it all out in the open. You see now why I was dubious about you acting as your mother’s test subject? I was afraid it might trigger something in you that would make your life as unhappy as your father’s.”

I smiled and tried to reassure him. I wasn’t unhappy – I had Annie. Not unhappy; confused, yes, especially about the future…

I realised I had learned as much about Fred and my father as I had about my mother. In any case for the moment I would just have to be my own version of Ingrid; my own woman. I hoped I would be a happier, better-balanced lady.

* * *

The second weekend was approaching and we hadn’t heard from my parents. I didn’t know whether to be worried or not.

I had kept the weekend free and arranged with Vera to be liberated from my disguise last thing on Friday afternoon so that Steve could reappear. I was not going to be put off. I lay on her table starkers while she rubbed solvent under the edges of the prostheses.

“It seems to be taking a long time, Vee,” I said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s because the adhesive hasn’t started to break down yet, and the top layer of your skin seems to be more persistent than most people’s.”

She grunted, and tugged, and rubbed more solvent in, and tugged again.

“Oww!”

“Sorry! I’ll have to take it more slowly.”

In the end it took nearly an hour to get everything off me. Finally, Steve appeared from underneath, but a raw, red, blotchy and very sore Steve.

“I think you may have to stay as Ingrid for three weeks at a time, kiddo,” Vera said, apologetically. “That should be long enough for the prostheses to come off easily. I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

I agreed, grudgingly. I thanked her, then got dressed as myself and gathered up my Ingrid clothes. Annie was waiting for me upstairs, and made an appropriate fuss over having her husband back.

* * *

We had a great weekend. We played Mixed Doubles at the tennis centre on Saturday afternoon and went to a nightclub in the evening, with dinner and dancing. On the Sunday we drove out to the seaside at Frinton. It was bright and sunny and we even risked a brief dip in the North Sea. This was how summer days should be in England. (The nights were even better – and I got to go on top for once.) We decided that we were very lucky, even allowing for our unusual circumstances.

We scoffed scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream at a picnic table outside a little seaside café. As I refilled our teacups, a cloud came over. I shuddered. The sudden chill reminded me that I had an appointment with Vera at eight o’clock next morning.

“If I’m going to be Ingrid again – maybe for three weeks this time – I’m going to make some changes,” I said, in a quiet voice, not wanting to be overheard by the other diners.

“Ooh,” said Annie, excitedly, “such as what?”

“Clothes, for one,” I began. “I hate my grey skirt suits, and my boring hairdo. Come to that, I’m fed up with wearing a wig. I’m going to ask Sharon if she can do something with my own hair.”

“Great idea!” she said. “I’ve never understood why Ingrid insisted on dressing like a schoolmarm.”

“My theory is that she didn’t want to attract men, given her… unusual marital situation.”

“So either she didn’t want to be unfaithful to your father even though he’d deserted her, or she was just off the male sex generally…”

“Or both.”

“Yes,” Annie nodded. “So you’re going to make more of yourself, are you, New Ingrid? In that case, you should get out more too. We can go to restaurants, the cinema, the theatre. We can play Ladies Doubles, as well as Mixed.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that. I’m a lot stronger than most women. I can hit much harder. I might give myself away.”

“Not when you’re wearing your heavy Ingrid prostheses, Porky,” she pointed out. “Your plumptious boobs will get in the way of that deadly kick service of yours. You won’t be able to run as fast either, but you’ll look great in a tennis dress.”

Her imagination was motoring now.

“What about Ballroom Dancing? You enjoyed it when you were Granny. All three of us could go!”

“But we’d all have to dance with strange men. I’m not sure I could trust you,” I said, with a mock stern expression.

“What about you?” she giggled. “You were very attractive in your Garden Party outfit. I dread to think what those dance floor Romeos will make of you in a sequinned ballroom dress.”

I laughed. I couldn’t imagine being propositioned by any of those sad elderly dancers, however beautiful my dress.

“Come on, we need to get back,” she said. She passed me the last scone. “Eat up. There’s no point in worrying about your figure, is there?”

It was a good day. Just before bedtime a text came through to both my Steve phone and my Ingrid phone.

‘Wont be back this week. Keep up the good work. – K’

* * *

We woke early the following morning to make the most of my remaining time as Steve. We dragged that out as long as we could but all good things must come to an end. At eight a.m., while Annie went to pick up Dolly, I packed a little case of frumpy Ingrid clothes and underwear, and reported to Vera. The waxing was much quicker and less painful this week, and after giving me a quick rub-down with the soothing, hormone-laced lotion, she was soon gluing my prostheses on.

“So you’re going to be Ingrid for a while longer?” she said, conversationally.

“Seems like it,” I sighed. I told her about the previous night’s text. “I hope they appreciate this.”

“Look on the bright side,” the ever-optimistic Vera said. “You’ve got a beautiful young wife who loves you – in both your guises. You’re your own boss, more or less. You’re fully employed, making good money at safe, indoor work. You even live above the shop, so no commuting. Lots of people would give their eyeteeth for all that.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I said. “So I should try and make the best of it?”

“That’s the spirit… Ingrid,” she smiled. “Now come on, get your bra and knickers on and make yourself respectable.”

“Could you make arrangements to remove my body hair permanently, please?” I sighed, finally accepting the inevitable.

Vera smiled and got out her appointment book.

I went off to my office, fully dressed in my boring skirt suit, my boobs bobbing, my big bottom swaying, my heels clicking, my nylon-covered legs rasping against one another. I hated Mondays.

* * *

Sharon was delighted when I asked her to do something with my hair. As it had been a while since I’d last had it cut – when do students ever go to the barber? – she decided it was long enough for a shortish feminine hair style without needing extensions. But I would have to have it coloured to match my mother. Unfortunately Ingrid suffered from a sort of ‘reverse vanity’ and so had never had it tinted. It was therefore a mousy brown with irregular streaks of grey. This would be a challenge for Sharon to match, but surely no one would notice if the streaks weren’t in exactly the right places? My mother always wore her hair up in a bun anyway.

I reported for my makeover first thing on the Tuesday morning. I took off my suit jacket and sat down in Sharon’s chair. She wrapped a brightly-coloured protective smock around me and set to work. She began by washing, trimming and tidying my hair. At this point it suddenly occurred to me that Steve might look weird with a too obviously woman’s hairdo. Oh well, he was only going to appear for one weekend every three weeks. He could always wear a baseball cap.

Sharon started colouring individual strands of my hair with a grey spray.

“This is the opposite of what hairdressers normally do,” she said. “They’re usually asked to colour early grey hairs brown of course, but sometimes an older woman who has tinted her hair for years decides to stop all that and gradually let the natural colour come through. I call this ‘transitioning to grey’. It will probably make you look a little older. The other Ingrid – sorry, I mean Kathleen – may be cross about that.”

“I doubt she’ll care actually,” I said. “My mother isn’t vain. In any case, I want a new make-up regime to compensate, please.”

“Brilliant!” she cooed. “I’ve been dying to doll Ingrid up for years. She could make so much more of herself. We’re going to have a great time.”

“Just so long as we’re finished by eleven. I have a client session.”

“No problem,” she said, reaching for her curling wand.

Like all good hairdressers Sharon kept up a continual patter of conversation that she thought a woman of my age would find interesting – “to get the full experience,” she told me, with a wink. In general, these were not really topics to capture the imagination of a twenty-one-year-old male, but the experience was educational – as was all the time I spent with her and Vera.

The time passed quickly and I learned a lot more about babies, periods and the menopause – something due for me anytime now – than I knew before, or had ever wanted to. It reminded me of the drunken conversation at the Garden Party, so I supposed it could come in useful if I ever saw ‘The Girls’ again.

Finally Sharon sat me under her old-fashioned helmet dryer and handed me some magazines to read. I scanned the selection.

I quickly dismissed Slimming Magazine, Good Housekeeping, and Hello! Sharon saw me looking at Cosmopolitan.

“I think that’s probably a bit young for you, Ingrid,” she grinned. “Same for Marie-Claire. This is more your style.”

She picked out an old copy of Woman’s Weekly. I snorted, but took it from her. Better than nothing, I supposed. There were actually some very interesting knitting patterns…

I was engrossed in a recipe for caramel latte cake when Sharon came to say I was finished. I returned to the chair in front of the mirror and she combed me out. She then spent a long time fussing with colour charts and a huge range of expensive-looking cosmetics, before muttering something about ‘autumn colours’ and starting on my make-up.

When she eventually released me from my smock and span me around so that I faced the mirror for the first time, I nearly fell out of the chair. I still had all my mother’s features, but this was not an Ingrid I had ever seen before. A short pepper-and-salt bob of real hair had replaced the wig in its ugly bun. My make-up was professional and striking. The woman in the mirror was borderline beautiful. No, OK, must be realistic; I was just on the wrong side of that border.

I stood up, gawking, unable to take my eyes off my image. I didn’t think a baseball cap would suffice to conceal this work of art when I was Steve again. I would probably have to wear a wig just to look like myself.

“Happy with that?” asked Sharon, with a twinkle in her eye.

“‘Happy’ isn’t the word,” I said when my voice returned. “You’re a genius – especially considering what you had to work with.”

“That’s not fair to your Mum,” she smiled. “I always knew I could make her – you – eye-catching, but I admit, you’ve turned out better than even I had expected.”

I picked up my jacket and slipped into it. Today’s suit was a brown pinstripe.

“My new look doesn’t feel right with this ugly outfit,” I said. “I must do something about that.” I checked my little gold ladies’ watch. “Oh, if we hurry, we can just catch the end of the morning coffee break. I’m dying to see what the others will think.” I reached for the Woman’s Weekly. “Is it OK if I take this?” I asked.

“No problem,” she said. “It’s probably the sort of thing you should be reading now, if you want to be Ingrid properly.”

Before then I hadn’t thought about my transformation in those terms, but now I realised I did ‘want to be Ingrid properly’; with no half-measures. My lovely new hairdo and make-up had extinguished the last of my reluctance.

When we walked into the coffee lounge, there was a sudden hush, then gasps as heads turned in my direction.

“Ye Gods!” said Fred. “If it wasn’t for that ugly suit, I would never have recognised you.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but it’s Sharon who should take the credit.” Then I whispered so that no one else could hear, “You’d never dare be so rude about my outfit if I were the real Ingrid, would you, Frederick dear?”

He grinned. “You’re quite right, of course,” he said. “From now on I’ll be sure to treat you with the proper deference, Mrs McLaughlin, ma’am.”

Well if I had to be Ingrid, I wanted to be treated with respect. Then he spoilt it by winking.

I went over to get a cup of coffee from Dolly. She was back in her old role of tea lady, but no longer in a maid’s uniform. She wore a smart black dress, as befitted her elevation to Housekeeper. She could, perhaps should, have delegated this menial task to one of the younger catering staff, but she insisted. She just loved being here with us all at our morning break.

“You look amazing, Ingrid,” she said. “Are you going to stay like that?” I nodded. “You’ll cause quite a stir at the Bridge Club. I can’t wait for Harriet to see you!”

Of course Dolly knew perfectly well that I was Steve underneath, but like everyone else she had started to treat me as Ingrid all the time now.

* * *

The Wednesday Pairs at the Bridge Club was my first outing as Ingrid 2.0. I chose something from my new Marks & Spencer’s collection, a smart casual dress in dark blue with white polka dots. I wore a lace cardigan with it, nude nylons, and three-inch heels. When I walked into the church hall on Fred’s arm, heads turned as they had at coffee break the previous morning. Everyone – well everyone except Harriet – was friendly and complimentary.

I was surprised to see Jane Campanella there. She waved when she saw me and beckoned us over. She was sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room from Harriet. Her partner this evening, presumably a client, was an elderly lady called Doris, who I vaguely remembered to be rich but clueless.

“Hello, Ingrid,” Doris said as we sat down. “You look very nice tonight. New hairdo?”

“Yes, thank you for noticing. I thought it was time for a change. Are you well?”

Doris nodded and exchanged pleasantries with Fred. I turned back to Jane.

“Nice to see you again, Jane. Not playing with Harriet, I see?”

She smiled. “No, our little arrangement is over.”

If so, why was she still around? I couldn’t see why an American international, albeit in exile over here, would want to play at our little backwater club if she wasn’t being paid to, but I could hardly ask.

“I had to join your fine club to play regularly with Harriet, and even though that partnership is kaput, I’m determined to get my subscription money’s worth.” That was a somewhat unconvincing answer to my unspoken question. “I’d love a game with you one night, by the way. You and Dolly were most impressive in the County Ladies’ Final.”

“Er, yes,” I said, “that would be great.”

I couldn’t see why not, but this was one sharp lady – certainly sharp at Bridge anyway. There was no reason to think she would see anything suspicious about me, was there? Come now, no need to get paranoid, Ingrid (I mean, Steve).

At the end of the evening Fred and I came top of the East-West pairs. Jane and Doris were just above average North-South, one place above the Bairstows. Doris was delighted; it was her best result for months.

Fred was helping me on with my coat when Jane appeared.

“Good result, you two!” she smiled. “Do you have your diary handy, Ingrid? Can we fix a date?”

“Oh yes,” I said, reaching into my handbag.

I found my phone and opened up the calendar app. We arranged to play together two weeks hence. If I wasn’t still Ingrid then, I’m sure my mother would enjoy a game with Jane.

“For some reason I assumed you’d use an old-fashioned diary,” she said, watching me struggling to enter the details with my long, painted nails. “I didn’t picture you keeping your appointments on your phone.”

“That was true until recently,” I said. “But my son is a computer expert – just graduated with a First from Cambridge – and he said he was ashamed that his mother was still living in the Dark Ages.”

“I taught him all he knows,” put in Fred.

“I’d love to meet him,” she said. “Why don’t we all get together for a drink or dinner sometime?”

“That would be lovely,” I replied, “but I’m not sure when that might be. He’s just got married and I know he and my daughter-in-law are very busy.”

I couldn’t see how Steve and I could both make it on the same evening.

* * *

Annie persuaded me to go along to Ballroom Dancing that Friday, with her and Dolly. I feigned reluctance at first but I actually quite fancied the idea. I hadn’t exactly hated it at Cambridge with Rachel and had quite enjoyed myself as Dolly. Unfortunately my mother had nothing appropriate in her meagre collection of clothes, and I hadn’t been looking for evening dresses at M & S. Vera thought I might find something suitable in my size in the company’s wardrobe room, and we went along together to look. I was dubious about finding anything I’d like in a collection that was intended for cross-dressers and transsexuals.

“When I was Dolly I just did the slow, sedate dances,” I said. “I sat out when they played the faster ones like the Tango and the Quickstep. As Ingrid I’ll probably do the same. So I suppose I should be looking for a long dress, like the one I wore before?”

“Probably,” she agreed. “You’re not planning to enter any competitions, are you?”

“Hardly, but why do you ask?”

“Generally in competitions the women’s dresses are designed for specific dances. For example, if you’re doing the Tango, you’d choose a short dress, a mini actually, with a frilly skirt. For a waltz, you want something long and flouncy, with an ankle-length hem. But those are all a bit elaborate – and expensive – for a casual night out.”

“Well I’m not entering any competitions, so I just need something all-purpose, and certainly not short. I haven’t got the legs for it.”

“Actually you do, but you’re supposed to be in your late forties so you shouldn’t be showing too much.”

She was rummaging through the wardrobe, examining a rack of long dresses.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to wear a mini. I think you want something mid-calf – any longer and you might trip over the hem. Here! This is perfect!” She checked the label. “And it’s size sixteen – just right!”

“It’s a bit elaborate, isn’t it?” I said.

It was labelled ‘Teal Ballroom Smooth Waltz Dance Dress’. It had what would be a virtually skin-tight bodice for a large-busted lady like me, covered in elaborate floral decoration, and long, flowing chiffon skirts, all in a dramatic turquoise colour. Crucially, it had long sleeves. It was a cross-dresser’s wet dream – no wonder it was in our wardrobe. I loved it as soon as I saw it.

“It’s just right for Ballroom Dancing,” Vera insisted. “Now I’m sure I saw a pair of size ten high heels in teal somewhere, and a matching clutch bag.”

* * *

I needed a girdle and a proper corset and quite a lot of help from Annie, my lady’s maid, to get into the dress.

My hair wasn’t long enough for anything complicated but Vera had found a tiara, a matching necklace, and clip-on earrings, all with fake emeralds to match my dress, in our props cupboard.

“I feel horribly over-dressed,” I said to Annie as we made our way into the leisure centre sports hall.

“You look fine,” she said.

“Much better than fine actually,” added Dolly, with a grin.

“I feel like a drag queen,” I grumbled.

We caused quite a stir when we went in. Some of the people I had met when I was here as Dolly came over to greet us.

“Hello, everyone,” said Annie. “This is Ingrid, my mother-in-law.”

A couple of the women realised that she must have got married since we were last here, and congratulated her.

“Three generations of lovely ladies all together!” exclaimed Gregory, the elderly Casanova who had asked me out to dinner when I was Dolly. “But where are all the gentlemen in your family?”

“Good question!” said Annie. “I’m newly married but I can’t seem to persuade my husband to come dancing. He’s shy, which is a shame because he’s a lovely mover.”

I was glad that Annie had made it clear to all the men crowding round us that she was here for the dancing and nothing further.

“Well, it’s an ill wind…” said Gregory. “Shall we, my dear?”

He offered his arm to Dolly. She had been fully briefed and took it with an enigmatic smile. I wondered if she would accept his dinner invitation when he, inevitably, repeated it. A tall, thin, gawky-looking guy asked Annie to dance. I guessed he was in his early forties. That left me alone, a wallflower. That didn’t last long.

I must have danced with a dozen different men by the time the evening came to a close, and I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it. There was something truly sensual about being whirled round the dance floor, my beautiful dress swirling around me in cascades of turquoise chiffon. I had been afraid of falling off my high heels, but all my partners were too experienced – and strong – to let that happen.

I explained my lack of skill to everyone, after which, whenever we came to a complicated part where I didn’t quite know where my feet were supposed to go, I found they were up in the air, and then returned to earth in good order. I began to see the appeal of Ballroom – though I wasn’t sure why the men enjoyed it so much. It looked like hard work for them lifting clumsy, heavy lumps like me.

The last dance was a waltz to ‘Moon River’, and I was sorry it was all over for the evening – except that my last partner got a little too friendly. We were soon dancing cheek-to-cheek.

“One of those old fools pinched my bottom!” I said to Annie as we collected our coats and handbags from the Ladies’ Cloakroom.

“How could you tell?” she asked, with a laugh. “Your actual bottom is shielded by the best part of two inches of Fred’s finest plastic blubber, not to mention your corset and spandex girdle!”

“That’s the trouble – I didn’t feel anything! I just happened to look round at the right moment and saw him doing it.”

“So what’s the problem? You didn’t seem to mind when Peter did it to Milly last Christmas.”

“That was different. Anyway I knew Peter would feel stupid after the big reveal at midnight. The problem here is that I don’t know how many times the old lech did it before I caught him.”

She laughed. “That’s the trouble with being so attractive. He probably thinks you’re a right slut and were encouraging him! What did you do anyway?”

“I pulled my hand free to take a swipe at him. You should have seen him flinch! Then I realised I would probably kill him if I connected, so I just stormed off. What will I do if he’s here next week?”

“He’ll probably have forgotten, or he may just try his luck with some other woman.” She looked at me slyly. “So you enjoyed yourself, Mummy? You want to come again?”

“Well… OK, it wasn’t all bad, dear,” I admitted. “Maybe once more. Where’s Dolly?”

“Gregory offered her a lift home, and she accepted.”

“Oh OK, so it’s just you and me then.”

“Yes, and I can’t wait to rip that dress off you…”

“That’s no way to talk to your mother-in-law. I’ll race you to the car.”

“Not in those heels, you won’t,” she cautioned. “You’ll break your pretty neck.”

Then I noticed something. I put my hand up to my ear.

“Shit! I lost an earring when I nearly hit that old fool.”

“We’ll have to get your ears pierced before next week then.” I started to argue but she hushed me. “Ingrid’s ears are pierced,” she said. “Someone may notice if yours aren’t.”

I sighed and agreed. I finished doing up my coat and hung my handbag over my shoulder. Then a thought struck me.

“I’ll have to get another dress for next week, won’t I?” I said. “I mean, I can’t turn up in the same outfit two weeks in succession.”

“Now you’re talking like a proper woman,” she laughed. “I’d say your transformation is complete.”

 

Epilogue

Will Annie and her new mother-in-law live happily ever after?

My parents’ quest to find themselves went on. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Kathleen’s texts became less frequent, and no longer mentioned coming home. I assumed they must have found new happiness. I was pleased for them. But where did it leave me? I was now getting used to living two lives; most of the time as the lady MD of a small and very successful business; increasingly rarely, as her own son and Annie’s husband.

One evening we were in bed, relaxing after an energetic session of love-making. Her head was resting comfortably on my breasts, which she insisted on calling my ‘soft fluffy pillows’. I rarely removed my abdominal prosthesis now, but it was open at the bottom (obviously) and my wife’s nimble fingers were idly playing with what they found up there, in the hope of encouraging it to return to active service.

“Do you think I’m becoming effeminate?” I asked. It had been preying on my mind.

“No, no,” she murmured. “You’re much too feminine to be effeminate, Mummy darling.”

“Ha ha. I meant is Steve becoming effeminate? I only get to be him every third weekend now. I’m frightened I may forget how to be… er… manly.”

“Well you were pretty manly five minutes ago, despite your big boobs and frilly nightie.”

“I’m glad you thought so, but I’m referring to when we’re out and about as… us. I’m getting so used to walking and sitting like a tubby matron, all thrusting breasts and wiggling bottom. If I carry that over to when I’m Steve, people will say you married a sissy.”

She finally realised I was serious.

“Well, I suppose you do tend to be a bit… swishy… when you first change back, but that quickly wears off. What brought this on?”

“Well, after the meal the other night, I reached for my handbag to repair my lipstick, and I nearly had a heart attack when I saw it wasn’t over the back of my chair where I always leave it. I thought I’d been robbed! Then I remembered I was Steve…”

She laughed. “I remember that! You had this panicky look on your face. I wondered what was going on, then the waiter arrived with the bill, by which time you’d recovered. I forgot to ask you what had been the matter.”

“I’m worried I may be behaving like Ingrid all the time now, even when I’m dressed as Steve.”

I felt so stupid. She hastened to reassure me.

“Don’t worry, babe,” she said. “That was probably a one-off. It’s just that this way of life is still all new to you. I’m sure you’ll soon get used to switching between your two identities – like Superman and Clark Kent.”

“I hope you’re right… but you will tell me if I start prancing around like an off-duty drag queen when I’m Steve, won’t you?”

“Will do,” she smiled. “But you should just try to relax and enjoy it. I think it’s actually a brilliant arrangement.” I looked at her sceptically. “Well, if we ever experience marital difficulties, I know I can talk it over with my mother-in-law and my husband will get the message.”

I snorted. She sat up and looked at me thoughtfully.

“If you’re wondering whether you’re going to be stuck as your own mother for ever, things will have to change when we have kids, won’t they?”

“Whoa! You’re not pregnant, are you?”

“No, no, but I would like to start a family while we’re young… while Steve and I are young, I mean.”

“Sure, me too… but I don’t think I’m ready to be a father just yet.”

“Ah, but if I had a baby now, you wouldn’t be Daddy, you’d be Granny most of the time, wouldn’t you? Again!” she grinned.

There being no baseball bat to hand, I threw a pillow at her. One of our real pillows, I mean.

* * *

Looking back, I’m surprised how easy it was to take over my mother’s life, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she took me over. I suppose a certain amount of ‘personality bleed’ is inevitable if you are living as someone else day-to-day. I looked like her and I sounded like her. Through constant practice, I now stood like her and walked like her, and I reacted to any situation exactly as she would have.

I explored the rest of her belongings, at least everything she hadn’t taken with her. As far as I was concerned it was all mine now. I had earned it. I had added lots of new feminine items too: sexier underwear, nighties and hose, brighter make-up, and of course new dresses, including two more for ballroom dancing.

I had to buy lots of shoes, of course. My mother’s were all too small for me, and she was never very interested in footwear anyway. She didn’t own many pairs and had taken most of them with her. Annie and I spent a couple of hours in a shop that specialised in shoes for ladies with large feet. My choices were much fancier than anything in my mother’s shoe collection. As Annie gleefully pointed out, I was much more feminine than the other Ingrid.

She also had far more jewellery than I had realised, and hadn’t taken much with her, presumably for fear of losing valuable pieces in transit. With my newly-pierced ears I took delight in mixing and matching earrings, necklaces, and bracelets.

I was probably 90% Ingrid and only 10% Steve now – inside as well as outside. I spent my leisure time doing things a middle-aged woman would do. I had my hair done (by Sharon of course) every week. I cooked and did my share of the housework. I played Bridge and tennis.

I went Ballroom Dancing, floating round the dance floor in the arms of strong older men. (They had to be strong to lift me.) I still wasn’t in the least attracted to any of them, but I found it easy enough to tolerate their close contact and was even amused by their clumsy attempts to woo me.

Annie and I went dress shopping together. We had occasional meals out and went to the cinema and the theatre. I remembered how knitting had relaxed me when I was Dolly, so I bought needles, wool, and some patterns, and started on… another cardigan. (Stick with what you know.)

I went out for dinner with Maggie and ‘The Girls’. I got a lot of sympathy for being a singleton, but the stories the others told about their husbands made me glad I didn’t have one.

At first I was afraid I wouldn’t fit in, but I soon found I already had a lot in common with them all and relished the opportunity to continue my education as a middle-aged woman. I had a great time. We swapped recipes, make-up secrets, shopping tips, underwear disasters, medical emergencies, and outrageous sexual experiences. (I had to ask Annie to help me with anecdotes in that area. She couldn’t come to these outings, of course. They weren’t for girls of her age; only for us mums and middle-aged matrons.)

The Girls admired my new cardigan and I was proud to admit I had knitted it myself. Beth sniggered and said she thought you had to be an old lady before you were allowed to knit. She was shouted down. (I didn’t tell them that I had been a Granny when I had learned.)

I got used to being ogled by men in public places. I was aware of them watching my bottom swinging from side to side in my tight skirts, and occasionally even threw in an extra wiggle for their benefit, to enjoy their reaction. I found the attention flattering, though at the same time it made me a little uncomfortable.

I suddenly realised that this was precisely the contradictory reaction of all attractive women throughout history. My education in ‘how the other half lives’ continued apace. I got my first wolf whistle when passing a building site in town, and I loved that, while trying to appear scandalised, of course.

Kathleen’s texts remained brief and uninformative. They really only ever contained two unambiguous pieces of information: that their journey was doing everything they had hoped for in their relationship, and they weren’t coming back yet. She said very little about where they were or what they were doing, but reading between the lines I got the impression they had settled somewhere.

I wondered whether they were living as mistress and maid, rich lady and companion, sisters, or lovers. Whatever, it was pretty obvious they weren’t heading home anytime soon.

But ‘identity drift’ meant I no longer cared about being trapped in life as my mother. I’d got used to being both Mrs Jones and Mrs McLaughlin. Being a woman in the eyes of the world – even a middle-aged woman – was no great hardship. It was only a few ‘little sacrifices’ after all, and as long as Annie was happy, why should I object? And as Vera had pointed out, I was very lucky in both my career and my domestic circumstances. I even managed to think of my frumpy skirt suits as the proper uniform for my job.

* * *

As she had promised, Annie bought me a pretty tennis dress and we played together as two ladies. She had been right that my prostheses handicapped me enough to offset the advantages of my masculine muscles. Even though my ungainly physique amused the spectators as I scuttled around the court, I could still cover the ground better than most females at the club – hopefully not suspiciously so.

Sadly my generous boobs – sorry, breasts – got in the way enough to completely bugger up my service action. Steve could smash down services at 100 mph, but I, Ingrid, could only roll them in, hopefully with enough spin to cause the returner some problems.

Playing tennis was important as it was virtually the only exercise I took now, apart from ballroom dancing. I could only play squash on those weekends when I was Steve and divested of my prosthetic encumbrances, but it was no fun getting slaughtered by opponents I used to beat. That was partly because I was out of practice, and partly because spending nineteen days out of every twenty-one shaped and loaded up like a plump matron completely destroyed my reactions, to say nothing of my sense of balance.

Annie called me ‘Mummy’ most of the time now, which I had got used to, but since to all intents and purposes I had become my mother, it was important to me that she didn’t forget that I was still Steve underneath – at least at bedtime and every third weekend. The real Steve appeared just often enough for no one to suspect that my wife might have killed me for my money. I was comfortable as either of my personae, but increasingly I was happier as Ingrid. She was more real to me now; Steve had become just play-acting.

I rarely joined my old friends as Steve, and when I did I found I didn’t fit in. I no longer enjoyed boozing and talking about football, and I was rubbish at video games now too. Yes, it was partly being out of practice, but mainly I just couldn’t take it seriously anymore. I found I was comparing myself – my Ingrid self – with the pneumatic damsels in distress we heroes were supposed to be rescuing. Suddenly I found the games too violent and disgracefully sexist.

Being a middle-aged lady most of the time had changed my priorities, I suppose. In fact, I found I could barely remember what Steve used to do for fun. I seemed to recall going to a lot of parties, which reminds me: we’re going to the university alumni Fancy Dress Ball again this year – as Beauty and the Beast. Annie has been experimenting with increasingly elaborate Beast prosthetics. I tried to set a limit on it. I didn’t want to wear anything too heavy, but she laughed and said that wouldn’t be my problem. My problem would be managing Belle’s elaborate ball gown, especially the corset I would have to wear to get into it…

* * *

I now played Bridge regularly with Jane Campanella and she had become a good friend. (I heard that Harriet was disgusted when someone mentioned that Jane was playing with me because she wanted to, and not because I paid her.) We entered the County Ladies Pairs that summer, qualified easily for the Final, and won the whole event. I had never aspired to be a Women’s Bridge Champion, but I was quite proud of the achievement. It certainly didn’t take me long to quash any qualms I might have had about entering. After all I was a woman now in every way that mattered. I had no unfair advantages over the other ladies by virtue of my real sex. Bridge is a cerebral, not a physical game. I would have refused to play in the England Ladies Trials though, but entry wasn’t on offer to the winners this year.

I drove us to and from Peterborough for the Finals weekend, and Jane suggested we stop for dinner on the way back at a country pub we both liked.

“Just lock the trophy in the boot,” she said. “We don’t want it stolen – at least not till we’ve engraved our names on it!”

We settled down at a quiet table in the corner and talked about some of the hands we’d played.

“I think you had more difficult decisions than I did over the three sessions,” she said, referring to the weekend’s Bridge, “and you got most of them right. I must say it’s relaxing not having to mastermind the bidding and the play to compensate for my partner’s weaknesses. That gets so exhausting!”

I allowed myself just one glass of wine, as I was driving. Jane indulged in rather more, which might explain how she came to say what she said next.

“I’m actually enjoying my Bridge again, playing with you. I haven’t really had that feeling since I broke up with Mary Jo…”

That was her American International partner. She’d mentioned the famous Mary Jo Kupperberg many times.

“…and I know I wouldn’t have won this weekend if I’d been playing with the original Ingrid. What happened to her, by the way?”

Shit! What? What?!

“I… er… I don’t know… What do you mean ‘the original Ingrid’?”

“Come on, babe, I know you’re not the same person who played with Dolly last year.” I must have looked terrified. She rushed on. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. What could I tell them anyway? I don’t know which of you is the real Ingrid.”

“I’m the real Ingrid,” I insisted, and I realised that was true now.

“Yes… well… everyone else seems totally satisfied that you’re Ingrid, and you look exactly like her… exactly like her. It’s spooky, actually.”

“So what makes you think that I was a different person last year?”

I had cold chills running down my spine by now. This was the first time anyone had shown any suspicions…

“Your Bridge. Firstly, you’re a much better player than the previous Ingrid was, but also I’m trained in ‘Table Presence’. I notice people’s ‘tells’ – mannerisms, nervous habits, twitches, tics, what you look like when you’re thinking, and so on. That can be just as helpful in Bridge as in Poker.”

She took another sip of wine, pausing to gauge my reaction. I tried to remain inscrutable but my heart was pounding, the blood pumping loudly in my ears.

“The most noticeable difference is speed of play,” she went on. “I only played six hands against the other Ingrid last year, but I saw that when she didn’t know what to do, she just guessed and played quickly, like most amateurs. Having played many hours with you, I know you think much more deeply. You hate guessing, as all good players do. You count the hand – it’s surprising how many decent players don’t do that. It’s a bit of a chore but it pays dividends. Also, you look for any subtle indication as to how the cards lie, any straws in the wind, bids not made as well as ones that were, opening lead choices… All that means you play more slowly.”

She paused again, clearly expecting me to comment.

“I think maybe your ‘Table Presence’ might just have an overactive imagination,” I said.

“I don’t think so, sweetie. Look, I don’t care – as long as there’s nothing sinister going on.”

Did she just need reassurance? Could I do that without blowing everything?

“I can neither confirm nor deny your supposition,” I said, carefully and pompously, but the cat was out of the bag now.

“Fair enough, but I’ll still take that as a yes. So what should I call you? What’s your real name?”

“My real name is Ingrid,” I smiled. “I’m quite used to it now. I probably wouldn’t answer to anything else.”

It seemed she didn’t suspect that whoever the person under the disguise was, she was at least another woman!

“So what happened to the real – OK, original – Ingrid?” she asked. “Is she still alive?”

“Hell’s teeth, yes! You don’t think I killed her, do you?”

She smiled, then shrugged, but said nothing.

“No! No, this is all her idea,” I said. “She’s gone away with her ex…” (I specifically avoided saying ‘husband’.) “She’s hoping for a reconciliation, but Ingrid also needs to be here in person for our business, so I’m minding the store for her.”

“You must be a really good friend, to put your life on hold and take over hers.”

“We are… very close,” I said, “and I wasn’t giving up anything worth having.”

“Well, your disguise is amazing. How on earth do you do it? Plastic surgery?”

“Trade secret, I’m afraid. No one else has guessed. Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course, I won’t! No one would believe me, would they? I’ve no real evidence. Anyway I want to keep playing Bridge with you. We need to find some decent teammates and enter some national events. Then the next Trials, then…”

I might have to talk her out of that. Bridge players aren’t rock stars but I still needed to stay out of even the tiniest bit of limelight.

* * *

The business continued to flourish. Annie and I were working full time. Also we had to recruit assistants for both Vera and Sharon, which wasn’t easy, particularly for Vera whose job was highly specialist, to say the least. My main concern was finding girls who understood the need for discretion. Through Daisy I managed to find a solicitor who came up with a suitably worded ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’. One of the new girls said she didn’t realise she needed to sign the Official Secrets Act to become a hairdresser. I had to channel my mother to give her a stern look, rather than burst out laughing.

Annie’s efforts at breaking into movies were also bearing fruit. She won a contract to do make-up special effects for a new horror movie. We brought all the actors to our studio for their 3D imaging sessions, then Annie and Vera applied their prostheses on set in one of the film company’s trailers which we fitted out specially.

The Producer was very pleased, and the actors were delighted that they wouldn’t have to spend hours in make-up every day (having had to get up at four in the morning for the privilege). Fitting our prosthetics was much quicker. The downside was that they had to stay as monsters for the duration of the shoot, or two weeks, whichever was the shorter. That wasn’t satisfactory either, so Fred promised to try and find a new way of attaching prosthetics that would allow them to be removed every night. The movie hasn’t been released yet, but we’ve heard on the grapevine that Annie has a very good chance of being nominated for a BAFTA for the make-up, maybe even an Oscar.

So life was good, which of course is precisely when the unexpected happens. I was working in my office when Angie called from Reception. I quickly checked my calendar. I had no meetings planned for the rest of the day.

“I think you’d better come down, Ingrid, if you don’t mind,” Angie said apologetically. “I’ve explained to this gentleman that you don’t see anyone without a prior appointment, but he’s insistent. He says that you’ll want to meet him if I just tell you his name.”

“Which is?” I asked, sceptically.

“Treacher.”

“I’ll be right down.”

* * *

Frank Treacher turned out to be charming in person. He smiled and shook hands warmly when I stepped out into our Reception area and introduced myself. His voice was deep and refined with no trace of an accent.

I took him upstairs to my office, collecting Annie on the way. Whatever the man planned to threaten us with, my wife needed to hear it too, as a fellow Director of the company. I also asked Dolly if she could arrange some coffee and biscuits. I told her who my guest was and suggested she might bring the refreshments in herself, rather than tasking one of the junior catering staff. It might be instructive to see his reaction to meeting her properly.

“So how can we help you, Mr Treacher?” I asked when he and Annie had made themselves comfortable in my office guest chairs.

“Well, I think maybe we can help each other, Mrs Jones.”

So it was to be blackmail, was it? Anger was rising within me and must have reached my face, but my mother would not have lost her temper. She would have remained cool – frigid, in fact – so I did too. But Treacher must have read my reaction.

“A business arrangement, I assure you,” he rushed to say.

Annie and I said nothing. He took this as encouragement to continue.

“I assume from your recognition of my name, and your willingness to meet with me, that you are not unaware of my previous engagement…”

“Your hounding my grandmother, you mean?”

Annie had not been trained to maintain a stony silence when that was what was needed.

“That’s putting it a little strong, isn’t it?” he said, turning to her. “I tried never to intrude. To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether you had even spotted me.”

Annie snorted, but I suppose we might not have if George hadn’t warned us. As it was, we were onto him from the outset – not that he needed to know that now.

“But you’re satisfied there was nothing suspicious to see?” I said. “Dolly’s life was perfectly normal and innocent…?”

“Oh yes, absolutely,” he said. “How is she, by the way? I saw she had an accident. Not too serious, I trust? She was only in hospital for a couple of days, wasn’t she?”

“Indeed,” I said. “Merely for observation. A shelf collapsed and some kitchen utensils fell on her head. They just kept her in to make sure she didn’t have concussion.”

“That’s a relief,” he said. “I was terrified it might have had something to do with my following her.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Well, you can ask her yourself,” I said.

“And apologise,” Annie added.

“Come in,” I called.

Dolly came in, wheeling her trolley. The aroma of hot coffee wafted in. She saw Treacher immediately, but didn’t acknowledge him at all. He stood up.

“I think I owe you an apology, Mrs Thompson,” he began.

“Do sit down, Dolly,” I said, “and join us.”

I played waitress, pouring the coffees and passing round the biscuits, while Treacher attempted to ingratiate himself with Dolly. I thought this was ironic, given that he had never actually followed her – only me, disguised as her.

“Harriet Bairstow was my client,” he went on. “She believed there was something suspicious about your and Mrs Jones’ success at the County Ladies Pairs and engaged me to look into it. I advised her that merely following you around was very unlikely to reveal anything, but she was determined. She said that if I didn’t want to take her money she would find someone else who would. So I agreed. The private investigation business has its ups and downs, you see, and things hadn’t been going too well lately.”

He had the grace to look a little ashamed at this point. No one interrupted. We all looked at him expectantly. He paused to take a mouthful of coffee, but surrounded by three fierce, stony-faced women, he obviously felt compelled to continue.

“I kept telling Mrs Bairstow I was sure there was nothing to find, but she insisted I continue.” He turned to me. “She said she was curious about your business, Mrs Jones, and suggested I focus on that. So I started watching these premises when Mrs Thompson led me here. I eventually noticed that a lot of ordinary-looking men went in, and a disproportionate number of exotic-looking women came out.”

So that was it. This man knew enough to ruin us. It would be blackmail. Oh well, we’ve had a good run, and he certainly wasn’t going to get away with it unscathed.

“So you broke in and planted listening devices to find out more of what we do here,” I said.

He looked alarmed, as well he might.

“What? No! No, no, I…” he stuttered.

“We have video,” I said quietly. “We automatically film everything in our studios. You’re clearly recognisable, planting bugs.”

He slumped in his chair.

“I think it’s called ‘mutually assured destruction’,” Annie said. “You ruin us; you go to jail.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “How would I ruin you? I don’t want to ruin you!”

“You couldn’t,” I said. “My daughter-in-law is exaggerating.” I gave Annie a warning look. She subsided a little. “Everything we do here is completely legal. We don’t break into other people’s houses and plant bugs. But our clients require discretion – just as a Private Investigator’s do.”

He nodded. Obviously he was beginning to understand why we had never called the police after his break-in, but he was shrewd enough to realise that was still an option.

“So, assuming Dolly is prepared to accept your belated apology…” She nodded, still managing to keep a straight face. “…perhaps you would like to explain why you’re here?”

“Well, according to my enquiries – my discreet enquiries – you have the ability to change people’s appearance; that is, to make someone look exactly like someone else…?”

He paused, obviously hoping one of us would confirm his theory. None of us spoke.

“I should stress that this is partly based on the unusual number of film stars and other celebrities who have been appearing at parties and social events in the vicinity.” Pause. No response. “Even dead celebrities.”

I suppose we should have expected something like this. Still…

“And what makes you think we have anything to do with that?” I said.

“It’s just a theory,” he smiled. “Like Mrs Bairstow’s theory that another lady – a much stronger Bridge player, begging your pardon, ma’am – might have substituted for Mrs Thompson in the County Ladies Pairs Final. Of course, there’s absolutely no evidence of either theory…”

“But?”

“…but I saw several Marilyn Monroes coming out of this very building, a Judy Garland as Dorothy, a very large Shirley Temple, and at least one Margaret Thatcher. I have photographs, which no one else need ever see, especially Mrs Bairstow, and which I will happily destroy, because if my theory is true, such a service would be of great use to me just at the moment…”

Oh now we were getting to the point. I wondered what shady deal he was wanting to involve us in.

“I doubt we can help you, Mr Treacher,” I began, but he interrupted.

“…And might help me save a life,” he added hurriedly.

What?

“What?” I said.

“There have been death threats to a local dignitary. I’ve been asked to help. It occurred to me that if you were able to disguise a skilled operative as this… dignitary…”

“He could act as a decoy, and the police – presumably aided by you – might be able to apprehend the culprit?”

(That was a phrase my mother would have used, I noticed. Steve would have said, ‘catch the bad guy’.)

“She.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The threats were made against Honoria, the Lady Mayoress, to persuade her husband to cooperate.”

“And do what?”

“No idea. I suspect it’s something to do with council contracts, or planning permission, or something. The Mayor has only told me what he thinks I need to know. He’s been to the police, of course, but he had no concrete evidence – the threat was verbal, delivered to him alone in a dark corner of a multi-storey car park. So all the cops could do was advise him on improving his home security, and maybe send a couple of extra constables along to any public functions he and his wife were due to attend.”

“So how did you get involved?” I couldn’t help asking. I was fascinated with the whole situation.

“He and I go way back. I helped him out a while ago when someone had managed to get some photographs of him with… someone he shouldn’t have been with. The family’s stinking rich, but the money’s hers, not his. He couldn’t afford a messy divorce, politically or personally. To be honest, I think he may be a bit of a crook himself.”

He stopped, hoping for a response. I needed to think. I turned to stare out of the window. I could hear Annie crunching chocolate biscuits and fidgeting.

“Supposing we were able to do what you’re asking, disguise someone as Honoria,” I began tentatively, “do you have a ‘skilled operative’ in mind?”

“Well, no, not really,” he admitted. “I’m pretty much a one-man-band, and tough lady detectives don’t grow on trees, as it were. It’s kind of an unsuitable job for a woman. Hell, it’s an unsuitable job for most men.”

Annie snorted again. Dolly laughed.

“If we were to provide such an… agent, it would be expensive,” I said.

“I imagine it would.”

“Very expensive. I mean, there would need to be – what would you call it? – danger money too.”

“Money’s not a problem,” he said confidently. “The Mayoress is frantic. So’s the Mayor, surprisingly. It wouldn’t surprise me if he would be glad to get rid of her, so I can only assume Honoria has been very careful with her will.” He chuckled.

“Let me think about it,” I said, getting to my feet, and extending my hand.

He took it. We shook.

“It’s been fascinating to meet you, Mr Treacher.”

“Frank, please. May I call you Ingrid?”

“I’ll let you know my decision by this time tomorrow,” I said, ignoring his request to be friends.

“Thank you for listening anyway,” he said. He took out his business card and placed it on the desk. “There is some urgency about this. Honoria is scared to go out.”

I accompanied him to the front door and watched as he got into a new BMW 1-series. So he’d upgraded from the little blue Fiesta. He must have made a fortune out of Harriet, even more than Jane did.

I went back up to the office. Annie and Dolly were still there, talking excitedly. They stopped when I came in, and turned to me.

“I hope you’re not thinking of doing this,” Annie began.

“It’s much too dangerous, Steven,” said Dolly.

Being called ‘Steven’ threw me for a moment. I had only been ‘Ingrid’, ‘Mrs Jones’ or ‘Mrs McLaughlin’ for weeks now.

“Honoria is tall, about my height,” I said. “She’s actually a little slimmer than I am; I mean, than my mother is.”

“You might get shot!” Annie said.

“She’s got lovely clothes,” I said dreamily. “You should have seen the frock she was wearing at the Garden Party! And her hat!”

“Or kidnapped, and then shot!” she persisted.

“It’s a lot of money – you heard him. We could practically write our own cheque.”

“You can’t do it!” Dolly said.

“Why not?” I said. “Look, you two, this girly stuff is all very well, but don’t forget there’s a man under the dresses and the lingerie and the make-up. I need a little excitement now and then. Being Ingrid has become routine. I need a new challenge.”

“You could enter some dance competitions,” suggested Annie.

“Or you could take up embroidery or crochet, now you’re so good at knitting,” suggested Dolly, who might not have been entirely serious.

“I mean a challenge beyond dancing and dressmaking. Besides…”

“Besides, what?”

“I think I’d make a great Mayoress. The Mayor may not want the real Honoria back afterwards!”

Author’s Afterword

I’ve always wondered: if you find yourself living someone else’s life, looking just like them and having to react to everything just as they would, what would that do to you? Would it stop being just an impersonation? Would their personality take you over? Would you actually become them?

This seemed to happen to Steve when he was stuck as Dolly for a month. It’s not surprising, is it? If you dress as an old lady; if you have an old lady’s face and body; if everybody – even your family and friends – treats you as an old lady; and if you spend your work and leisure time doing only things that an old lady would do… Well, it wouldn’t be surprising if you became an old lady in your mind too.

It seems to be happening to Steve even more now he is living as Ingrid, perhaps indefinitely. As a hard-working lady CEO she has no time for the frivolous pastimes Steve used to like – pub crawls, sport, video games. She even finds the “muscly barbarian rescues nubile, big-busted maiden” type of video game unsavoury and sexist – just as his mother would.

Of course, Ingrid 2.0 is a Steve-ified version of Ingrid, as shown by her desire for a new hairdo, brighter make-up, and more modern clothes (though still only ones suitable for a middle-aged matron, not a young woman of Steve’s actual age).

It sounds like she won’t miss being Steve, and would be content to be Ingrid full-time. (I wonder what would happen if she were invited to a social function over a weekend when she was supposed to be Steve? Would Steve have to skip a weekend; i.e. remove the prosthetics for hygiene purposes, then put them straight back on again?)

I also wonder whether it has occurred to Annie that she fell in love with Steve, not Ingrid. If Ingrid’s personality takes him over, how would it affect their relationship? Would she continue to see Steve underneath? Or maybe she will continue to love Ingrid 2.0 because of her fetish for transforming her husband? Talking of which, she has threatened to make him spend time as her wife. When might that happen?

The big cliff-hanger is Treacher’s offer. It sounds very much like Steve might take it. He is clearly attracted to the excitement of another transformation, not to mention the danger. Not many twenty-year-old men get the chance to be the Mayoress of their home town; to become a rich woman, with beautiful clothes, a big house, exalted status… oh, and a villainous husband too. What’s not to like? I can just see him in a posh frock declaring the village fete open, can’t you?

Happy trails,

Susannah

P.S. Coming soon: The Earl Maid