CHAPTER 5
The next morning was remarkably normal, Mother up early to bring us a cup of tea in bed, clearly checking my whereabouts. Pete had slept straight through, without nightmares, and I woke as before with an arm across me and dribble down the back of my neck.

My mother, as usual, was right. I really had no choice except to come out, as I would be leaving John behind at some point, and unless I stayed indoors all my life I would have to ‘face my public’. The only real choice would be to pick a moment for least harm, and best benefit, and the thought of getting one over on little miss Chesty was an attractive one.

That was another little moment, remembering Dave’s explanation of what she was up to. John hadn’t even noticed her tits, and here I was, envious as all hell of them! Funny world.

I arranged to have my lectures covered on the day of the first hearing, and my mother arranged a visit from a mobile hairdresser she knew. My mad mop passed as a woman’s hairstyle, sort of, while not being too out of place on a chap, but it was time to start the process of finding my own look, my own style.

Ginny was a stick-thin redhead, far from natural I was sure, and I was soon having what my mother insisted was my first proper wash. For god’s sake, it’s only dead keratin, there’s no ‘life’ to it by definition! Mind you, having my head massaged in that way was rather nice. Perhaps I could train Pete…..

She cut remarkable quantities of hair off my head while leaving it still somehow looking full, and layered it down to my ears so I looked as if the top of my head was wider than the bottom. Some slight waviness gave me a look I really liked, and I resolved to use her again.

“It makes your features look smaller, Laura” Ginny told me, “More feminine”

It seemed I was already out in several places. I had assumed the neighbours must already know, as I had been in and out en femme, but it was still an occasion for nerves. Ah well, today was the day.

I had a sudden thought, and after the noise of the drier had finally ceased I asked my mother a question that had surprised me with its appearance.

“Mum, what was Mrs Hall’s name?”

“Elspeth, dear”

“Do you think Pete would mind if took it as a middle name when we swear the Deed Poll?”

“I think he would be honoured, my darling”

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Mum drove me into Southampton so that I could stay as elegantly non-glowing as possible. I had gone for the full powersuited business lady look, in a charcoal skirt and jacket over black stockings and patent black courts. On Mum’s advice, I added a dramatic flash to the ensemble with a bright scarlet blouse with a large bow at the neck. Ginny had done my nails as well as the hair, and they were set up to match the blouse, as were my lips, courtesy of Mum. No accessories beyond a watch and a plain briefcase in place of a handbag. Powerful, efficient, strong yet fully feminine.

We had arranged with Howard to be there an hour or so before the meeting so as to have a last look at the allegations, and the plan was that the hearing would convene while I waited in an adjoining office until called for. There were two other representatives from the faculty, Professor Harriet Smythe and Doctor Sam Cordice. Both had been briefed on my situation, and I felt just a little exposed beneath their gaze. Sam just nodded. “Yup, works for me”

Harriet leaned in closer. “Has anyone ever told you, dear, those are SERIOUSLY fuck-me shoes? Wherever did you find them?”

I nearly passed out with relief at that point.

Things began on time, and Howard had rigged up a speaker phone so we could hear what was being said in the next room. It was a dreadful story. Young Abigail, not long out of the parental nest and inexperienced in the Ways of Wicked Men, had come to the Big City from her tiny village of thatched cottages and milkmaids, where small children fed ducks with organic wholemeal bread, or something, all for the love of English literature. Virginal and innocent, she had been unprepared for the frenzy of lust unleashed in her direction from the testosterone-crazed lecturer. He kept staring at her chest, which she knew was unnaturally large, so she always wore clothes like today’s baggy sweater, cause she didn’t like to think of things like that, being so innocent, like. And virginal, of course.

But even so, he had been making inappropriate references to her chest, and then she noticed her marks were dropping, so she had asked the evil sex-hormone-filled lecturer what was wrong. That was when he suggested that there might be a way to sort it out, but she was too shy to spell it out in front of people, but it definitely would have involved something utterly non-virginal and far from innocent, so in extremis she had finally turned to the Faculty for help and protection from this evil would-be rapist. And so on at great and inventive length. I had great difficulty in not collapsing with the giggles.

Harriet was first in. “Miss Thorpe, we have taken the liberty of having your submitted work assessed by other tutors. They actually have come to a pretty similar level of mark to each other”

“But higher than Doctor Evans, yes?”

“Er, no. Dr Evans seems to be quite generous”

I was fascinated by this. Could they keep up a gender-neutral reference to me throughout?

Sam was next. “You have a very extensive Facebook page, Ms Thorpe”

I am sure I caught a very, very faint “oh shit”

“Let me see…..four down, eleven to go on the Rugby 1st XV front…first prize in the Wet T-Shirt Competition at the New York/New York nightclub…I could go on”

“Yebbut, that don’t change what he wanted me to do, does it?”

Harriet said “Howard, do you think we should ask Dr Evans to step in for a while to address these allegations?”

“Certainly, Harriet. The good Doctor is waiting next door, I believe”

I was pacing when Howard came into my room. “Virginal, sweet and innocent! Howard, would you care to make a small wager with me?”

“Certainly, my dear”

“Five pounds says she uses the C-word”

“You are on”

I came into the room from behind Abigail ,and there was a fine moment of theatre as my heels left the carpet by the door and hit the wood of the parquet flooring nearer the desks. Abigail span in her chair, and I saw she was wearing a big floppy jumper, a long denim skirt, and no make up at all. Still couldn’t disguise her chest, though.

Tick, tock, tick, tock as I swayed up to the desks and took a seat, legs properly crossed at the ankles, knees tilted demurely and just so to one side. I folded my hands together on the desk so that the scarlet of my nails couldn’t be missed, after pushing a purely imaginary stray hair back into place. Abigail’s gaze had tracked me like a gun sight as I strutted across the office, her mouth hanging open in a particularly bovine way. Well, it would be, of course, it went with the udders. She managed to close her jaw and after a few false starts to speak. Rant, really.

“What the fucking hell is this?”

Harriet looked up over her glasses in that archetypical menacing-manager way. “Oh, didn’t you know? Your evil would-be rapist is a transsexual who is not only not interested in women sexually, but is actually engaged to an ex-soldier. I believe that to be the case, Laura?”

“Yes, indeed, Harriet, he proposed to me last week.”

“Oh you fucking cunt!”

“Howard…?”