You meant it for evil - 07 by Maeryn Lamonte “One-thirty will be fine as long as you don't feel I'm wasting too much of your time.” “No I think that having started this little trip down the rabbit hole we should see it through to its end. I'll have a car ready to pick us both up at the main entrance at one-thirty then. Until then, there's a deli at the end of the road if you wouldn't mind getting us both a sandwich. Something with a bit of meat in for me if you don't mind.” He showed me to the door and I stepped out into the waiting area with an overwhelming sense of foreboding over how this was all going to turn out.

-oOo-
The receptionist smiled at me expectantly, so with some effort I pulled myself together.

“Could you tell me where the loos are please?”

She gave me directions and I set off for some essential King Canuting. It was there I discovered how inconvenient some fashions can be as squirming out of a pencil skirt in a tight cubicle would probably have put even Houdini's skills to the test.

Still ten minutes later and feeling a fair bit fresher and more human, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and checked my appearance. A quick brush through the hair restored some semblance of order to a naturally chaotic style. Ten more minutes with powders and brushes didn't seem to make a particularly noticeable difference to my face, but I had to show willing if I was going to learn what most women my age had already been doing for several years.

I checked my watch. Eleven o'clock; two and a half hours to kill. One last check all over to make sure I had my blouse tucked in, my skirt straight and no embarrassing trail of toilet paper clinging stealthily to some part of my anatomy, and I headed back out to the reception.

Further directions from the receptionist led me out of the office and down the street towards the deli. It wasn't going to take me two hours to buy a sandwich though, so I looked around for some other way to pass my time. I tried wandering around some clothes stores, but I was too nervous about what Sharon's boss had in mind to focus, so in the end I bought a paper and found a coffee shop where I sat and worked through the sudoku and crossword over a drink or two, checking my watch every ten minutes or so until after an hour I was too agitated to sit still any longer.

I headed back to the deli and, from its disappointing selection of wares, bought a couple of sandwiches and a couple of bottles of spring water. I had to ask for a carrier bag, and it took them several minutes searching before they unearthed an old one from somewhere. Not a shop I planned on visiting again, quite possibly as much to their satisfaction as mine.

I still had an hour to wait and I spent it walking around the neighbourhood. The skirt hobbled me somewhat meaning that I couldn't get anywhere fast, so I tottered around at random, making it as far as my old place of work before turning back. I saw one or two familiar faces stepping in and out through the front door but I didn't approach the office myself. I mean what would be the point?

I was five minutes early returning to the law firm and, predictably, five minutes later a car pulled up just as Mr Anderton-Buckley walked out through the entrance. I think the car may have been a Jaguar or a Daimler, I'm not sure. I do remember it was large, black and shiny, and had light beige leather seats. My host held the door for me then headed round the other side to climb in himself.

As the car pulled away, I rummaged in my hard earned carrier bag and pulled out the drinks and sandwiches.

“The choice is tuna and sweetcorn or chicken salad, I'm afraid they didn't have a great selection.”

He accepted the tuna and a bottle of water with thanks.

“I thought we'd start off by going to the nightclub where you say you met this unusual girl. What was its name?”

I told him and gave the driver the address more or less, then sat back as we eased our way through the inevitably slow city traffic. My companion tore open his sandwich and started to eat so, feeling somewhat self-conscious about dropping crumbs in the spotless interior, I joined him. He didn't say anything during the journey, his expression set and unreadable, and I didn't feel it was my place to try and make small talk, so we passed the time in an uncomfortable silence, broken only by my sigh of relief when we arrived.

Mr A-B helped me out of the car then leaned in to talk to the driver.

“I expect we'll be done in about three quarters of an hour or so. I'll call when we need you.”

With that he turned towards the rather solidly closed doors of the club and knocked.

On the third and increasingly louder and more persistent try the door opened a crack.

“We're closed. Come back at seven thirty.”

“Please inform your manager that there is a solicitor from the Home Office standing on his doorstep who would rather not wait until seven thirty.”

The door closed again and Mr A-B gave me an apologetic smile.

“There are certain advantages in holding my position. I try not to abuse the privilege, but sometimes the temptation is just too great.”

Sure enough, less than a minute later, the door opened again to reveal a rather worried face that I recognised. He looked at my companion then past him to me and he turned an even whiter shade of pale.

“I'm sorry, what is this about?”

“I just have a few questions for you, I hope it's not inconvenient. May we come in?”

I don't think the entire club's quota of bouncers could have withstood Mr Anderton-Buckley's brash, confident manner. The manager opened the door and bade us enter. He led us through the main room, turned shabby in the full light of day, to his office. Once the door was closed and we were all seated around his desk he marshalled enough courage to speak again.

“Look if this is about last Friday, we were within our rights...”

“Yes, last Friday. Perhaps you could tell me in your own words exactly what did happen.”

And he did; no further hint or suggestion needed. I stayed silent throughout, but from the way he kept glancing over at me, it was evident that my presence worried him to some degree. He told of Mary, the redhead with the astonishing green eyes. He told of the previous Friday when he had been informed of a disturbance in the club and had came down from his office to find Mary sitting with me, crying her eyes out. He told us of his instructions from the owner, reluctantly carried out, to see us to the door.

“And did this green eyed girl and my client leave together?”

“Yes. The other girl was very upset and your er client was holding her by the shoulder as they walked away from the club.”

“Do you remember if the other girl visited your club before last Friday?”

“I don't come out of my office except on the rare occasion when there is something that the bouncers cannot handle by themselves, so I'm afraid I cannot say for certain. I do remember some of the staff talking about her after the incident through. It seems she was here the previous Friday as well. Left early and alone, but with some sad no-hoper chasing after her.”

“Do you think these bouncers would recognise the man who chased after her the previous Friday?”

He shrugged.

“It's unlikely. The club is dark and there are many people who come here. Also the staff who work here are generally more interested in the girls who come in. I could ask, but I don't hold out much hope.”

“Thank-you, I'll have a driver bring a photograph around later when your evening staff are in. You've been most helpful Mr...?”

Mr A-B stood and extended his hand.

“Richards, Derek Richards.”

Mr Richards was on his feet and shaking hands with evident relief on his face, having decided that this was not about him or his club. I followed the two men in standing and allowed myself to be herded to the front door.

As he opened the door for us to leave, Mr Richards reached inside his jacket and drew out a couple of tickets.

“Miss, I'm so sorry for the way you were treated the other night. These are complimentary gold passes for you and your friend. Free entry and drinks, please accept them with my compliments.”

I could barely stammer out a thank-you as he thrust the gaudy pieces of card into my hand. Mr Anderton-Buckley tried and failed to suppress a smile as he led me away.

“If you ever decide to use those I'd keep an eye out for Mr Richards there; I think he's rather smitten.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Well you are an attractive young girl you know. I'd watch him though, honest enough I would say, but I'd wager he's more interested in you as a conquest than a companion.”

The smile grew as he considered my shocked expression.

“I'm a student of human nature my dear. That's most of the reason why we're out here checking out your ridiculous story; you're don't strike me as the sort to make things up, unbelievable as your tale is.

“Now this green eyed girl of yours, you said she lived nearby?”

“Yes, this way. It's about ten minutes walk.”

It was closer to fifteen with my tight skirt, and everything looked so different in the daylight that I nearly missed it even so. Mr A-B rang for the building supervisor and pulled his bullish solicitor act to secure us entrance.

Yes the green eyed girl lived there, no the supervisor hadn't seen her since Friday, but then that wasn't unusual as he rarely saw the tenants unless there was a problem with an apartment, no we couldn't go into the room unless we had a warrant. He didn't reckon on Mr Anderton-Buckley's astonishing powers of persuasion though. I don't know how he did it, but he managed to seed just enough doubt into the supervisors head that he agreed to take us up for a quick peek.

The look on his face when he opened the door was priceless. The apartment was bare except for scorch marks on the carpet where I remember Mary's tormentor disappearing; of Mary's furniture there was no trace.

“There is no way anyone could have shifted this lot without my knowing.”

Mr A-B clapped him on the shoulder.

“Never mind old chap, you have her deposit and her outstanding rent to make repairs and a flat like this will go in no time.”

We left the man still gawping at the empty rooms and headed back down the stairs. A quick phone call on the way down had the car pulling up outside as we exited the building.

“Two for two my dear. Now I wonder if you'd mind if we had a look at your, that is to say Ken's, apartment.”

I gave the driver the address in Docklands and we eased back into the slow London traffic.

-oOo-
Getting past the supervisor at my old place was just as straightforward. A preliminary investigation into the suspected disappearance of Mr Stanton to decide whether or not to involve the police. No, no warrant, but your co-operation would be greatly appreciated, thank-you. Like I said, Clive Anderton-Buckley was a force of nature and not readily withstood by mere mortals. The supervisor led us up several flights of stairs, part of the reason why I as Ken had managed to keep relatively fit, and sorted through a large bunch of keys as we approached a familiar door.

“Tim's not the tidiest of people so I'm afraid you'll have to take the place as you find it.”

I tried to keep my voice low so that the supervisor couldn't hear, but he gave me an odd look as he finally found the correct key and let us in.

Tim, it seemed, had taken full advantage of my absence over the last week and a half. Washing up was piled high in and around the sink and the living room was strewn with discarded clothes. I led the way through the mess to my old room and eased the door open. The familiarity of the place was oddly disorienting, as though I were remembering someone else's life.

The room was as I had left it. Almost. The bed was not as neat and one drawer and a cupboard door were very slightly open.

“It looks like someone's been in here.”

Mr Anderton-Buckley stepped past me and looked around.

“OK, what can you tell me.”

I started to describe the room — what I kept in which drawer and cupboard — all the while opening each one to show him. Someone had rummaged through all my clothes, but since I had little of value and none of it left here, there was nothing missing.

“Your laptop?”

Mr A-B indicated a rather decrepit machine sitting on a desk.

“Yes, it takes an age to boot up so if you want to see what's on there you'd better turn it on now. The battery's kaput too so make sure it's plugged into the mains. Password's butterfly with a three instead of an e when you get that far.”

He turned the machine on and turned back to the room while the valves warmed up.

“Anything else worth mentioning?”

There was something I was reluctant to admit to, but now of all times was a time for full disclosure.

“On top of the wardrobe over there. There's a suitcase.”

He reached up and lifted it down with far less effort than I had ever managed. I dialled the combination into the padlock and stood back for him to inspect the contents.

“My guilty secret.”

He opened the case and looked in on my stash. Silk and satin, chiffon and lace. Two pairs of heels, now several sizes too large for me. It was a respectable collection, courtesy of ebay and several charity shops far enough away from here that the likelihood of my returning was remote. Mr Anderton-Buckley raised an eyebrow in my direction and I felt my face burn itself a particularly vivid shade of lobster.

“For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be a girl. Most of my life I've tried to tow the party line and be one of the lads, but there have been times when it's all been too much and I've needed to let her out. I fitted a bolt to the door so that I wouldn't be disturbed while I dressed. It was always a very private thing, something that I was ashamed of. Sharon and Phil know nothing about it and I'd appreciate it if things could stay that way.”

He held up a dress which was evidently several sizes too big for me but wouldn't have been ideal for Ken, then folded it back into the case, closed it and relocked the padlock. The computer had creaked its way to full consciousness and was awaiting instructions.

“What did you say the password was?”

“B-U-T-T-3-R-F-L-Y. Old hacker trick to disguise words from simple text recognition; makes the password slightly more secure without making the password any harder to remember.”

“Interesting choice; symbol of transition.”

He typed it in and waited as the desktop came into existence one icon at a time. He opened the web browser and started hunting through the bookmarks.

“You could log onto your bank and transfer your funds to another account.”

It was a strange offer coming from him. Was he testing me? It didn't matter anyway. I pulled open a drawer and dropped what looked like a calculator onto the desk.

“It's a card reader. To log onto my bank account I need to stick my debit card in the top, type in the PIN and then type the code that gives meinto the website. Mary took my wallet which had my debit card in so I've no way past the security. It doesn't matter much anyway. I'm down to my last couple of hundred quid until pay day which isn't due till next week.”

“Anything else on here that might help me believe your story?”

So for the next ten minutes I gave him then penny ha'penny tour of the contents of my aged digital companion. There wasn't much to show since I've usually had enough of computers by the time I've finished a day's work and the geriatric slowness of this particular fossil didn't encourage me to develop much of an interest at home. Pretty much it was financial records, a few personal letters and a directory full of photographs. Not even any music. Mr A-B pulled a memory stick out of his pocket and copied one or two photos of Ken onto it, presumably for use with the club later.

He nodded his head thoughtfully then shut the machine down. He offered me an apologetic shrug then lifted the suitcase back onto the wardrobe before ushering me to the door.

We walked down to the main entrance in silence. There he thanked the supervisor profusely and led me out to the car-park and the waiting car

“One last call to make.”

He gave the driver the address of my former employer and we sat back to watch the traffic. I checked my watch and was shocked to find that it was already nearly three o'clock. I looked at my fellow passenger with pang of guilt.

“You're giving me an awful lot of your time...”

“The price of thoroughness my dear. I find that generally it is worthwhile.”

It took twenty minutes to cross the city again during which time he offered no conversation and I felt anything I might say would be pointless and an invasion of his privacy. His deeply thoughtful expression was playing havoc with my nerves and I longed for some indication of what was going through his mind.

We stopped outside my old office and he thanked our driver, telling him to take the car back and that we would walk from here. He strode purposefully towards the front entrance with me dancing a nervous two step to keep up. He held the door for me — a gesture that I greatly appreciated — then guided me gently to the main reception.

“Could you tell Mr Patterson that Clive Anderton-Buckley is making one of his unannounced visits please?”

The receptionist put the call through and in less than a minute the familiar bulk of my former boss stepped into the reception area, arms held wide in welcome and a delighted smile on his face.

“Clive! To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Richard, so good to see you.”

For a moment it seemed that the two were going to embrace, but at the last second British decorum overruled and they brought their hands together in a firm double-handed handshake instead.

“Sorry to drop in on you out of the blue like this old chap but I have a favour to ask. Could we step into your office for a few moments and I'll explain?”

Mr Patterson led us through to his office and buzzed through for a pot of tea. His dislike of coffee was legendary; so intense that he wouldn't offer it to his guests. He even refused to allow it to be brewed or consumed in the public areas of the office. Anyone who was so set on drinking coffee was relegated to a poky storeroom at the back of the building at break times along with the smokers.

The two men exchanged pleasantries, asking after one another's families until the tea arrived at which point Mr Patterson reached for the pot.

“Shall I be mother? How do you take it my dear?”

He was looking at me as he said this. I remembered this test.

I sniffed gently. Assam tea has a distinct perfume and I knew Mr Patterson held the firm opinion that it should be drunk with lemon and not milk. As Ken I had never much cared for citrus in my tea, but aware of the change in my palette since my transformation I thought it worthwhile experimenting.

“Could I try it with a squeeze of lemon please?”

From the looks, one of surprise and delight, the other more measured and appraising, I felt I had scored a point. Mr Patterson offered me a cup, the dark liquid already turning pale from the effects of the lemon, and turned to his friend.

“I see you are travelling in more discerning company these days. I don't suppose she has persuaded you to abandon your Philistine ways? No? Oh well milk it is then and another perfectly decent cup of tea ruined. Now my dear fellow, it's about time you told me what this is about.”

I sipped at my drink, which was surprisingly flavoursome if a little bitter. I added a half teaspoon of sugar and tried again. Much better. Mr Anderton-Buckley meanwhile was marshalling his thoughts before directing them into the fray.

“It's in regard to an employee of yours; a Mr Kenneth Stanton.”

“Oh yes Ken, we're quite worried about him. It seems that no-one has seen him in over a week. I was considering approaching the police on the matter.”

“Well it turns out that one of my employees is a friend of Ken's and has prevailed upon me to investigate the matter as a precursor to doing just that. She has proven to be a level headed young woman in the past so I'm inclined to take her seriously. She introduced me to this young lady who has made some quite remarkable claims, which I would appreciate your humouring me in testing.

“Now, notwithstanding her awareness of your peculiar aberration in the way you take your tea, can I ask whether or not you know my companion, if she has ever worked in this building. If in fact she has ever been in this building to your knowledge?”

Mr Patterson perched a pair of half-moon spectacles on his nose and subjected me to a close scrutiny.

“I shall say quite categorically that I have never seen this young lady before today.”

Mr A-B turned to me.

“And what can you tell me about my friend Mr Richard Patterson?”

“Apart from his penchant for Assam tea with lemon? It's really very nice by the way, you should at least try it once.”

I thought hard and decided on a couple of idiosyncrasies that I remembered about the old man and which I was pretty sure he hadn't demonstrated since we'd arrived. I shared them with both men looking at me as though I were some circus animal doing a particularly clever trick.

“Extraordinary! How could you possibly know that about me?”

“The how will have to wait a while old friend, but I wonder if you would be good enough to lend me a few of your staff. Anyone who worked with Ken or who was friends with him, if we could speak with each one individually, only for a couple of minutes each.”

So for the next half hour I continued my performing monkey act as, one after another, my former friends and colleagues were brought before me, asked whether or not they recognised me, then asked to confirm whatever small details of their lives I was able to tell them. In most cases verbal confirmation was unnecessary as the expressions on their faces spoke more loudly and truthfully than any voice.

“Well I must say! I hope your going to explain all this now Clive.”

Clive glanced at me and I shook my head very slightly. He got the message.

“I'm sorry Richard, there's a degree of attorney-client privilege involved here. What I will say is that you can stop worrying about Ken. I'm afraid he won't be returning to you., but I can tell you that he is alive and well. He regrets leaving you so abruptly and without notice, but circumstances have left him with little choice in the matter.

“Your help has been invaluable this afternoon, and I greatly appreciate it. If ever there's a time I can tell you more I will, but for now we have to be getting back to the office. I suddenly have an awful lot of paperwork to do.”

The two men stood and shook hands. I did likewise and allowed myself to be guided towards the door leaving a highly bemused accountant bobbing in our wake.

-oOo-
Mr Anderton-Buckley walked slowly, I like to think out of deference to me and my tight skirt and highish heels, but it could just as easily have been because he was so deeply lost in thought. The silence was palpable, the uncertainty an almost tangible agony. I endured it for five minutes before the cracks emerged.

“Mr Anderton-Buckley?”

“Clive please, that surname is so cumbersome.”

“Clive then. Dare I offer a penny for your thoughts?”

He looked up at me for a long surprised moment then twisted his mouth into a rueful half smile, snorting out a sort of brief half laugh.

“You know I have a daughter of about your age? At least your apparent age. If I needed any proof at all I should have found it in the way you speak. The last time I heard her talking with her friends I found myself wishing for subtitles.

“You'll excuse me but I don't think I can call you Ken; there never was a name less appropriate to the person, whatever its etymology. Which I must hasten to add does not mean I disbelieve your story; this afternoon's little expedition into the unknown has quite thoroughly washed away the mountain of doubt your rather amazing story deposited in my mind this morning; but looking at you now I cannot see you as anything other than a young girl and Ken is hardly an appropriate name. You don't by any chance have an alternative?”

“I've been thinking about it off and on between crises over the last few days. The old man I met in the park suggested a name to me which has been growing on me since. Elizabeth. It means...”

“Beloved of God. An interesting choice and, given who suggested it, wholly appropriate. Yes I can see you as an Elizabeth. And for a surname, because you will need one of those as well, may I suggest Raeburn? Less for its meaning than for what else it sounds like.”

“And middle name Mary. I'd like to remember the person who made this possible. Do I take it then that you will help me?”

He shook his head, but slowly; disbelief rather than disagreement.

“God help me, yes I will. It's going to take some creative paperwork, but you will have your new identity. Birth certificate, passport, Nation Insurance number, all those sorts of thing. I'm going to have to come up with an explanation for Ken's disappearance as well and that won't be so easy. We don't have such a thing as a witness relocation program in this country, but there is provision within the law for someone to be given a new identity in circumstances where their lives may be at risk otherwise. I think it best if I concoct a story that puts Ken in that position. That way I'll be able to tell your family that you're safe and well but cannot contact them. I should also be able to use it as a context to create your new identity and, since it will be essential to separate the two sets of paperwork so no-one can link you to your old life, it won't be evident that your gender and age have changed.”

I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I hadn't been aware of it until that moment, so insidiously had it eased into place, so slowly had it grown, but now that it was gone I felt a new lightness suffuse me, as though I might float away on a giddy cloud of sudden and unexpected joy. There must have been something of it visible on my face because Clive smiled.

“And that just about makes it worth the effort. It also provides me with the last proof if I actually needed it to believe you because I don't think anyone could fake what I've just seen in your face.”

We had arrived back at the law firm and, as before, he held the door for me to step inside. Back at his office he asked his PA to call for Sharon and to bring us a fresh pot of tea. They both arrived at the same time, while we were going through a few of the details he needed to create my new fiction. From information I'd provided he had most of my life and accomplishment as Ken on his computer screen and was making notes and talking through them as he did so.

“Full driver's license, alright we'll give you one of those. GCSEs and A levels, I think we'll mark you up a grade in most of them to take account of the dumbing down of the curriculum. I'm afraid there's not much I can do about the degree; there's no way anyone would believe you were twenty-one from your appearance, and there's no reason to wish away three years of your life in any case. If you want those letters after your name, you're going to have to go through it all again. Ah hello Sharon, I'd like you to meet a friend of yours: Elizabeth Raeburn.”

He broke off his ramble as realisation dawned in Sharon's eyes and she let out an excited squeal and ran over to give me an exuberant hug; all bounce and lack of restraint. The child in me had receded in the previous week's hardships and all I could do to join in was hug her back and wait for her to calm down. Eventually she regained something of her normal composure and turned to her boss.

“Thank-you sir. I knew you would recognise the truth when you heard it, even as unbelievable as this story is. Didn't I tell you Liz? Liz, Lizzy, Beth, I like that name, it suits you so well. Now I don't have to keep calling you sweetie or Ken. Oh Liz I'm so pleased.”

It was like someone had dropped a machine gun with the safety off; all you could do was duck for cover and wait for the rapid fire to empty the magazine. When it finally did, Clive was the first to recover.

“Come and join us for a cup of tea and a chat. I still have one or two minor details that I need from Liz, then I think you two had better head off and leave me to it.”

“Sir it's only four o'clock.”

“I know, but with the amount of time I've taken off from doing what I should today I can hardly lecture you on leaving early, besides I doubt you'll be able to concentrate now. You'll be nothing but a distraction to the rest of the office. I'll let you make it up to me tomorrow if you like.”

So we sat and chatted through the day. Clive and Sharon compared notes on what it was that had convinced each of them to believe my story, and I gave the last few details Clive needed to get on with what he was going to do for me. Something occurred to me as we were leaving and I turned back to my benefactor.

“I er, I have a job interview on Thursday. I don't suppose there's any chance I'll have an NI number by then?”

He laughed.

“You don't ask much do you? I'll see what I can do. I should be able to manage it by Friday if I can't get it to you before the interview.”

He waved us off and we headed into town, arm in arm, Sharon exploring a range of different things we could do to celebrate. I hardly heard a word, being too busy running over my new name in my mind, trying all the different variations. Yet another step closer to becoming me and it felt sooooo good.

-oOo-
We spent the rest of the afternoon doing Sharon's favourite thing in the world, which was also rapidly climbing the ratings on my list too. This part of London had a lot of different shops and we made a valiant effort to spend time in as many as we could before the blinds went down.

Sharon bought herself a few little things and wanted to treat me too as a celebration of the day's success. I was adamant that she was not going to spend another penny on me until we came across the cutest dress ever. It was short, but not too much so, with a loose bodice and flared double layered skirt, and it was in a gorgeous shimmering midnight blue that didn't quite go with my shoes and handbag, but would pass until I could find something better. The meagre remains of my funds wouldn't cover the price tag and in the end my resolve crumbled and I allowed her to buy it for me, agreeing all to readily to her stipulation that I wear it out of the shop. I'd had enough of the tight skirt I was wearing and sighed in relief at the freedom of movement my new clothes afforded me.

Sometime in the afternoon — I think maybe when I was in a changing room falling in love with a certain dress — Sharon had texted Phil with the news of my new identity and he agreed to meet us at a nearby watering hole for a celebratory drink. We bundled into the pub festooned with the ever-present carrier bags full of swag to find him sitting at a table with drinks already bought. He stood up to greet us, first kissing Sharon, then turning rather awkwardly towards me.

“Wow, you look...”

Words failed and so did actions as he stood there trying to decide what to do. I'm not sure if he was concerned about Sharon's reaction, hung up on who I had once been or conscious that maybe I might still be uncomfortable with my new status. Whatever the reason he seemed lost so I put him out of his misery by leaning forward to give him a peck on the cheek.

“Thanks I think.”

Sharon dived in to stop general weirdness from taking hold.

“I was just saying to Liz that she should wear that to her interview on Thursday, don't you think?”

I gave a little twirl and looked down at myself.

“I'm not sure, don't you think it's a bit informal? I mean job interview usually means smart for girls as much as for guys.”

“Listen girlfriend, this is a fashion catalogue and you are being invited to audition as a model. One, glamour is going to do you more favours than smart, and two, just how long do you think you are going to be wearing your own clothes after you get there anyway?”

“I'm still not sure, I mean what shoes would I wear with it?”

Phil had been watching from the side lines, his head going back and forth like he was watching his own private tennis match. He suddenly couldn't take it any more.

“I give up. I keep expecting to find something of my old friend in there, but I have never witnessed such a girly conversation in my life.”

Sharon and I collapsed in a fit of giggles and had to be helped to the table where our drinks were still waiting for us. We took pity on Phil after that and allowed him to steer the conversation towards a topic where he had half a chance of contributing. We only had the one drink with Phil being good and sticking to something fruity and harmless because, as he announced to us a short while later, he had brought his car. Sharon and I both groaned out our appreciation and soon enough we were settling into the soft leather seats and slipping grateful feet out of quite beautiful but otherwise ill conceived shoes. Sharon sat up front to keep Phil company and I drifted away on a cloud of good feelings, still rolling my new name around inside my head.

-oOo-
The next day was a jeans and sweatshirt day. My monthly visitor was showing signs of packing up and going away which helped to lift my mood even higher as I threw myself into the housework. As Ken I'd always been aware of the cleanliness of my surroundings and had been prepared to make an effort to keep them looking good. My new incarnation seemed to have climbed to a new level in that regard and the attention to detail that came into my hoovering, cleaning and polishing put my earlier efforts to shame. By the time I was done, the kitchen and bathroom shone, everything that was made of wood, glass or plastic was dust free and glowing and the carpet was so empty of dirt and stains it might have been fresh off the roll. All that and done by lunchtime.

Soup and a roll and a cup of tea later I was on my feet once more, gathering up all the dirty clothes, separating them into different batches and using the washing machine as it had been intended. Yet again as Ken I had been content with a one setting washes all attitude, but with all manner of delicate fabrics and a keener sense of care towards my clothing and appearance I set about learning new skills with a will. Ironing was the same, slow at first as I spent time reading the labels and working every which way to avoid creases and make a neat job, but with growing confidence and speed as the afternoon wore on. If truth be told there wasn't an excessive amount to do, but I did it with passion and dedication and was just hanging the last of the clothes in various bulging wardrobes when I heard a key in the lock.

“Wow!”

The word was drawn out as though taking in the wonders of Aladdin's treasure cave for the first time. She stuck her head into the bedroom as I closed the wardrobe on last few things I'd put away.

“And the washing and ironing too. You know if my key hadn't fit in the lock I'd have sworn I was in the wrong flat. I'd also ask if you've had a good day but the evidence speaks for itself.”

I smiled.

“You know I actually enjoyed it, but it's all the better for your appreciation. I thought you were going to work late today to make up for yesterday.”

“I was but Clive came and found me at five o'clock and literally shooed me out of the building.”

“You know, when I first met him at church I thought he was a bit of a stuffed shirt; all standoffish and officious. I really wondered why you introduced us, but after yesterday I can see why you enjoy working for him so much.”

“Oh he's always like that. I think he finds it difficult to meet new people so he keeps everyone at arm's length until he gets to know them. Once you get there though, you have a friend for life.”

Sharon was following her usual routine for the end of a working day and pouring out a couple of glasses of wine. She handed me one and we sat down on the sofa to talk through the what we'd done. I'd never been a big conversationalist before, but this was different. What we talked about didn't seem to matter so much as that we actually talked. Sharing things, even inconsequential things, was a way of climbing into each others' lives, of making contact, of growing closer and I found that to be precious indeed.

As usual Sharon did her gourmet thing in the kitchen and I made the appropriate rapturous noises with each forkful. As usual we sat over empty plates and finished the last of the wine while the coffee machine experimented with a few new noises in the background.

“You know I've just realised something? I am going to have to sabotage your relationship with Phil sooner or later. Otherwise if you two ever do get married, I am going to have to go back to bland food and I don't think I can do that.”

Sharon laughed and sipped at her wine.

“Well as I see it we have two options. Either we find you a man who can cook, and believe me when you find a man who can cook you won't think so highly of my efforts...”

“Hmm, is this man going to be rich, good looking and hung like a horse?”

The wine was speaking for me, but I didn't care. Sharon's spluttering and wholly unladylike response was worth the shame.

“Oh I very much doubt it. If such a man existed he probably wouldn't survive the stampede.”

“What's the 'or' then?”

“Or we teach you too cook.”

The idea hung in the air for a while as we both considered it. There didn't seem to be a downside and to be honest, the prospect of being able to prepare a meal that could do to someone what Sharon's cooking had so often done to me in recent days appealed.

“OK, you're on. That is if you're sure you can stand to have a rank amateur faffing about in your kitchen.”

She looked around her at the surfaces, still sparkling from my earlier efforts.

“Anyone who looks after my kitchen like this, amateur or not, has my respect. OK then lesson one. The secret of a good meal is proper ingredients, so tomorrow after I have finished work and you have done with your interview-stroke-audition, you and I are going shopping.”

I gave her a coy look and batted my eyelids at her.

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time don't you?”

“Not that kind of shopping silly. No, meet me at Jan's Diner at about half past five tomorrow. There are some decent shops down there, you know grocers, butchers and the like. Jan shops locally for the diner which is enough of an endorsement for me, and quite honestly I've never been disappointed with what I've bought there. Half the battle is finding decent shops, the other half is recognising the good stuff when you're there, and that we'll cover tomorrow.”

The wine bottle was empty and the coffee machine had uttered its final kaploch. We spent five minutes quickly washing up the dinner things then retired to the living room each with a coffee in hand.

“So, have you decided what you're going to wear tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I've been thinking. I like the idea of wearing my new dress, but I'm still not sure about what to wear with it.”

Sharon put her finger up, effectively putting me on pause, then hurried through to the bedroom. When she came back she was carrying my dress over one arm and a pair of deep burgundy shoes with matching bag in the other hand.

“What do you think?”

The colours complemented each other perfectly. I nodded my appreciation and slipped off my socks to try the shoes for size. Oh yes this was going to work.

We chatted on for a while, looking at where I needed to go and planning how I would get there. Since the timing more or less worked, we decided that I would accompany Sharon into the city centre then make my own way from there; a few stops on the tube then a short bus journey should get me within a ten minute walk of my destination by quarter past nine. That would mean I'd arrive half an hour early which would give me time to freshen up and relax before I had to do anything.

Pre interview nerves chose that moment to rear their ugly heads so Sharon picked out a feel-good movie from her DVD collection and we snuggled up to watch it. Suitably calmed, we then turned in for an early night.

-oOo-
I didn't need an alarm the next day. I woke early with the room still dark and the worst case of jitters I can remember. I eased myself quietly out of bed and tiptoed out to the bathroom. By the time I had finished a leisurely shower and thorough hair wash, Sharon's clock was blaring its nerve grating greeting. With the need to be quiet past, I put the coffee maker on then opened the bedroom curtains and sat down with the hair drier. Sharon stomped out to the bathroom and her own morning ablutions, returning a few minutes later with two cups of Joe and a huge yawn which lasted all the way across the room. She was dressed and making breakfast before my hair was dry enough to leave. I dressed and joined her feeling uneasy about my choice of wardrobe.

“You know this outfit isn't doing anything for my confidence. I can't help feeling that everyone in the world is going to spend the entire day looking at my legs.”

“And why shouldn't they? You have a spectacular pair of pins my dear Lizzy. Go back into the bedroom, look at your self in the mirror and tell yourself, 'Damn I look good.' Repeat it until you believe it. Go on, go and do it now. The eggs still have a couple of minutes to cook so you've nothing else to do. Go on shoo.”

I gave into her pestering but made up my own mantra. Surprisingly it worked and by the time she called me back to the kitchen I was walking taller and straighter and feeling oh so much better.

“There you go. You are going to knock them dead today Liz, and I am going to look forward to hearing your fantastic news later today. Now come on eat up or we'll miss the bus.”

Of course we didn't; my nerve induced early morning insomnia had given us both a relaxed start to the day and still left us fifteen minutes to spare. We even had time to wash up the breakfast dishes before going out the door, rather than leaving them to soak as we usually did.

Sharon filled our journey with inane chatter which only vaguely distracted me. The bus was more than half full and I was acutely aware of almost every eye turning to look at me. Not in itself a good cure for the nerves.

After we stepped off the bus and walked the short distance to her workplace, she turned to me and looked me squarely in the eye. After a moment's waiting I gave her my attention, which she returned with a smile.

“Elizabeth Mary Raeburn, you possess in your little finger more guts, calm and sense than pretty much anyone I know. You are, hand on heart, the most exquisitely beautiful woman I know and right now you are dressed fit to break the heart of every red blooded man you meet, I mean did you see how many people on the bus were checking you out? You are going to have a great day today. Believe in yourself girl, God knows you have reason enough to.”

Checking me out? I guess more than a handful of them had been drooling. Here was another adjustment I had to make. If that many people had been looking at me as Ken I'd have started to wonder if maybe I'd forgotten to do up my fly or perhaps put my trousers on; attention for most guys was taken as a bad thing. As Liz, when people looked at me it was more likely to be because I had done something right. I took a deep breath, imagining myself drawing in all the confidence Sharon was sending my way. It seemed to work as I felt the butterflies in my stomach settle and a calm spread out through my body. I made an effort to stand straight again and let a smile playing around the edge of my lips.

“That's my girl. Call me as soon as you hear the good news, because I know it's going to be good news and I will want to hear it.”

We hugged and I turned towards the Underground and the first leg of my journey.

Everything went as planned and by nine-fifteen I was standing at the end of a long straight road that seemed to lead towards an old industrial complex. I checked the road name against the address on the card Karen had given me then shrugged and started walking. It seemed like an odd venue for a photo-shoot, but this was art and if there wasn't something odd about it, it probably wouldn't be.

The sun was shining intermittently between ragged clouds, occasionally painting the old buildings around me in brilliant hues and highlighting the cracked windows and graffitied walls. Most were empty with 'to let' signs skulking in dusty offices, declaring more clearly than the owners might like just how long it had been since anyone set foot inside them. I mean don't get me wrong, the buildings were, for the most part, ugly and functional, but it seemed a desperate waste that so many properties stood disused and discarded within walking distance, albeit a lengthy walk, of London's living centre.

It had to be admitted that the neighbourhood was not one of the more salubrious, and I found myself fingering my handbag and thinking of the can of mace Sharon had put in there after she found out where I was going. I told myself that nine-fifteen was a bit early for druggies to be about and took comfort in the emptiness of the road. I did pick up my pace even so, and arrived at the address on the card after ten minutes rather than the fifteen a more leisurely stroll might have taken.

The place seemed deserted and long abandoned, and I wondered if I had the address wrong. I checked the card. Nope; right road, right building. Perhaps this was some kind of a joke? Behind me there was movement on the street and I glanced over my shoulder to see a few emaciated figures emerging from dark alleys. One or two of them seemed to be taking an interest in me and I seriously did not want to hang around outside any longer. I walked up to the front door and pressed the bell, then rapped on the glass door just in case it was in a similar state of disrepair as the rest of the building.