Stevie opened her eyes a few seconds before the alarm rang, and briefly enjoyed the bliss of waking from a deep, untroubled sleep. Memories flooded back with a clang, but unlike the alarm, they could not be switched off. If the day before had been a nightmare, yesterday was simply surreal, her whole world turned upside down.

When Uncle Bob had dropped her off, she had wanted nothing more than to get out of her shoes; high heels were fun to wear around the house for an hour or two, less so for a twelve hour stint - the irony had not escaped her. While Steve would come home, undress and become Stevie, when she came home who would she be.

After sitting for a while, she stripped to her undies and drew a bath; a long soak would soothe mind as well as body, but what then. Try as she might Stevie, could not bring herself to put on any of Steve’s clothes. Wrapping herself in a towel she had padded from bathroom to kitchen, and carrying a makeshift dinner flopped down in front of the television.

No scripted drama, however, could hope to match the mad Cinderella story she found herself living. Some of it Stevie might have enjoyed - parts were indeed a fairy tale come true — if only she could work out who was who in the cast. Candidates for Fairy Godmother abounded, and Prince Charming had already put in an appearance, but who exactly, were the Ugly Sisters. Happily ever after seemed more than a fortnight away, and she was unsure if she even wanted to attend the ball.

Locked out from her online life, her yawns told Stevie that it was time for bed. Any thoughts of Steve had vanished when it came to selecting nightwear. Cosy in her favourite pyjamas, she had just turned back the covers when the telephone rang. Curiosity overcoming fatigue, she stumbled into the next room to find out who was calling so late. Her parents’ familiar number flashed on caller ID, but she was too tired to chat to either of them. Leaving the telephone to ring off the hook, she turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. Her eyes closed almost immediately, but she had a moment to realise that it was only eight thirty.

Stevie had never dreamt that dressing as a girl could ever be a chore for her, yet dressing for work was much harder than flinging anything on for the fun of it. Dressed only in bra and knickers, she flicked through the closet rack, wondering if she had anything suitable to wear. A white shirt, similar to that she had worn the day before, seemed the obvious choice, but all her underwear was black; her sole white camisole had joined yesterday’s top in the laundry hamper. She had never had to worry until then about making sure she had clean women’s clothes, they were simply thrown in with Steve’s clothes on laundry day.

Salvation came with the discovery of a top she had forgotten buying. It looked like a black sweater pulled over a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up together, but was in fact one garment. Was it too casual for the office? Stevie vaguely remembered someone wearing a near identical garment in Accounts, but the dress code in her old department was notoriously lax. Deciding that casual was preferable to a trampy display of underwear, she took it from the closet.

Stevie had to take off her make-up twice, before she was happy she had recreated Miss Hanford’s efforts, or as close as she was likely to get. She pulled a face in the hallway mirror, checked that she had keycard and home keys, and left for the bus stop. There was no one at hand to applaud her confidence, so she gave herself a silent cheer, her ponytail bouncing jauntily as she walked.

When a wheel hit a pothole in the road, the bus journey gave Stevie a dilemma Steve had never faced; should she try to stop the sandwiches she had just bought from sliding off the seat, or ensure that her breastforms were not jolted free of their cups. As food is easier to replace than dignity, she chose the latter, clutching at her bust with both hands, while her lunch went skidding along the aisle. Had she known her falsies would prove so volatile, she would have glued them to her chest, and vowed to do so from now on.

The breastforms had been her most expensive purchase to date, practically maxing out one of her credit cards. Unwilling to trust such a large purchase to the mail, Stevie had travelled to London to buy them in person, and had already blessed her caution once this morning. The shop assistant had talked her out of buying the larger forms she wanted, and recommended a size more suited to her small frame. She shuddered at the thought of the impact a D-cup would have had made in the office, let alone rolling alongside her sandwiches.

“Allow me Miss,” said the elderly man sitting opposite, and hooked the errant lunch with the crook of his cane. Stevie thanked him, and bent forward to pick the package up, and he assured her it was ‘my pleasure’; as he had been in a perfect position to see her knickers ride above the waistband of her trousers, Stevie could only assume that his answer was sincere. Rookie mistake.

Arriving a little after seven o’clock, Stevie made her way to the smokers’ door, but found that her new keycard would not open. With the confidence that comes of flashing ones underwear at pensioners, Stevie made her way to the main entrance, where the night-watchman stationed himself out of normal office hours. After a cursory check of her credentials, Stevie was waived through, and wished a good morning. If he knew Stevie to be Steve, he made no show of it, but then Frank was an old soldier, and had no doubt, seen stranger sights.

Hers were the first lights switched on anywhere on the eighth floor, which surprised Stevie as she had also thought senior staff were habitual early birds. With coffee made, and no email, or voicemail, to distract her, there was nothing to do save start work. Half an hour later a startled Uncle Bob grumbled his way through the door, and was being served his morning coffee when Miss Hanford came in.

“You’re not standing in the corner, I’m impressed,” she laughed, “and you’ve almost finished that job too — let me see what I can find you.” Ever true to her word, another pile of paper, even larger than the first landed on Stevie’s desk in short order. Stevie switched to the next task without complaint, her work might have been more menial, but compliments had been few, and far between, in Accounts.

A meeting called manager, and PA, away at nine o’clock, by when the floor had regained its workday bustle. Barely five minutes would pass without someone sticking their head around the door to wish her ‘good morning’. Stevie could not forget her circumstances, that would be impossible, but her new colleagues’ sociability was infectious; only one comment troubled her.

A matronly woman from Mr Lauder’s staff — Stevie could not recall her name — wished her a good morning, and added an enigmatic “loved the new pictures on your blog, Sweetie, it must be such a relief for you.” Only one person could now make changes to her blog, and that was Ms Hawker. It was possible that she had uploaded some of the photographs taken the day before, but what had Mrs Green — that was her name — meant by ‘a relief’?