Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 1 - 2 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 Imagine you met someone who said he could make your fondest dream come true. All he needed was your consent and a list of things you wanted in your dream life. With that he would look for someone who wanted your life and who met your own criteria and he would arrange for you to swap. Only one thing. The more requirements you make and the more specific the requirements, the less likely he would be able to find a match. What would you limit your wishes to, and what might be the consequences?

-oOo-

Chapter 1

“Phwagh, look at the jugs on that!”

I followed Stuart’s gaze until my eyes found the focus of his attention – not that I was likely to miss it. Everyone else in our group of friends had already done much the same thing and were busily adding their own juvenile remarks.

I suppressed a sigh. There are times when I wonder if I belong to the same species as them. I mean I’m looking at the same thing, but my response is nothing like theirs. Nor do I have the least desire to regress into the hormone haze of puberty.

Alright, so she did have an impressive pair of mammaries – sufficient to provide shelter to any passing dwarf – but what was it about those two well rounded breasts that elicited the sort of deep trousered groans currently surrounding me? The full extent of my own response was to wonder what the hell she thought she was wearing?

To start at the point – or perhaps that should be points – of interest that had so captivated my friends. They were large. Not unnaturally so, but about as big as nature was inclined to give. They would have stood out had she tried to hide them under a tent, and yet here she was barely concealing them with a bright yellow crop top that might have made a serviceable bra had it provided any support, and possibly covered a little more skin. The breasts themselves were on display, not only via a very deep and generous cleavage, but also peeking out from underneath.

I mean I don’t consider myself to be a prude, but it was borderline indecent.

Heading downward past the naked waist and pierced navel – I have never understood why anyone would willingly poke holes in themselves, especially in such a sensitive part of the body – the next piece of what might be classed as clothing was a pleated, white ultra-mini skirt that showed a hint of lacy white underwear almost every time she moved.

Beneath that extended a pair of very long legs perched on two of the most ridiculous spiked heels I have ever seen. White patent leather, and fully six inches long, holding her feet almost vertical from the toes back.

Above the neck – not that anyone but me was paying attention to that part of her anatomy – she had an Amy Winehouse rats nest of hair, only bleached blond, over a heavy-handed plasterwork of makeup.

Vacant eyes and a disdainful sneer more or less completed the look, although the open-mouthed gum chewing did help drag her apparent IQ down a few points into the negative.

I mean for heaven’s sake; she had the most gorgeous summer complexion! The last thing she should have been wearing was that mixture of strong yellows and bright whites, although I suppose it could be argued that there was so little of either that it really didn’t make that much difference.

The overall effect was Essex slapper trying to look trashy and succeeding – and while all my mates were gawping at her with eyes on stalks and tongues lolling, all I could think was how much more I could have done with that body. Life wasn’t fair and I felt sick to the stomach, not so much at the sight of this walking wet dream, but at my overwhelming desire to be her instead of… well me.

So, there you have it. Not so much a different species as a different part of it perhaps?

I didn’t ask to be like this. In many ways it would have been easier to go through life in the same fizz of testosterone that seemed to engulf most of my mates, but unlike them, my first thought on seeing a pretty girl, like the one before us now, was not how much I'd like to get inside her pants. Well, no... er actually yes, well okay, maybe that was my first thought, but not in the same way as my mates. More sort of get into her skin first. Shit no, that didn’t come out right either. I mean what I longed for was to actually be the girl, not – in my mates’ vernacular – do her, if that makes any sense.

It’s a lonely burden, like Atlas shouldering the weight of the world, I have no-one I can talk to about it. In a society where men are supposed to be men, the option of finding a friend with whom I could pour out my feelings just doesn’t exist. It’s not as if I can choose to be otherwise either, any more than any one of us can choose who we’ll fall in love with or what career we’ll enjoy the most. It’s just something that’s built into me.

I mean, sure I could choose to ignore these feelings, in the same way I could choose to do a job I hate or marry someone without caring for her in any way. It is in fact what I’ve been doing all my life. Simply committing to an existence of self-denial and sacrifice doesn’t mean the feelings go away though. If anything, they get worse, and they’re always there, waiting to settle onto your shoulders every morning when you wake.

You wouldn’t think I had much to complain about, looking at me. Six foot one in my socks and carrying around fourteen stone – that’s two hundred pounds – only a very small amount of which wobbled around my middle, made me a halfway decent specimen of blokedom. I couldn’t really complain about what looked back out of the mirror when I brushed my teeth either. Most of my friends seemed to have something that made them self-conscious, like Stuart with his bulbous nose, Pete with his squiffy eyes, Randy with his eczema. All in all, I had a pretty good set of chromosomes, apart from the unwanted Y.

So I should have been happy with what I had, shouldn't I? I mean half my mates would probably have performed any of a number of rash acts of radical self-harm to possess what I had, so what did I have to complain about, really?

I remember a time once I was out walking in the country, and I saw a horse in a field – a stallion if what he had hanging between his hind legs was anything to go by. He was a gorgeous animal, beautifully proportioned, at least to my untrained eye, and skittish. I remember a flight of geese passing over his field, honking as they went. His head went up and he chased after them as fast as his legs could carry him, and it was impressively fast. Even so he couldn’t keep up, and he ran out of field after just a few seconds, so had to give up the chase. I found myself wondering if he could ever be completely satisfied living as a racehorse if all he ever dreamed of was flying.

For me, the dream was not of wings, but of breasts and soft smooth skin, of a pretty face and long luxuriant hair, of the gentle, encouraging friendships so many women seemed to share, rather than the course, jocular exchanges that passed between my friends and me. I wanted to be noticed and appreciated for a beauty I knew I would never have. Rather than be the one constantly chasing after the prize, I longed to be the prize, to be chased after. I wanted the choice to wear pretty clothes — and by that I didn't mean the obscene, minimalist approach chosen by my friends’ current focus of interest. Her clothes, or near complete absence of same, made a grotesque mockery of her quite evident natural charms, and my heart ached over the manner in which she wasted them. I longed to be her, or someone like her, and I carried the burden of my obsession around with me like a dark cloud.

“I need some air,” I announced to anyone who was listening, which was probably no-one, given that all my mates were busy trying hard to hide their tenting trousers under the pub's small tables. I stood and headed for the exit.

---

Outside, the air was cool and smelt of recent rain. The road glistened, reflecting garish neon signs in the puddles. Occasional traffic broke the late-night silence, shushing past with the gentle susurration of tyres on wet tarmac. Away from the noise of the pub and the company inside, I felt the aching weight on my chest ease a little, and I took a deep cleansing breath.

“I could probably help, you know?”

The voice came from the dark shadows of a nearby alley. The tip of a cigarette flared as its owner drew in a deep lungful of smoke.

“I’m sorry?”

It’s a British thing, I think, although the Canadians seem to have it too. A congenital need to apologise at any and every possible opportunity – like when someone says something out of the blue that makes no sense, as in this instance.

The owner of the voice stepped into the light, flicking the burnt out remains of his cigarette carelessly into the street. He had on a deep maroon suit and matching trilby, under which he wore a smile that would not have been out of place on a shark.

“You look like someone in need of something,” he said. “I like to think of myself as someone able to provide somethings. Maybe I have a something that would appeal to you.”

“I doubt it,” I said, suspecting his wares to be drugs or some other illegal short-term fix. “Thanks all the same.”

Another congenital defect: the need to thank someone even when they probably – most likely – don’t deserve it. I turned to head back into the pub – too soon, but still the easiest escape route from this encounter.

“Let me show you.”

---

In an instant, the peace of the empty night vanished, and I was bombarded with a sudden onslaught of sensations. The loud conversation and harsh lights of the pub's interior struck me an almost physical blow. My feet and my back ached, I felt cold and strangely different, and I couldn't understand why I had the taste of stale chewing gum in my mouth.

“You alright babe?”

There was a young man standing next to me, about an inch shorter than me. He reached out a hand to steady me and I felt it touch bare skin in the small of my back.

Now, I'm used to looking down at other people, but it dawned on me that the only reason I was doing so with this guy was because I was just about standing on tiptoes. I swayed a little and felt the strength of his hand steadying me. The attention brought an odd mixture of revulsion and delight. Delight at receiving the attention, revulsion at receiving it from him.

I looked down at myself, feeling an unnatural weight pull my head over more than expected. A few errant strands of hair escaped their imprisonment and fell into view. Bottle blond and back-combed.

Beyond them, I found myself looking down into my own very ample cleavage, held in check – if only barely – by a skimpy, bright yellow top. Past the hilly terrain, in the middle distance, was a broad pair of hips and a decidedly bulge free crotch, barely concealed by a white skirt that might have made a passable ribbon, and extending beyond that were a pair of smooth legs that stretched on towards infinity. At their far end, I found the ridiculous pair of shoes that were responsible for my aching feet, just as the impressive pair of breasts hanging off my chest were most likely the cause of my backache.

Being aware of just how precariously I was perched caused me to lose my footing again. This time my companion's strong arm encircled my waist and held me firmly to him.

“Babe?” There was a note of concern in his voice.

“Nah, I'm alright, innit.” My own voice had an unpleasant nasal quality, and it seemed to be possessed of a certain degree of its original hostess’s nature as the words and accent formed effortlessly in my mouth. “I'm just sor’ of... Well, I dunno really, but nah, I’m fine.”

I eased out of his grasp, which it seemed he was now using as an excuse to have a grope, and became very much aware of how many of my assets were on show and how much of an audience I had acquired. I needed a drink, and not the cloyingly sweet fruit concoction I held in my hand. I started looking around for escape.

---

I was back outside, wearing my own body and staring at the man in the red suit.

“What the hell was that?”

“It's like I said,” there was a smug, self-satisfied tone to his words, “I can provide the sort of something you're looking for.”

“You can turn me into her?”

“Well no, not her, not permanently.”

I stared at him and twitched an eyebrow In irritation. He was being deliberately obtuse, and I didn’t see why I should pander to his ego by asking the questions he knew damn well were forming in my mind. After a long pause he shrugged and continued.

“I can’t force change on anyone. The only thing I can offer is a mutually beneficial exchange between consenting parties. She wanted a break from the noise and the music and the boring git she'd come with, but only for a minute. You wanted to be her. So, for just that minute you both got what you wanted, and I got my demonstration.

“While you were in there, she was out here in your body. I managed to reassure her that things would return to normal in a minute or two, and that she should relax and enjoy her time away from the crowd inside. things changed back when you wanted to get out of there, and here you are. I trust you enjoyed your short excursion into what might be?”

“Apart from it being too short, but you already know don't you, so why bother asking?”

“Because asking's an important part. I ask you in order to remind you of what you want, to encourage you to ask me...”

“But you already said you couldn’t make me into her?”

“I know. Like I said, I can only make mutually agreed exchanges, and she's happy as she is, at least for the most part. There are, however, other women out there who would be more than happy to swap with you.”

“Permanently?”

“Absolutely.”

“So what's the catch?”

“Why should there be a ‘catch?’”

“I mean what do you get out of it? How come I step out of a pub for a breath of fresh air and just happen to meet a stranger who, it seems, has both the capacity and willingness to make my impossible dream come true?”

“Because this is the sort of place people come when they're trying to escape their unsatisfying lives, if only for a few brief seconds. Let's face it, all your friends are inside the pub enjoying the view, aren't they? I wait outside places like this because sooner or later people like you come along. And I help them out because,” he shrugged, “well, because that's what I do. It's my reason for being, and doing it validates my existence.”

“It seems too good to be true.”

“Oh, it's not quite that good. Let's just say that it's good enough to be true.”

I still wasn't convinced. “Could you give me another demonstration?”

“I could, but I won't. You know it happened – that for just a few brief seconds you got to walk, or stumble in your case, in the shoes of that young girl. You know I can change reality for you. What you need is to think about how you want that reality changed, and then ask me.”

“And you'll do it?”

“If I can.”

“What do you mean ‘if’?”

He sighed, and I must admit I didn't blame him; I was being a bit dense. “I have in my mind a whole list of people I’ve encountered who want a change from their lives and becoming you would give some of them what they’re looking for. You tell me what you want and that narrows down the list a bit. If I can find anyone who fits your criteria and who wants to be like you, then I arrange the exchange. Be warned though, the more specific you are, the less likely it is I'll be able to help.

“There's no point, for instance, in asking to be Jodie Kidd or Claudia Schiffer, because they, like the young lady in the pub, are quite happy being themselves.”

“Well, all I want – all I've ever wanted – is to be a woman, like I was just now, only maybe not quite so er...”

“Just say it. Political correctness only confuses the matter.”

“Alright, I wouldn't want to be any less intelligent than I am now. And no older either.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. You take your mind with you.”

“I didn’t seem to in there.”

“It takes a while to adapt. The body has its own... inertia, shall we say.”

“What about age?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to steal many years from either of you. Maybe two or three because it’s impossible to find a perfect match, but no more. Besides, a decade or more and neither of you would adapt well to the difference in culture. You’ve seen Freaky Friday, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s just a story.”

“I suppose that’s a way of looking at it. Well, if that’s all, I can definitely work within your parameters.”

“Close to home too. This country at least.” It occurred to me there were parts of the world where life as a woman was pretty harsh.

“Still doable.”

“Not... I wouldn’t want to be unattractive.”

“Narrowing the possibilities now, but I can still think of one or two who might fit into that category.”

Something inside nagged at me to be cautious, but I was either still fighting to regain normal brain function after being stuck inside the limited capacity of the girl's mind, or I was just off balance from the strange turn the evening had taken. I let it slide.

“Alright then. When do I get to change? Can you do it now?”

“It'll take me a while to settle on the right match. Besides which, the transition is usually less of a trauma if it happens while you’re sleeping. Go home and go to bed as normal, when you wake up in the morning, things will be different.”

“That's it? No contract to sign in blood, or anything of that sort?”

“I have your agreement. It's enough. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things I should be doing.” And with that he crossed the street and disappeared down the alley.

I made my way back into the pub, not absolutely sure of what had happened, and re-joined my friends. The girl in the skimpy clothing gave me a few odd looks, until her boyfriend noticed and made some comment which stopped her, but other than that there was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary had happened at all. As far as I knew, I could have been hallucinating.

We stayed until closing time, most of my mates putting enough booze away to become embarrassingly loud. I, as usual, drank just enough to give myself a pleasant buzz, and tried to distance myself from them a little as we headed off home in the early hours.

Back in my flat, I went through the usual rituals of getting ready for bed. On a Friday night such as this, they included drinking as much water as I could stomach – even slightly hungover is a dreadful waste of a Saturday, in my opinion – brushing my teeth, and changing for bed. For this last, I have a few night dresses hidden away at the back of my wardrobe. I look ridiculous in them – gorilla in a dress sort of ridiculous – but they allow me to take the edge off my burden.

I held out a plain, short, red satin chemise with spaghetti straps, and considered it for a moment. With my friends losing themselves in their drunken revelry, I had gone down the familiar route of regret and self-pity. I could well do with the silky feel of the material against my skin tonight, but what if the guy in the red suit had been real? As the evening had progressed, I had managed to persuade myself that he had been just a figment of my imagination, and the memories of standing in the middle of the bar in a skimpy crop top and pelmet – well it was hardly a skirt, was it? – were nothing more than half-drunken wishful thinking. But what if it had all actually happened?

I put the nightdress away. If I did wake up in my own body in the morning, all I would have lost was a night's hopeless fantasy, which I could easily make up by wearing something else from my stash of clothes during the morning. If I were to wake up in some woman's skin, and she in mine, her shock and confusion of suddenly being a man would be doubled by finding herself wearing a nightdress. I couldn't know what kind of an encounter she'd had with Mr Red or how long ago, but I felt it only fair to make her transition as easy as possible. I found a pen and sat down to write a letter to my body's potential new resident, and after much sucking of the aforementioned, I began.

“To the new resident,

“There’s every likelihood that when I wake up tomorrow morning, nothing will have changed. I’ll still be me, still in this bed, still dreaming of being someone else. I’ll find this letter on my bedside table and I’ll feel a bit of an ass for having believed things could be different. However, on the minute off chance that this is for real, here's a short explanation of what happened.”

I went on to describe my conversation with the man in the maroon suit and the deal we had struck.

“I'm going to assume you had a similar encounter with him at some time, so this is it – the life you wanted instead of your own, just as yours is hopefully going to be mine. I have no commitments for the weekend, apart from laundry and housework (sorry) so you can do as you like for the next two days without raising any eyebrows. I don't know what you might want to do with your life after that, but you have a job at Clarks and Spencer, proof reading manuals for electrical goods. It's not hard work as long as you're reasonably proficient with the English language, and it pays a living wage. Bank details are in the port-a-file at the back of the wardrobe, not that I have a lot in the way of savings, and there's a red Peugeot 207 parked in the street outside with my name on the documents (also in the port-a-file).

“You'll find a box full of women's clothing at the back of the wardrobe, which I hope will go some way to explaining why I want your life rather than my own. Other than that, there isn't a great deal to show for thirty-two years of existence, I’m afraid? I hope you make better use of the rest of my life than I would have.

“I'm not sure how this is going to work, but I imagine we'll remember who we were, so maybe I'll look you up sometime. Maybe you'll do the same for me. In any case, I hope the change is all we want it to be, for both our sakes.

“Yours sincerely...”

Somehow writing the letter made me feel a lot better. It was an act of faith, which in its own way helped to strengthen my belief in what was supposed to happen that night. I folded the paper, wrote “To the new me” on the reverse side and placed it on the bedside table where it would hopefully be the first thing she (he? I?) would see on waking.

It didn't take long to fall asleep that night, my head filling with dreams and imaginings of who I might be when I woke up.

Chapter 2

It was still dark when I awoke. I was lying on my side, and things felt different. I squeezed my thighs together, sensing the absence of something that had been a part of me for over three decades. He had done it! The man in the maroon suit had actually done what he said he would!

I reached down with questing fingers – already sensing with some delight that they were smaller and slimmer than those I was used to – to explore between my legs.

That's when I began to notice the other things.

First, and most prominent, was the mass of soft flesh around my middle. Certainly, no slim and attractive hourglass figure here.

Second, and perhaps this should have been the first thing I noticed, was the discovery of two hard metal bands around the fourth finger of my left hand.

I was married?

A cold chill went through me. Why would the person with whom I had swapped lives want out of hers if she was happily married? And if she wasn't happily married, where did that leave me? I became aware of a gentle, rumbling snore in the bed next to me.

A part of my anatomy chose that moment to start clamouring for attention. As a man, I'd been able to hold back the early morning flood, but my newly acquired plumbing evidently wasn't built to the same specs.

I swung my legs out of bed and sat up as gently as I could, careful not to rouse the sleeping figure behind me, and discovered yet another difference to my situation. My feet didn’t quite reach the floor.

It wasn’t something I thought I was going to mind though. Being tall had its advantages – more imposing, easier to intimidate when necessary, can leap tall buildings etc. Well maybe not the last one, but at least can reach high shelves with ease. No longer an option now, but there was a definite link between small and cute, and my major issue with gorilla in a dress syndrome had come from being so much taller than most women.

Now if only I hadn’t traded gorilla in a dress for teapot syndrome.

You know what I mean, don’t you? I’m a little teapot, short and stout...?

I eased off the bed and found a pair of fluffy slippers on the floor beneath my feet. There was a small amount of light in the room from the figures on the glowing red display of a radio alarm on the bedside table beside me. I struggled to focus on them for a moment before noticing the blurry shape of a pair of glasses nearby.

Everything swam into focus the moment I put them on. Now that was definitely going to take some getting used to. All my life I’d taken my twenty-twenty vision for granted, and now I didn't have it anymore.

I stood up to explore in the darkness. I found a dressing gown hanging from a hook on the door near my side of the bed and slipped it on, lessening the early morning chill of the room. My body’s urgent need became more pressing, so I made my way as rapidly as I dared toward the other doorway, which stood ajar with a glimpse of porcelain visible in the gloom.

It turned out to be a small en-suite shower and loo and, with some relief, I closed the door behind me, turned on the light and sat to pee, as was my usual habit in any case. I didn’t notice the seat was up, and I jumped as my now substantial rear end made contact with the cold, sticky porcelain. I nearly had an accident before I managed to rearrange things and sit back down.

Directionality. Yet another thing I had taken for granted. Point and shoot, I discovered, was another luxury sacrificed in this trade. Even sitting down as I was, it felt like the toilet was barely up to the job of containing the wide dispersal delivery system I now possessed.

I wiped myself dry and took a moment to explore what I had down there. I'd had opportunities to investigate similar territory on former girlfriends, so it wasn't entirely unfamiliar, however the sensation of feeling my fingers probing around and inside myself was very new.

I didn't take it very far. I'd like to think that I wouldn't have done so anyway, but I didn't much feel like it right now. For one thing, I was very much aware of how much of me was in contact with the toilet seat, and the discovery that I now possessed a rear end that was significantly larger than the one I had bequeathed to my fellow body swapper, left me with a dreadful sinking feeling. For another, I noticed a few red spots in my somewhat substantial underwear.

Once more previous experience with girlfriends left me with some idea as to what to expect next. It seemed that my maiden voyage into womanhood – if that was a term I could in any way own as a married woman – was going to start with one of its less pleasant aspects.

Now where would I keep my supplies if I lived here? What was I saying? I did live here now! Nothing obvious lying around, but then that's not the sort of thing you leave in plain sight, is it? The bathroom cabinet seemed the best bet. I reached out to open the mirrored doors, but the sight of my reflection caused me to falter.

The face that looked out at me most definitely was not my own. Well, yet again, I suppose strictly speaking it was now, but it wasn't the one I had been born with. I wasn't ugly by any means, I mean no unsightly hair on the upper lip, no hairy moles growing on the chin, none of the squiffy eyes or over-sized nose I was talking about earlier or anything like that, but I wasn't exactly what I would call beautiful either.

My skin was smooth and soft, so chalk one up in the lovely complexion column, but my face itself was round and plump, the sort belonging to the friend of the girl you always wanted to get off with. A small nose and narrow but full mouth seemed almost out of place in the middle of it all, and my eyes, behind large, pink framed glasses, were a pretty hazel colour. My hair was shoulder length, a rather nondescript dark brown, and possessed of a natural wave. The overall effect reminded me somewhat of a baby owl, albeit grown to rather large proportions.

I decided to explore further and stripped off my night dress, which was nothing much to write home about in itself. White cotton with a high, lace embroidered collar, short sleeves and an otherwise rather unflattering lack of shape that fell to a hem just above my knees.

There was no mirror in the bathroom larger than the door of the cabinet, so I had to be satisfied with a direct self-examination. Breasts – ample and perhaps a little droopy, or was I being overly critical? Thighs – large and doughy, rippled with cellulite. Hips – broad and attached to a well, and I mean very well, padded behind. Waist – soft, flabby folds of flesh that went out where they should have gone in, and with strange shiny marks. I'd not seen such things before, but I'd read in women's magazines – on the odd occasions that I'd had access and I'd thought nobody was watching – of stretch marks, and these looked a lot like the descriptions I remembered.

Which meant...

If my blood had run cold before, it froze in my veins now. What the hell did I know about being a mother? Wasn't it bad enough that I had been landed with a husband not of my choosing but that I should have a child – or possibly children – by him too? Well at least it went some way towards explaining the less than flattering figure I’d inherited. Some women did tend to balloon a bit after giving birth, didn't they? Water retention or some such.

Time to discover just how much of a trade down I had made here. I slipped my night dress and dressing gown back on, flushed the toilet and washed my hands. Turning the light out, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, now lessening with dawn peaking around the edges of the curtains, and crossed the bedroom to the other door. I tried not to look too closely at the figure still sleeping soundly in the bed but couldn't help noticing the sheer size of him.

Of course everything seemed that little bit bigger, like some creepy fairground attraction of a normal looking room built to slightly larger scale, but that didn’t account for all of the bulk filling the other half – or more nearly two thirds – of the bed.

The room’s other door opened onto a small landing at the top of a flight of stairs with a second door opposite. I opened it and peered in to find a sort of bomb-blast of toys and dirty clothes strewn across the room. A bunk bed and wardrobe unit obscured the far wall and both beds were filled. The occupants were in full hibernation mode, buried deep in their duvets, but the nature of the toys seemed to indicate boys, and the approximate sizes of the clothes had me guessing ages six or seven and eleven or twelve.

That meant, if I was actually the same age or younger than my former self, that I had married very young. I found myself imagining a moment’s indiscretion behind the bike sheds at school, with inadequate protection. Maybe I was second guessing the situation, but of the friends I knew who had been teenage brides, most had endured a rough passage.

I gently closed the door and crept downstairs. To the left, under the boys' room, was a small living room, overfilled with a large three-piece suite facing a fireplace with a cheap coal-effect electric fire in the hearth and an incongruously large flat screen TV hanging on the wall.

The right door took me to a small dining room which, from the further Toyland debris, seemed to double as a play area. There was a door in the corner leading to a cupboard under the stairs. It was sufficiently ajar to show a jumble of Hoover, ironing board and a washing basket piled high with clothes waiting to be ironed. Beyond the dining room was a narrow kitchen, dirty dishes and pans piled in the sink and covering most available surfaces, and beyond that a sort of bathroom, crammed not only with bath, sink and toilet, but a washing machine, more piles of washing and a drying rack standing in the bath.

I put the kettle on and searched the cupboards for teabags and mugs, all within reach, but there were shelves I’d only have access to with the aid of a chair or maybe the small, lightweight, two step stepladder leaning against the wall in the space that separated the bathroom from the kitchen.

It was becoming steadily more evident to me why the woman whose life I had now exchanged for my own had wanted out of hers. It was also becoming increasingly more evident which of us had made the better deal. I’d imagined switching with someone who had the same sort of gender dysphoria as myself, not someone who regretted the situation her poor life choices had led her to.

The house was an old two up two down terrace with an extension off the back – generally the sort of cheap property favoured by low income single people or young couples as a starter home, but evidently it was as much as we could afford even a decade or more into our marriage. It wasn't even centrally heated or double glazed, which spoke even more loudly of our limited means, just as the large television spoke of misplaced priorities.

The mug of tea brought welcome warmth to my hands, and I sat at the old and scarred dining room table fighting a growing sense of despair. The strengthening dawn light did nothing to cheer me, bringing with it little more than the promise of an encounter with a family I neither knew nor particularly wanted to.

---

I gulped down a mouthful of tea and grimaced at the discovery that enough time had passed for it to go stone cold. I stood with the intention of consigning my mug to the pile of dirty crockery awaiting what I could only assume would be my later attention. An uncomfortable sticky feeling in my nether regions reminded me that I had left essential business untended, so I put the mug back down on the table and headed upstairs to resume my search for sanitary products.

My initial hunch turned out to be right, and I found a recently opened box, along with a lot of other stuff, in the bathroom cabinet. I treated myself to a quick shower, noting a heightened sensitivity to my skin, more so in some areas than others. Any pleasure I might have taken in the new discovery, however, was overshadowed by everything else I had found out since waking. I was fat and, if not ugly, then not particularly attractive either. I was married to some giant of a man, temperament unknown. I had children.

My hair felt a little greasy and in need of a wash, but I wasn't sure that I would have time to deal with it along with all the other things that I was going to have to face that day. No, better to save the search for the hair dryer for a quieter moment.

Everything was too sensitive for me to rub dry as I usually did, so I resorted to patting the towel against my damp skin and followed that with a liberal dose of scented talcum powder. That at least raised my spirits a little. I never much cared for male smellies, and the thought of being able to explore all those floral perfumes without risk of reproach helped to offset, at least in some small part, the disappointments of my new life.

A quick self-taught crash course in the use of a tampon soon had me feeling a little safer down below, and I slipped my nightie back over my head while I sorted out a few things. First, I rinsed out the unhappily large pair of knickers I had worn to bed and added them to what I hoped was a washing hamper. Second, I found a brush and set about putting a little order and style into my hair. Third, having investigated the array of lotions and potions hidden in the cabinet, I tried rubbing a few of them into my face and hands. I couldn't be sure if my complexion was natural or artificial, but anything I could do to keep it as good as it was had to be a bonus. I had few enough other assets at my disposal.

Halfway through my regime, a figure loomed in the doorway. He stood well over six feet and possessed the sort of physique that could have been used to model that troll in the first Harry Potter film. He wore pyjama bottoms and a string vest which did little to cover an impressive beer gut, and dark hair sprouting from the most unlikely places. As he passed, a builders cleavage peaked out of the top of his pyjamas, doing little to improve the already fairly disastrous first impression.

“I don't know why you fucking bother,” he grumbled in a low, gravelly voice as he pushed his way past, scratching at a stubbly chin as he went. “All those bottles of crap cost money you know, and for what? It's like gift wrapping a turd.”

The words stung enough to bring hot tears to my eyes. Even if I didn't know this man, even if he didn't mean anything to me, to have my first interaction with another person as a woman on that level cut deeply. He lifted the toilet seat and released a pungent and casually aimed stream of gold.

“That's a bit rich, coming from you,” I replied, choosing anger over despair.

“What did you say?”

“Well, you're not exactly in a position to speak are you, Mr Universe?”

It was something the old six foot plus me would have expected to get away with. Not so much the new dumpy and diminutive me. I don’t know if my new physiology made me more sensitive to details, but the almost purple colour that rose to his face and the rage in his eyes as he turned to face me tripped off a release of hormones in me that robbed all the fight out of me.

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that you fat, fucking cow. Now go do something useful like make me a cup of tea.”

He flushed the toilet and barged past towards the bedroom, leaving me quivering with the sudden wave of fear that had crashed down over me. The part of me that had started noticing details noted, with some resignation, the toilet seat still up and fresh splashes of urine on the porcelain.

“Now woman!”

The yell made me jump into action. Dropping the pot of cream I had been using into the sink, I hurried out and downstairs, knickerless and totally humiliated.

---

“You took your bloody time.”

Two minutes! It had taken me two minutes, and most of that waiting for the cheap and pathetic excuse for a kettle to boil. It had given me time to hunt out everything I needed from the unfamiliar kitchen meaning alongside his mug of tea was a bowl of sugar, a jug with extra milk and a teaspoon. I fumed, but my first encounter had taught me not to risk taunting him into yet another display of rage.

“What the fuck!” He spat the tea back out into the mug and glowered at me. “Are you trying to fucking poison me woman? Where's the fucking sugar?”

“It's in the bowl, where did you expect it to be?”

“In the fucking mug you stupid cunt.” He stabbed at the sugar bowl with the spoon and started shovelling white crystals into his mug.

“I didn't want to presume,” I said, hating the pathetic whine that had crept into my voice.

“Three fucking sugars.” He told me, dropping the last of them into his mug and giving it a thorough stir. “It's been three fucking sugars for the past twelve years, so what made you think it was going to change today?” It seemed he didn't want an answer, or maybe he decided there was something better I should be doing. On my way back up the stairs I’d heard sounds of squabbling coming from the boy's room and they were getting gradually louder. He dismissed me with a jerk of his head. “Why don't you fuck off and give me some space. Sort out those fucking brats of yours.”

My kids? That was a joke, but not one I was in a position to share just now. “Do you mind if I get dressed first?” I managed with an even mixture of sarcasm and whinge.

“Yes I fucking do!” came the reply. “You go and shut those fucking kids up now unless you want to see me get really angry.”

More hormones cowed me into submission. I hated having to give into the slug, but right then I couldn’t see an alternative. I hurried out, still feeling unpleasantly exposed beneath my nightdress.

I stuck my head through the door of the boys’ room in time to catch the evil expression on the older one’s face as he held some toy out of the reach of his young brother.

“Mummy, Steven won't let me have my Optimus Prime.” The younger of the boys ran to me and buried his face in my dressing gown. Then, probably because he didn't get the instant response from me he was anticipating, he started to cry, albeit in a somewhat less than convincing manner.

“Steven,” I sighed, “give him back his toy.”

“Why? It wasn't as if he was playing with it or anything.”

“Neither were you by the looks of it.”

“Mum!”

“Steven, Do as I say, and do it right now.” I said sharply. I'd love to say my lack of patience came entirely from my dislike of bullies, but that would have been hypocrisy right then. Shit flows downstream, and I was almost certainly visiting some of the frustration I had been so unsuccessful at throwing back at the arsehole in the other room on someone I knew couldn't fight back.

“You always take his side!” Steven shouted, throwing the toy down hard enough for bits to fall off. “You never listen to me! I hate you!” He barged past us and ran downstairs, while the younger one wailed even louder – with genuine misery this time, given that some of the bits that had fallen off his toy weren’t meant to – and clung to me even more tightly.

I crouched down and pulled him into a hug. It was the strangest thing; I didn't know this child, but somehow, I felt an empathic connection towards him. Could it be I now had a maternal instinct hard-wired into this body, or was it just that my transformation had freed up a part of me that I had repressed all my life?

“It's alright sweetheart,” I crooned into his ear, rocking back and forth, “everything's going to be alright.”

I don't know who I was trying to comfort more, him or me. Something in his misery drew out the feelings that had been building under the surface since I’d woken up, and I could feel silent tears leaking out through the cracks in my self-control.

I held on to him until he had quieted a little. By then I had regained my own composure and had even done a little creative thinking. One of my former girlfriends had children about this age, and I had won many brownie points with her by thinking my way into their heads and coming up with solutions to their little crises.

“You know,” I murmured into his ear, “Otpimus Prime is a robot, and a pretty clever one at that.”

He went quiet, listening.

“The thing about robots is that they can be fixed if you have the right tools, and I'll bet a robot like Optimus Prime would know just what tools he needs to fix himself. I think that if we leave him for a while, and it may take a few days, I'll bet that when we come back to him, he'll be all mended. What do you think?”

He looked into my eyes, probing. On the surface was distrust at being handled. He would be old enough to question the existence of Father Christmas — especially with an older brother like Steven to help him — and he knew full well that his toy was just that. Underneath it though, a glimmer of hope shone just bright enough to banish the gloom of his despair.

“What say we go and get some breakfast?”

He nodded and allowed me to lead him downstairs where we found Steven moping in the dining room.

“Breakfast?” I asked cheerfully.

He shrugged, which I took for a yes, and set about clearing the table and putting out the various essentials for a good Saturday breakfast. I suggested they could help out, but Steven was too far into his sulk, and his brother – I was going to have to come up with some way of learning his name before long – just sat at the table and looked up at me expectantly.

My cooking skills didn't go much beyond toast, so I didn't promise anything else. Boxes of cereal, bowls, spoons and a carton of milk started them off, and I dropped some slices of bread in the toaster, then ducked into the bathroom where I had spotted a pair of knickers hanging – like a spinnaker on a still day – on the drying rack. They were only a little damp, and I felt a lot more comfortable with them on.

I made myself a fresh cup of tea and chewed on a slice of dry toast – not wanting to make my evident weight problem any worse – while I sat watching the kids and wondering just what I’d let myself in for.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 3 - 4 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 The new life isn't quite what he anticipated. He'd asked to be similar age, similar intelligence, same culture, not unattractive, and he'd been given all those things, after a fashion. What he hadn't counted on was being married to a fat, lazy and abusive husband with a couple of troubled pre-teen sons. It wasn't the life she'd wanted, but was better than nothing?

Chapter 3

The stairs groaned out in protest, signalling the emergence of – and I already hated thinking of him as such – my husband. He didn’t join us, but went into the front room, closing the door firmly enough behind him to indicate he didn’t want to be disturbed. A few short moments later, the muffled sounds of some Saturday morning sports fixture made their way through the thin walls. Despite his deliberately separating himself from us, I was almost certain he would expect me to present him with breakfast and possibly a fresh cup of tea or coffee without asking. I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk angering him any more than I already had, but not knowing what he expected, I was as likely to incur another outburst if I presented him with the wrong thing as if I went and asked.

The boys, who had been gently squabbling over their breakfast, stopped the instant they heard their father. They now sat, silent and afraid, whatever they hadn’t eaten of their breakfast now forgotten.

“Why don’t you two go and get yourselves dressed?” I suggested quietly. “I’ll find out what your dad wants for breakfast.”

They didn’t need telling twice. Chairs scraped against the bare wooden floor and two pairs of small, but surprisingly loud, feet thundered up the stairs.

I pushed open the door into the living room to see Daddy Bear spread out across the three-seater sofa in a way that left no room for anyone else. Even his youngest son would have been hard pressed to squeeze into the space he’d left unused.

“What do you want?” he asked sullenly without even the courtesy of turning his eyes from the TV.

Of all things, it was an American football game and, as seems typical of such, appeared to consist primarily of grown men standing about for minutes on end, trying to decide what they were going to do with the next twenty seconds of play. I found his casual disregard too much to ignore.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that,” I sniffed, “you can jolly well make your own breakfast.”

The television went on mute and he turned what I imagine he hoped was a baleful glare in my direction.

“What did you say?”

“You heard,” I turned to leave. “And if you could do some of the washing up while you’re at it, that would be appreciated.”

It was a step too far, but I’ve always had a problem with bullies and boundaries. Of course, I’d always been better equipped to deal with them once I’d pissed them off before.

“Come back here, you fat cunt!” He yelled after me.

I didn’t. I headed upstairs.

I didn’t make it up more than three steps before something grabbed hold of my dressing gown and yanked me backwards. In the confines of the narrow stairwell, I fell awkwardly, banging the back of my head on the wall, and landing painfully on my coccyx.

For a fat git he could move quickly when he wanted to. He leaned in and grabbed a double handful of nightdress, hauling me bodily to my feet and tearing the thin fabric as he did so. My head was spinning from my collision with the house, and I was still reeling as he pulled me close in front of him.

“I don’t work all the hours that God fucking sends,” he growled into my face, “so that you can spend all your life sitting back on your fat, lardy arse. It’s the fucking weekend and you will make me my fucking breakfast, you lazy fucking piece of shit.”

He pushed me backwards through the door into the dining room, where I barely managed to hold my balance.

“Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, fried bread, in case you’re going to try and tell me you’ve forgotten again, and a coffee with milk and three fucking sugars.

“I swear, you’d better buck up your fucking ideas woman, or you’ll fucking well regret it.”

The door slammed leaving me staring at it, dazed and bewildered. I straightened my glasses then absent-mindedly raised a hand to the back of my head and felt where I’d cracked my skull. It was tender but there was no blood. What really hurt was the base of my spine, and, to a slightly lesser extent, my pride.

I thought about grabbing a frying pan and laying into him with it, but it wouldn’t be worth the risk. Fat and out of shape as he was, he was still immensely stronger than me, and he obviously had a temper on him. If I enraged him further, there was no knowing where he would stop, or even if he would.

Feeling helpless, terrified and frustrated beyond measure, I turned to my mess of a kitchen to put together his breakfast of choice.

Despite earlier comments to the contrary, I do know my way around a frying pan. There was a time in my life when my diet had been this bad, but I’d noticed in myself the early onset of what had become a full blown equator on Mr Blobby in the other room, and I’d found healthier ways of feeding myself. As I set the rashers of bacon and sausages sizzling – three of each in the hope that would be enough – I found myself wondering what I might do to increase the dose of fat, and whether murder by cholesterol poisoning could be proved.

It didn’t take long to prepare. The eggs were the last to go in, along with the fried bread, soaking in enough grease to harden the arteries just by looking at it. The coffee was instant, so quick and easy enough to make. I’d regained my composure by the time the greasy mess was ready, to the point where I no longer actually wished a heart attack on him, but even so, I doubt I’d have shed many tears if he’d had one.

There were no clean plates or cutlery, so I gave a few dirties a brief wipe with a piece of kitchen roll. I’m not usually slovenly, but then, most of the mess here was not of my making. I didn’t feel kindly enough to the fat slob to do the job properly, so think of it as the equivalent of a waiter gobbing in the coffee of a particularly obnoxious customer. Brits have a long-standing tradition of acting in quiet rebellion against their oppressors; I was just making my own cultural contribution.

I put the plate and mug on a tin tray and carried it through to him. I didn’t wait for any response. I doubted there would be one, but even if he had deigned to say anything, I was pretty sure it would be sufficiently patronising that I’d have ended up dumping it all over his head. Leaving him engrossed in his game, I headed upstairs to see what the boys were up to, and to get dressed myself.

…

I stuck my head into the kids’ room to find Steven wearing his football kit and the younger, as yet unnamed, brother sitting on the floor playing with his Lego.

“I thought I told you both to get dressed,” I said.

Steven’s face twisted into something approaching a gloat. “Michael’s wet himself,” he announced delightedly.

“I have not!” the newly labelled Michael shouted.

“Oh yeah?” Steven shouted back. “Then what’s that disgusting stink?”

“Okay, that’s enough!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Both boys stopped mid-row and stared wide-eyed. Was it possible they weren’t used to their mum raising her voice? What did that say about the old me? Not the time to think about it now. Firm hand needed. “Steven, why are you wearing your football kit?” It seemed unfair to pick on the older boy all the time, but at the same time, I was getting fed up with his attitude and the way he kept trying to wind up his brother. As it happened it backfired this time.

“Because I have a football match this morning, you silly cow!”

I was not having that. I marched up to him across the debris-strewn floor and took firm hold of his wrist.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” I told him in low, measured tones.

“Ow!” he cried, twisting his arm to get free. “You’re hurting me.” His voice turned whiny and pitiful, but I suspected he was causing himself more pain from the squirming than I was from simply holding him.

“And I shall hurt you a lot more if you don’t apologise. I will not be spoken to in that manner. Not under my own roof.”

“Dad does it.”

“And we’ll just have to see where that leads, won’t we? Besides, just because he doesn’t have the manners of a pig, that’s no reason why you can’t learn to behave better. Now, I’m waiting.”

He stopped squirming and I eased my hold on him a little. Giving a sudden tug on his arm he snatched it free, making a run for the door.

“Fine! No football then.”

That stopped him short in his tracks.

“You can’t!”

“Watch me.”

“They’re relying on me, Mum!”

It was so strange being called that. I’d been slipping into the role I’d been given, regardless of how little I was enjoying it, but just hearing his young voice call me mum brought with it an odd mix of feelings, the main contenders being an unwarranted softening of my resolve and a renewed sense of the strangeness of this whole situation.

“Well,” I said, managing, with a supreme effort, to keep my head clear, “if they’re relying on you, I suggest you man up and do what you know you have to do.”

He looked sullenly at the floor. Michael, meanwhile, was looking back and forth between us as though we’d each grown a second head.

“Any child of mine,” there it was again, that weird mix of contradictory feelings, “who doesn’t know how to keep a civil tongue in his head does not deserve privileges like being able to play football on a Saturday morning.”

The sullen look shifted from the floor to my eyes. I could all but see him slapping me around the room in his mind. Well, it was about time the spoilt little brat learned a lesson or two. I walked over to Michael and had a feel of his pyjama bottoms.

They were dry but padded. Apparently, he was having bedwetting problems because otherwise why would he be wearing pull-ups? I pulled the elastic back and was rewarded with a wave of pungent unpleasantness. At least it was only urine.

“I don’t care what you say.” Steven, it seemed, had decided he wasn’t going to be ignored. “I’m going to the football match with or without you.”

“You’re not leaving this house without my say so,” I told him, my voice returning to something approaching normal.

“You can’t stop me!”

“Try me.” I stared levelly into his eyes. He looked away first.

“But Mum…”

“Sorry sweetheart. If you can’t be man enough to apologise for your own rudeness, then you’re obviously not man enough to play football, and that’s all there is to it.”

“I hate you!” he yelled, yanking the door open and disappearing downstairs.

I turned to Michael. “Shall we get you cleaned up, sweetie?”

…

It only took a few minutes to wash my younger son and get him dressed, after which I sent him downstairs to play. My turn at last.

I opened the large wardrobe that cluttered up one wall of the bedroom I shared with the shambling mountain downstairs. It was bulging to the point of bursting with clothes — mainly mine it seemed. His nibs had a fair share in there I suppose, but more than three quarters of the space was taken up with a wide selection of dresses, skirts, blouses, leggings, shoes, boots, you name it. I pulled a few of the things out. Mainly they were cheap and just a little trashy, and most were the worse for having been worn in the unfriendly environment of a family home with young children.

I sorted through for something I felt I would actually like to wear and found very little. A lot of it seemed to be the sad result of impulse buying – something to help raise flagging spirits, to make a despondent and perhaps somewhat oppressed, housewife feel a little better about herself. A restricted housekeeping budget had kept the quality depressingly low, and most of it hadn’t survived more than a couple of runs through the washing machine unscathed.

I pulled out a dress – faded black with pink and green flowers, and lace trim around the collar and cuffs. It was pretty enough, apart from where the lace had come away from one of the cuffs, but in my plus size it looked more like a marquee than an item of clothing. I put it back, shaking my head.

In the end I settled on a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms. It was the weekend after all, and who made an effort attending a kid’s football match?

I took my time sorting through drawers to find all the bits I needed, a bra being an absolute and immediate necessity. My new body was well enough endowed in that area that my bits had a tendency towards independent motion given the least provocation. They blended quite well into the surrounding fleshy contours, making them appear a little less impressive than they were – in much the same way that Everest doesn’t look as imposing as Kilimanjaro, hiding, as it does, among a range of surrounding mountains – but they were a sizeable couple of handfuls even so.

Clothed and comfortable, I brushed my hair again, undoing the minor disruption of pulling the sweatshirt over my head, and attempted to add a small touch of makeup. It was all new to me, so it took several tries to get it right. Finally satisfied that I didn’t look too much like Krusty the Clown – not that I’m a great fan of Matt Groening you understand – I headed back downstairs to find out why the boys were so quiet.

The main reason, it turned out, was that Steven was still sulking. Michael had found a pile of toy cars and was quietly vooming them around in one corner, while Steven sat on a dining room chair with his legs drawn up and his face buried in his knees.

I sat down next to him and let out a sigh. I knew enough about kids to realise I couldn’t give in to the little toe-rag, but I also knew that, young as he was, he didn’t have the wherewithal to resolve these sorts of issues by himself. I needed to be the bigger ma… er woman.

“So how are we going to sort this out, eh? Should I just let you get away with being rude?”

“I don’t care. You won’t let me play football.”

“No. What I won’t do is let you get away with talking to me disrespectfully. I need a way to make you understand how important this is.”

“But I want to play f…”

“We’re not talking about the football game, Steven. What we are talking about is the way you think you can get away with insulting your mother.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Fine. That gives me the rest of the morning to tidy up around here. When you are ready to talk about your manners, let me know.”

I headed for the kitchen and started rearranging things so I had an empty sink. The tap ran cold even after a couple of minutes, so I filled the kettle and set it boiling. I couldn’t do anything more while I waited, so I checked on the kids – still much as before, Michael vooming, Steven sulking – and went through to the lounge to collect the dirties from the human slug, still vegetating in front of some rubbish involving grown men and balls.

“Hot water in the kitchen’s not working,” I said as I leaned over to pick up his empty plate and mug.

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Fix it, or get it fixed would be nice.” I tried to keep my voice neutral in the hope of avoiding another heated exchange.

“I work five days a week. Don’t I get any time off?”

I suspected I could trump him on that, but mentioning it would pretty much guarantee a fresh row.

“I can use the kettle for now, but if you could have a look at it sometime, I’d be grateful.”

He gave me an odd look, but I was done talking to him. I let out a deep sigh and withdrew, leaving him to his mindless viewing. I didn’t expect anything from him anytime soon – or ever maybe – but stranger things have happened.

It took half an hour to wash up, put away and wipe down the surfaces. By the time I was done, Steven’s sulk had diminished somewhat, and he was glancing about – mainly at the kitchen clock. It was quarter past nine, which, from his nervousness, meant that kick-off was probably at nine-thirty, or maybe ten o’clock.

I had no intention of helping him any further though. If he wanted to play badly enough, he knew what he had to do. Or maybe he was waiting to see if I might relent, in which case he was about to be disappointed. I opened the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out the ironing board. I caught the increase in concern in his expression out of the corner of my eye and pretended not to notice.

I’m not lightning fast with an iron, but I still had three shirts, two skirts and a dress on hangers before Steven’s fidgeting approached its limit. I paused between garments and raised an eyebrow in his direction. It might have gone either way just then, but I felt it was right to push him just a small amount. He’d already proved how stubborn he was, and he might have thought he could still manipulate the situation. I wanted him to know that his only way out was through complete capitulation. Fortunately for him he was bright enough to realise that.

“I’m sorry, Mum.” He mumbled the apology, but it was audible and it was genuine. I put the iron down and joined him at the table.

“And by that you mean?”

“I’m sorry I called you names and I won’t do it again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Right, I suppose you’d better fetch your boots after all.”

“Really?”

I glanced at the clock, which showed twenty to ten.

“What do you think? Can we still make it in time for the kick-off?”

He didn’t need any more encouragement. He tore up the stairs leaving me to sort out shoes and coats for Michael and myself.

“I don’t want to go to the football,” the younger boy whinged as I pulled the Velcro strap across the front of his shoes.

“Well, you can always stay here with Daddy if you prefer.”

I meant it as a joke, but the way the colour drained from his face, I regretted my words instantly. No child should be that scared of his father. I pulled him into a hug and reassured him that I hadn’t meant it.

There was an impressively sized shoulder bag in a fairly neutral floral print sitting on the table. I checked inside to make sure it was what I expected and was gratified to find a purse, a mobile phone, a few bits of makeup, and a few other miscellaneous items. The purse held, among other things, a driver’s license with the photograph of a younger, considerably less plump version of the new me. She — that is I — had been rather attractive a few years ago. The name read Sandra Bush. Had my former self really chosen to marry her first name to that surname?

I dropped the purse back into the bag and spotted something out of the corner of my eye which raised my anxiety levels all over again. My actions had disturbed the contents of the bag enough to reveal the corner of a packet of cigarettes. A quick check revealed all but five had been smoked. How many and for how long, I wondered. Just how much damage had she done to her lungs before letting me have them?

I slung the bag over my shoulder just as Steven reappeared, wearing trainers and a track suit, his football boots laced together and hanging round his neck.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll be late.”

I took Michael’s hand, and we followed Steven out past their semi-recumbent father and into the street.

Of course, it was too much to ask for there to be a car we could use. I mean the street was cluttered with them, cramming both sides until there was barely room for one vehicle to pass down the middle. A decrepit, old Transit filled the space outside our front door, the words, ‘Presidential Plumbing’ emblazoned across its side and the name, ‘George Bush, Plumber’ underneath in smaller letters along with a mobile phone number. I suspected that it was as much of a vehicle as we owned, which meant that I wasn’t going to have an opportunity to sit behind a wheel any time soon, but at least I knew who I was married to now.

Neither of the kids seemed to expect to be driven though, so I let Steven take the lead on the short walk to the local school.

Chapter 4

Fortunately, the school was only about ten minutes’ walk away, but with Steven pressing ahead impatiently, anxious to get there on time, and Michael pulling back, I was more than a little exhausted by the time we arrived at the school gates. It didn’t help that my body was hopelessly unfit, and that my lungs were struggling to work through a coating of tar, and by the time we reached the gates, my ample bosom was heaving up and down with the effort of re-establishing the level of oxygen my cells were used to receiving.

The school was actually two separate schools on one site, both primary and secondary standing side by side with just a low fence dividing the one from the other. The advantage was they shared playing fields, and today, it seemed, the secondary school had use of one of them for a year seven football fixture. Steven ran on ahead as soon as we reached the school gates, leaving me to plod along with a reluctant Michael in tow, now taking his turn to sulk.

With a degree of common sense that exceeds the normal level of organisational skill for most bureaucrats in our beloved country – either that or sheer fluke – they had chosen to hold the football match on the pitch closest to the primary school playground. The gate between the two was open and there was already a number of children Michael’s age clambering over the climbing frame, swings and slides that made up part of their grounds. I’d been hoping for something to keep him distracted, but this was beyond my expectations. He pulled his hand out of my grasp and ran on to join the others, leaving me to waddle that last few yards on my own.

Well waddle might be a little too unkind, though I was certainly of a size that didn’t lend itself easily to grace. I could only imagine what I looked like, but the picture I conjured was not overly pleasing.

Keeping half an eye on him, I left Michael to his own devices and followed Steven to a small huddle of bodies consisting of a dozen or so younger boys around his age and one adult — a beefy, middle aged man who looked up as we approached.

“Steven!” he called as we came into range. “We’d all but given up on you. Why’re you so late?”

Steven turned a baleful eye in my direction, apparently expecting me to say something about the way the morning had gone, but, as far as I was concerned, that was all done and dusted — nothing more to say, in public at least.

“Oh, that’s my fault I’m afraid,” I wheezed, still breathless from the chase. “I needed to sort a few things before we came and ended up cutting it a bit fine.”

“Well, no harm done,” the coach said. “You up to taking right wing, Stevie?”

Steven recovered from his surprise enough to answer in the affirmative. One of the other lads didn’t look too pleased at the change in line-up, but the coach promised him an opportunity later in the game. The boys re-established their huddle, assimilating Steven into their group, and I was no longer necessary.

I ambled towards the playground, scanning for Michael and finding him lining up to climb the slide behind a short queue of other children. I smiled quietly to myself. At least one of the men in the family had some manners.

Away from the house and with both children occupied, I’d been looking forward to having some space to think. I wasn’t the only soccer mum present though, and after the distinctly rocky start I'd had, I felt a need for a little friendly companionship.

I approached a huddle of women close to my age – all of whom I was glad to see had chosen to dress for comfort rather than style – and offered them a friendly smile.

It wasn't returned. Eyes turned my way then quickly drifted off to one side. A few expressions stiffened, a few mouths pursed or pulled down into frowns. A cold lump settled in my stomach as intuition told me I'd receive no welcome there.

I dropped the smile from my own face and kept apart, fighting back an abrupt surge of tears. For some as yet unknown reason, Sandy Bush was not a popular figure in the local community.

“Welcome to the pariah patch,” a voice said from behind me.

I turned to find a woman similar to me in both age and build. Unlike the rest of the women nearby, she possessed a heritage that had originated in a warmer climate. Coffee coloured skin and tightly curled black hair teased into cornrows, full, dark lips which curved into an easy smile that was mirrored in her eyes. I liked her immediately.

I put on my best southern drawl, which I’ll admit wasn’t great. “Oh please Br’er Fox, whatever you do, please don't throw me into that there pariah patch.”

Her smile widened, “Oh my, you don't come from around these parts, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody here has heard of Uncle Remus or Br’er Rabbit”

“You're joking!”

“I kid you not. You’re the first person I've met who hasn’t given me a blank look when I opened my mouth.”

Was there a hint of an accent there? I decided to trust my instinct.

“Well, other than that you seem to have adapted to our peculiar ways pretty well.”

She chuckled. “Am I that obvious?”

“Other than your controversial choice of reading material? Not at all. I'm Sandy.” I held out a hand.

Which she examined cautiously. “You sure you want to do this? You'll be burning your bridges big time if you associate with the likes of me.”

“Well, the thing with friends,” I said raising my voice to be sure the gaggle of gossips who'd so recently snubbed me could hear, “is that it's quality that matters, not quantity.”

It turned out there was still a little stretch left in her smile. She took my hand. “Charlotte. Charlie. Do I take it your boy’s playing?”

I pointed Steven out, now warming up by running up and down the nearside edge of the field.

“Ah,” she sighed with mock sadness. “Regretfully, I'm not sure we'll be able to remain friends after all.” She pointed at a skinny boy with skin colour to match her own standing in the opposing goal mouth.

“What if I promise only to cheer as much and as loud as you do? That way any influence we have on the game will balance out.”

“I like the way you think, girl. That could work.”

The game started. Despite a lifetime’s intense dislike of team sports, I really enjoyed myself. For one thing, Charlie and I bonded over the experience in a way I'd never thought possible, breaking into gales of laughter from time to time as we each made our separate efforts to avoid cheering more than the other. For another, Steven proved to be quite an excellent player, not showing any of the Prima Donna tendencies so common to children his age, but instead manoeuvring the ball down the right-wing time and time again before launching it with uncanny accuracy into the box just as his team’s centre forward ran up to take possession.

The striker was beaten often enough by the opposing defenders, but had so many opportunities to score that Charlie's son was hard pressed to keep the ball out of the net. Despite his own evident skill, he did let one through shortly before half time.

Twenty-five minutes into the game I felt a small hand insert itself in mine and felt a brief pang of guilt as I recalled that I was responsible for two children and not just one.

Fortunately, Michael had not fallen foul of any of the playground hazards but had simply grown bored.

“Your brother's playing really well this morning,” I told him.

“I don't like football,” he replied.

Why was I not surprised? My new friend quirked an eyebrow and suppressed a smile.

Given the young age of the players, the match was limited to thirty minutes per half, so we didn’t have long to wait for the half time whistle. Charlotte and I moved in to congratulate and encourage our respective progeny, something which Steven didn't seem sure how to accept, suggesting a level of disinterest on the part of his actual mother, both in the game and the child.

Ten minutes to suck on a segment of orange and listen to a pep talk from their coach. I wasn't that into the game. I withdrew quietly and took Michael off to the swings for a while. He was making a bid to monopolise my time when the referee called the teams back out onto the pitch. I gave him one last gentle push and made my way back towards the edge of the playing field where Charlotte stood waiting.

Michael grizzled a little when he realised I was leaving, so I gave him the option of joining me and Charlie at the touchline. He decided he could find better entertainment without me and drifted off towards the other kids.

“You got your hands full with those two,” Charlie said as I moved within reach of comfortable conversation.

“They're not so bad,” I said. “It’s the one I left at home that's the real handful.”

“You got three kids?! What, didja leave one with your husband?”

“Not so much that as one of them is my husband. Lazy sod couldn't even be bothered to get off his arse and come with us. Honestly, I think he'd find his son’s game more entertaining than some of the crap he's watching.”

“Oh, I had me one of them a while back. Life’s too short to waste on a no-good sumbitch like him. I kicked him to the curb a couple a years ago and I ain't never looked back. Me and Jake, we doing just fine without him.”

And there was the African American in her, all rising to the surface over a bad memory.

“Well, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to do that myself,” I said quietly, although considering my morning I probably wasn’t all that far off. “Jake’s your boy’s name?” This felt like a good time to change topics and children seemed a safer one than husbands or ex-husbands – not that I knew a great deal about mine just yet.

It didn’t seem to matter. Charlie was full to the brim with her own son, and I was happy enough to let it all spill over. I could feel the bond forming between us as I mainly listened and she mainly talked. It wasn't some magical mysterious thing, but with each nod and smile my feelings for her grew a little – and no, not those sorts of feelings either. Purely platonic, but strengthening for all that.

That was one positive about this new life. As my former self, any friendship I’d offer to a woman would likely have been viewed as having a romantic element, which would usually lead to disappointment and disinterest when I made it clear that wasn’t my intent. Here friendship was the natural outcome.

The game drew to its inevitable end. Steven’s team held the one goal lead but couldn't quite put another ball past Jake's very capable hands.

The final whistle blew and Charlotte shrugged her eyes at me – sorry I can't think of another way to put it, kind of a face she made that conveyed the essence of a shrug.

“Well, I guess I’d better get the little tyke home for some lunch. It was nice meeting you Sandy. Maybe next time our different teams face off.”

“Unless you fancy meeting for a coffee sometime.”

She laughed her easy laugh. “You really don't care what the others think of you, do you?”

“Well it's like you said, they've already thrown me into the pariah patch. I don't know exactly what I've done, but I doubt I could make matters worse. I could really use a friend right now.”

“You got your phone?”

I rummaged through my bag and dug it out. I felt a moment's worry over lock codes before discovering that it was new enough to have biometrics. A pass code would have defeated me, but a thumbprint I could provide.

I handed it to Charlie who typed in her number then used it to dial her own. She hung up as soon as her phone rang.

“Call me next week and we'll arrange something.” She passed the phone back and turned to greet her son.

“What were you talking to her for?” Steven eyed Charlie's retreating form.

“Aren’t I allowed to make friends then?”

“Not when they're the enemy.”

“Just because you played against her son’s team doesn’t make them the enemy.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't I? How many teams in this league of yours?”

“Fourteen.” Said with a superior tone in his voice.

“Including yours. So, if you consider them all enemies, then you’ll make a maximum of ten friends and...” my new brain didn't seem quite as comfortable with numbers, but I got there. “one hundred and forty three enemies. Doesn’t sound like a great use for your time.”

“There are eleven players on a team.” He didn't actually say stupid, but it was implied in his tone.

“One of whom is you, so ten others to make friends with. Eleven if you count the substitute, but he didn't seem that happy with you this morning. You have to admit Jake was a pretty good goalie.”

He shrugged which was as much of a concession as I could hope for.

“So maybe you'd benefit more from making friends and having an occasional kick about in the park than just hating him?”

“You'd let us do that?”

“Under the right circumstances I don’t see why not.”

A sneaky, calculating look passed across his face so swiftly I couldn’t be sure if it was real or my imagination. I let it slide.

“You played a great game out there, Steven. I was impressed.”

“Since when have you been interested in football?”

“You’re determined to be unpleasant today, aren’t you?” I tried to keep the sting out of my voice.

“You nearly made me miss the game!”

“As I recall, you were the one who called me a silly cow and then refused to apologise. Now it may not be the way I handled things in the past, but it’s about time you learnt there are consequences to your actions, both good and bad.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if you behave well there will be treats, but if you behave badly then I may have to take away some of the things you like, such as playing football.”

“You mean you’re not going to let me play next week? That’s so unfair!”

“It’s also not what I said. Right now, I have no plans to stop you playing next week. Since the rest of your team evidently rely on you, it’s not even the first thing I’ll be thinking about taking away if you play me up, because I don’t necessarily want to punish them for anything you may do. Besides, if you behave like the young gentleman I expect you to be, I won’t have any need to impose any sanctions, will I?

“Shall we fetch your brother and head home for some lunch?”

“Great! Back to Auschwitz!”

“Oh, is that what you’re learning about in school at the moment?”

He shrugged, but he was working towards a sulk to match the one from earlier in the morning. I led the way towards the playground, now with one solitary figure moping under the slide.

“So, what makes you think home is like Auschwitz? Is it the fact that your dad and I are starving you to death, or maybe it’s the overcrowded sleeping arrangements? No, I know, it’s that gas chamber we’re building in the back garden so we can get rid of you once and for all.”

“Not funny.”

“No, I suppose it’s not. Hey sweetie.” This last was to Michael who had dejectedly risen to his feet and moped over to us.

“No-one would play with me,” he complained.

“Well they’ve all gone home now, and I suppose so should we. I imagine you’re hungry?”

“No, I mean before. Nobody would play with me before while you were watching the football.”

“I can’t understand why. I mean you’re such a cheerful little soul. Come on, we don’t really want to keep your dad waiting, do we?”

That sobered them up a little. They both still sulked, but at least they didn’t drag their feet at all. It was probably an unfair tactic, but what I’d seen of parenting – as well as what I’d experienced of it so far this morning – suggested it was largely about survival, and the key to survival is doing whatever works.

…

The walk back home was uneventful. The van was where it had been when we left, as was the lump of lard who usually drove it.

“Did you win?”

“One nil.”

Daddy-bear grunted and turned back to whatever rubbish he was watching.

“You could have come,” I said, still trying to keep my voice neutral. “You’d have probably enjoyed the match more than whatever this is.”

“Mind your own fucking business you stupid cow and make me a coffee.”

Steven looked at me expectantly. He was right, I could hardly expect him to live by my standards with his father showing him a wholly different set. On the other hand, he’d proved that he was quite capable of getting off his lardy arse if given the right incentive, and I’d already found out how inadvisable it was to poke the bear.

I herded the boys past his outstretched legs – which he couldn’t even be bothered to shift for us – into the back room, where I helped them out of shoes and socks.

“So how come he gets away with calling you a silly cow?” Steven wanted to know.

“Who said he’s going to?”

A little rummaging in the kitchen unearthed a tray large enough for what I had in mind. I loaded it up with the kettle, a carton of milk, a bowl of sugar, a mug, a spoon and the jar of instant. Another rummage, this time in my bag, unearthed my phone which I set to record video and propped against a pile of books on the table. If he decided to react to this particular challenge, I intended to have a record.

With everything set, I carried the tray through and put it on his lap.

“What the fuck is this?” He asked as I retreated from the living room.

“Call it a do-it-yourself coffee kit and be grateful for that much. You want more, you can start showing me a little respect.”

“Respect?” He roared, predictably rising from his stupor. “I’ll show you fucking respect!”

He barged through the door into the back room and threw the tray at me. It was heavy, especially the kettle, and even though I managed to raise an arm to deflect it, it hurt. He then advanced far enough to swing a backhander across my face which hurt a lot more and left me quite literally seeing stars.

“Now, d’you want more fucking respect, or are you going to make me that fucking coffee?” He stormed back out of the room.

I gathered my wits and reached for my phone, which somehow had fallen over so the camera was facing the table. I glanced at Steven, currently sitting nearby with an expression wavering between butter-wouldn't-melt and smug satisfaction. I’d not seen him tip it over, but the resident bull in the china shop hadn't been anywhere near it, so Steven was the only potential culprit.

“Did you enjoy that?”

In response he showed more smug and less innocence.

I played back the video. It showed the phone tipping slowly onto its front while my voice explained the concept of DIY coffee. I saved it for the sound recording and stared my oldest son square in the eyes.

“Consequences,” I said, noting with satisfaction his expression turning first guilty then worried.

The kettle sported a sizeable crack from its recent abuse so I threw it in the bin. The carton of milk, which had been all that was left in the fridge, lay on its side, most of its contents soaking into a threadbare rug. I rescued what little remained and put it back in the fridge before hunting out a cloth to deal with the spill. I knew from experience just how bad it would smell if I left it. The sugar bowl and mug were also in pieces though the jar of coffee somehow survived. With the milk spill dealt with I embarked on a brief hunt for a dustpan and brush and had just about finished clearing up when Mr Angry roused once more from his weekend hibernation demanding to know why he still didn't have his coffee.

“You broke the kettle and spilt most of the milk and sugar with your little tantrum,” I told him. “I could boil some water in a pan, but I'll need to go down to the shops for the rest.”

“Best you go down to the fucking shops then, hadn't you?”

“I’d be happy to as long as you'll look after the boys while I’m gone.”

“Your fucking kids, you look after them.”

He’d said that before, but I couldn't believe a man like him would commit to a marriage with someone who was already encumbered with a couple of kids, especially if her body showed a little wear and tear from the ordeal. Besides, Steven especially resembled him in both appearance and temperament, so I could only assume he was being an arse over it.

“Fine. It’ll take me that much longer and you'll get your fucking coffee in an hour.”

He glowered at me, which was at least one thing he did really well.

“Your children need feeding.” Emphasis on the your. I'd had about as much crap as I was going to take from him. “That's going to happen in the next fifteen minutes one way or another. If you want your bloody coffee as well you can bloody well try being a part of this family.”

His glower deepened. He turned it on his oldest son who he knew he could intimidate. “Go upstairs and play with your brother,” he growled. “And don't be a fucking prick. You do not want to give me a reason to come upstairs.”

Steven bolted from the room.

“Father of the year, aren't you?” I snarled at him.

“What's that supposed to fucking mean? No don't bother, I don't want to fucking know. Bugger off down to the shops and get what you need. You can make their fucking lunch once you've made my fucking coffee.”

I didn't particularly like leaving the boys in his care, Michael in particular, but I had no real excuse now. I grabbed my coat and bag and headed out the door.

We'd passed near a small precinct of local shops on the way to and from the football match. They included a general store and a chippy. I visited the store first. With the milk and sugar paid for I had enough cash left over to buy a couple of small sausages and a medium bag of chips. Along with a tin of beans they'd do for the kids’ lunch.

I hurried back to the house, total length of excursion about ten minutes, and set about lunch and his holiness’s blessed coffee. The beans heated through before the pan of water, so I called the boys down for their food before dealing with the lord and master. I still managed to get it to him before he stirred himself again.

“Where's my fucking chips?” he demanded when the only thing I gave him was a steaming mug of instant.

“In the fucking chip shop,” I told him, “because you don't give me enough fucking housekeeping to afford fucking chips for fucking everybody. Would you like a fucking sandwich, dear?”

“Watch your mouth, bitch.”

“I will if you will, sweetheart.” I was playing a dangerous game and I knew it.

“You are getting on my last nerve. You keep This up and so help me I’ll...”

“You'll what? You'll slap me around some more? Go ahead. One day you'll push just a little bit too far.”

“And then what? You'll leave me? Go right ahead and see if I care. Take those fucking brats with you too. I've had enough of you.”

“So no sandwich then? I'll leave you in peace, darling.” I snarled the last word and withdrew.

Back in the dining room two pairs of saucer-like eyes followed me through to the kitchen. My hands were shaking and some degree of inherited instinct had me digging in my bag for the packet of cigarettes. When I realised what I was doing, I crushed the packet and threw it in the bin. However much this body might want nicotine, I wasn’t about to give it any, not in that form at least. The quick jaunt down to the shops had left me far more breathless than I liked. Caffeine would do as an alternative, but not the cheap and cheerless granules in a jar variety. I settled on a cup of tea. My stomach growled at me angrily, but I just growled back, aware that my breathlessness had as much to do with the extra weight my body was carrying as it did the cigarettes it had smoked.

The sound of the front door closing roused me from my reverie. I cautiously eased through into the front room to find it empty with the TV off. It seemed Arsehole the Great had found the smell of chips in the house too much to endure and had ventured out into the world in search of his own.

In a moment's pettiness I stuffed the remote down the back of the sofa. It wouldn't do to invade his space though. He'd be back as soon as he had his food and, I suspected, wouldn't be happy to see anyone in his kingly domain. His coffee was only half drunk so I left it in case he wanted to finish it.

I withdrew back into the dining room where chips and sausages were being eaten with great relish and beans were being ignored.

“Here are a few things you should know,” I said offhandedly. “The last thing you eat is the thing you taste longest after a meal, those plates will be empty before I'll allow you away from the table, and if you choose to ignore that last rule, then whatever you leave on your plate will be all you have for your next meal or your next until it’s gone. Oh yes, and there are other things I could put on your plates that you'd find considerably less palatable than baked beans.”

With some reluctance, first Michael then Steven started scooping beans.

“Okay, so what would you like to do with the rest of the day? Do you have any homework?”

Two heads shook. “We don't get homework, Mum,” Steven said.

That sounded about right on reflection. My former girlfriend with the primary school aged children had never seemed bothered by it, and it seemed likely that year sevens wouldn’t get much.

“I want to watch television,” Michael's all too irritating whine chipped in.

“Do you ever get to watch television when your father's around?”

It was a genuine question, but they both took it as rhetorical and turned their thought's elsewhere.

“You could play in your room, or down here,” I suggested, “or in the garden, or we could go down to the park for a bit. The choice is yours but if you want to go out you both have to agree.”

“What if we don’t?” Steven asked.

“Then I get the deciding vote, and I'll probably side with whichever one of you has annoyed me the least this morning.

“You might want to make up your mind before your dad gets back though. I’m going to check the kitchen to see if we need to go shopping any time soon.”

The inventory wasn’t too bad. We could make it through the weekend on the food we had stashed away. I’d have liked a few more cleaning things, but what there was would do until the Almighty Holder of the Purse Strings saw fit to replenish my meagre reserves, or I figured out where the old me stashed any spare cash.

“We'd both like to go to the park,” Steven announced with Michael nodding his agreement beside him.

“Fine. Do you want to keep your football kit on?”

“I was going to take my ball and have a bit of a kick around, yeah. Maybe some of my mates will be there.”

“Michael?”

“I wanna go on the swings.” For once without the unpleasant nasal quality.

“Alright then. Shoes and coat on Steven, while I help your brother.”

“Do you think Jake will be there, Mum?”

“Probably not sweetheart, but you never know.”

“Could you call his mum and suggest they come down?”

“Not today love.”

“Why not?”

“Because she most likely already had plans for today, and I don't want to impose on her, so today we take our chances, okay?”

He settled and I turned back to sorting out the younger of the two boys. By the time I had my own shoes and coat on, he was standing nearby offering me my bag.

We made it out of the house before the Lord and Master made it home, but only just. We encountered him waddling back towards the house in that way that only a man with a pronounced beer gut can. His packet of fish and chips was twice the size of the one I'd shared between his boys.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he asked as we drew within range.

“Somewhere the air isn't so blue,” I said cheerfully. “It’s a nice day so we thought we'd see what was going on down at the park.”

“You didn't say nothing.”

“I just assumed you like a bit of peace and quiet.”

“Yeah, well don't be too long.”

“Of course not, sweetheart.”

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 5 - 6 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 This is an unpleasant couple of chapters. Please be cautious. They involve a rebellious child who thinks he can get away with anything An abusive husband who has similar self-centred views regarding his marital entitlements The loss of pretty much the only friend in this lonely life The former occupant of the life and her views on what she'd left behind And the protagonist and her response to all of the above. By the end, there are signs that the tide may be on the turn. I should also mention that the manner in which the police respond in these chapters is purely fictitious and does not reflect actual practice in any way.

-oOo-

Chapter 5

Steven bounced his football as we walked, controlling it with his feet before lifting it back up into his hands. A nagging part of me wanted to tell him to be careful, but I'd seen him in action on the pitch and I knew how good he was, so I sat on my reaction and let him get on with it.

“I hope Jake is there,” he said, kicking the ball up high and catching it.

I sighed. “When his mum gave me her number, she said to give her a call in the week. That suggests to me that maybe she already has plans for the weekend.”

“But maybe she doesn’t.”

“In which case maybe they'll be down at the park already. I'm not calling her, Steven.”

“But...”

“But nothing! Call it payback for tipping my phone over earlier.”

“You don't know that was me.”

“Michael was upstairs, your dad and I were in the front room. You were the only one near enough and the video shows it going over slowly without any sign it was knocked. Evidence enough for most juries to convict.”

Steven glanced at me for a brief guilty moment before his face settled into a familiar obstinate glower.

“We’ll call that one quits, but from here on in I'm instituting a three strike policy. You already know the sorts of things you shouldn't do because you've shown me you have a tendency to do them when you think you can get away with it. From here on in I'll give you a strike every time you deliberately do something you know you shouldn’t. Three strikes in a week and you’re grounded, which will mean no Saturday football.

“What if I don't agree?”

“Then hard luck, because I'm your mother and I get to make the rules. You need to understand there are consequences to your actions, and I need to make sure you learn that while I’m still able to control the severity of those consequences.

“Having said that, if you think one of my rules is unfair you can try to persuade me that's the case and I promise I'll consider your arguments, but this is the way things are going to be, do you understand?”

“Whatever.”

“And just to make things abundantly clear, if you decide to do something that's very wrong, I do reserve the right to give you all three strikes at once, and carry further strikes into future weeks.”

The anger in his eyes was a fair imitation of his father’s.

“On the flip side, if we get to the end of a week and you don't have any strikes, you'll most likely earn yourself a reward.”

“Like what?”

“Something we’ll have to be able to afford obviously, and something that will have to be appropriate to your age. Beyond that, we’ll aim for things you actually want rather than anything I decide.”

The glower remained, but the dark shadows behind it receded a little. He bounced his ball to well over three times his height and almost didn’t manage to control it when it came back down.

“And since we’re starting this now, I deliberately haven't said anything about you bouncing that ball because I know you're pretty skilled with it, but if you were to lose control and let it bounce out into the road, that would most likely count as at least one strike, so you may not want to test the limits of your skill until we get to the park.”

He made no noticeable acknowledgement of what I'd said, but the height of the bounces decreased by degrees until they were back to a sensible level.

A small hand wiggled its way into mine. I gave it a friendly squeeze.

“Why are you different, Mummy?”

I looked down at the small figure beside me. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you look the same, and you smell the same, and you feel the same, and you sound the same, but the things you say and the way you say them is different.”

“Are different,” I corrected absentmindedly. “I don’t know if I have a good answer for you, Michael. Maybe it was when your daddy bumped my head this morning. Sometimes people change after they have a bump to the head, and I did bang it pretty hard. Does it bother you?”

“No, I like it. Usually you’re all shouty with me and Steven, but today you’ve only been shouty with Daddy. It’s better like this.”

“I’m glad you approve, because I think this is going to be the way of things from here on.”

“But I don’t want Daddy to hurt you again, Mummy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's talking about last year when you fell down the stairs,” Steven said.

“Mummy didn't fall. Daddy pushed her.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about “

“I do too.”

“It’s alright, Michael.” I squeezed his hand.

“But Mummy...”

“I said it’s alright. I’m not about to let your father hurt me. Not again.”

Fortunately the next turn brought the park entrance into view. For one thing I was feeling decidedly winded after the short walk. For another, Steven took it as a sign that he was no longer tethered to our little party and ran off in search of friends and adventure, which brought a welcome, if temporary, pause to the constant acrimony between him and his brother.

Michael gravitated towards the playground in much the same way he had earlier that morning, and in much the same way I found a place somewhere in between where I could keep an eye on both of them.

Truly alone for the first time since I'd woken up, I fished in my bag for my phone. With its hot pink case it wasn't hard to locate. I didn’t mind the colour, but iPhones had never been my first choice. I thumbed it open.

The battery was down to only ten percent, which on a phone like this could be anywhere between thirty minutes and thirty seconds of talk time.

I figured it was worth a chance and tapped in my old number.

The phone rang for ten seconds and switched to voice mail.

I tried again with the same result, then again. On the fourth attempt it was answered.

“Look, who the fuck is this? If you keep fucking calling me, I’ll call the fucking police on you.”

I blinked and stuttered. I’d expected it to be my voice, but it still felt weird hearing it from the outside. All the more so to hear it spouting such a stream of invective, and through a mouth stuffed full of something or other.

I pulled myself together. “Don't you recognise your old number?” I asked. “We used to be each other.”

“Oh, it’s you! Well, no take-backs.”

“What?

“No take-backs! It’s what the man in red said to tell you if you called wanting to change back. Honestly, I thought I’d hear from you a lot sooner.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you're abandoning your children?”

“Nah. I never fucking wanted them in the first place.” The voice became more muffled as she took another enormous bite out of whatever she was filling her face with. From the lack of crunch, I suspected it wasn’t the least bit healthy – possibly originating in the doughnut shop down the road from my apartment. “George fucking knocked me up when we was still at school, so his mum and dad made him fucking marry me. I didn't really want to, but my mum and dad – yours now I suppose – said to me how was I going to raise a kid on me own when they wasn’t going to turn their lives upside-down just ‘cos I couldn’t keep 'im outa my fucking knickers. Dad paid for the wedding – just the six of us; me, George and both our parents down at the registry office, with a pie and a pint to follow – then he told me that was the last he was going to fucking spend on me and I ‘aven’t spoken to ‘im since.”

That answered a few questions already.

“A couple of years after I ‘ad Steven, I read in this magazine how it’s much easier looking after two kids than one, so I stopped taking the pill for a bit until Michael came along. FYI, two kids is bloody not easier than one!

“George was fucking pissed.” She laughed at the memory. “It’s almost been worth having that whiny fucking brat just for how much it pisses him off. Mind you he told me exactly what he’d fucking do to me if I stopped taking the fucking pills again.”

“So perhaps you should tell me where you keep them? I haven’t taken one yet today.”

“Don’t be stupid! You don’t have to take anything for a week now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You take one every day for three weeks then you stop for a week. Didn’t you start bleeding today?”

“Yes, but I’ve never been on the pill before, so I don’t know how it works.”

“Oh, right. Well, you get twenty-one in a pack, and you take them at the same time every day – that’s important…”

“So what time is the same time for you?”

“Oh, er, my doctor said to do it in the evening when I eat dinner. It’s better with food, and if you have dinner at the same time, which we do, then you get in the habit of taking the pill at the same time.”

“So, when do you usually eat dinner?” I could feel my patience wearing away, bit I kept my voice calm.

“Yeah, about six usually. When we eat later, I still take the pill at six, but like I said, when you’ve taken it for three weeks, you’re supposed to stop for a week to let all the shit out, sort of thing. You can’t get pregnant during that week ’cos you’re not ovlu… ovril… ‘cos you’re on the rag sort of, but it’s important to start again after seven days off.”

“So how long have I been off and where do you keep your pills?”

“They’re in the kitchen cupboard next to the oven and I took my last one day before yesterday.”

“Do you have a calendar to help keep you on track?”

“I’ve got an app on the phone. It’ll beep at you at ten to six the next time you need to take one, that is if the fucking thing hasn’t lost all its charge again.”

“So, there’s the next question,” I paused long enough to glance at the phone. Down to four percent, “where is your phone charger?”

“Right. It’s next to the bed. I forgot to plug it in last night, didn’t I? Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll probably run out of battery in a minute or two, but I still have a bunch of questions.”

“Well, keep ’em coming, ’cos I’ve got nothing else to do.” I could barely make out her words around the mouthful of whatever she’d just bitten into. “Do you really want my life, ’cos I mean… fuck.”

“Yeah, well like you said, no take-backs. In the meantime, would I be right in assuming the boys go to the same school Steven was playing football at this morning?”

“Oh fuck, I forgot about that. How’d he do?”

“Do you care?”

“Not really. Nasty little shit. I was hoping maybe someone kicked him in the bollocks or something. Right, yeah, they go to school there. Michael’s in year three at the primary and Steven’s in year seven in the secondary. He usually has homework over the weekend. He’ll try and tell you otherwise but look in his bag. You’ll find their school stuff in the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Yes, I already found the ironing. Didn't see any uniforms though. Any birthday’s coming up any time soon?”

“Next one’s Michael’s, but that’s still a few months away. They’re all in the calendar on the phone. Michael doesn't have a uniform. Stevie’s should be there somewhere.”

“Anything else I should know that you can think of?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“Any friends expecting a call any time soon?”

“I don’t have any friends, not really. My fucking husband overcharges for his work, but he’s the only plumber in the area. There used to be another, but he kind of moved away a couple of years ago. I can’t say for sure if George had anything to do with it, but he had the biggest fucking grin all over his fucking face when he told me the other guy was going.

“Nobody I know in the area really speaks to me now, ’cos they kind of think I’m the reason he overcharges. Plus a few of them think he kind of messes with other bits of the plumbing while he’s working, so there’s always something for him to come back and fix. They reckon I’m in on it. I mean why would I do something like that?”

“I don’t know. What do you usually cook for Sunday lunch?”

“Whatever I fucking feel like, or whatever’s in the freezer. Pizza maybe?”

“When and where do you go shopping, and how do you get there?”

“There’s a Lidl down the road, about ten minutes’ walk. They’re fucking useless in there, almost nobody speaks English hardly and they never have the things you want, but anywhere else means taking a bus and who can be fucking arsed with that? There isn’t enough room for everybody in the van so no point in asking that fucking useless shit to drive us.

“Here, do you really have a car? I mean me. Do I really have a car now?”

“Yes, it’s all as I said in the note I left. The keys should be in my trouser pocket.”

“Sweet. George promised me a fucking car after we was married, even paid for me to learn to drive, but it never happened.”

“Why not?”

“He likes his fucking horses, doesn't he? Every fucking Saturday he turns on that fucking telly and watches whatever shit happens to be on till the racing comes along. You’ll find out when you get home how well he’s done, and it’s not great most of the time.”

“This deal keeps getting better and better. I take it that’s why there’s almost no cash in my bag?”

“Yeah, that’s a thought. I’d get him to give you the housekeeping before the races start, otherwise you won’t have nothing for the week.”

“So, when do the races start?”

“I don’t fucking know. I just make sure I get it out of 'im first thing in the morning.”

“That doesn’t help me much today does it.”

“’Scuse me for not thinking of everything. You could’ve called earlier, couldn't you?”

“You’re right. I suppose I ought to head back sooner rather than later. Please take care with the car.”

“I’ll be alright. I mean it's easy like falling off a bike, innit? Not something you forget.”

“If you haven’t driven since your driving test, it’ll probably be a lot like falling off a bike. If I were you, I’d have a couple of refresher lessons before...”

“Yeah, well you’re not me, are you? Not any more, so keep your fucking nose out.”

“You’re right. It’s none of my business. It's just... Look, we swapped lives looking for something better. I’d hate for things to turn to shit because of something you could easily avoid.”

“Why do you even care?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s all these new hormones. Maybe I still feel some responsibility for who I was... who you are now. Please, will you just think about it?”

“Whatever, maybe. Hey, where do you keep your fags?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You must do. I’ve been dying for a cigarette ever since...”

The phone went dead. I stared at the blank screen for a moment and swore quietly to myself. Any further Q and A on my new life would have to wait till I could find my charger. In the meantime, I hoped she wouldn’t do anything stupid with my old one.

“Hey, there you are.”

I looked up with no small amount of confusion. “Charlotte?”

“Sure. Why so surprised? I mean this was your idea.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. You texted me.”

“I didn’t, and I’d show you only I've run out of battery.”

“Yeah? Well look here.” She tapped at her phone and handed it over.

The top of the text definitely showed my name. I couldn’t be sure about the number, but why would it be different? The text read, ‘Heading to the park. Steven has his ball in case Jake and you are free.’

“I’m sorry, but I didn't send you this. Where are Jake and Steven?” I looked around without seeing anyone I recognised.

“They ran off over that way.” Charlie pointed in the direction of an old pavilion on a gentle rise to one side of the open space.

“So why would they go there?” I mused. “I mean you’d want flat ground to play football, wouldn't you?” A horrible sick feeling crept over me. “Michael,” I called, “come here sweetie.”

“I'm playing, Mum.”

“Come here now.”

I didn't like resorting to the dangerous voice, but I had a bad feeling and needed to act on it straight away. Michael came running, looking scared.

I marched off in the direction of the pavilion with perhaps a little too much determination as I started puffing and wheezing before I was halfway there.

Charlie hadn't said anything, but her expression had passed through worried to dangerous. We rounded the corner and found what I'd been afraid of.

Steven, along with four of his friends as far as I could see, had Jake on the ground and were kicking him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” I yelled. It would have been more impressive had I not been so out of breath, but it worked well enough. Five guilty faces looked up at me long enough for me to have a good look at them before four of them made a break and ran for it, scattering in different directions. Steven, knowing he had nowhere to run, raised his foot for one last kick.

“Don't you dare!” I yelled, loud enough to have an effect. Charlie was already running forward to see to her son.

“Come here,” I growled. I couldn't remember ever being so incensed. I wanted to give him that kick in the delicates his mother had wished on him, but I knew that wasn't the answer. Punishment given out in anger was more likely to be cruel than effective. Instead, I turned to Charlotte and Jake. “Are you alright...?”

“I begin to see why you don't have any friends,” Charlie snapped. Her son's face was bruised and bleeding, swollen around the lips and eyes.

“I'm so sorry. If I’d had any idea...”

“I think we'd like you to leave us alone, thank you.”

There wasn't anything I could do for them. Nothing they'd be prepared to accept from me anyway. I turned to Steven. “Come with me,” I said in a voice that I hoped would brook no nonsense. He turned to collect his ball. “Leave it,” I snapped. “That belongs to someone else now.”

I held a hand out to Michael, who tentatively took hold of it, then took a few steps towards home. Steven didn't follow.

“How much deeper do you want to dig this hole?” I asked him. I took a step towards him and he started moving, his face as sullen and angry as I’d seen it.

The walk home gave me time to bring my rage back under some control. Steven was in too much of a sulk to speak and Michael too afraid, but that did me fine. I let the anger drain until I no longer felt like whipping the hide off him, then let my mind work on more appropriate and potentially more effective punishments.

The slug still sat spread across most of the living room. The TV showed horses being led about in a busy paddock.

“What happened?” Mr Wonderful grunted. “I thought you'd be gone longer.”

“What do you care?” I threw back at him.

Anger simmered in his eyes, but maybe he saw enough in my own to know this wasn't a fight he wanted to be a part of. Maybe he just wanted us to go away so he could get back to wasting our money.

I led the boys through to the back room and commanded Steven to sit, which he sullenly did. I told Michael he wasn't in any trouble and asked him to collect my phone charger from my side of the bed, then, while he was running up the stairs in response, I stepped back into the front room.

“You'd better give me next week's housekeeping before you lose it all,” I said quietly and calmly.

He turned slowly, but the angry glare that came with it couldn't dent the armour of my own simmering rage. He pulled a fat wad of notes out of his trouser pocket and peeled off four twenties which he held up.

“You have to be fucking kidding,” I said ignoring the offering.

“If you don't want it.” He made to put it back.

“Fine,” I said. “I'll do what I can with what's in the house, but you'll be sick of beans on toast by next weekend, when there won't be enough of anything to make your fucking Saturday breakfast.”

“So, I'll feed myself.”

“On what? How much are you going to have left after this shit?”

He peeled a couple more twenties off his stash.

“A hundred and twenty quid? To feed a family of four? What world do you live in?”

“You're beginning to piss me off, woman.”

“We need a new kettle in case you'd forgotten.”

“How much to make you fuck off.”

“Two hundred, and even that's going to be tight.”

“Fucking hell.” He counted out the extra notes and offered them up. “Now get the fuck out of my face.”

The roll of cash had barely diminished in size. At a guess there had to be several thousand in it. I found myself wondering how much the Inland Revenue knew about.

Not the time for that battle. I withdrew to the back room and the kids, one of whom I was desperately regretting inheriting.

I took the charger from Michael and plugged my phone into one of the kitchen sockets. A suggestion that maybe he might like to go upstairs and play by himself for a while was all it took to send him running for refuge.

“What am I going to find when it has enough charge to turn on?” I asked Steven. “I'm guessing there'll be a text to Charlie in there, won't there?”

He did his best to give me a dad glare.

“Maybe if I look in WhatsApp I'll find a message to a bunch of your friends. I wonder what that'll say.”

The anger in his eyes slipped towards uncertainty.

“I think we'll wait and find out before we decide just how much trouble you’re in, but for now let's deal with the fact that you thought it was okay to kick another person.”

I opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. He eyed me warily.

“Take off your shirt,” I told him calmly.

“No.” His eyes widened as he realised what I had in mind. My disinterest in football meant I only vaguely recognised the club colours and the name across the back, but I could see it was his pride and joy. I also knew that it was expensive enough that we wouldn't be replacing it any time soon.

“You don't have a choice, Steven. Well, actually I suppose you do. You can choose to defy me, but that’ll make the consequences just that little worse for yourself.”

“You're not getting this shirt.”

“What do you plan to do? Fight me on it? No, I don't think that’d work. It’d be a little too dangerous, what with scissors and everything. No, I'm going to give you a choice.” I put the scissors on the table. “You can take the shirt off and cut it up yourself right now, or you can wait until you come home from school on Monday and see what else of your stuff you no longer own.”

“Mum, please, no.” There were tears in his eyes, but I couldn't find any compassion in me.

“I warned you there would be consequences, Steven, or did you think I wouldn't mind you using my phone to set up an attack on the son of one of my friends.”

“You don't have any friends!” he shouted.

“No, I suppose I don’t,” I answered with deadly calm. “I did this morning, but you wrecked that, didn't you? Not that that’s what bothers me right now. What bothers me is that a son of mine would conspire to ambush a child and beat him up simply because he was good at a game you enjoy playing. Now, take off that shirt.”

“I hate you!” He shouted, tears streaming down his face.

“What the fuck’s going on in there?” The shout came through from the front room.

“Shall we tell your dad and see what he thinks about it?” I asked, knowing full well how unfair a tactic it was, but then the little scrote hadn’t been too bothered about fairness earlier.

It was a bit of a risk, because there was no guarantee that the fat turd would back me on an issue like this.

It paid off. Steven pulled his shirt off. I nodded at the scissors.

“I’ll hate you forever,” he hissed at me, picking them up.

“I'll take that risk,” I said. “Right now I don't know how long I'm going to keep disliking you. Cut it from the bottom all the way to the top.”

He did so.

“And again.”

He made a second long cut, tears flooding his eyes as he did so.

“And keep going until I tell you to stop.”

It took ten minutes. By the end, the shirt had been reduced to ribbons and Steven to a quivering wreck.

“Now go and change into something not football related,” I said, “then come straight back downstairs.”

While he was gone I turned my phone on. The text to Charlotte was there as I’d suspected, along with her reply saying she would come.

WhatsApp didn't appear on my phone's main screen, but it was in the app library. I opened it and found a few messages listed, all to different groups that had nothing to do with me. The latest was directed to a group called 'footie’. I opened it.

“Come to the park if you want some payback.”

A quick check of the group’s ten members suggested this was the school football team – maybe less the substitute. Thank goodness most of them had the good sense not to get involved. As for the rest, it shouldn’t be too difficult to identify the culprits.

I hunted through the cupboard under the stairs until I found a couple of rucksacks. A quick hunt in the larger one uncovered a few books and a homework diary. The current week showed a couple of pieces of homework set for the weekend and several for earlier in the week. I left the diary open on the page and put a pan of water on to boil.

I cracked open the door to the front room. “Tea or coffee?” I asked.

“What?”

“Would you like a drink?”

“No. Now fuck off.”

Well, I’d tried.

Steven was coming downstairs as I withdrew. I pointed at the table.

“We don't get homework, Mum,” I said in a fair imitation of his butter-wouldn't-melt tone of voice. “Just how much of that have you done? Bear in mind that I will be checking with your teachers on Monday.”

He gave me a black look.

“Get it done,” I said, “And show me when you’re finished. If I don't think you’ve made a good enough effort, you'll be doing it again. From scratch.”

“This isn't fair.”

“I'm sure Jake didn't think it was fair when you and your friends laid into him like that. Why don't I give you a little time to think about whether or not you’re going to tell me their names?”

“I'm not a snitch.”

“I thought you were going to say something like that. Do you think it'll stop me finding out who was involved?”

He grunted.

“Do you think your punishment will be better or worse if you don't tell me?”

“You already punished me,” he shouted.

“Only, for your part in attacking Jake. I still have to figure out what can be done about your organising the attack in the first place.

“I know not all of your team were involved. You could help me make sure only those that turned up to give Jake a kicking get in trouble for it.

“Anyway, think about it while you're catching up on your homework. I'll just stand over here and do some ironing while you get on with it.”

Which was how the afternoon passed. An occasional cry of exasperation accompanied by a flurry of expletives gave us a running commentary on the progress, or lack thereof, of the Great Plan to Get Rich going on in the next room.

By six-thirty, my pile of ironing had converted into several piles of clothes to put away, Steven’s attempts at his homework – including the assignments he'd skipped during the week – had been completed to an acceptable standard and Michael had reappeared, his hunger having overtaken his nervousness over what he might find downstairs.

One final stream of profanity reached us from the front room before the door slammed.

I dared a peak into the lord's domain, finding it deserted. I ventured further to stick my head out the front door to see the waddling rear end of my husband making its way down the road, and his was a true waddle. By comparison, my own ungainly gait was verging on graceful.

I didn't particularly want to engage him in conversation, not given the way he'd spoken to me at any time since I'd met him and certainly not at a distance that I knew would disturb the neighbourhood, so I hunted out my phone and checked a local map for what might be in that general direction. Unsurprisingly, the nearest pub happened to be just round the corner.

“Alright,” I announced to my two young charges. “First you help me put this away, neatly mind, then we sort out tea.”

“I'm hungry, Mum,” Michael whined.

“I'm sure you are, and once you do your part to help me put these clothes away, I'll be able to put together something to eat. So, here’s your pile,” I gave him a stack of his own clothes. “You know what goes where so make sure it all does. Steven, these are for you, and remember how thin the ice is that you're walking on, so tread carefully.”

The last lot belonged to the shambling mound and myself, mostly mine and comprising the best of a mediocre lot. Certainly better than the rags I'd found in the wardrobe that morning.

Inevitably, I finished ahead of the boys and stuck my head in their room to find them squabbling over toys with their clothes dumped in the middle of the floor.

“Oh,” I said feigning surprise. “You’re not hungry then. I thought you were.”

I waited, staring in a meaningful way at the clothes I'd so recently ironed until they got the point and set about putting them away. Their first attempt involved dumping the piles inside their wardrobe, but when this resulted in a disappointed sigh from me and enough of a blockage in the doorway to prevent their escape, they eventually realised there were no short cuts here and did it right.

It was seven o'clock before we made it back downstairs.

“So, eggy bread?” I asked.

“What’s...?”

“...eggy bread?” they asked between them.

“I think you'll like it.”

“I want pizza,” Michael whinged.

“That'll take half an hour and you already had sausage and chips for lunch. This'll be ready in ten minutes.”

It was something I'd learned from one of my former girlfriends. Heat up a frying pan, cut some slices of bread into triangles, whip up some eggs with a little salt and pepper. Dunk the bread in the egg and fry both sides until crispy. Serve with a dollop of tomato ketchup.

It went down a treat. I even allowed my complaining innards a couple of slices to make up for the slim pickings they'd had all day.

Juice for the boys, tea for me. Cuttles and crocks soaking in the sink. We were done by seven-thirty.

“So, since we have the place to ourselves for a while, how about a little TV before bed. Michael’s choice.”

“That's not fair!” Steven was the epitome of predictability.

“You're still working off a long list of wrongdoings young man. Don't tempt me to add to it.”

Michael chose a relatively recent Disney film which Steven didn’t actually mind. Shithead the Great had attempted to get his own back by hiding the remote, but since he'd chosen the same hiding place I'd used, it didn't disrupt our plans at all.

The film ended by nine or shortly after, which left me with the final chore of chasing the two of them into their pyjamas and getting their teeth brushed before bed. I would have forgotten Michael's pull-ups had he not fetched a pair for me to help him put on.

I kissed them both – even Steven – and left them to the night.

It had been a long first day and I was exhausted. I locked up downstairs, assuming his nibs had a key, and showered before climbing into bed myself. Glasses on the nightstand, alarm clock numbers blurring into a smudge. Sleep didn't take long to follow.

Chapter 6

I woke in the dark to the sound of quiet grunting and clumsy shuffling. I reached quietly for my glasses and held them up so I could read the numbers on the clock. One-fifteen, which suggested Mr Wonderful had weaved a drunken path back home. Certainly more believable than my first thought, that our vast riches were being burgled by the clumsiest thief in the world.

There was enough light in the room to make out his familiar bulk standing on my side of the bed while he struggled with the intricacies of belt and buttons in an effort to disrobe.

I kept still, not wanting to let on that I was awake, and watched as he continued to fumble and stagger about, eventually presenting me with the repellent silhouette of his vast belly hanging down in repulsive folds over his...

Well, that at least might explain why the original Sandy had been attracted to the man. It hung from him like a hosepipe. Personally, I found it as much a turn-off as the rest of the man.

He began to stroke it, lowering my opinion of him further. I watched in fascination and slowly growing horror as it rose to attention, pressing against his mammoth gut.

He pulled my bedclothes aside and reached under my nightdress.

“No,” I said quietly but firmly.

“I thought you was awake,” he slurred.

I felt his calloused fingers close on the waistband of my knickers and start to pull them down.

“No,” I repeated, louder and more emphatic.

I reached down to stop him, but he grabbed me by the wrists, shifting his grasp so he held both of mine in just his one left hand and pulled them above my head. His right hand went back to my underwear. I squirmed to get out from under him, but he pushed my legs apart and settled the bulk of his beer gut on me. I felt a tug and a tear and my last line of defence was gone.

He belched and the stench of stale beer washed over me. Between the dim light and the blur my eyes were making of his face I could just about make out his vicious leer looking down at me from way too close. Between the sickening feel of his belly spreading out over my stomach and the noisome stench of his breath, I felt disgusted, nauseated.

“No!” I screamed at him, squirming feebly, ineffectively. I tried to shift, to bring my knee up between his legs, but he was already between mine.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s about fucking time I reminded you who the fucking man is in this house.”

He pushed my legs further apart and shifted his position.

“No! No, no, no, no, no, no.” What started as a defiant shout descended all to rapidly into desperation and denial. I felt a terror rising up within me, robbing me of my strength. I struggled to push him off, but could have been trying to move a mountain for all the effect it had.

He reached down, guiding his swollen dick until I could feel it tickling its way between my labia, then he thrust forward.

It hurt. I bit back on the scream that rose inside me, not wishing to give him any more satisfaction than he was already taking, and closed my eyes, tears squeezing out through pinched eyelids.

The whole experience was mercifully short. He thrust his way in perhaps a half-dozen times before tensing and letting out a shuddering gasp.

He might have collapsed on me then, had I not shoved and twisted, pushing him over to his side of the bed. He rolled off. I was tempted to push further and see if I could put him on the floor, but the aphorism about sleeping dogs came to mind and I let him be.

His breathing settled into the slow rhythm of sleep while I lay back and let the tears flow.

I wasn’t going to get back to sleep any time soon. I doubted anything would rouse him for some hours, but I had no desire to be anywhere near him. I grabbed my glasses and dressing gown and made my way downstairs.

It took several minutes probing to find the tail end of the tampon I still had in me. He'd jammed it in tight, which added to the discomfort as it came out. I overrode my first instinct to throw it away and instead fished out a Ziploc bag from one of the drawers in the kitchen and sealed it inside before wrapping it in toilet paper and tucking it into the bottom of my bag. In the process I discovered a fresh tampon which I put aside.

I ran a bath and settled myself into water almost hot enough to scald. It wasn't enough. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt dirty, like I’d never be clean again. I felt the shock of being violated. I felt angry and scared and above all revolted. I sat there with tears streaming down my face until the water turned cold enough to goad me into motion.

I pulled out the plug and grabbed a towel from the rail. The pink one would be mine. There was no way I wanted to touch anything he'd been in contact with.

I'd emptied the ironing basket earlier, which meant my choices for getting dressed included going back into my bedroom – very much a last resort – putting my nightdress back on – a quick examination showed it was streaked with blood and who knew what else – or choosing something from the drying rack. Option three seemed the least of the worst and provided me with a dress and underwear that were almost dry. I wore my dressing gown for the time it took to run the iron over everything, which helped dry it most of the rest of the way, and changed.

That sense of delicious vulnerability I'd always enjoyed about skirts and dresses in my former life worked against me now. The last thing I wanted was to have that part of my body exposed, like the petals of a flower open in invitation, but the thought of going back upstairs repelled me.

So did putting in the tampon. A part of me didn’t want anything in that part of my body ever again. I told myself I was being ridiculous and set about the business of inserting it before I needed to change my knickers. I couldn't help crying over it, but it was done.

The clock on the oven showed the time as just past four AM. Rather than sit around for the rest of the night feeling sorry for myself, I picked up my phone, thankfully still charging in the kitchen. A quick search took me to the government website on domestic abuse and from there to Refuge and their twenty-four-hour helpline. I punched in the number and found myself talking to an actual person before I was ready to say anything.

She was kind and supportive, patient while I cried myself out all over again, encouraging as I talked my way through my days' experiences. I don’t know how long I was on the line with her, but it ended with her trying to persuade me to call the police.

I felt oddly reluctant to do so, as though I would be disturbing people who had something better to do with their lives. In the end she got through to me though, and made the call on my behalf, staying on the line while I stammered my way through a repeat of what I’d told her, even chipping in when I missed out something she felt was relevant.

The police sent a couple of cars almost immediately. No sirens, but with flashing blue lights as they arrived outside the house, blocking the road.

I let them in and told them where to find him and what to expect – large, strong, naked, drunk. I also mentioned my two boys asleep in the room opposite with a request not to disturb them if at all possible.

It wasn’t possible. The moment George awoke, he flew into a roaring rage and had to be forcibly subdued. He was still spitting and yelling threats at the police and at me as they dragged him, handcuffed and wearing nothing more than a pair of old jogging bottoms, out to the waiting car.

Steven and Michael appeared wide eyed at the top of the stairs. A spare police officer found them and led them to the living room where I was sitting with a WPC. She explained that George would be held in a cell overnight but that I’d have to come down to the police station to formally press charges in the morning.

Once they’d gone, I settled the boys back into their beds, telling them as little as I felt I could get away with. They’d hear the truth in time, but I needed to find out exactly what that truth was going to be before I told them.

With them settled, I ventured into the other bedroom and stripped down the bed. I wanted to burn the bedding, but it was all potential evidence, so I bagged it up in a bin bag and put it to one side with my nightie and my torn knickers from earlier.

There was a stain on the mattress on my side. I made the herculean effort needed to flip it, then remade the bed with fresh bed linen. I still didn’t feel like climbing back into it, so instead I switched my dress for a more comfortable and secure pair of jeans with a tee shirt and cardigan over the top. There’s something about cardigans. Grabbing the open sides and pulling them across kind of gives you permission to hug yourself, and I was going to want to do that quite a bit over the next day or several.

I lay down on top of the bed and gradually curled into a foetal position, giving way to my exhaustion and drifting off once more.

…

I woke to the sound of squabbling, perhaps inevitably. I was still wearing my glasses, albeit skewed, so could read the time. Nine-thirty. I let out a sigh and sat up.

They both looked at me guiltily when I appeared in their doorway. The fight was over a different transformer which I could only assume was another one of Michael’s toys, so I looked around the room, settling on a football poster stuck up over Steven’s bunk.

I unpeeled it from the wall and twitched an eye at Steven whose face stiffened. I held it at the top, ready to tear it and waited patiently. His face remained hardened and he continued to hold onto Michael’s toy. I made the slightest of tears and he let go.

The poster went back on the wall. I turned a weary smile on both boys.

“I imagine you’re both hungry. I'm sorry I slept late; I didn’t have a very good night.”

“Where’s Dad?” Steven asked.

“Don’t you remember? The police arrested him?”

“Why?”

“Because of what he did to me after he came home last night, and because of a few other things.”

“He’s going to kill you when he gets home.”

“I’m afraid you may be right, which is why I’m going to do my best to make sure he doesn’t come home.

“Come on, let’s get you fed. We have a long day ahead of us today.” I led the way downstairs.

“But it’s Sunday,” Michael whined.

“Yes, but the police don’t close on Sundays and I have to go and give them an official statement of what your daddy did to me.”

“What’s an official statement?”

“It’s when I tell them what happened and they write it all down. Then they decide what needs to be done about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like whether your daddy stays in jail, like how we can keep safe...”

“When he comes to kill you,” Steven smirked.

“Well, it’d be better for us all if that didn’t happen,” I replied calmly as I put the cereal boxes and bowls out. “Obviously, I’d rather not be killed, but if I were, your father would go to prison for a very long time, which would mean that you two would go into foster care. And however much you might hate living at home with me, you'd hate foster care a lot more.”

“I'll tell the police that Dad didn't do anything to you,” Steven sneered.

“Probably as well the police won't ask you then, isn't it? Come on, eat up while I look at the bus timetable.”

It took forty-five minutes to get them breakfasted and dressed and out the door. Fortunately that meant we managed to get to the bus stop with ten minutes to spare. I drew a few curious looks from the nearby neighbours, but they apparently felt it was more important to snub me than ask why the police had come round the previous night.

We found the police station easily enough. I left the boys in the hands of a friendly WPC while I gave my statement. I tried to be as complete as possible, including everything that might constitute domestic abuse. Mainly it was about his forcing himself on me though and, whilst they were sympathetic towards me, they didn't think I'd provided enough evidence for them to charge him.

“What evidence do you need?” I asked.

“Well, so far it's just your word against his, isn't it?”

“That didn't answer my question. I mean I have blood on my nightdress, I have semen stains on the sheets and the bed.”

“All of which could have come from a number of innocent sources, or been staged. I'm sorry Mrs Bush. The police don't have the resources to prosecute a case like this.”

“So, when he comes home this afternoon and commits murder...?”

“Then we'll be able to lock him up.”

“In the meantime, what am I supposed to do to keep my children and myself safe?”

“You could always hire a lawyer...”

“And how exactly should I pay for it? I doubt the pittance he gives me for housekeeping would even pay the retainer.”

“Try getting in touch with Refuge then. They may be able to help with your case. I'm afraid we can’t.”

If there's one thing the British police do to perfection it is obstinacy once they have reached a decision. I wasn’t going to get any more out of them. I gathered the boys and headed out into the town. An ice-cream each kept them quiet while I put a second call into Refuge.

“Look,” I said, “it was on the recommendation of your operator that I involved the police yesterday. Now they're refusing to prosecute, or to keep him beyond twenty-four hours. If you don't do something, he's going to be home tonight and heaven knows what he'll do then.”

“I'm sorry, our offices are closed...”

“Yes, they'll be open tomorrow morning at nine, by which time I'll either be in the hospital or the morgue.”

“Where did you say you lived?”

I told her.

“We do have one solicitor in your vicinity. I shouldn't do this on the weekend, but I could ask if she'd be prepared to see you.”

“Yes please.”

The hold music played through its loop twice before she came back to me.

“You're in luck. She’s agreed to see you.” She gave me an address which was fortunately nearby since I was told to meet her there in ten minutes.

We arrived first, despite foot dragging from the two oiks. We then waited no more than a couple of minutes before a mini pulled into a nearby space – no parking restrictions on the weekend.

“Oh!” I said quietly as Charlotte stepped out. “I didn’t realise you were a solicitor.”

“It never came up,” she said, “and I tend not to mention it early on. It’s usually just one more reason for people to dislike me.”

“You’ll not get that from me, not if you can dig me out of this hole. How’s Jake?”

“Doing better, thank you for asking. He’s with my sister this afternoon. How’s your boy?” She looked at him pointedly.

“I think he’s more angry than repentant still, but I'm not done with him yet.

“Look, I had no idea this was going to be you. If you'd rather not deal with my problem then...”

“Then who else do you know who will help you? No, this is an entirely different matter and it would be unprofessional of me to turn my back on you. Come on up and we'll see what we can do.”

Half an hour later her grim expression had deepened.

“I hate to say this, but the police have a point. I mean we're all up for women like you standing up to the asshole men in their lives, but sexual assault is one of the hardest things to prove between husband and wife. That operator should not have advised you to call the police.”

“Might this help?” I asked, fishing the roll of toilet paper out of my bag.

“What is it?”

“The tampon I had in me when he forced himself on me last night. It was in for at least three hours before he came home, so it should have a fair amount of my, er, leakage in it as well as his semen and a little fresher blood from the damage he caused.”

She smiled, albeit grimly. “Fairly gross, but I think it makes the point. Along with what else you've told me, it should be enough to get a restraining order against him.” She picked up the phone.

She made a number of calls, all beginning with apologies for disturbing on a Sunday and ending with thanks for their consideration. By lunchtime the order had been filed. George had the right to collect his van and a suitcase or two of clothes – under supervision – then he would be required by the courts to maintain a distance of five-hundred metres from me until legal matters were settled between us.

Charlie offered us a lift home, which was decent of her given her disposition towards Steven. I in turn offered her lunch or at least a coffee, which she declined, but she did leave me her card so she could intervene if anything else went wrong. She also gave me the name of a locksmith who wouldn’t be available till Monday, but who would prioritise me given my circumstances.

“I’m not sure how I'm going to afford all these expenses,” I said.

“You won't have to worry about legal fees,” she said. “We’ll cover that and sort out payment in the settlement. Can you manage until the end of the week?”

“It’ll be tight, but I expect so.”

“Good, we’ll have an interim agreement in place for child support by then. The rest we can sort out when we get around to negotiating the next step.”

“Thank you. You’ve been amazing.”

“I take my job very seriously, Sandy. I’ll be in touch next week when we’ve organised a preliminary meeting.”

With the boys playing away the afternoon, I packed a couple of suitcases with an assortment of George's clothes. The van keys were in the trousers he’d abandoned on the bedroom floor. I reclaimed the front door key from the keyring and set the rest aside. I included a wash bag with his toiletries and razor. I thought long and hard about what else he might need and drew a blank, suggesting there wasn’t anything else. Maybe the TV, but he wasn’t getting that.

With his stuff sorted, I turned to other thoughts. The shed at the bottom of the garden surrendered a handful of rusty bolts and screws, enough to secure the doors once they were locked. The van keys gave me access to the tools I needed to fit them. By the time evening came, I’d secured the house as well as I could.

Pizza for tea and another film. This time agreed between the three of us, which really meant between the two of them with me mediating. I sent them to bed early and sat up waiting.

…

The doorbell rang about half past nine. George’s familiar bulk showed through the frosted glass, but he had a couple of shadows.

I made a show of unbolting the door before unlocking it, then opened it to find my husband flanked by two police officers.

“You don’t want to do this,” he said to me in his deep rumble.

“No, but given the alternative, I’ll stick with my decision. As I understand it, you’re here for the van and some clothes.”

He glowered at me but didn’t say anything more, so one of the police officers answered for him.

I waved at the two suitcases and offered him the van keys which he took with bad grace.

“Where's my house key?” he asked.

“You won't need it,” I answered. “If you need anything else, get your solicitor to talk to mine.”

“How do I know you haven't done something shitty with this lot?” He waved at the bags.

I opened one for his inspection then, when he'd grunted a begrudging acknowledgement, the other.

He wasn't satisfied. There was something he wanted from inside the house, and I’d effectively prevented him from getting too it. There wasn't much he could do with the police either side of him. He picked up the bags.

“I'll see you next week,” he growled.

“From more than half a kilometre away.” I smiled sweetly at him. “Unless we’re both attending a meeting with our council to sort this out.”

He gave me his best death glare, then turned to leave. I thought about suggesting the policemen might like to look his van over, but it would only take one of us being vindictive for the gloves to come off once and for all.

I locked and bolted the doors then set about preparing for the next day. Bags ready, uniform for Steven, lunches, breakfast things out. It’d do.

I thought about going to bed early, but that hadn’t worked out so well the previous night. I could see myself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for half the night if I wasn't careful.

Instead, I applied my mind to what George had wanted to recover and where from. Chances were it'd be somewhere he was more likely to go than me, at least not often. That meant the living room and his side of the bedroom as prime locations.

It didn't take that long to find. Being the lazy sod he was, I figured he wouldn't want to exert himself when accessing his stash, so the first place I looked was down the back and side of the sofa. I must have missed it by inches when I’d hid the remote the previous day, but there it was, most of the roll of banknotes he'd been handling the previous day, or one very similar.

Maybe he'd hidden it before going out to the pub. Maybe he'd expected to encounter his bookie while he was out and didn't want to settle his entire debt.

I counted out the entire contents which included quite a few fifties as well as the main bulk being twenties and tens. It came to just shy of five thousand pounds, which made me wonder what kind of idiot walked around with that much cash on him.

Well potentially I could be that kind of idiot unless I could find a considerably safer place to hide it.

Then I had an epiphany of sorts – a sense of delicious irony. From his evident reluctance to do any work around the house, the chances of him going anywhere near the hot water pipes in the kitchen had to be slim to none. That really would be the last place he'd think to look.

I cleared out the cupboard under the kitchen sink and had a look at the spaghetti mess of pipework under there. The u-bend and waste pipe was there as was a fairly sensible arrangement of pipework for the cold tap, but what was connected to the hot made no sense whatsoever. The fittings were hand tight and had never seen water going through them. I removed a length of pipe and found it jammed full of similar rolls of cash. Another five in all, which amounted to a total of thirty grand.

I checked the rest of the piping, but that was it. Not that thirty thousand pounds amounted to small change.

It was late but I called my former self.

“Wha’?” came the response when she picked up the phone. Her mouth was full as before.

“You know my body's not going to stay slim and fit if you keep filling it with shit?” I chided gently.

“Fuck off. It's not your body anymore.

“Anyway, I should fucking sue you. Your fucking car didn't drive straight.”

“How bad?” I asked dropping my face into my free palm.

“The car’s a fucking right off, innit, and the other driver’s fucking saying it's my fault 'cos I was on the wrong side of the fucking road. That's 'cos it didn't fucking drive straight you fucker.”

“Insurance documents are in the port-a-file in the wardrobe.”

“Yeah, I fucking found them. The other fucker set the police on me though. They're charging me with fucking driving without being careful or some shit.”

“No-one was hurt though?”

“The other fucker’s saying he's got fucking whiplash or some shit, but no. How am I going to get to fucking work tomorrow though?”

“Well, I'd have taken the bus anyway. There isn't a lot of parking near where I work. Number twelve bus, leaves at eleven minutes past eight. Get off in the high street and you'll see Clarks and Spencer on the opposite side of the road. There should be a year’s bus pass in my wallet.”

“Oh yeah, I got it. You say this job of yours is a piece of piss?”

“If you’re halfway good at English, sure. All you do is read through the manuals they send you through the email and highlight any mistakes. You may need to check a few technical definitions online, but you should do okay.”

“Fucking A. What do you want?”

“It was a question or two about your husband and his horses. Did he ever win?”

“No, I don't think so. I only ever heard him swearing in the other room.”

“Do you know how he made his bets?”

“Fuck no! Why should I care about that shit? I think he phoned them into this bookie, then settled with him down the pub as far as I know.”

“Last question for now, how long has the hot water not been working in the kitchen?”

“Oh, that's been fucked up for years. I've told that fucker to get it sorted more times than I can think, but he never gets round to it. Why d'you ask?”

“No reason really. It's just really annoying.”

“Yeah, well he's your fucking problem now. Hey, I gotta go, that's the pizza guy at the door.”

She hung up and left me to my musings. George had so far proven to be an unpleasant and totally selfish bastard, but maybe he was shrewder than I’d given him credit for.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 7 - 8 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 More violence and scary scenes ahead, but stick with it.

-oOo-

Chapter 7

My second choice for a hiding place involved pulling my underwear drawer out all the way. It was the sort that ran on rollers, which meant you needed to push in a couple of catches to remove it completely – not the sort of mechanical thing a woman was supposed to know about. With the drawer all the way out, there was room enough behind to tape the spare rolls in place. As an afterthought, I taped the money rolls to the back of the chest of drawers rather than on the drawer itself. That way I figured you'd only see them if you stooped down low enough to look through to the back, and there was less risk of shaking them loose.

I settled the drawer back into place then crept into the boys’ room and watched them silently for ten minutes to make sure they were asleep.

I settled down to sleep around eleven o'clock with the alarm set for seven.

Not that I needed it. I woke before the alarm feeling gloriously well rested. The shower was a sensuous delight, as was my indulgence in creams, powders and soft, sweet-smelling perfumes.

I still possessed a somewhat dumpy and unattractive face and body – something which I resolved then an there to do something about – I still had two boys to look after – one an unruly brat and the other a wee timorous beastie with a tendency to whinge – and I was still married to a violent and unpleasant man even though he was out of our lives for now. Despite all that, I had a great feeling about the day ahead. Just one day in this new life and I already felt like I was making progress.

Perhaps there was some degree of boomerang effect. When I allowed myself to think on the previous couple of days, I found it hard to imagine a worse experience, but I'd taken steps to change things, and today I would take more.

I let the boys sleep in till seven-thirty then scooted them downstairs to wash and dress. Perhaps a little overly enthusiastic, but it meant that we were all breakfasted and ready to leave by eight-thirty.

The walk to school took only ten minutes, which suited me fine. Michael ran off to play with some of the other early arrivals leaving me time to march Steven through to the reception of the secondary school.

“We'd like to see the head please.” I smiled sweetly at the receptionist.

“Of course Mrs, er, Bush. Mrs Nullis is usually quite busy at this time, so perhaps...”

“I understand that. Perhaps you could help while we wait. You know the Saturday football matches like the one that was played here a couple of days ago? Who organises those?”

“Er, that would be all the P.E. teachers from the local schools. Mr Gibson is our...”

“And the teams. Each team represents one school?”

“Yes, but I thought you knew...”

“Perhaps you’d get a message to Mrs Nullis for me. I have some information about an incident that took place on Saturday afternoon in which a group of boys from one of Saturday’s football teams ganged up on and rather severely hurt a member of the other team. Perhaps she may think that’s worth interrupting whatever she’s doing right now?”

I could have made an assumption about the nature of the football matches, in fact I nearly had, but I’d learnt enough over the previous twenty-four hours to recall that making assumptions could turn around and bite you in the... er... ass. What was that saying about making an ass out of you and me?

“While you're at it,” I added as she started dialling her phone, “perhaps you could see if Mr Gibson might be free to join us as well.”

Schools tended to take matters of student welfare extremely seriously, so it didn’t surprise me when the head teacher, along with the burly man I’d met briefly on Saturday morning, appeared less than ten minutes later and ushered Steven and me into her office.

“Thank you for waiting Mrs Bush, do I assume that it was your son who was attacked?”

See what I mean about assumptions.

“Actually no. I am very disappointed to say that Steven was the instigator of the attack. He took my phone while I wasn’t watching and sent a text through to a friend I made on Saturday morning, the mother of the opposing team’s goalkeeper, suggesting we could meet in the park. He then sent a message to the rest of his team suggesting they should meet him there if they wanted some retribution. I interrupted them before they went too far, but I hate to think what might have happened if I hadn’t.”

“This was the whole team?” Mr Gibson growled.

“No. There were four others. I don’t know if I could give you their names, and Steven refuses to do so, but I could definitely pick them out of a line-up.”

Mrs Nullis woke her computer and pulled up student records for each of the team members Mr Gibson named. Being year sevens, their photographs were fairly fresh, so I was able to recognise Stevens four co-conspirators easily enough. The headmistress stepped out to ask the receptionist to gather the miscreants while Steven burned red with shame under Mr Gibson’s baleful stare.

I pulled out my phone and put a call through to Charlotte.

“Hello Sandra. It’s a little early...”

“I have the head teacher of my son’s school with me. We’re discussing what happened to Jake on Saturday and I was wondering if you’d care to add a few things.”

I passed the phone across to Mrs Nullis and joined Mr Gibson in making Steven feel uncomfortable. One by one he was joined by the rest of the gang of five, all looking extremely worried. All the while the head was listening to Charlie, her face turning grimmer by the moment.

“Thank you, Mrs Greer,” she said at last. “I cannot begin to express how deeply sorry I am for what happened to Jake, and how deeply disappointed I am with the five students I now have standing before me. I would understand if you chose to take this to the police...”

Five faces turned white, Steven’s perhaps a little less than the others.

“... that’s greatly appreciated. Rest assured, they will be dealt with most severely. Thank you Mrs Greer.”

She hung the phone up and passed it to me, turning a stony gaze on the five boys.

“Well?” she asked. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

Five heads nodded guiltily.

“Do any of you have anything to say for yourselves?”

Five heads hung in silent shame. Again, Steven’s less so, his expression more an imitation of his friends’ than one of genuine remorse.

“Were it up to me, I would exclude every one of you. However, since the incident took place off school grounds and out of school hours, I am limited in what I can do...”

“I’m not though,” Mr Gibson growled. “The five of you are off the team, and the rest will be told why.”

They shared looks varying from dismay to anger, but said nothing.

Mrs Nullis gave her subordinate a sharp look. “I shall be calling each of your parents today to tell them precisely what you did, and as soon as possible I will be arranging a meeting with them to decide what else we can do to show you how unacceptable your behaviour has been. In the meantime, you are to return to your classes and if I hear of even the slightest infraction of the rules from any one of you, you will receive the severest of punishments.

“Needless to say, you have let yourselves and this school down in a very big way. You have a very long way to go to redeem yourselves in my eyes. I suggest you make a start. You are dismissed. Pass on my apologies to your teachers for disturbing their lessons.”

The boys filed out with Mr Gibson trailing them. Mrs Nullis pursed her lips in my direction.

“I’m not sure if I should thank you for bringing this to my attention or express my dismay that it was your son who was responsible for it in the first place.”

“You need do neither,” I said. “Please make sure I am included when you arrange the meeting with the other parents. I’d like to make sure Steven’s punishment is at least on a level with what they decide.”

She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing for a few seconds, then, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have quite a lot to do today. More now. I’ll let you know when I arrange to meet with the others.”

I left, still feeling good about the day. Mrs Nullis’s attitude reminded me that I was still persona non grata in the neighbourhood, but that would only change over time as I gave people reason to alter their opinions of me. The conversations I’d had with my alter ego suggested that current opinion had been earned.

I diverted slightly on my way home and found the Lidl. It wasn’t the largest or best stocked of shops of its kind, and the staff seemed wary of me as I made my way up and down the aisles. I smiled and nodded at them, which if anything made them even more nervous.

I stocked up on fruit and veg, something that was in very limited supply back at home, and something I was sure would meet with considerable protests from my progeny. I also found a reasonable looking kettle in the random shit aisle and added it to my basket. I didn’t have any bags with me so had to invest in a couple of heavy-duty ones to transport everything home.

Laden down as I was, the walk home left me wheezing. I staggered up to the front door to find it slightly ajar.

…

Inside, the front room was a mess. The television screen had been smashed and the furniture all upended and broken, except for the sofa which just lay on its back. The back room, kitchen and bathroom were the same, with especial destructive attention focused on the pipework under the sink.

I dropped my bags and ran up the stairs. The boys’ room was its usual disaster of toys spread everywhere, so it was hard to see if it had been ransacked or not. The master bedroom most definitely had. The bed had been tossed and the contents of both the wardrobe and the chest of drawers strewn everywhere. All furniture had been moved, but was essentially intact, which was more than I could say for my clothes, which had been torn into tatters. I pulled the top drawer out of the chest of drawers and let out a sigh of relief at finding my hiding place undiscovered. I transferred the rolls of cash into my bag and put the drawer back before reaching for my phone.

Police first, reporting the break-in, then insurance, only to find that the house policy had been cancelled that morning. Charlie next, to let her know the latest development. She repeated her suggestion that I have the locks changed, so my last call went through to the locksmith she’d recommended, who promised to be with me by lunchtime.

The police went over the entire house thoroughly enough that they would have found where I’d hidden the money. They asked if I had any idea who might have done it, so I told them about what had happened between my husband and myself. The fact that the break-in had happened while I was taking the boys to school suggested someone who knew my routine. The destruction of the TV suggested vindictive intent rather than attempted theft, as did the wilful tearing up of most of my clothes. The coincidental cancellation of the household policy immediately before the break-in also pointed circumstantial fingers very much in his direction. They promised to contact him later as a part of their line of investigation.

While I was waiting for the locksmith, I rummaged through the mess to dig out enough information to open a building society account. I’d noted the presence of a Nationwide in the precinct near to the Lidl’s and decided that the money would be safer in there than loose around the house. George had to know I’d found it, since it hadn’t been in any of his hiding places, which meant it would be only a matter of time before he found some way of getting to me.

The trouble was, banks generally asked for proof of your address, meaning correspondence with your name on it, and pretty much all the official post was addressed to my husband. I settled on a utility statement addressed to him and our wedding certificate which I found in the mess in our bedroom. The latter offered an explanation why I might have been so eager to take on a different surname; even his.

The locksmith repaired my front door and added enough locks to make it secure. He did the same for the back door and the windows and charged me what seemed like barely enough for the parts he’d used. I challenged him on it, and he said he had no intention of making money out of vulnerable people like me. It was enough to make me cry, which made him feel awkward, so I apologised and asked if he’d give me a lift down to the shops.

It took over an hour to set up the account in my name, largely because of the irregularity of my proof of address. It eventually took the manager getting involved to cut through the red tape. Eventually I had my account with just over thirty thousand pounds counted and credited to my name. It may prove to be illicit or taxable, and I didn’t want any part of defrauding the Inland Revenue, so however much it cost me, I planned to declare it. Just that I needed to make sure it was safe for now.

The walk back home took me past George’s van parked at the far end of our road. The onus was on him to keep out of my way, so I carried on past without looking in.

“Where is it, you fucking cunt?” he snarled at me through the open side window.

“Five hundred metres, dipshit,” I replied pulling my phone out. “Should I call the police?”

“Don’t bother. I won’t be here when they come. Now are you going to tell me where it is?”

I took his photograph, then photographed his van and the surroundings. “Now you don’t have to be here,” I said and carried on walking. I tapped three nines into the phone app and waited for his next move. I didn’t need to connect the call. He was bright enough to know when he was beaten and drove off down the road before I reached my front door.

I set the kettle boiling and put a call through to Charlotte.

“I’m sorry, I’m monopolising your time a bit today.”

“What do you have for me now?”

“Something I didn’t tell you earlier. Something I found last night. George had a ton of cash stashed away in the house.”

“Go on.”

“When he picked up his clothes yesterday, he was a bit too keen to come into the house, so I had a bit of a hunt around. First I found a roll of banknotes he’d jammed down the back of the sofa with about five-thousand quid in it – mainly fifties and twenties. Then I figured a neat place to hide it so he wouldn’t find it would be in the kitchen plumbing. The hot tap hasn’t worked for years and he’s never got round to fixing it, so I figured it would be a safe place to hide it, except he had another twenty-five grand tucked away there. It’s why I think it was him who broke in.”

“Where’s the money now?”

“I just opened an account with the Nationwide down the road, why?”

“Shit. We need to get our hands on the original banknotes if we’re going to prove he was up to anything. I’ll give them a call, but I’ll need to meet you down there. Not many people deal in fifty pound notes, so we should be able to recover most of those at least.

“You did the right thing telling me about it, Sandy.”

“I’m guessing it’s going to be frozen now, isn’t it?”

“Possibly. I’m going to have to talk to a few people about it.”

“It’s just that he tore up pretty much all my clothes, so all I have is what I’m wearing at the moment, and all I have to keep us all alive is what’s left of the two hundred quid housekeeping he gave me yesterday.”

“Did that come from his stash?”

“Yes. And I’m guessing you’re going to tell me I can’t even keep that?”

“I’m afraid so. It may help us identify some of the rest of what you put in the bank, and it is potentially illicit money no matter how much you need it. I’d like you to meet me down at the bank in about half an hour if that’s okay.”

“Sure. Er, he was waiting at the end of my road when I came back from setting up the accounts.”

“He was, was he?”

“He was five hundred metres from my front door, but he did talk to me as I walked past. He wanted to know where it was.”

“The cash I presume. What did you tell him?”

“Yeah, that’s my guess. I reminded him how far he needed to be away from me, took some photographs and threatened to call the police.”

“Good girl. I’ll see you at the Nationwide in thirty minutes. If you beat me there, see if you can talk to the manager and tell him you found out the money you deposited may have been involved in a crime. It should get him to put as much as he can of it to one side.”

Dealing with the bank used up what was left of the afternoon. I had enough time to use some of my dwindling reserves to buy some sports underwear from Lidl – all they had on offer – before heading back to the school to pick up Michael and Steven.

Mrs Nullis found me outside the school gates.

“I’ve arranged to meet with the other parents tomorrow morning when they drop off their kids. I hope that works for you.”

I thanked her and assured her I’d be there, then walked the boys home.

“I’m afraid your father dropped by the house this morning while I was out,” I told them as we approached the door.

“I told you he was going to kill you,” Steven said with an ugly smile.

“Well, he wasn’t able to kill me since I wasn’t there, but he did have a good go at killing the house. The TV’s broken and most of the place is still a mess since I haven’t had a chance to clear up, so you two are going to have to help me do that.”

“That’s not fair,” Michael whined.

“No it’s not,” I agreed. “By rights, your father should do the clearing up, but since he’s not here, it’s down to us three, which I’m sure you’ll agree is slightly less unfair than me doing it all on my own.”

“I’ve got homework,” Steven said.

“Good. You can do that once we’ve tidied up enough for you to have a place where you can sit and work.”

I had them clear some space around the table while I cut up an apple and some carrot sticks for their snack.

“What the fuck’s this?” Steven wanted to know.

“We’re going to be eating healthier from now on, so get used to it. Oh, and strike one.”

“What the fuck more do you think you can do to me now that you’ve got me kicked off the team?”

“I imagine we’re going to find out tomorrow when I meet with Mrs Nullis and the other parents. I haven’t decided on the full extent of your punishment for what you did on Saturday. Even when that’s sorted, I know I can come up with other things, so tread carefully because that’s strike two and it’s still Monday.”

Steven settled down after that. He and Michael ate the apple but left the carrot, which was no more than I expected. I’d more or less planned that the carrots could mark the start of my diet. I’d never been that keen on carrot, but my first bite brought a pleasant surprise. My new taste buds seemed to actually enjoy the flavour. I’d need variety to keep from getting bored, but the prospect of salads for the foreseeable future didn’t seem so dreadful. What’s more, I’d managed to start the boys on healthy snacks.

We tidied the dining area between us, then I let Steven get on with what turned out to be quite a heavy load of homework – teachers having found out about his extra-curricular activities over the weekend and showing their disapproval perhaps – while Michael and I did what we could to sort the lounge. There wasn't much we could do about the telly, especially not with what fuckface had done with the insurance, but the rest could be put back in some sort of order.

Charlotte called me late in the afternoon to say that she’d had words with George and persuaded him to reinstate the house insurance. “I told him it wasn’t illegal not to have insurance,” she said, “but since his name was on the mortgage, I suggested he could end up owing the bank quite a lot of money if the house was to, for instance, accidentally burn down.”

“You didn’t!”

“Now, arson is illegal, so perhaps I should advise you not to explore the possibilities, but you should be covered again.

“I’ve also spoken with a few people further up the chain, and they’re real interested to know where all that money you found came from. Your husband is going to have to answer a few tricky questions in the near future. That being said, I’ve explained your situation and I’m hoping that tomorrow or Wednesday at the latest they’ll give me an answer on how much of it you can access to deal with your current predicament.

“I’ve strongly advised your husband to get a lawyer because he's going to want professional representation when dealing with the people who are now interested in him, and I've arranged a meeting next Monday for a first mediation between the two of you. Perhaps we can get together on Friday to go over what we should cover in that meeting.”

“That would be great. You really are a godsend. Especially after...”

“Like I said, this is my job and I take it very seriously. Besides, after this morning... You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I had to do something. I don’t know if Mrs Nullis got back in touch with you, but the five who attacked Jake, including my Steven, have been kicked off the team. The parents are meeting tomorrow to decide what else they deserve.”

“Isn’t being taken off the team enough?”

“I can't speak for the rest, but not in Steven’s case. Maybe if he showed any signs of remorse, but he still too angry about what’s been taken from him to think about whether or not he deserves it. He needs to get that point.”

“Well, he's your son. I'll talk to you tomorrow when I know more about the money.”

With the living room sorted as well as we could manage, I asked Michael very politely if he would tidy up in his and Steven’s room while I dealt with the chaos in the kitchen. When I checked on him half an hour later, I discovered his interpretation of my request involved gathering together all his transformers – I’ll admit there were quite a few of them – and playing with them. I didn't mind. At least he was quiet and not disturbing either his brother or me.

I worked on the kitchen while Steven worked on his assignments. Every now and then I peeked over his shoulder and made a suggestion or two, most of which he ignored, but then that was his choice.

With the kitchen tidied, I put together some food for the three of us. Sausage and mash seemed easiest, with a fair helping of vegetables and a good thick gravy to mask the greenery. Whipping the potato proved to be a more strenuous job than I recalled, but I figured I'd get fit enough with time.

Michael reappeared as the smells of dinner permeated through the house. Steven hadn’t quite finished, but I told him to put it aside while we ate.

“This is fucking amazing!” he told me around his first mouthful.

“Thank you for the compliment.” I smiled at him. “If it's all the same with you though, I'd like us all to work on our language.”

“But you swear.”

“I can't deny that, but perhaps with your father gone, we could all make more of an effort.”

“Will he be coming back?” Michael asked.

“I don't know, sweetie. That's going to depend on a lot of things, including what you and Steven want...”

“I don't want him to come back ever. I hate him and he scares me.”

“I can understand that, and right now I feel the same way. What about you Steven?”

“...?”

“How upset would you be if your father didn't come back into our lives?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, think about it, would you? I get a feeling that our lives are going to change quite significantly, and I want to make sure as much as possible that the change is for the best, for all of us.”

“Like how you've changed, Mummy,” Michael smiled at me round a mouth stuffed full of sausage. “That's for the best for all of us.”

“I wonder if you’ll still think that after I tell you to eat your vegetables.”

He took it as intended and laughed before scooping a forkful of gravy drenched greens into his mouth.

Steven didn't seem so sure, but unsure was better than rebellious.

After tea, I bathed Michael while Steven finished his homework, then checked over his work while he bathed and got ready for bed. I showed him his homework diary where I'd written in the comments space, 'Steven spent two hours working really hard on his homework tonight.’

He looked at me as though I’d gone mad.

“You remember what I said about consequences?” He nodded. “I'm not saying we're done with what happened on Saturday, but this is a step in the right direction. You did good today and it's only fair your teachers know that.”

I tucked them in and looked into the other bedroom, still looking like the aftermath of a tornado. I didn't particularly want to sleep in the mess so I grabbed a pillow and the duvet and what looked like the least torn of my nightclothes and headed down to the living room.

Closer inspection showed the nightdress wasn’t fit for use, so I brushed my teeth, changed my sanitary protection and settled on the sofa in my underwear. Wrapped in the duvet, I was snug enough and sleep wasn’t long in coming.

Chapter 8

I was woken in the early hours by the sound of someone trying to break down the front door.

A very solid shoulder crashed into the door for a second time, causing the whole frame to shudder and dislodging a shower of dust from somewhere. The new security fittings continued to hold, though I wasn’t sure how much more they would take.

“I’m calling the police,” I shouted.

“Open the fucking door you fucking cunt.”

“Give me one good reason. Or on second thoughts, don’t bother. I’ll stick with my original plan.”

I picked up my phone and dialled nine-nine-nine just as he struck for a third time. It looked like the locks were loosening.

“Emergency, which service?”

“Police!”

“Police, what’s your emergency?”

“My husband's trying to break into my house.” A fourth shoulder barge. Yes, the door was definitely weakening. I gave my address.

“Okay. I’m sending someone to you now.” Another crash, this time there was the sound of wood splintering.

“Is there another exit to the house, ma’am?” That was a first. I’d never been ma’amed before.

“My children are upstairs. I can’t leave them.” I really couldn’t. In the three days I’d known them, neither one had done much to endear himself to me, yet abandoning them was beyond me, despite the rising panic threatening to overwhelm me.

“Ma’am, the patrol will be with you in just a few minutes. You need to find somewhere safe until they reach you.”

“I’ll try.”

“Stay on the line, ma’am.”

I backed out of the living room and up the cramped stairs. If the kids were to be believed, he’d already thrown me down them once, but I had to keep them safe. He’d already ransacked the house looking for his stash, so this could only be about revenge. Another crash from downstairs suggested he was close to breaking in. I pulled our bedroom door closed and slipped quietly into the boys’ room. They were sitting up in bed, wide eyed. I held a finger to my lips and leaned against the door. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre at the top of the stairs and hopefully he’d waste time searching our rooms first.

The boys’ room was at the front of the house, so we heard the door give way and a few muffled curses as he negotiated the splinters and broken glass. More smashing from downstairs as he made his way through to the back. There wasn’t much to search though, so it was only a matter of seconds before he was stomping up the stairs.

“She’s in here, Dad!” Steven shouted.

A moment’s silence then strong hands on the doorknob twisting against mine. Panic leant me strength, even so I could barely hold it. He stopped trying.

I backed away from the door, very much aware of what was coming next. Socks aren’t much protection against Lego and I let out a painful hiss as a sizeable chunk dug into the sole of my foot. I dropped to one knee just as the door flew open.

I didn’t think, just launched myself at him, catching him full in his more than ample stomach. Despite the extra bulk I was carrying, I suspected he was still twice my weight. Still I caught him off guard and knocked him off balance. We crashed through the opposite door and sprawled into the wreckage of our bedroom. He caught his head against my bedside cabinet while I floundered away from his overly mobile flab. I brought a knee up with as much force as I could muster between his legs and backed out onto the small landing. The gasp of pain he let go brought me some satisfaction, but I doubted it would stop him for long.

I half ran, half slid down the stairs, just managing to raise my arms in time to keep me from colliding with the wall at the bottom. A quick glance showed me the lounge was a minefield of broken glass. I’d never get across it in my socks. Another glance upstairs showed my revolting husband crouching over the damage I’d done him, the livid rage in his face barely visible in the darkness.

The door out to the back garden was locked and I doubted I’d have a chance to turn the key before he caught me up. My only alternative was to make a stand somehow. I ran through the kitchen and pulled the bathroom door closed. The first thing that came to hand was the small step ladder. I picked it up and ducked out of sight in the small alcove beside the back door.

There really wasn’t time to try anything with the door. He was already downstairs and charging through the kitchen, roaring like an enraged elephant as he came. He collided with the bathroom door, almost taking it off its hinges.

I didn’t think, but just reacted, bringing the stepladder down on the back of his head. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but the surprise of it knocked him to the floor. He twisted around snarling in time to meet my second blow full in the face.

“Fuck!” he shouted, spitting out a mouthful of blood and teeth. His legs were splayed which gave me too tempting a target. I brought the stepladder down full force on the part of his anatomy that offended me the most. He curled forward over it protectively, giving me one final roundhouse swipe, catching him full in the face once more and laying him out cold.

The temptation to keep going until there was nothing left was almost too much to resist. Terror and indignant rage had pushed any capacity for reason to the back of my mind, but that was the part which was me, and I pushed back, holding myself from lashing out again until the emotions began to ebb. The stepladder grew heavy in my arms and I threw it, twisted and useless as it now was, into the corner.

It passed through my mind that i wouldn’t be able to reach any high shelves now, and an eruption of hysteria burst out of my mouth, barely contained.

I could hear noises of people moving through the house and sank down where I was, my legs giving way under me.

“Police,” a tentative voice called out. “Is anybody hurt?”

It was enough for me to lose what little self-control I had. I burst into a mixture of tears and laughter, which at least guided the policemen to my location.

George wasn’t quite unconscious, but he was sufficiently unresponsive for one of the attending officers to call in an ambulance. The other led me out through the kitchen then followed me up to the boys’ bedroom.

“She attacked him!” Steven still seemed intent on causing trouble for me.

I ignored him and sat next to a quietly sobbing Michael, pulling him into my arms. “My husband raped me on Saturday night,” I explained to the policeman. With a need to comfort at least one of my son’s, my recent emotional outburst had been replaced by a deep calm. “I have a restraining order against him. He already broke into the house and trashed it. He came back tonight looking to take out his anger on me.”

“Then what...” The policemen looked in confusion to Steven’s defiant expression.

“My eldest is angry with me because I’m punishing him for his own recent unacceptable behaviour. Would you like me to tell the policeman what you did, Steven? I’m sure he’d be happy to lock you up with your dad.”

Steven chose not to say anything more.

It took a while, but they brought a WPC onto the scene. It seemed strange that I should feel better about having a woman present, but I had a sense that the policeman who’d followed me up to the boys’ room had been drawing his own conclusions of what had happened, and none of them in my favour.

She let me settle the boys then led me downstairs. There wasn’t enough left of the front door to keep the weather out, but fortunately it was neither particularly cold nor wet. One of the police officers offered me a card with the number of an emergency locksmith. I recognised both the logo and number on the card and confirmed the digits against my recent call log. It was the same man. I dialled the number, rehearsing the conversation to come in my head.

A non-committal grunt greeted me from the other end of the phone.

“Hi,” I said and gave him my name and address. “Sorry to bother you, but I have some more work for you. I don’t suppose you have a spare front door in your van?”

He didn’t, but he could at least board up the doorway. He gave me an estimate of when he would arrive and I hung up to find the WPC had made use of my kettle and a few other things she’d found in the kitchen to make me a cup of tea. It was loaded with sugar, which I wasn’t too keen on, but she insisted it would revive me.

It did. We stayed in the back room next to the kitchen with policemen wandering about taking photographs and collecting evidence. With half the tea drunk and the rest too cold and decidedly too sweet, I put the cup down, gratified to find my hands no longer shaking. The WPC asked if I was ready to make a statement.

I told her everything, starting with the rape. I told her about the injunction against him and the money I’d found and what had happened to it. Then I told her about the night’s events from his first blow against the front door to my last one against his face.

She jotted it all down, then read it back to me. I nodded my agreement that she had a fair record of what I had said and she offered me a pen to sign and date it as such.

“I shouldn’t say this,” she said as she gathered the paperwork together, “but good for you. It sounds like he got what he deserved.”

“Am I likely to get into trouble?”

“Not if everything you say pans out. We’ll collect a few statements from your neighbours and, of course, he gets to give his version once he’s recovered. I dare say his will be quite a lot different from yours, but he’s going to have to justify why he was here in defiance of the injunction.”

“My older son is arguing in his defence.”

“Yes, I heard about that. How old is he?”

“Eleven. He’s also angry with me at the moment and not acting in either of our best interests.”

“That’ll be taken into account if it comes to it. We may have evidence enough that he won’t have to be involved.”

She led me through to the front room where the door had been replaced by a few pieces of plywood screwed into what remained of the door frame. The locksmith was just tidying up his tools. Yet again there was an invoice for a far too reasonable amount.

“You’re going to have to let me make this up to you some day,” I told him.

He smiled grimly. “Pay me when you can. No rush.”

I showed him to the back door and directed him to the nearest passage back to the street and his van.

“Do you need anyone to stay with you for the rest of the night?” the woman police constable asked.

“I should be alright,” I said, feeling anything but.

She scribbled down a number and handed it to me along with a couple of pamphlets for the Samaritans and another similar group. “These are what we’re supposed to give you,” she said, “but I’m on duty till eight. If you want to talk to me at all before then, give me a call on my mobile. If you fancy meeting for a coffee afterwards, likewise.”

“Without wanting to sound rude, why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because I admire your courage. Because you merit a bit of special treatment. And on a more selfish level, because I wouldn’t mind having a friend like you.” She flashed me a brief smile before letting herself out.

Leaving me alone in the house with nerves so jangled that I’d never have been able to sleep. By then dawn wasn’t far off anyway, so I set to cleaning the downstairs as well as I could.

I had three refuse sacks full of rubble and wreckage by the time I needed to think about getting the kids ready for school, and the back room and kitchen were a lot closer to being liveable in. I roused the horrors and set them about getting ready for another day of learning, then sat with them as they munched their way through breakfast. I couldn’t really let Steven’s response to the previous night’s invasion go unchallenged, but how to handle it? I wasn’t convinced that subtle had much of a chance of getting through to him, so I decided to tackle it head on.

“What were you hoping to achieve last night, Steven? When you told your dad where I was?”

“I suppose this is my strike three, isn’t it?” he said with no small amount of sullen anger.

“No, I think this is far more serious than that. I’m trying to figure out what was going through your mind when you called out to him. Did you want to watch him kill me?”

A glint of vicious pleasure flashed behind his eyes.

“What did you expect to happen afterwards? Did you think your dad would be appreciative of your help? Did you think he’d show you some affection because you were on his side? Did you have some sick, crazy idea of a happily ever after being raised by your murdering psycho father?”

He didn’t answer, but sat clenching his jaw, staring at his half-finished cereal bowl.

“There is something very wrong with your dad. It may be that he’s just a violent, foul mouthed control freak who’s grown too used to having his own way, but I’m beginning to suspect it goes deeper than that. Sane people don’t do what he did last night.”

I waited, looking for a reaction, but if anything, he grew more obstinate. I sighed. I was going to have to decide sooner or later how far this particular apple had fallen from the tree, and just how poisoned it was. I wasn’t sure if I could do it without help. Maybe confrontation at this stage wasn’t such a good idea.

“Well. I don’t think we’re going to resolve anything here and now, so finish your breakfast and get your things together. We have matters to resolve at school, don’t we?”

And that was enough to earn me a scowl that promised nothing good. We’d have time to discuss things later, when I could more directly relate the misery of his punishment to the consequences of his actions. If he couldn’t learn that then maybe I’d have to seek outside help.

I picked up my coat and bag and helped Michael into his shoes while Steven sorted himself out.

“You have your homework?” I asked him.

“Of course.” Disdain dripped from his words. Okay, so next time he could remember without my prompting.

“Lunches?”

They had their lunches. I’d put them into their bags myself, but no harm getting them used to checking.

We headed out the back and down to the first alley through to the street.

“How long are we going to have to do that?” Steven just had to pass comment.

“Well, a new front door will cost us a couple of hundred pounds at least. More if we want a proper security door. At the moment I only have what’s left of the housekeeping your dad gave me over the weekend, which is down around the hundred quid level, so unless we can persuade your dad to fix the damage he caused, I think we’ll be waiting a while.”

“I thought we had insurance.” He’d evidently been listening to recent conversations.

“We do, or at least we should do, but since the damage was caused by the policy holder, I think they may decide to withhold payment.”

“Can they do that?”

“Oh yes, and with the full support of the law. If we had an agreement say, that I would pay you ten pounds per month on the understanding that you'd replace my phone if it was ever broken.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Yeah. Money for nothing,” I said.

“And your chicks for free,” he finished.

I couldn’t help smiling. “Well, this is insurance, not banging on the bongos like a chimpanzee, so let’s just stick with the money for now. So, I’ve been paying your money for a few months now and I’m bored of my phone. There’s a new one out and I fancy an upgrade. So, I ‘accidentally’,” finger quotes very much exaggerated, “drop it in the toilet. Do you think you should have to honour our agreement and buy me the new one?”

“Hell no!”

“I’ll overlook the language this time, Stevie, but please try not to swear.”

“Don’t call me Stevie. That’s like a girl’s name.”

It also happened to be the name I’d heard a lot of people using, like Mr Gibson. Why did they use it if Steven didn’t like it? Questions for another time.

“I’m sorry. Steven. You get the idea though? If your father insures the house against damage, accidental or otherwise, then comes along and causes it himself.”

“It still sucks.”

“Yes it does. Perhaps you’d like to tell your dad that the next time you see him. It’s down to him that we don’t have a TV to watch too.”

Also why I didn’t have any different clothes, but that wasn’t something he would care so much about.

We reached the school and Michael ran off to play with the other early arrivals while Steven and I went to join the head mistress and the parents of the other kids involved in the attack on Jake.

They were angry, understandably, but it became apparent early on that it was me they were angry with. My kid who’d instigated the ambush and me who’d blown the whistle resulting in their kids being kicked off the team, therefore inevitably my fault. My presence stood in the way of making any sensible progress, so after a few minutes listening to their complaints, I stood, interrupting yet another tirade directed my way.

“I agree,” I said. “I agree this was largely Steven’s doing, and it goes without saying that whatever you decide is an appropriate response, he’ll be getting more of the same from me. But don’t you for one more second try to convince us that your own kids are without blame here. Steven sent that message to the whole team, which means more than half of them knew better than to respond.” Either that or couldn’t get free to join in, but I’d give them the benefit of the doubt. “Furthermore, my son may have started the attack, but yours didn’t have to join in, did they?”

None of them had an answer to that.

“I can see it was a mistake my coming today, so my son and I will take our leave and let you get on with deciding an appropriate punishment, rather than wasting everyone’s time giving you a target for your righteous outrage. We’ll live by whatever you decide as long as it’s fairly shared between them all.”

I guided Steven out of the head’s office and found us a couple of seats in the reception area outside. Steven decided he didn’t want to talk to me, which was fine by me. I fished my phone out of my bag and gave Charlotte a call.

“Sorry if this is a little early,” I said by way of introduction.

“No, you’re okay. I dropped Jake off a few minutes ago. I’m driving but I’m hands free and the traffic’s pretty slow. What’s on your mind?”

“George broke into the house last night and tried to attack me,” I said.

“What! Why didn’t you call me?”

“I figured I’d taken up too much of your down time recently. There wasn’t much you could do anyway, so I thought I’d wait until now.”

“Give me the details.”

So I did, from his breaking through the front door to my calling the police to his chasing me through the house – I missed out Steven’s part in all the action – to the final point where he charged into the bathroom and I smashed the stepladder into his face just before the police arrived. By the end Steven was looking at me with a degree of wary respect.

“Where is he now, your husband?”

“They said they’d be taking him to the County General overnight, but if there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with him, then he’d be arraigned today.”

“Okay, leave it with me. I’ll find out what’s happening and get back to you. Can you get to my office this morning?”

“I should be able to. I’m sorting out something at the school right now, but maybe in about an hour?”

“I’ll have the coffee on. I should have something to report by then.”

I hung up the phone and waited. The way Steven was looking at me...

“Did you really do all that to Dad?” he asked.

“He didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Did you hurt him?”

“There was blood, and I think I may have loosened a couple of his teeth.”

“Sweet.”

“Wasn’t he your hero last night? Weren’t you counting on him to rescue you from your evil mother?”

He closed down like a tortoise disappearing inside its shell. An intuitive part inside me gave me a gentle nudge.

“Oh, I see,” I said. “You didn’t really care which of us was hurt, just that one of us was, and maybe the other would be arrested.”

“You’re going to get done for GBH.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but that’s not going to happen. I have a right to defend myself – and you and Michael – against anyone who attacks us in our home as long as I only use reasonable force. I stopped once he went down, so no, they won’t arrest me. Sorry.”

He wasn’t happy about it, but that didn’t come as a surprise. Still, it gave me a better understanding of what was going on in his head, and I thought I had a fair chance of getting through to him. Not just then though. The head’s door opened, and four ashen faced boys filed out followed by their mothers, each of whom looked supremely self-satisfied.

Steven went to join his mates, jerking back at what they mumbled to him.

“What!” he yelled. “No fucking way.”

…

“Steven, that’s strike three.”

“I don’t give a fucking shit. I’m not fucking doing it.”

“Steven! Come here now!”

Stiff and rebellious, he reluctantly and very slowly obeyed.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you may want to give him a break.”

I looked at the head mistress who’d just appeared in the doorway. She did not look pleased. She waved a hand into her office, and I joined her with Steven trailing behind.

“I need to state at the outset that this was not my idea. I’ll admit there’s a degree of poetic justice to it, but I’m not at all sure I agree with it.”

“Agree with what?”

“It was your idea the other day to let the parents come up with the punishment.”

I shrugged and nodded.

“Well, after you stepped out of the room just now, they settled down to business and very quickly decided that the problem lay in their son’s not having any respect for the opposition.”

“I’d agree with that.”

“One of them – Jamie Sykes’ mother I think – suggested that maybe they should be made to cheer for the other side for a while.”

“I don’t see that working.”

“No, neither did anyone else to start with, but then she suggested as an incentive to do it right, they should be made to form a cheer squad.”

“You mean...”

“Just that. Short skirts, pom-poms, the works. They should work out their own cheer routines and come along every Saturday and cheer for the other side until they managed to convince everyone present that they meant it.”

“Wow!”

“The other mums loved the idea and agreed to it before I could talk any sense into them. They also said that since Steven led the mob in the attack against your friend’s son, he should be the cheerleader. It’ll be up to him to come up with the chants and moves, and the group is to practice them alongside the football team practices in full costume. Oh, and you, as his mum, are responsible for putting together the uniforms.”

“How am I supposed to afford that?”

“They seem to think that you and your husband have robbed them of enough money, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty funding it.”

“I’m not doing it!” Steven said.

“I don’t think either of us have much choice, son. I did say we’d agree to whatever they decided as long as the punishment was shared fairly.”

“How is this fair?”

“Well, it’s like they say, it was you that planned and orchestrated the attack in the first place, so you should be the one who sets the example that makes things right.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then I doubt you’ll get back on the team. Not you, not your friends. We also have the matter of your striking out already this week. To be fair, this first time around shouldn’t have anything to do with all this, but if you continue to defy me, there will be more strikes and who knows what your punishment will be for the next strike out.”

He glowered at me.

“Maybe I’ll design the costumes without consulting you or your friends. I have this image of bubble gum pink leotards and lilac chiffon skirts that would look so cute on you.”

The glower remained, but his lower lip was beginning to tremble.

“Maybe I’ll insist you get changed at home and walk to and from the game in your costume.”

“Dad wouldn’t allow it.”

“Your father couldn’t give two hoots one way or the other. He’d probably find it funny that you did this to yourself.

“Besides, he has enough problems of his own right now.”

“Oh?” Mrs Nullis asked quietly.

I’d somehow forgotten whose office we were in.

“George and I are going through a rough patch at the moment.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” To be fair, she did sound genuinely sorry.

“It’s been coming for a while. I’m hoping it’ll all be for the best when the dust settles, but right now it’s not great.”

“Dad broke into the house and attacked Mum last night,” Steven volunteered, largely I suspect because I was going to some lengths to avoid any details.

“Oh my! Are you alright?”

“A bit shaken, but it was George who had the worst of it.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t quite hide the smile.

“What did he overcharge you for?”

That at least wiped the smile off her face.

“We’ll talk about this later, Steven. For now, you’d better get to class.”

“Yes, take this.” Mrs Nullis handed him a pass. “It’s not your fault you’re late, at least not this time.”

Steven ran off without saying goodbye, which was hardly a surprise. He also ignored Mrs Nullis when she called after him not to run. She at least had the manners to bid me good morning before showing me out of her office and turning back to the inevitable pile of paperwork.

A gentle walk followed by a twenty-minute wait saw me on a bus into town. The return ticket broke into one of my few remaining twenty-pound notes, much to the displeasure of the driver who nearly emptied his change machine giving me my change. Fifteen minutes of staring out through grubby windows dropped me five minutes’ walk away from Charlotte’s office. I arrived at her door shortly after ten.

“My sources tell me the Inland Revenue are auditing your husband,” she said as she poured out a couple of coffees. Not instant for the first time since my switch!

She passed me a mug and I inhaled the fumes with a contented sigh, much to her amusement. Odd that I hadn’t missed the cigarettes, but this...

“That explains why he was in such a foul mood last night,” I said.

“Yes. They managed to recover most of the banknotes you deposited yesterday. Which reminds me. They’ve asked me to reclaim any of the original bills he gave you over the weekend.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I have two kids to feed and less than a hundred quid with which to do it until this gets sorted. How do they expect me to manage if they take that off me?”

“I doubt they’ve even thought of it. You don’t have a choice though. If you refuse to give it up, it’ll make you complicit in whatever dodgy dealing he’s been up to.”

I dug out my purse and handed over the four twenties that remained. It left me with fifteen pounds and some shrapnel. I fought to hold back a sense of despair as I tried to figure out just how far I could stretch what I had left. I could probably get by without eating for a few days given the amount of unwanted padding I was carrying about, but it didn’t leave much for the boys. I made a mental inventory of the fridge and freezer and felt traitor tears prickling at the back of my eyes. I tried overriding hopelessness with anger, but that just turned them into angry tears.

“No friends or family you can borrow from?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Can’t you put it on a credit card for a few weeks until we get this sorted?”

I let out a short bark of a laugh, which was almost more of a sob. “I didn’t even have a bank account before yesterday. George is very much the control freak.”

“Nothing of value in the house?”

I shook my head. “He either took it or trashed it when he came by the first time.”

“Jewellery? They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

I laughed again, and it came out considerably more bitter than I’d have liked. I struggled with my wedding and engagement rings, eventually managing to wriggle them off my pudgy fingers. Not even nine carat gold and a diamond that was almost too small to see – if it was even a diamond. I dropped them on the desk.

“What do you think I might get for those? I doubt I’ll be needing them much longer.”

She looked at them, then at me, then reached for her handbag.

“I really shouldn’t do this. I’m told I get too involved in my clients' problems.” She fished out her purse and counted through the notes, keeping back a ten and a couple of fives. The rest she offered. “Call it a loan. I’ll hold onto the rings as collateral if you like, and you pay me back when you can.”

I wasn’t too proud to refuse. “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

She passed me some of her stationary. I counted through the notes and scribbled onto the paper. ‘IOU £340’ and signed it, just stopping short of using my old name. I slid the paper and pen back to her.

“Thank you,” I said with a choked voice. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“You’d be surprised.” She picked up the rings and placed them with the sheet of paper in a drawer which she locked. “On the bright side, you can probably go back to using your maiden name sometime soon.”

“You think I should go back to being Sandy Shaw? I’m not that desperate.”

“Tell me you’re joking. Your parents couldn’t be that stupid.”

“I wish I could.”

“I thought your husband was cruel. Do you still talk to your folks. I mean I’d totally understand if you didn’t.”

“They haven't wanted anything to do with me since George knocked me up while we were still at school. They kind of insisted we get married and deal with the consequences ourselves.”

“Don't they even want to know their grandkids?”

“You have met my children, haven't you? You know, the psychopath and the soppy one? I think we’re all too much of a disappointment to them.”

“Sounds like you’re better off without them. Mine pretty much disowned me when I left my husband. I got the feeling sometimes they liked him better than me, but then they didn’t have to live with him.

“Anyway, if you’re finished with your coffee, we should probably head down to the courthouse. The arraignment’s at eleven and it’s good to be early.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 9 - 10 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 No more violence, but some court scenes that I suspect are based more on imagination than reality

-oOo-

Chapter 9

So that’s what we did, finding the courtroom with fifteen minutes to spare and settling into a couple of uncomfortable wooden seats in the public gallery in time to watch one or two other cases be dealt with. The presiding judge seemed disinterested in the proceedings and pushed things along as quickly as he could.

Eventually George was led in sporting a satisfyingly large bruise down the left side of his face. His lawyer painted a brief picture of him as the victim in the case, doing a not unreasonable job. The judge picked up his gavel, ready to rule when Charlotte stood.

“Your honour. If it please the court.”

“And you are?” The judge didn’t sound like he cared much.

“Charlotte Greer, your honour. Representing the accused’s wife in this and other related matters.”

“Please be brief Ms Greer.”

She was. Outlining the outstanding charge of rape, the injunction and the discovery of the money stash and subsequent Inland Revenue audit in a remarkably succinct manner, before giving a brief description of the break-in.

Interest piqued, the judge settled his gavel back onto his bench. “You neglected to mention any of this, Mr Simmons.”

“Er, I didn’t consider it relevant to the matter at hand, your honour.”

“Did you break into the house in question, Mr Bush?”

“It’s my fucking house,” he growled, fixing me with a baleful glare.

“I’ll encourage you to keep a civil tongue in my courthouse, Mr Bush. I find my head swimming with questions. Your wife took out a restraining order against you?”

“She did, your honour.”

“Which means you are required to keep a minimum distance from her. To do otherwise would mean you’d be breaking the law, you do realise this.”

“So, I’m not even allowed to go into my fu... my house?”

“By arrangement when your wife isn’t there. Not in the middle of the night. And why didn’t you use your key if this house is your property?”

“Because she changed the fuc... She changed the locks on me, your honour.”

“And why would she do that.”

“Because she’s a spiteful fucking bitch. Sorry, your honour, but she did this to me.” He pointed at his face.

The judge turned to me. “Mrs Bush?”

“He chased me into the bathroom, your honour. I hit him with a step ladder.”

“That seems a little extreme.”

“It was a small, two step thing, your honour. Made from aluminium and not very heavy. And he was roaring and charging at me at the time. I was very much afraid of what he intended to do to me.”

“And why did you change the locks?”

“Because he already came into the house and trashed the place yesterday while I was taking our boys to school. I took the front door key off his keyring when the police brought him to collect his belongings, so I can only assume he had a spare in his van somewhere.”

“Your honour, there is no proof it was my client...”

“Someone with a key to the front door – and that would be just my husband and myself – entered the house while I was out taking our children to school. While in the house, that person pulled apart the hot water pipes in the kitchen, which haven’t worked for some years...”

“Why would...?”

“The previous day I had found twenty-five thousand pounds hidden in those pipes which I then hid elsewhere. The house was subsequently ransacked with the few valuable items we possess either taken or destroyed. This included all my clothing apart from the things I’m wearing now. Perhaps I shouldn’t make assumptions, but I can’t think of anyone other than my husband, who I’m sure you know is a plumber, who would have a key to the house, who would know to look for hidden valuables in the plumbing and who would destroy all my things in what I can only believe was an act of spite.”

“May I ask how you knew of this hiding place?”

“There’s a degree of irony to that, your honour. After I was raped...”

“Allegedly raped.”

“...on Sunday, I found another roll of banknotes amounting to around five-thousand pounds stuffed down the back of the sofa. We’d been talking about the hot water in the kitchen earlier in the weekend and, given George’s reluctance to do any work around the house, I thought it would make a good hiding place for what I’d found. I had no idea he was already using it as one.”

“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded in gaining my interest. Bail is set at one-hundred thousand pounds...”

“What! Where the fuck am I going to find that kind of money?”

“Bailiff, please add a contempt charge to Mr Bush’s litany of sins. Mr Bush, the point is I rather hope you can’t find that kind of money. Evidence suggests you aren’t the sort of person I’d want back on the streets and I’d rather you remained behind bars until the cases,” he emphasised the plural, looking pointedly at George’s lawyer, “against you are resolved.” He stood. “I think we’ll take a short recess before the next one. Reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

“Well, that went as well as expected,” Charlie smiled grimly. “Can I buy you lunch? My treat.”

She headed for the exit but found her way barred by the somewhat disgruntled figure of Mr Simmons.

“You represent Mrs Bush?” he asked, then in response to Charlotte’s nod, passed across a large and well packed manila envelope.

Which made lunch not quite the enjoyable experience we’d been anticipating.

“Counter-suits,” Charlotte explained between mouthfuls of sea food chowder. “Not unexpected, but they want to bar access to contested property until this is resolved.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if he can’t use the house neither can you.”

“So where are we supposed to live?”

“Pretty much my line of response. You have no income and two dependents to look after. It shouldn’t be difficult to argue that, except...”

“Except?”

“The house is in George’s name...”

“I’m guessing everything is. He’s that kind of control freak.”

“And you signed a prenup.” She held up a piece of paper between finger and thumb.

“A what?”

“Prenuptial agreement. It means if you ever get divorced, he gets everything.”

I took the page from her fingers and scanned it. The date was the same as that on our wedding certificate and it was handwritten, but other than that it was pretty much as she’d said. If we separated, I got nothing.

“I’m not actually suing for divorce just yet though, am I?”

“No, but he is.” She picked up a second piece of paper. “It doesn’t mean this is open and shut. We can still contest it, but it won’t be quite so straightforward.”

“You mean I might lose?”

“There is always that chance. The law tends to side with the vulnerable in cases like this, except...”

“You keep doing that, you know? Trailing off just when you get to the important bit.”

“He’s claiming the money you found is winnings from his gambling and that your accusation of tax fraud is a malicious lie.”

“That was your idea.”

“Yeah, and it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. If his books balance though, and he can show this came from, what was it you said, the horses? If he can do that, it puts us in a less sympathetic light.”

“Let’s hope he’s not that clever then.”

“Yes, let’s. Look, why don’t you go home? I’ve suddenly got a mountain of paperwork to do. I’ll call you later, alright? Give you an update.”

“Sure.” I stood. “Thanks Charlotte.”

“Charlie. My friends call me Charlie.”

“Thanks Charlie. You’re going above and beyond with this. Thanks for lunch too, it was greatly appreciated.”

“Yeah well, this is what I do, and people like you are why I do it.”

“Despite what my son did to yours?”

“I may have overreacted there. Jake’s done a few things in his time that’ve left me mortified.”

“Well, if you’re free Saturday, you should come to the match at my kids’ school.”

“Can’t. Jake has a different fixture.”

“No problem. I’ll send you a picture or two. It won’t be as good as live, but I think you and Jake might appreciate them.”

“Now you have me intrigued, but okay, have your mystery. I’ll call you later.”

I made use of my return ticket, arriving back at the house about one o’clock. With nothing better to do, I set about clearing up the master bedroom. He’d done a thorough job on my clothes, tearing them so badly they could never be made fit for use. If I’d had a daughter, then maybe I could have cut things down enough to make something wearable, but...

An idea flared and I hunted through the rags until I found the remains of a dark burgundy tracksuit and a mustard-coloured skirt in a similar material. Now if only Sandy had a sewing machine

I found it tucked away at the back of the cupboard under the stairs, underneath a pile of other useless junk. I’d never used one before, so I spent an hour reading the manual and experimenting. I found a couple of spelling mistakes that had me wondering how my fellow body swapper was getting on in my old job, but otherwise managed to figure out the intricacies of the beast. It would probably sell for a few hundred quid if I ended up being desperate, but for now I had another use for it.

I cut and snipped and sewed until three, then hung up the fruits of my labour. They weren’t finished, but with a bit of luck they would be tomorrow. I just needed a few things from Lidl which I could pick up on the way back from collecting the boys.

They like to advertise it as the ‘Middle of Lidl’, but to me it will always be the Random Shit Aisle. On one of our earlier visits I’d notice multipacks of girls tights in, among other things, a mustard colour. I picked up a couple of five packs – two each for Steven and his friends, but then boys weren’t likely to be gentle with them – and added them to the basket. I also picked up a multipack of lycra boxer briefs in about his size. As luck would have it, they also had some children’s tee-shirts in the right colour that would fit. They were girls’ tee-shirts, but that worked all the better.

Back home, I sewed a pair of the boxer briefs into the best of the skirts I’d made earlier while the boys were playing upstairs. The final result didn’t look half bad, but proof would be in the wearing. I popped my head into their room and for once found them behaving.

“Any homework?” I asked Steven.

He shook his head, predictably.

“So, when I take your lunch boxes out of your bags I won’t find anything in there?”

He gave me a dirty look.

“Why don’t you come and do it before tea, then you’ll be free to do what you want afterwards.”

He gave a longsuffering sigh and climbed to his feet. When we were downstairs I offered him the cheerleader’s uniform to try on.

“No,” he said.

“Just quickly to see how well it fits in case I need to make any alterations. You don’t want to look any more ridiculous than you have to when you’re out there. You’re going to have to wear it soon enough, so why not get used to it?”

“Could you have made it more girly?”

“Probably, but I thought you’d prefer it toned down a little.” I refused to acknowledge his sarcasm. “Cheerleaders are supposed to be decorative, so bright colours are expected. I took the liberty of making them at least a little subdued.”

I showed him how to put the tights on and he jammed his foot in carelessly.

“I have one spare pair for each of you and your friends. If you tear them both, you’ll be wearing socks with the skirt, which won’t look as good and will be a lot colder.”

He relented and dressed more carefully. I was pleased with the final result. Except for the sullen, simmering pre-teen wearing it, the outfit looked quite acceptable.

“What’s with these bits?” He lifted up the skirt to show the hidden yellow pleats I’d sewn in.

“You and your friends have to convince everyone you’re genuine. That’ll be easier if you look the part. You can take it off now, I know what minor adjustments I need to make. You have your first practice tomorrow, don’t you?”

He grunted, slipping the clothes off with an odd show of reluctance. I bit back on the smile, remembering the delicious feeling the first time I’d put on girl’s clothes. It put me in a unique position to understand what he was going through, yet due to the switch, an equally unique position to be unable to talk to him about it.

I let him get on with it while I pulled their tea out of the oven.

“I’ll be calling Michael down in a second so you may want to hurry up and get changed.”

He did.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“For one thing, you’ve given me no reason not to be. For another, I really don’t want to be at war with you until you leave home. One if us has to hold out an olive branch, and since I’m the grown up here, it really ought to be me.”

“What do you mean an olive branch?”

“You know the story of Noah and the ark, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“After the flood, Noah sent out doves in search of dry land. Eventually they brought back an olive branch. The first sign that the world was returning to normal, that God’s anger with the world of men was done and that he was ready to reconcile.”

“Yeah, right. Some reconciliation. Destroys almost everything then offers to make up.”

“And as long as you only consider one side in a conflict, you’ll be stuck fighting it forever, or until one of you loses outright. Do you think God just woke up angry one morning and decided to hell with them, literally?”

“I don’t know.” He’d finished changing back so I called Michael down and set about serving up the food. “Isn’t it just a story though?”

“Maybe, but even in stories people need to have reasons for their actions. Besides, this isn’t really about the Noah story, is it?”

Michael’s head peered around the corner. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Steven said, his sullen mood returning.

Michael put on his usual puppy that’s been kicked expression.

“We were talking about Noah and the ark.”

“I thought you said the Bible was rubbish?”

“Oh? When did I say that?”

“Ages ago. I don’t really remember.”

“So, that would have been the old me then. The new me has a few different ideas.”

“I like the new you much better, don’t you agree Steven.”

“Whatever.” It wasn’t a denial, which was a step in the right direction. Also, he hadn’t just shut his brother down which was very real progress.

Michael and I chatted through tea, mine consisting of a fairly unsatisfying salad – I remembered from the last time I’d started dieting though, that the first couple of days were the hardest. Steven offered a few monosyllables every now and again, but for the most part, I listened to my youngest son talking about his day. It wasn’t particularly interesting, but I found the simple act of communicating with him left me with a pleasant warmth.

It was a school night so, once they’d both finished eating, I shooed them upstairs to get their night clothes and come back down for a wash. I managed to clear the bathroom in the time it took them to sort themselves out. I gave Michael a quick wash then dried him off, giving me ample opportunity to tickle him and cuddle him. By the time a very bemused Steven reappeared, Michael was giggling in a most uncharacteristic manner.

“Since when did you ever play with me and Michael?”

“Since I stopped having to worry about your arsehole of a father.”

“How come you’re allowed to use words like that and we’re not?”

“A fair point, but I would argue when we talk about your father, the term is justified. But your choice. Either we agree that we can use the term, but only about your dad, only in private, when it’s just the three of us, or, if you don’t think we should talk about him with that amount of disrespect, I’ll accept any reasonable punishment you suggest for having called him an arsehole. Which he is.”

Steven gave it some thought, I think tempted by the idea of deciding a punishment for me.

“You have to admit, Stevie. He is an arsehole.” Michael grinned with the realisation he could actually get away with saying something like that about his dad. The catharsis was evident in the width of his grin.

“So now you get to decide a reasonable,” I emphasised the word, “punishment for both of us, or you agree that he's an arsehole.”

“He is a fucking dickhead, isn’t he?”

“I’ll let that go this time, but I really don’t like the f-bomb...”

“You use it.”

“I have done, when provoked, but I’m trying to stop, and I’d appreciate it if you would too.

“Dickhead, we can add to the list of words we can use to describe him in private, if you like.”

“Arsehole, dickhead, poopy-pants,” Michael giggled.

“I don’t remember him ever doing that last one. Don’t you think it would be better if we just called him the names he deserves?”

“Mr Shouty! Mr Potty-mouth.”

“Those are perfect,” I said giving him an indulgent hug.

Steven’s bemused look returned.

“I have one for you too if you want it,” I offered, holding an arm out in invitation.

He looked at the cheerleader costume folded neatly on the floor and his mood darkened.

“No thanks.” He headed up to his bedroom.

Well, baby steps.

I led Michael upstairs behind him and settled him into bed.

“You know, if you went downstairs and used the toilet as soon as you woke up, we could stop using these things,” I told him patting his padded backside.

“But you said not to make any noise in the morning.”

“That was when your dickhead dad was here. Things are a little different now. I mean, I’ll be sleeping in the front room downstairs until I can get the bed fixed for one thing, in case you need me during the night.”

“I love you Mummy.” He gave me a quick hug and a sloppy kiss then dived under the bedclothes.

“I love you too, sweetie.” I stood up, hating how much effort it took, and peaked into the top bunk at the back of its occupant’s head. “Love you too, Steven.”

“Whatever,” came the muffled response.

I kissed my hand and touched it to the back of his head, more for my benefit than his, and backed out of the room.

Without a working TV, options were limited. I still had the remaining cheerleader uniforms to finish, and there was always clearing up to be done. I hunted through the detritus in the main bedroom. I didn’t feel like tackling the mess the arsehole had left me, but a little selective picking found me enough large scraps from old nightdresses that I might be able to put together something more comfortable to sleep in. I also discovered a bra and pair of panties that could be rescued after a fashion. Incongruously, my dressing gown still hung on the back of the bedroom door, untouched.

I sorted out my nightwear first, then washed and changed into it, replacing the torpedo in the process. There wasn’t much blood which suggested my phone would be beeping at me soon. Not that I had any reason to keep taking the pills. I had no intention of letting George back into my life, and I doubted anybody else would be taking an interest given my current appearance. Clear skin doesn’t count for much with most men.

I washed my daytime smalls in the sink and hung them on the drier in the bathroom for the morning. A glance at the jeans and sweatshirt judged them as fit for another day, and so folded them and put them to one side.

A fresh cup of tea made and back to the sewing machine. Underwear sewn into the skirts and a little additional tidying of hems and I was done.

I hunted through the cupboard under the stairs and found very little of any use. There was a box of old clothes, most of which were a little tight on me, but I did find another sweatshirt that was baggy enough to fit. It had a wine stain on it, but I’d noticed a bar of Vanish in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, so decided to give it a go. Twenty minutes elbow grease and I had it beaten, more or less. I added the sweatshirt to the drier, pleased that I’d have some fresh clothes for the morning.

Nine-thirty still felt early, so I dug into my phone looking for something interesting to read. It only had about ten percent charge remaining, which meant the first order of business was to seek out the charger and plug it in. I was about to begin hunting through the interweb for something to keep me distracted when it vibrated in my hand.

“Hello?” I said, answering it without reading the caller information.

“Hi Sandy.” It was Charlotte. “This isn’t too late, is it?”

“Not at all. I think you just rescued me from death by boredom.”

She was polite enough to laugh. “I just settled Jake and thought I’d update you on today’s progress.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Okay, let me start off by saying that I haven’t yet done anything that cannot be undone.”

“Understood.”

“But I have made a few assumptions that I need to check with you. Firstly, I’m assuming you don’t intend to contest the divorce.”

“God no! You have no idea how much better off we are without that shit stain in our lives.”

“Maybe some idea, but that’s from first impressions from meeting him in court, which may be misleading, so let’s say I just take your word for it. Secondly, would I be correct in assuming that you wish to challenge the prenup?”

“Again, hell yeah.”

“I figured as much. What about custody of your kids?”

“No. Whatever else is agreed, he doesn’t get the boys. He’d only ask for custody out of spite. If he won, he wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with them, nor would he care. The best of a bad lot of possible outcomes would end up with him badgering some other soppy cow into looking after them, and chances are she wouldn’t have much of a clue, or much reason to make an effort.

“They’ve been through enough with him, and I’ll give up everything else the sod might be persuaded to let me have before I’ll allow him anywhere near them.”

“So that would be a no then?”

I laughed despite myself.

“Can I offer some advice?”

“Of course.”

“If he knows, if he even suspects how strongly you feel about the boys, he’ll almost certainly use it against you.”

“I don’t care. I won’t let them be pawns in this game.”

“I won’t let it get that far, but if he’s as adamant about not having them as you are about keeping them, we have to call his bluff.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you get the kids and nothing else, which is what you’ll get anyway unless you let me try things my way.

“You’re too close to this, Sandra. You care too much about what happens to those boys. I can act more objectively if you’ll trust me to.”

“Can you promise me they won’t be drawn into this?”

“No, but I can promise you won’t get a dime out of him if you insist on keeping them out of it, and your life will be a whole lot harder if you have nothing.”

“I don’t like what you’re telling me, but I suppose I can see the sense. At least promise you’ll back out if it looks like you won’t be able to keep them out of it.”

“I don’t know...”

“Look, I can start again with nothing, but not if I don’t have my boys. I mean what if it was Jake?”

“Now how do you expect me to stay impartial if you bring my son into it?”

“I don’t want you to be impartial. I want you to make sure my kids are okay, and they won’t be if that shithead gets a hold of them.”

“Understood. Let me try it my way and if it looks like it’s not working out, I’ll back off. You have my word.”

“Alright. You’ve been on my side from the start, and after what happened to Jake you had no reason to be. If you think it’ll work, let’s give it a shot.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know what you’re thanking me for. You’re the one doing all the hard work on my behalf.”

“I guess thank you for trusting me. I know how big a deal this is for you.”

“Why do you think I trust you? Anyway, weren’t you going to update me on your progress?”

“I was. The main thing is I’ve responded to your husband’s petition for divorce saying you’re open to discussion of terms and that we’d be happy to meet with him and his lawyer at a mutually convenient date and time. I’ve also filed with the courts contesting the prenuptial agreement on a number of grounds. Firstly, it was him who filed for divorce, secondly, his abusive manner towards you and thirdly, the need for child support. We’ll see where it goes, but I think we have a strong case, especially with everything he’s done this week.

“I’ve also filed separate complaints against him for the, er, you know...”

“Rape. You can use the word.”

“For the rape then, for the infringement of his restraining order, for malicious destruction of property – that one might not stick since there’s no proof it was him – and for his most recent invasion of your home, yet again breaking the injunction against him. I cross linked the complaints so they may well decide to deal with them all at the same time.”

“How long?”

“Unknown. These things often take several months to get organised.”

“I’m going to need a job.”

“Well chances are you will anyway. I mean whatever’s decided in the divorce, he’s not going to be able to support you from prison.”

“You reckon that’s where he’ll end up?”

“I’m pretty confident, yeah. I mean the case against him is pretty damning. I’m guessing he’s so used to getting his own way he doesn’t really realise how badly he’s screwed himself.”

“Well, thanks for all you’ve done so far. When will you need me again?”

“I’ll call you. It depends how quickly either the courts or your husband’s lawyer gets back to me. In the meantime, you could ask your neighbours if they saw anything when he came round on Monday.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Right now I should get to bed. Early start tomorrow.”

“Aren’t they all when you’re a mom? I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Thanks, and good night.”

I thought I heard a noise from upstairs as I put my phone down and went to check on it. Both boys were in bed and everywhere else was clear. I chalked it up to a mild case of paranoia, which I figured was my due under the circumstances.

A short stop in the upstairs bathroom saw my teeth brushed, my face cleansed and moisturised and my other bathroom needs attended to. Turning out the lights, I headed downstairs to my temporary bed on the sofa.

For the second time in this misadventure, I enjoyed an untroubled night’s sleep.

Chapter 10

The following morning I was woken by a knock on the boarded up front door. The quality of light suggested it was barely after dawn, which at this time of year put the time around sixish. Certainly their was an uncomfortable chill in the air.

The knock sounded again and for a second my muzzy brain had me panicking about the thought of answering the door in a nightdress. It took a few seconds to realise that the weights hanging from my chest were a part of me and that I now belonged in women’s clothes. A few seconds more and I’d remembered why the world was all blurry and hunted out my glasses.

The third knock was louder and sounded like it was getting impatient. I pulled on my dressing gown and glanced at my phone, which indicated the time was earlier still than I’d guessed. I opened the curtain and tapped on the window until the moron, who seemed to expect me to open the boarded-up front of my house, noticed me.

“I have a delivery for, er, Sandy Bush.” The visor on his helmet was up and he couldn’t quite keep the juvenile smirk from his face.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes Mrs Bush. The instructions are for priority delivery, which is any time of day or night.”

“Do the instructions include waking my kids at this ridiculous time too?”

“No ma’am, but I’m er, I’m blocking the street.” He pointed at a motorcycle ticking over in the middle of the road. As usual, either side of the road was solid with parked cars.

“You’ll have to come round the back. There’s a passage a few houses down that way.” I pointed.

“No ma’am. I can’t leave my bike.”

Not unreasonable I supposed.

“Then find somewhere to park up then come round the back.”

“There isn’t anywhere.”

There would be, but he’d have to walk to find it.

“So just leave it. I’ll pick it up later.”

“It has to be signed for, ma’am. Couldn’t you open the er...” he looked at the boarded up front if the house, then at the ancient sash window which had quite obviously been painted shut.

“Could you come back later?”

He shook his head. “Priority delivery.”

“What if I wasn’t in?”

“You are in, ma’am. I was told you have children so you would be in.”

“So you knew I had children when you decided to bang on the front of my house.”

“Sometimes I have to knock quite loud to wake people up.”

“What if I just close the curtains and ignore you?”

“Well that would be a problem ma’am, because I’ve seen you. I’d have to go back to knocking.”

It’s impossible to argue with some people. Probably one of the qualities that landed him this job.

“Wait there,” I told him and closed the curtains. For a moment I was tempted just to go back to bed, but he was the sort to start knocking again if I was gone too long.

I slipped my trainers onto my bare feet and wrapped my dressing gown about me before letting myself out the back. By the time I’d walked round to him, he’d just run out of patience and had started knocking again.

“What part of ‘wait there’ didn’t you understand? Will you stop that before you wake up the neighbourhood?”

It was already too late on that front. I’d noticed several twitching net curtains and one sour faced, elderly lady had gone so far as to open her front door and stare at us disapprovingly.

I smiled and waved at her before taking the courier’s little machine and scribbling something illegible on it. He handed me a thin package, smiled cheerfully and trotted back to his motorcycle, which was mercifully and unusually quiet as he sped away.

The neighbour opposite had apparently achieved her intention of conveying displeasure and had disappeared back inside. I decided that wasn’t a bad idea given how cold my legs were becoming. I walked briskly back to the back door and shut out the morning chill.

The kettle went on. Fortunately, it was a little more efficient than the one monkey-man had broken, and by the time I’d checked the drying rack and found my things still a little too damp, it had finished its job and I had a coffee to kick-start my brain.

The envelope contained a court summons for three o’clock that same afternoon. My pre-caffeinated brain couldn’t make any sense of the charges listed.

I picked up my phone and texted Charlotte, asking her to call me as soon as she could.

Which was about an hour later, during which time I’d made up the boys’ lunch boxes, packed all the cheerleader uniforms into separate carrier bags, dried my clothes for the day with a hairdryer and changed into them. I’d also made myself a second coffee and was trying to make sense of the letter when my phone finally buzzed at me.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early...”

“No, what is it? You wouldn’t have texted me if it was nothing.”

“I had a motorcycle courier on my doorstep an hour ago. I have a court summons for three o’clock this afternoon.”

I read her the letter and she swore.

“Intimidation tactics,” she said. “Though I’m not sure what they intend to gain by them. You’ll have to go.”

“I need to pick Michael up from school at three-thirty.”

“Can’t you ask one of the other moms?”

“Pariah patch, remember? Betty-no-mates me, apart from a very accommodating lawyer who I think will also be picking up her son around that time.”

“No, I have someone I can ask. You’ll have to arrange to take your kids out of school early today. I’ll pick you up at the school at two-thirty to save time.”

“Steven’s supposed to join the football practice after school today. Will I be back in time to pick him up at five?”

“I thought he was kicked off the team.”

“He was, he is, and the others who attacked Jake. This is more to do with their punishment.”

“Can he make his own way home?”

“He’s only eleven. I wouldn’t want to.”

“Sometimes you have to. Either that or you take him out of school early too.”

“Okay. I’ll figure something out. Thanks again and I’ll see you at half two. Are you sure this is nothing to worry about?”

“Not just that, but by the time I’m done with them, they’ll regret trying this on you.”

The ritual of rousing the boys and getting them ready for school had a calming effect on me. While the boys chomped their way through their breakfasts, I told them about the court summons and what it would mean.

Michael was a little disappointed to be missing part of his art lesson, which was the last lesson of the day, but perked up a bit when I reminded him that most of the time would be clearing up.

Steven, I offered the choice.

“It’s football practice, so the cheer squad’s supposed to make its first appearance, but I won’t be able to come and pick you up, so you’d have to go home on your own. This counts as a fair reason for missing it if you want.”

“Nah, I should go. It wouldn’t be fair on the others if I didn’t. I mean I’m the one who’s supposed to be making up all the stupid chants and stuff. They wouldn’t know what they were doing otherwise.”

“I don’t know if I can respond to that without sounding patronising, but I’m impressed.”

“What’s patronising?” Michael’s question but I could see it in Steven’s eyes too.

“It’s kind of when you talk down to someone. Like me congratulating Steven for doing something we both know he should do. I don’t mean to belittle you, Steven. It’s a mature choice.”

“Well, it means I won’t have to hang about in a boring courtroom for hours.”

“True, and with that in mind, Michael, I’d like you to pick out a few toys you can play with quietly while we’re out. I’ll bring them with me when I come to pick you up.

“Steven, I really don’t like leaving you without a way of contacting me. If there’s a problem, knock on one of the neighbours’ doors and ask them to call me. You know my mobile number, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And your friends know to bring their trainers today?”

“I already told them.”

“Alright then. Let’s get you packed and ready. I’ve put your cheerleading uniform in your bag. The others are in these carrier bags.”

The back door had two keys on the ring, both of which fitted the lock. I took one off and gave it to Steven.

“Homework first when you get home, okay?”

“Sure, whatever.”

We were out the house early, which meant I had the opportunity to call in on Mrs Nullis after I’d arranged to pick Michael up early.

“I’m really not happy about Steven walking home on his own. If you cancelled the cheerleading practice for today, I’d be happier.”

“You only live ten minutes away, don’t you? And none of the roads are particularly busy. We’d be better off leaving things as they are. I mean what can go wrong?”

Quite a bit I was sure, but she was probably right. This would be the best way.

I spent the rest of the morning browsing through the local charity shops and discovering that fat women in my area didn’t donate much, nor did they have particularly good taste in clothing. I did find one or two things that would fit, one of which I didn’t instantly dislike. It was a fairly non-descript dress in a sort of silvery grey material. Not particularly flattering, but not that exciting either. I bought a thin black cardigan to go with it and was given change from a ten-pound note. The change bought me a pair of reasonably thick charcoal tights. My leather accessories had, for the most part, survived my husband’s first attack – including most of my shoes – so after a light lunch, I changed into the second dress I’d worn since my transformation and this time felt surprisingly good about myself. Inch and a half heels lifted me just enough and gave a pleasing shape to my calves. They were about as high as I’d ever worn and felt considerably more comfortable with my size and weight so much reduced – even with the extra weight I was carrying, I had to be less than two thirds my former weight.

The overall effect brought a genuine smile to both my lips and my eyes. It may have been wishful thinking, but I fancied my face looked a tiny bit slimmer too.

I kept my phone plugged in and browsed the internet on a number of unrelated matters during the early afternoon and transferred everything I thought I’d need into my oversized handbag. Phone charger included since I had no idea whether the court proceedings might outlast my battery.

I left the house at two, locked up and made my way to the school in good time to pick up Michael. Again, possibly my imagination, but I felt slightly less out of breath by the time I arrived at reception.

“I like your dress, Mummy,” Michael said as he ran to give me a hug.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Did you bring my toys?”

“Right here. Come on, let’s go and wait outside.”

Charlotte appeared ten minutes early which was just a minute after we made our way out. Michael climbed into the back seat next to Jake and I squeezed into the front. Nothing like a mini for reminding you that you’re not as slim as you’d like to be.

“Looking good girl. I thought you’d still be in your jeans.”

“Charity shop,” I said, straightening myself out. “Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but when you’re on a budget...”

“You’ll make a good impression this afternoon, which will help. Okay, everyone buckled up?”

We were. We headed out into the traffic and made it to the courthouse with fifteen minutes to spare.

“So, now we wait a while.” Charlotte waved me into a seat. “Let me go find out where we need to be. Would you look after Jake while I check around?”

Jake appeared to be used to this sort of thing and sat with Michael, asking about his toys, which made looking after the two of them a lot less demanding than just the one.

“What the fuck are you doing 'ere?”

I almost didn’t recognise myself. I sounded the same as I had on the phone, but I’d put on a noticeable amount of weight.

Conscious of Michael and Jake looking up at us, I decided to keep my response uncomplicated. “Court summons,” I said. “My husband’s accusing me of a number of things, all of which are rubbish. What about you?”

“That careless driving bollocks, innit? I swear that fucking car of yours...”

“I’ve never owned a car.”

“Yes you 'ave. You remember you told me...” He finally twigged what I was trying to tell him with my eyes. “Oh fuck, sorry. Is this, er, is this your kid?”

“My youngest, Michael, and my lawyer’s son, Jake.”

“Well, you’re a coupla little cuties, incha?” His smile was more of a grimace.

“Mum?” Michael sounded confused and a little horrified.

“Course I ain’t your fucking mum. Do I look like a fucking mum?”

“This is someone I crossed paths with about a week ago, Michael.”

“Crossed paths. That’s not bad that.”

“We found ourselves in sort of similar situations, so we've been trying to help each other as much as we can.” I turned back to my former self. “How are you getting on with that job of yours?” trying to switch the track of the conversation and avert the impending train wreck.

“Oh no, that was a waste of fucking time that was. I fucking quit.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, they said they was doing this quality control checking shit on my work and they said there was like more mistakes after I dunnit than before. I mean fucking cheek or what? Didn’t they trust me or summing? Anyway, how the fuck would they know, right?”

“They assign all of the documents to multiple checkers then compare the collective results. That way there’s a better chance of finding all the mistakes. You must have really messed up if they called you out on it.”

“Well how was I to know? I mean I made a few random changes and that was that. Anyway, they said I should buck my ideas up or they’d have to let me go. So I thought fuck this for a lark and quit. I mean they wanted me to work forty fucking hours a week. You know, what’s that all about?”

“About average for a job in my experience.”

“Well fuck it. I figured I could go on the dole or summin, only if you quit you got to wait like six weeks before you can claim. I don’t have enough money in my savings to last that long, so what am I going to do? Then I was told there’s going to be a fucking great big fine for this car rubbish. I mean like a grand or something. That’s hardly fair is it? That’ll nearly wipe me out. Then what am I gonna do?”

“You could always go back to Clarks and Spencer and apologise. You’ve been working there a long time and they may well be prepared to give you a second chance.’

“No way! They can fuck right off.”

“You need to find some sort of income, otherwise when you can’t pay your bills, they'll kick you out of the flat?”

“They wouldn’t fucking dare.”

“If you don’t pay your rent, then they certainly would dare.”

“Fuck!”

“Look, this was supposed to be good for both of us, but you need to do your part just like I’m doing mine.”

“Yeah? Just what the fuck are you doing with yours?”

“Standing up to a bully for the most part. That and looking after my children has taken most of my time of late.”

“Yeah. Your fucking children. Right.”

“They deserve to know they’re loved.”

“And what the fuck would you know about that?”

Michael snuggled into my side, his eyes wide with incomprehension as he looked back and forth between us both. I put an arm around him and smiled as reassuringly as I could.

“Hopefully enough.” I could see Charlotte approaching and waving to attract my attention. “Anyway, we have to go now. I hope your hearing goes well and you figure out how to make your life work for you.”

The three of us joined Charlotte and followed her through to a courtroom, arriving five minutes before the appointed hour. I barely registered the presence of my toe-rag husband or the angry stare he turned my way, being busy settling Michael before the judge arrived. Once again, Jake helped keep him distracted.

The judge entered and we were called to stand up.

“Why are there children in my courtroom?” he asked.

“Your honour, I’d like to apologise,” Charlotte, my agreed spokesperson, stood to answer. “My client was served with the summons at five-thirty this morning, which did not give either of us time to make more suitable arrangements.”

“This is highly irregular, Ms Greer.”

“I know your honour. Had we been given more than a few hour’s notice...”

“Your honour,” I recognised Mr Simmons from the arraignment, “the court summons was delivered to Mrs Bush more than ten hours ago, which is more time than is required by the law.”

“Your honour, given that the plaintiff in this matter is my client’s husband, he would have known that she would normally be picking their children up from school at this time, yet Mr Simmons deliberately requested this time for the hearing...”

“I requested a time that was convenient to me, as the law permits.”

“Yeah, convenient to you because you hoped my client would be unable to make alternate arrangements in time and would prioritise her children...”

The judge banged his gavel. “Ms Greer, Mr Simmons, I am not about to permit my courtroom to become a venue for you two to take pot-shots at each other. Ms Greer, your point has been duly noted and is on record. Mr Simmons, can you offer me a plausible and brief explanation why you specifically requested this time?”

“Your honour, my schedule...”

“Doesn’t look particularly full at the moment. The intention behind permitting you to request a time for a hearing such as this is so that you can arrange something that is convenient for all parties, not so that you can ambush your opponent. Be careful about how you choose to use or abuse such privileges in the future or you may see them taken away.

“In the meantime, I am concerned about having young children in the courtroom, especially given the nature of what we are to discuss. These matters are hardly appropriate to such young ears.”

“Your honour, I couldn’t agree more. I realise it’s an imposition on the court, but I was hoping there might be somewhere nearby they could wait, and perhaps someone to keep an eye on them while we take care of business.”

“Ms Greer, this is a courthouse, not a day-care centre.”

“I’m fully aware, your honour...”

He raised a hand, stopping her. “However, I do realise their being here is not your fault. Bailiff, please check in the common room to see if there’s a stenographer who’d be willing to look after a couple of young lads for an hour or two. They can use my chambers since I imagine you'll want to keep them close.”

“Thank you, your honour.”

“You can thank me by not partaking in any more grandstanding. Mr Simmons, I believe we can read out your list of complaints while we’re waiting. Keep it short if you can.”

“Yes, your honour. My client accuses the plaintiff of spurious accusations leading to his arrest, of forcibly keeping him from his own place of residence and of attacking him when he attempted to make entry into his home.”

“Nothing else?”

“I did have a few more, but those are the main ones.”

“Let’s see how we get on with these. Depending on how things proceed, I may allow you to introduce the others. Mrs Bush, would you care to respond?”

“I don’t really understand the complaints, your honour. To start, perhaps you could clarify the nature of the spurious accusations I am supposed to have made?”

“That my client, the plaintiff’s own husband, er,” Mr Simmons coughed an looked pointedly at the boys.

Fortunately, the bailiff chose that moment to return and the judge called for a brief pause while the young woman he’d brought with him came over to introduce herself and direct the boys to follow her.

“Go on,” I said to Michael. “Find a quiet corner in the room to play with your things and please don’t touch anything other than your toys.”

Charlotte had her own words for Jake, mainly about manning up and looking out for Michael, and they were gone.

“Please proceed, Mr Simmons.”

“Yes, your honour. The defendant accused my client of rape. Her own husband and in their own bedroom.” He did a reasonable job of sounding incredulous.

“Your honour, my colleague knows full well there is an established precedent for the charge.”

“It is hard to prove though, Ms Greer,” the judge said. “Mrs Bush, would you respond now?”

“He was drunk, your honour. I told him no quite clearly several times, but he said, what was it, er, 'It’s about effing time I reminded you who the effing man is in this house.’ He didn’t use effing, but...”

“We get your meaning Mrs Bush.”

“Yes. After that he tore off my underwear and forced himself on me.”

“Do we have anything other than your word that this is what happened?”

“Sufficient evidence for another judge to issue a restraining order against Mr Bush, your honour,” Charlotte chipped in.

“This evidence being? And I’d like Mrs Bush to answer.”

“Erm, I had a er, a tampon in at the time. It took a while to retrieve it and I just wanted to throw it away at first, but then I figured it might be needed as evidence. I believe it’s being tested at present to show it has my blood and his semen on it.”

“Why would you be wearing a tampon, Mrs Bush? Aren’t you taking oral contraception?”

“I wondered if this might come up.” I rummaged in my bag for a few seconds. “Your honour, this is a copy of my prescription for contraceptives from my doctor, and here is an unopened box of the pills indicated in the prescription. If you open the box, you’ll see that the instructions indicate that the pills should be taken over a period of three weeks, then stopped for the fourth week to permit my body to, er, purge any build-up of material as nature intended. I still have regular periods using this method of contraception and I was two days into this part of the cycle when my husband came home drunk in the middle of the night and forced himself on me.”

“How does this constitute proof, Mrs Bush?” Mr Simmons expression showed some considerable distaste at my explanation.

“Women don’t generally feel in the mood for sex at this point in their cycle Mr Simmons.”

“Don’t generally.”

“I specifically didn’t, and I told him repeatedly. He ignored me and went right ahead.”

“This is still your word against his, I think you'll find.”

“That's as may be, Mr Simmons, but had the intercourse been consensual, don't you think he'd have given me the opportunity to remove the tampon rather than ramming it home like a gunpowder charge in a cannon?”

“Mrs Bush, we can do without such graphic imagery.”

“Sorry your honour.”

“Anyway, your honour,” Charlotte picked up the baton, “this evidence was compelling enough for Judge Feldman to issue a restraining order against Mr Bush and for the Crown Prosecution Service to file a charge of rape against him. The truth of the matter will be decided in the courts. In the meantime, I believe the complaint of spurious accusation has been answered.”

“I'm inclined to agree. Mr Simmons, I hope your evidence for the other complaints is more compelling.”

“Actually, your honour,” Charlotte had the bit between her teeth, “the other complaints hinge on the first. Mr Bush wasn’t forcibly kept from accessing his house by my client as much as by the restraining order.”

“Your client changed the locks...”

“After the house was ransacked by someone who had access to a front door key.”

“If you’re trying to insinuate...?”

“Simply stating facts. The door was not forced. The only keys that fit the lock were in the possession of your client and mine, and Mrs Bush was taking her children to school at the time.”

“All circumstantial...”

“Yes, as was your client cancelling the house insurance just shortly before the break-in. As was a particular focus of the vandalism being the hot water pipes in the kitchen which my client had earlier discovered were being used to hide a significant amount of money. As was one major focus of the damage being my client’s possessions, specifically her clothing.

“Mrs Bush called me shortly after the break-in and it was me who recommended she have the locks changed. Mr Bush could have contacted my client to arrange access to the house had he wished. Instead, he chose to violate the restraining order on two occasions. The first, my client has photographs. The second, Mr Bush broke down the front door and attempted to attack her...”

“You have no proof of what happened that night.”

“Sandy, would it be alright to ask Michael?”

I wasn’t keen, but since the matter had been raised. I agreed and the bailiff went to fetch him from the back room. The judge spoke to him gently and asked him to say what had happened the last time his father had come home.

“It was in the middle of the night,” he replied. “There was a lot of banging and crashing, then Mummy came to hide in our room. Steven called out saying, ‘She’s in here Dad’...”

“Steven is your brother, yes? How did he know it was your father?”

“We all know what Daddy sounds like when he’s angry. Anyway, he came stomping up the stairs and tried to come into our room. Mummy stopped him at first, but no-one stops Daddy when he’s angry, so she came away from the door just before Daddy smashed it open. Then she jumped on him, pushing him back out. Then she ran back downstairs. Daddy was so mad, he roared like a big angry bear and chased after her. Then there was another crash and things went quiet until Mummy came back upstairs with a policeman to see if we were alright.”

“Thank you, Michael. Now this is important. Did anyone tell you to say these things, like your mummy, or Jake’s mummy.”

“No. It’s what happened.”

“Did your mummy tell you to say anything.”

“She said to tell the truth, and I did.”

“Thank you, Michael, you can go to your mother now. Mr Simmons, does this comprise the full extent of your client’s complaints against the defendant?”

“Er, well there were a few other matters, your honour.”

“Anything that’s likely to improve your client’s case?”

“No your honour.”

“I’m not pleased. I do not take kindly to having my time wasted, and I would have expected you to know better. Your complaints are dismissed with a degree of prejudice on my part. Your client to pay all court costs, including a penalty for wasting Mrs Bush’s time and for the inconvenience imposed upon her. Shall we say five-hundred pounds?”

“Your honour! That hardly seems reasonable.”

“No, I agree. Let’s make it a thousand then. Perhaps it’ll persuade you to think twice before bringing frivolous complaints into my courtroom in the future. Mrs Bush, my sincerest apologies for what we've put you through. If you leave your bank details with the front desk, Mr Simmons will make sure payment of the penalty is made to you by the end of the day, won’t you Mr Simmons?”

“Er, yes your honour.”

The judge left and Jake reappeared carrying Michael’s bag of toys.

“A thousand fucking quid! What the fuck is that about!”

‘It’s, er, actually worse than that. You’ve been instructed to pay court costs too.”

“So how the fuck much is that going to be?”

I didn’t hear the response as I wanted to get Michael out of there and home as quickly as possible, but the outraged bellow that followed us down the corridor was the most satisfying thing I’d heard all week.

“I didn’t do anything wrong did I Mummy?”

I crouched down in front of him and took hold of his shoulders.

“Of course not sweetie. Why would you think that?”

“Daddy sounds pretty mad.” Something of the old whinge had returned to his voice.

“That’s because Daddy tried to do something bad, only the judge noticed and decided to punish him.”

“He’s not going to come after us, is he?”

“Very soon he’s not going to be able to come after anybody for a long, long time.”

“Your mommy’s right, Michael. Now how would you like to get a bite to eat before I take you home?”

“You say it wrong.”

“What?”

“It’s mummy, not mawmy.” The last was a little exaggerated.

“Well, where I come from it’s always been mommy. You mind if we agree to think different on that?”

“I suppose.”

“Great, so how about that food?”

“We’d love to, Charlie, but we should get home to Steven.”

“There anywhere we can eat near your place?”

“We have a chip shop.”

“Great. We’ll fetch Steven then go get some fish and chips. Climb aboard. Come on girl, days like this don’t happen often enough and we gotta celebrate.”

“Alright then, sounds like a plan.”

Traffic was mercifully light for once and we even found a parking spot close to the house. I climbed out of the car, tipping the seat forward to let Michael out. There was something different about the house. It had a door again, and sitting crouched in front of it with his knees held tightly to him was a little figure in burgundy and mustard.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 11 - 12 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 Again, nothing terrible. The worst of these chapters is the language.

-oOo-

Chapter 11

“Steven?”

I half expected his usual belligerence, but the face he raised was streaked with tears.

I ran across to him and dropped to my knees, careless of what the rough ground might do to my tights or my skin, and pulled him into a hug.

He clung to me and cried himself out. When he was ready to let go, I eased back.

“What happened?”

“The bastards stole my fucking clothes,” he sniffed returning more to his usual self. It seem fair to overlook the language for now.

“Why do you say bastards? Why more than one?”

“Because they were all fucking laughing at me. The whole fucking team. I’m sorry Mum, but I’m so fucking angry.”

“You have every right to be. Did they take your key too?”

“No, but it doesn’t fit.”

“What do you mean? I checked it this morning.”

“They’ll have changed all the locks,” Charlotte said from behind me. “This explains why he had us dragged off to the courthouse this afternoon even though he didn’t have anything worth bringing against us.” She was stabbing at her phone.

“How long have you been out here, sweetheart?”

“I don't know. Ages.”

“Wouldn’t any of the neighbour’s help?”

He jerked his chin at the house opposite. “Mrs Harris poked her head out to say it served me right, that it was just what I deserved since I was such a horrible kid.” The tears weren’t far below the surface.

I looked across at the same sour faced lady I’d encountered that morning, now wearing a smug grin over the sourness.

“Pot, kettle and black Mrs Harris. Anyone who would leave a child on their doorstep in this state has no right passing judgement on others.”

She huffed and disappeared back inside.

“So how did practice go sweetie?” I asked more to distract him than anything. It was surprisingly effective.

He sniffed and half grinned. “It was actually pretty good. I mean, you know, everyone laughed at us when we came out to start with, but me and the others really started camping it up, and pretty soon they were laughing at what we were doing instead of what we looked like.

“Then we started going through some of the routines I’ve been checking out online, and they’re pretty tough some of them, you know, but we had a bunch of them down by the end of practice.

“That’s when things turned to shit though.”

“Would you try to curb the language a little, please?”

“Okay Mum. Sorry, but you know Mitchel Parker? He was the kid who was going to play right wing when we turned up last week.”

“I remember him.”

“He stood in the doorway and kept telling us we should be using the girls’ changing rooms. Everyone on the team was laughing at us and it took forever for Mr Gibson to get involved. By the time he did, most of the team had gone and someone had sprung my locker. My clothes were gone, but they left my bag.”

“They didn’t do the same to your friends?”

“No. They reckon it’s my fault most of our best players are off the team. Go on, you can say it you like.”

“Say what?”

“That it’s my fault.”

“I’m not sure how much good that would do sweetie, but if you think it, that’s something else.”

“Mum, how are we going to get in our house?” Steven ask.

“We wait.” Charlotte finally stopped talking on her phone and put it back in her handbag. “I just let the judge know what’s happened, and he contacted Mr Simmons’ office. If the people who put in the new door and changed the locks don’t turn up here with a full set of keys for you in the next thirty minutes, you all get to stay the night in a hotel at your dad’s expense, and believe me when I say I know some swanky places.”

“What’s swanky, Mummy?” Michael wanted to know.

“Fancy, darling, and I’m guessing expensive.” I raised an eyebrow at Charlotte.

“You’d better believe it. Hello Steven. That’s a good look on you.”

Steven went sullenly silent. No fight left in him, but not quite ready to capitulate.

“This fish and chip shop nearby, Sandy?”

“Just five minutes walk down that way.”

“So, why don’t you go fetch us something to eat. I’ll wait here for the keys, or whatever. Jake and I will share a large cod and chips between us.”

“Okay. Do you mind if Michael and Steven stay behind?”

“I want to come with you,” Michael said.

I looked at Steven.

“It’s okay Mum. A few more people laughing at me won’t make much of a difference.”

“Okay then. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“How much to cover it?” She rummaged for her purse.

“Oh no. This is my turn. I mean it doesn’t make up even a little for all you’ve done, but...”

“Fine. It’s not that big a deal, really.”

“To me it is. Come on kids.”

The charity shop was closed when we reached the precinct. I suggested to Steven that we could look for some clothes for him in Lidl if he wanted. He shook his head. “It’s okay, Mum. I mean they don’t usually have that kind of stuff, and where would I change if they did. Let’s just get the food.”

The kids opted for sausage as usual. I would have preferred to order skate, but that was usually cook on demand and it wouldn’t have been fair on Steven to keep him out in public for longer than necessary. As it was we had to wait for a new batch of chips.

“Sandra! I don’t remember seeing you down here before.”

This was something I’d been dreading since I’d switched bodies. I plastered a smile on my face and turned to confront someone I knew I wouldn’t recognise.

She was a skinny woman, older than me, possibly by about fifteen or twenty years, with a pinched face hiding under several layers of makeup. I disliked her on sight.

“You know how it is,” I said. “We’ve had one of those days.”

“I can tell. I mean why on earth...”

“Look I don’t mean to be rude,” actually, I did, “but I’d rather not do this right now.”

“It’s that no good bum of a husband of yours, isn’t it?”

I’ve always been more than a little irritated by women who take every opportunity to bad-mouth the men in their lives. It’s a sort of gently dripping criticism that seems relatively harmless on the surface but has the capacity, given a little time, to erode all the goodwill out of a relationship. On the other hand, I had to admit the ‘no good bum’ in question hadn’t done himself any favours by me.

“He hasn’t helped,” I admitted, “but he hasn’t been the only contributor either.”

“Well never mind dear, I can see you’re not feeling yourself.” She sniffed and gave my appearance a dismissive once over.

My tights had survived their encounter with the rough ground and I thought I looked pretty good.

“Two cod, two sausage, two large chips?”

Saved by the bell, but I wasn’t going to let it rest at that. I took our order with a smile of thanks then turned back to the neighbourhood gossip with my best concerned expression. “I could say the same about you. I mean, are you sure you’re alright. You look a little peaky.”

I ushered the kids out before she had a chance to react.

Back at the house we found Charlotte arguing with a man in a van. She caught sight of me and waved me over.

Cursing my bulk, I broke into an ungainly trot, which was made all the more clumsy by my inexperience in the low heels as much as by the tendency of parts of my body to want to move in the opposite direction to the rest of me. I was breathing heavily by the time I reached them.

“You Sandy Bush?” the van driver asked, his companion trying, though not too hard, to hide a grin.

“I am Sandra Bush, yes.” Hardly worth fighting for dignity after my recent display of whatever the opposite is of athleticism.

“You got any ID?”

“As it happens.” I hadn’t been able to figure out why my former self had insisted on keeping her driving licence in her purse. As a means of identification it barely worked, though there was just about enough similarity between fat Sandra and slimmer, younger Sandra in the photograph to pass muster. Maybe she’d kept it as a reminder of a promise that had never been fulfilled.

Charlotte took the fish and chips from me while I dived into my mammoth handbag, resurfacing with my purse and the piece of plastic it contained.

“Right. These are yours then.” He handed me a couple of rings of keys. “Front door,” he pointed at one set, “and back. Now if you don’t mind, we gotta get home for the football.”

“Actually, I do mind,” Charlotte said stepping in front of the van. “Sandy, would you please make sure the keys work before these ass-hats leave?”

I obliged, and once I’d successfully unlocked and opened the door, she stepped up to the driver’s window, still positioning herself so he couldn’t pull out.

“Do you mind? We have to go.”

“I just want to make sure you gave us all the keys.”

“Of course I did. What do you think...”

“Because if it turns out you kept a couple back for the person who paid you to do the work, and this later gives someone illegal access to the house, it’ll make you equally guilty of any crimes they commit while on the premises.”

“It’s his house.”

“And he has a restraining order against him, as well as a history of violence against the woman currently living here.”

“Get out of my fucking way or I’ll run you down.”

That was cue enough for me to fish my phone out and start videoing.

For the camera now, because this was evidence, Charlotte repeated herself. “If you have any more keys for the doors and locks you installed at this residence, you are obliged to hand them over, now.”

The driver gave her a look of pure hatred and threw something at her. She turned and stooped to pick them up, giving him just enough room to pull out and speed down the road.

Charlotte walked over and, for the record, showed the two keys in her hand.

“If any more turn up, he’ll be the first person they ask.”

“Do you think...?”

“No. I think the way he was pissed off just now suggests he knew he was beaten. You might still want to get the locks changed even so, just to be safe.”

“I can’t ask your locksmith friend again. He’s been too kind to me.”

“Best I do it then,” she smiled putting the phone to her ear. “My treat.”

“Michael, would you lay the table please. Steven, why don’t you pop upstairs and change while I serve up?”

“It’s okay Mum, I’ll give Michael a hand.”

That earned him a thoughtful look from me, but I wasn’t about to pass up the offer of help. I identified one of the pieces of cod and one packet of chips and put them on a couple of plates for him to take to our guests.

“I don’t have much to offer by way of drinks I’m afraid, but I can do tea, instant coffee, water or milk.”

“Jake and I will both have a tea thank you. Don’t look so surprised, we’re properly acclimated to this country.”

I filled the kettle and put it on to boil. “Milk I would assume then, but sugar?”

“I’ll take mine without. Jake?”

“Three spoons, please?”

“He means one and a half.”

The sausages and most of the chips went onto two more plates which Steven took out for his brother and himself. Michael, who had already handed out cutlery, fished the tomato ketchup out of the fridge and added a liberal dose to his plate before passing it around.

Glasses of water and cups of tea served, I joined them with a few meagre chips and half the other piece of cod.

“How do you expect to survive on that?” Charlie said eyeing my plate.

“I was hoping not to add to the surplus I’m already carrying. Did you see me running just now? If I hadn’t been wearing a bra I’d have two black eyes.”

“Yeah, well you’re putting me off my food.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe once I’ve dropped a couple of dress sizes I’ll let you persuade me to have a little more.” I pealed the batter off the fish and took small bites of the white meat. “What do you think he’ll try next?”

“Your husband? He has to be about played out by now don’t you think? He won’t be able to do much from prison and I doubt he has many friends will do his dirty work for him.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I guess you’ve earned the right to be paranoid after the past few days, but don’t go living your life with one eye over your shoulder.

“Now what I’ve been dying to ask about all evening is Steven. I’m guessing this has something to do with what you said to me earlier about coming to the game on Saturday. Don’t worry, Steven. Jake has a home game this weekend, so we won’t be able to make it, but I mean what gives?”

“It was the other mums’ idea. They weren’t that pleased with Steven and me for our part in getting their boys kicked off the team, and all they could do was rant over what we’d done. We weren’t getting anywhere with the matter we’d come to discuss, so I told them we’d accept any fair punishment they came up with and this is what they chose.”

“Sure, and I heard what you said, Steven, about having your things stolen, but you’re home now, so why are you still wearing that?”

Steven blushed a bright crimson. “I, I, I...”

“I think you’ll find it’s his way of telling Jake he’s sorry for what he did last Saturday. He finds it hard to put an apology into words at times. Besides, a picture paints a thousand words.”

“And you make one pretty little picture in that outfit, don’t you think, Jake?”

Steven’s ears burned a deeper red.

“You’re really doing this to say sorry?” Jake asked.

Steven gave me a sideways look then nodded. Not much of a nod, but recognisably one.

“I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Charley said. It was easy to see why Jake was so quiet when his mother had so much to say, “but since you seem to recognise that...”

“You do look pretty cute in that outfit,” Jake’s smile was openly friendly, “but you don’t have to keep it on if you don’t want to.”

“I’m still going to have to keep wearing it until I prove I’m sorry though.”

“Yeah, but not here. Not now.”

All plates were empty. Well, except mine. Smaller portion, slower eating, especially since I was dissecting mine and avoiding the more fattening bits.

“Why don’t you two go and get changed for bed?” I suggested.

“Yeah, we should get going too. Thanks for dinner. Let me know if you need anything, otherwise I’ll be in touch about Monday.”

“Monday?”

“You do still want a divorce?”

“Of course. Sorry, I forgot. Do I need to do anything to prepare?”

“A list of complaints wouldn’t hurt. If we can show a pattern of behaviour going back over as much if your marriage as we can, we’ll be in a better position to challenge the prenup.”

“I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to prove, but okay.”

“There was that time Dad pushed you down the stairs,” Steven offered. “You know? When you broke your arm?”

“Weren’t you telling me that I slipped and fell that time?”

“Well, that’s what you told us to say, but Dad did push you.”

“That we can use. Your medical records will show what happened if not why. More like that if you can.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with. Thanks again for today, Charlie. You’re a real godsend.”

“Just doing my job.” The kindly smile said otherwise.

I closed the door on them and headed upstairs to find Steven in his pyjamas with his cheerleader’s uniform folded neatly on the end of his bed. Michael’s clothes were strewn haphazardly about the room with him standing naked holding a pair of pull-ups ready for me to help him.

“You know, I really think you could do this yourself now,” I told him as I held them for him to step into.

“Yes, but I like it when you help me.”

I helped him into the rest of his things and shooed him downstairs to brush his teeth.

“Are you alright, Steven?” I asked when we were alone.

“Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?” He was back to his surly self.

“I don’t know. It’s just that it’s been a bit of an unusual day. I wondered if you wanted to talk about it.”

“What’s to talk about?”

“Well, for one thing, since your school uniform was stolen I suppose you get to choose what you wear to school tomorrow and I’ll talk to Mrs Nullis to make sure you don’t get into trouble.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Steven, I really liked the person you were this evening. Please don’t spoil it now.”

He shrugged.

“And I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk to me about things that are bothering you, but if you do want to talk to someone about something very private, just let me know and I’ll organise it. I’m not prying. I just want you to be okay.”

He looked at me and I thought I could see a hint of tears glistening in his eyes.

“Go brush your teeth.”

“I thought Wednesday was bath night.”

“Yes, but I think we could all do with a break tonight. Any reason why we don’t do it tomorrow?”

He shrugged again. “I have homework for tomorrow.”

“Well, get me your homework diary and I’ll write you an excuse why it’s going to be late.”

“Really?”

“After what you’ve been through today, I think you definitely deserve a bit of a break.”

He disappeared downstairs before I could change my mind.

The kids settled quicker than usual leaving me with a lot of evening to fill. Once more the absence of television meant I had to think of something else to do with my time.

A knock on the door gave me a reprieve.

It turned out to be the locksmith, who spent the next half hour replacing the locks to the doors, front and back. He didn’t ask questions, nor was there an invoice this time. He smiled at me as he left, handing over yet more keys, along with the lock tumblers he’d removed.

My phone was heading towards empty, so I put it on charge. With a view to the last thing Charlotte had asked, I decided to go to the source and called my old number.

“How did you get on in court?” I asked by way of opening the conversation. Not one of my better ideas.

“Two and a half fucking grand and a three year fucking ban. What the fuck’s that about?”

“That sounds a bit harsh, but I don’t know what you’re supposed to have done.”

“I dropped my fucking phone, didn’t I? By the time I found it and picked it up, your fucking car had steered into the opposite fucking lane and I ended up hitting some other fucker head on.”

“How long ago did you take your driving test?”

“I don’t know. Fucking ten years ago or summing. After Steven but before Michael.”

“I’m pretty sure there was a law against using a mobile phone while driving ten years ago.”

“You’re saying it’s my fucking fault?”

“It’s not my place to say who was at fault. I wasn’t there.”

“Too fucking right you weren’t there. Where am I going to find two and a half fucking grand?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure the courts will allow you to pay it in instalments if you can’t pay immediately. You might get something for the car...”

“The car was a fucking right-off.”

“Maybe still worth a hundred quid at a scrap yard. You should be able to claim back something from the road tax and the insurance, maybe another two or three hundred.”

“You’re not fucking helping.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“Well, you’re not. What do you want anyway?”

“George has decided he wants a divorce.”

“Yeah? Well good riddance to the fucker, but that puts you in the same boat as me. No income, nowhere to stay. The council will probably take those two fucking brats into care.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Yeah, well good luck to you. George won’t want nuffin to do with them.”

“That’s what I want to ensure. I’m meeting with him on Monday to discuss the settlement...”

“What settlement. There won’t be no fucking settlement. He made me sign sumffin before we was married so if we ever broke up I’d get nuffin. Why d’you think I stayed with the fucker so long?”

“My lawyer thinks there are ways we can contest that, but he may demand custody just to try and force me into a worse position.”

“What are you talking about? He don’t even like custard.”

“He may have his lawyer fight over which of us gets to keep the kids in the hope that I’ll settle for less.”

“Why would you want to keep them? Nasty fuckers that they are.”

“Well, I certainly can’t leave them in his care, can I?”

“No, I suppose not. Alright, what do you want?”

“A list of things that he did to you. The kids told me about the time he threw you down the stairs and you broke your arm. Maybe we could start with that.”

So for the next hour she spoke to me about all the things, both big and little, that he’d done. I asked a few questions and made a lot of notes. I had more than enough ammunition by the end.

“Thanks, this has been a lot of help. Can I offer you some advice?”

“I get the feeling you’re fucking going to whether I want it or not.”

“Yes, but only because I feel some obligation to help.”

“Go on then, what you gonna say?”

“We all have to work for our living. Your work for the last eleven or twelve years has been to look after your husband and your children, but you still had to work.”

“I suppose.”

“Part of the switch means you now have to find another way of earning money, and you will have to work nine till five Monday to Friday at the very least.”

“I don’t know nuffin though. I didn’t even get any GCSEs.”

“A lot of successful businessmen started out the same. Look, the choice is yours. You can either try and get a job the way I had...”

“I ain’t going back to that fucking Sparks and Clarks place.”

“Sure, like I said, it’s your choice, but there are things you can do.”

“Like?”

“Places like McDonalds and Burger King are usually looking and they pay better to unqualified applicants than you’d get as a trained nurse, plus the hours are better and you get a free lunch.”

“Okay.”

“Or, if you want to keep fitter than you’re doing at the moment, a couple of the nearby gyms offered me a job a while back. I mean you’re pretty good looking...”

“Are you saying you fancy me?”

“Not really. I mean you’re not my type in lots of ways, but you could easily get rid of those few pounds you’ve put on in the last week or so and become a trainer. You never know, you might even pick up an offer of a date or two.”

“What, you mean like with a girl or something? I don’t know how I’d feel about that.”

“Again your choice. You can stay celibate, stay on your own I mean, or you could either go out with women, and you’re in a unique position to understand what women want, or men because there’s nothing wrong with being homosexual these days.

“The choice is yours though. You’re in an ideal position to define who you’re going to be. No-one relies on you, so you can do what you like, and if it’s something you like, you’re more likely to succeed.”

“I suppose.”

“In the meantime, that job with Clarks and Spencer...”

“I told you, I don’t want it.”

“I know, so you won’t mind if I apply for it?”

“Knock yourself out, but they won’t take a loser without any GCSEs.”

“They might if I can prove to them that I can do the job.

“Okay, thanks for tonight. Please give some thought to what I’ve said and call me if you want to talk about anything.”

“I will. What gyms offered you a job?”

I gave him the names of a few places that had approached me, then hung up.

Next I dug out the manual for my sewing machine and went through it with a highlighter. I photographed the pages with the most corrections and started an email addressed to the general info address at my former employer. I told them I’d heard one of their proof-readers had recently quit and asked if there was a possibility of my being considered for the position. I included photographs of parts of the sewing machine manual with the most mistakes and indicated the changes I would make. I followed the protocols I knew they used for checking and assessing, double checked what I’d written – because I knew how much of an annoyance predictive text could be – and sent it off.

It was relatively early still, so I ran myself a bath. My bleeding had all but stopped, which meant that it was nearly decision time regarding whether or not I continued with the contraception.

Probably best to check with a doctor first, in case there might be a problem with stopping abruptly.

Sandra’s choice of bath smellies wasn’t entirely to my taste, being a little overly sweet, so I compensated by using them sparingly. The bath itself did wonders to relax me, giving me the sense of washing away all the unpleasantness of recent days. My hair was overdue for a wash and felt so much better after the third shampoo and rinse. Sandra had chosen to have it cut shorter than I’d have preferred, but it was thick and luxurious with a natural wave to it. I did discover one advantage of keeping it short when the hairdryer – which had turned up during my first attempt to clear the aftermath of George's destruction of the bedroom – made quick work of drying it.

I settled on my makeshift bed on the sofa in the front room with a cup of tea and checked through my phone for my doctor's number. When I found it, it had a link to a website which, when I followed it, gave me the option of booking a phone appointment for the following day. I did so, then put some thought into planning what else I could do with my time. Once the boys were at school, I'd have several hours to fill with anything I wanted to do.

Well not quite. As a priority I had to buy some new clothes, so first stop Nationwide to draw out some money, then a bus trip into town where hopefully I’d find a better selection of shops than the local precinct.

I also needed to get some food in and at least look at costing the replacement of some of the things my husband had destroyed.

With a vague plan in mind, I settled down into a peaceful and uninterrupted night's sleep

…

The next morning Steven appeared in his cheerleader’s uniform. He stared at me as if daring me to challenge him.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “You know they're going to make fun of you.”

“Let them. It can't be worse than yesterday. Besides, you said I could choose what I wanted to wear today.”

“Yes, I know I did. I’m just worried for you.”

“Well, this is the closest thing to a uniform they left me, so if they don’t like it, that's their hard luck.”

I sighed. “Well, I’m not going to stop you, but I really think you should give this some thought...”

“I already did.”

“Okay then. Why don't you get some breakfast while I sort your brother out?”

“Really? That's it?”

“What do you want from me, sweetheart? Personally, I think this is a mistake, but it's yours to make. Whatever happens, I'm here for you, okay?”

“I guess. Mum?”

“Yes sweetie?”

He put his arms around me, at least as far as they could reach, taking me by surprise. I crouched and hugged him back. It only lasted a moment, but it was a special moment.

Michael was sitting blearily on his bed. I led him through the wreckage of my bedroom to the upstairs bathroom and plonked him on the toilet and for once the pull-ups weren't needed.

Afterwards, I lay out his clothes for the day and gave him a kiss. “Let's see how you get on by yourself, shall we?”

From my own vast wardrobe I chose my jeans and the sweatshirt I’d rescued from the cupboard under the stairs. Once I'd finished dressing and brushing my hair I went in to find him clothed but not that happy.

“It feels funny,” he whined.

On a hunch, I told him to take his trousers off, then explained how he had his underpants on backwards. After a short demonstration of how to sort himself out, I led him downstairs, cautioning him not to say anything mean to his brother.

After an uncomfortable moment’s silence, he smiled and told Steven, “I think you look pretty,” and that was that.

I put a change of clothes for my eldest son in a carrier bag, in case he changed his mind, and led the two of them out of the house ten minutes earlier than usual.

There weren't many kids at the school, but they reacted predictably to Steven, pointing and laughing when he approached.

“I'll leave these at reception,” I said showing him the bag, “just in case.”

“I'm not going to change my mind.” He stuck out his chin obstinately.

“Up to you love, but the option’s there if you want it.”

I left him in order to have a word with Mrs Nullis, who was just as predictable in her disapproval.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I'm not sure what's going on in his head at the moment. He won't talk to me about it, at least not yet.

“His father and I are going through a rough patch at present, as I’ve already said, so I don't know, this may just be his way of coping with it. If I could please just ask that you keep an eye on him.”

“We would in any case, Mrs Bush. Do you mind me asking for a few more details about your home situation? It may help us support him better if we know what he’s dealing with.”

“Well, I suppose it’ll be common knowledge soon enough. George has asked for a divorce.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, you really don’t need to be. I mean you have met my husband, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have had that misfortune. You were right, he did some plumbing work for me a few months ago – made several visits, and still didn’t fix the problem. He charged me a small fortune for making the situation worse.

“Look, it probably isn’t an appropriate thing to say, but if this has anything to do with the changes I’ve noticed in you, then you’re far better off without him.”

“I suppose the two things are related, yes.”

“Alright, I'll see what I can do. It seems I'm going to have to have a word with the football team again today, aren't I? It's a shame though. I really thought we had a shot at the trophy this year.”

“I do seem to be causing you an awful lot of grief lately.”

“Really, you’re not. Steven’s about at an age when children act out and try to establish a bit of independence. It can be a little traumatic at times, and it often has little enough to do with the parents. As long as you continue to keep me informed of what he’s doing, I think we can handle it.

“Besides, we’re an educational establishment and this situation gives us a unique opportunity to teach something about morality and consequences, so it’s not a total loss.

“To be honest, I was pleasantly surprised with Steven yesterday.”

“You were here?”

“I’m the head teacher, Mrs Bush. I don’t have the luxury of going home when the bell rings at the end of the day. Besides, I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any unpleasantness when Steven and his companions made their first appearance. I was impressed with how they handled the situation, especially your son.”

“He told me a little about it. You know, it’s an odd thing...”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“You’re a woman, Mrs Bush, you should trust your feelings.”

“Well, it’s just that he seems a totally different child while he’s wearing a skirt.”

“I wondered if it was something like that. Would I be correct in assuming your husband is quite controlling?”

“Is that you trusting your feelings?”

“Maybe a little. I’m no child psychologist, but I’ve worked around children for a long time. I suspect Steven has a lot of suppressed anger, which could explain, though not condone, his action from last weekend. It’s possible that the simple act of putting on girl’s clothes has opened up a softer side of him. You did say it was his idea to wear the skirt today?”

“Yes. I tried to suggest it wouldn’t go well, but it’s his mistake to make.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I imagine he’s quite confused about his feelings right now, but he’s actually quite a bright lad. He’ll work it out if he’s given the space to do so.

“And with that, I suppose I should get on and do my job.” She pressed a button on a microphone and spoke into it. “Attention everyone. There will be a whole school assembly in the sports hall at nine o’clock. All classes to come to the sports hall at nine o’clock. Thank you.”

She looked a little embarrassed. “Something they have in a lot of American schools. I thought it might be worth trying here, and it really does make it quick and easy to communicate with the whole school.

“Thank you for coming in Mrs Bush. I’m sure we’ll have other chances to chat.”

I took her offered hand – very much a gentler handshake. “I’m sure, and thank you for being so understanding. If there’s a chance of retrieving Steven’s uniform, I’d be grateful. The purse strings are little tight at present and that’s one more expense I’d rather not have to deal with right now.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 12

Shopping alone wasn’t a great deal more enjoyable as a woman than as a man. On the plus side, I had access to a great many formerly forbidden pleasures such as lacy underwear, floral patterns and delicious smells, but on the minus side, I had my plus size to cope with and not much of the really pretty stuff looked anywhere near good on me. I tried on a pair of jeggings at one stage and the size of my rear end, along with the very visible pantie line showing through, did nothing for my self-esteem. An image flashed through my mind of a very young Matthew Lillard grinning into the camera and saying, “Spandex. It’s a privilege, not a right.” I definitely had not yet earned the privilege.

I tried on a few more things, but my mood was already on a downswing and nothing appealed. I hunted out a coffee shop and bought something to raise my spirits. No pastries. They were tempting, but that was the hardest thing about starting a diet – not giving into habits and temptations. For now coffee would have to be enough, which meant it had to be the right stuff, which meant spending a bit extra.

I found a quiet table and rummaged through my bag, without entirely understanding why. A couple of minutes searching unearthed a business card. It took me a moment to recall how it had come into my possession. I punched the number into my phone.

“Hello?”

The voice was bright and perky, which at least meant I hadn’t woken her up.

“WPC Foyle? This is Sandra Bush. We met a few days ago.”

“Mrs Bush, hello. How are you? Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Everything’s fine. I was just wondering if that offer of friendship was still on the table?”

“Of course. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I don’t know what shift you’re working right now, but might you be free now?”

“Where are you?”

I told her.

“Give me fifteen minutes. I’m on the bus as we speak.”

“I don’t mean to hijack your day.”

“Of course not. I didn’t have much planned anyway. This’ll be much more enjoyable.”

“I’ll have a coffee waiting for you when you get here.”

“See? It already sounds like a much better day than I had planned.”

The smile and enthusiasm in her voice did a lot to lift me out of my glums. I hung up and finished one coffee and stopped off at the ladies to dispose of it before heading back to the counter to order two more. I didn’t really need more caffeine, but I couldn’t expect her to drink it alone. Besides, there was a difference between need and want, and this was coffee the way it was meant to be drunk.

I spotted her first and waved her over, already smiling at the prospect of a new friend. She was all bubbly enthusiasm and so different from how she had been in uniform. I told her my predicament and she immediately planned out the morning for us, listing out a string of charity shops – which she assured me had better quality donations than most – along with a few of the lower cost but reasonable quality stores.

I’d already blanched a bit at the prices in the one shop I’d visited, so having a companion who also had to clothe herself on a budget was invaluable.

A couple of hours later, with aching feet and equally aching smiles, we found our way to a café with outdoor tables within a short walk of the bus station. I was loaded down with as many bags as I could manage so Angela plonked me down at a table with instructions to guard her own small selection of purchases while she fetched our drinks.

I’d made a significant dent in the amount the court has awarded me from my last appearance, but was pleased with what I had to show for it. Most of the underwear I’d bought was plain, but would do a fair job of holding the wobbles in check. I had a couple of cotton nightdresses – white and lacy and something of an indulgence as they’d come from one of the more expensive shops we’d visited. Most of the rest had come from charity shops with Angie offering encouragement where I’d have been inclined to put things back on the shelf. She certainly had a gift for making me feel good about myself.

Among my spoils, I had a couple of pairs of jeans that didn’t make me look too enormous, and several loose-fitting tops that mercifully covered my shape. That and a few skirts and a dress or two. At least two of the outfits would serve well as interview clothes if ever I was lucky enough to be offered one.

Angie returned with the coffees, which weren’t quite up to the standard from earlier in the morning, but at least they weren’t instant. We chatted amiably for a quarter of an hour before her phone pinged. She glanced at it and lost her happy face.

“Work,” she explained. “One of the downsides of being the only WPC in the precinct. Any time they need a female presence, I get called in.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“It pays time and a half, and I get time off in lieu, so it’s not that bad. It plays havoc with the social life though, which is maybe why I don’t have one.”

“Well, any time you feel like squeezing in another get together, feel free to call me,” I said. “You turned today around for me, Angie. Thank you.”

“It was a blast for me too. I’ll call you in a day or two and we’ll arrange something else.”

“Don’t forget your things,” I said pointing at her bags. She smiled and grabbed them, and she was gone.

The world seemed a little dimmer without her there, but at least I had space to breathe. I suspected Angie was one of those people to be enjoyed in small doses.

“What’s the matter Sandra? No pastries today?”

I looked up at the speaker and recognised her as one of the mums who’d snubbed me at the Saturday football match. She had some friends sitting, tittering nearby and some of them seemed familiar too. I smiled sweetly and decided not to respond, but instead took a sip of my coffee.

Definitely something to put on the shopping list since I could barely stomach the instant rubbish cluttering up the cupboard at home. At the very least I’d need a French press to go with it, which meant my next stop would have to be a department store. I had a selection of tools on my list too, since I didn’t see myself replacing any of the furniture George had wrecked, so would have to repair what I could. They would be heavy though, so I’d planned to get them last.

The woman who’d spoken to me apparently wasn’t used to being ignored. She sat opposite me. “I didn’t mean that; what I said just now. You do know that don’t you?”

“Why did you say it then?” I asked.

She made goldfish impressions while she was trying to think of a response.

“Look, I know I don’t have a great reputation, and maybe a lot of that is my fault.” Well, original Sandy’s in any case. Every conversation I’d had with her had gone some way towards convincing me she’d been the architect of her own misery. “But if you intend to dislike me, please don’t pretend otherwise.”

Serendipity smiled on me. I had just one last sip of my coffee remaining, which I took before standing and gathering my bags. Whoever my tormentor happened to be gawped at me as I walked off towards the last of my morning’s shopping.

An hour later I collapsed onto a seat on the bus, all my bags of clothes in one hand and a very heavy carrier bag containing a small selection of tools and a brand-new, stainless-steel French press in the other. The bus was barely half full, so I was spared having to share a seat with a stranger.

Halfway home, my phone buzzed at me. I didn’t recognise the number, but that was hardly surprising.

“Hello?”

“Mrs Bush. Doctor Hammond here.” I thought I detected a slightly resigned quality to his tone.

“Oh, hello doctor. Thank you for calling.”

“Well, it’s hardly as if I have a choice in the matter, is it?”

“I suppose not.” Definitely not a happy bunny. I suspected the old Sandy had possibly messed him about in the past. “Well, hopefully I won’t take up much of your time. I wanted to talk to you about my prescription.”

He sighed. “Mrs Bush, we’ve talked about this before. Contraceptives are a very safe form of medicine these days. I can’t say they’re totally without risk as all drugs can have unpleasant side effects, but you’ve been taking these tablets for, what, eleven years now?”

“More or less, apart from the time when we took a break to have Michael...”

“The fact remains, Mrs Bush, that if you were to have an adverse reaction to this drug, we’d know about it by now...”

“That’s not why I called, doctor. You see, my husband and I have decided to part ways and I won’t be needing to take precautions now. I wanted to know if there was any recommended way of coming off the tablets.”

“Oh! When you say part ways, do I understand you to mean, er, divorce?”

“Yes doctor.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Well, I’m not. I would be grateful for an answer to my question though.”

“Oh, er, no. Just stop taking them. Only are you certain you won’t be needing them again? Because you will be able to conceive from the day you stop taking them, and it will be at least a month before they become effective once you start again.”

“Thank you for the warning doctor, but I’m certain. Are there any side effects I need to be aware of?”

“Nothing in particular. The tablet I prescribed does, on rare occasions, cause, er, I believe the popular term is, er, the munchies, so there’s a small chance you may find it easier to lose weight once you stop taking it, but otherwise your normal cycle will resume almost immediately. If you experienced painful cramps when menstruating, you may also find that a degree of discomfort will return during your period. Otherwise, no.”

“Thank you doctor. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Yes, well, er, Mrs Bush, erm, are you quite alright? It’s just, er...”

“I’m a little less brash? Less vulgar? More polite? I’m fine doctor, simply adjusting to a new freedom after twelve years stuck in a toxic relationship.”

“Ah, yes. Well, er, if you’re sure...”

“It’s good of you to check, doctor, but I doubt there’s any cause for concern.”

“Well, if you experience any more mood changes, especially if they’re abrupt, I’d like you to contact me.”

“I will, Doctor Hammond. Thank you for your time.”

I hung up the phone, aware I was in receipt of a number of sidelong glances from nearby passengers. I reviewed my recent conversation and decided I hadn’t overshared too much, so I smiled sweetly at those about me and went back to watching the world go by.

Back at home I dumped the bags in the living room – very much the limit of what my new body could have carried any distance – and headed back out, this time to walk down to the nearby precinct. I looked into the charity shop, but they had pretty much the same selection of clothes I’d rejected the previous day. I did find a couple of things that would do for an experiment I had in mind, and since the total cost was less than a fiver, I bought them.

The coffee you find in Lidl isn’t my usual first choice, but it’s a massive step up from the instant rubbish I had in the house. The rest of my purchases would go to making something healthy for dinner, though I did invest in a battery-operated milk whisk I found, as ever, in the random shit aisle.

By the time I was back home and had unpacked everything, it was approaching the end of the school day. I allowed myself a moment to relax with a proper coffee, then headed out feeling refreshed and at peace with the world.

My phone buzzed for a second time while I was waiting for the kids to appear. The other mothers had formed their own little clique which, by the number of backs turned to me, did not include me. I didn’t much care for my place in this little corner of society, but it wasn’t something that would be fixed anytime soon. The phone call came as a welcome distraction and I took a few steps away from the gaggle of women to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Mrs Bush? My name is Maximilian Andrews, from Clark’s and Spencer’s?”

I’d met him once or twice at Christmas parties. He was reasonably attractive with a charming smile, but he had a reputation as a cold hearted bastard. Some of my colleagues had referred to him as Max the axe, since he was generally the person the higher-ups turned to when they planned to fire someone.

“I forwarded your email to Mr Clark this morning,” he continued. “He’d like to invite you to an interview. Are you free tomorrow at say two-thirty?”

“Would it be possible to fit it in earlier? Two-thirty might make it a little tight for picking my children up from school.”

“Couldn’t their father do it?”

“I’m sure I could make alternative arrangements if I needed to. I’m just asking if it would be possible to fit in a different time.”

“I’ll ask.” He didn’t sound particularly happy about it.

“Thank you, I’d appreciate it. If it’s not possible, I’ll make something work.”

“Alright then. I’ll call you back shortly.”

And he was gone.

“What’s that about?” a curious voice sounded by my shoulder. I turned to see one of the women I’d bumped into at the coffee shop in town.

I smiled. “I sent in a speculative application for a job last night. They invited me for an interview.”

“Really? Who with?”

“It’s a firm called Clark’s and Spencer’s. They proofread things like manuals for the things you buy in shops.”

“What, you mean like microwaves and stuff?”

“Like that, yes.”

“How did you hear about it?”

“Oh, I know someone who used to work there. I heard one of their people just quit.”

“And you got an interview? That’s really exciting. Did I hear you asking to have the interview at a different time? I don’t think I'd be brave enough to do that. I mean what if they said no?”

“Well, as a firm they have a good reputation for flexibility, and I’ll need that if I’m going to be a working single mum. If they’re not going to offer me any consideration at this stage, I need to know early so I don’t waste my time on them.”

“Single Mum? Does that mean...?”

“It’s going to come out sooner or later. George is divorcing me.”

“Oh my!”

“I think I may have encouraged him somewhat. It’s about time we parted company.”

“Wow! You really are brave. I mean that and the way you dealt with Harriet earlier...”

“You mean at the coffee shop?”

“Mhm?” Complete with nod. Well, one name learned. Now if only...

“Cindy?” one of the other mums called and the woman I was talking to turned. Another name learned. One I’d probably be glad to know.

“I should go,” she said. “If they don’t offer you a different time for the interview, I’d be happy to pick up Steven and Michael. I mean, Steven and Kyle get on well enough together and I’m sure I could keep Michael occupied for an hour or two.”

“Thanks, that’s really thoughtful. Do I have your number?”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. Here, what’s yours?”

I reeled off my digits and received a text from her a moment later. The number went into the address book.

“We should do coffee sometime, that is if you want to, of course.”

“I’d really like that. I’ll call you to set something up.”

The kids started appearing. The younger school first which meant Michael charging across the space between us and barrelling into my legs with enough force to set me staggering.

“Careful,” I laughed and stooped to hug him back. “So how was your day?”

“It was fun. We did art again today because I missed it the other day, and I painted a picture of our family.”

He held out the painting for my inspection. It was surprisingly good with all members of the family readily recognisable. He’d drawn his father with an unflatteringly large belly, growling at the world from behind prison bars, meanwhile the three of us stood smiling in front of a house under a sunny sky. Notably both Steven and I had been painted wearing dresses.

“What did your teacher say about it?”

“She wanted to know why Daddy was in jail, and she also said didn’t I have a brother, not a sister.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“That this is the family I wish for.”

“Really? You wish for your father to be in prison?”

“He’s always been mean, so yes.”

“And Steven?”

“I liked him a lot better yesterday when he was wearing a skirt.”

“Well, don’t expect it to last, and just for now, do you mind if we don’t show this to him?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sure he really understands what yesterday was about. He’s probably at least as likely to react badly to this as otherwise. I’d really like to give him some space to figure it out. What do you think?”

“Alright Mummy, but do you like it?”

“I absolutely love it, Michael. In a way this is the family I wish for too.”

“Why in a way?”

“Well, for one thing, like you said, your daddy is mean and belongs behind bars. For another, I really liked Steven yesterday too. Which is not to say I wish he was a girl, but I do wish for him to find a bit of peace and joy in his life.”

Some wishes come true, at least in a way. The older kids started to emerge from the secondary school, including Steven, still in his cheerleader’s uniform and very much the centre of attention for a significant proportion of the girls in his year. I’d only known him for a little less than a week, but I would never have suspected him capable of such a bright smile.

By contrast, almost every boy looked more than a little upset. Quite a few of them gave him angry looks as they walked past. One or two looked positively distraught. One of those ran straight into Cindy’s arms and buried his face in her stomach. I suspected I’d hear about it when we met for coffee, but for now it seemed best to let them get on with it.

Steven separated from his circle of admirers and sauntered over. I rolled Michael’s painting up and added it to the mass of things in my enormous handbag.

“You look like you had a good day,” I smiled at him.

“The best. I mean, it didn’t start so great. I got called names a lot and most of my mates poked fun at me...”

“They don’t sound like very good friends.” I started walking towards home with the two of them following.

“Meh. I’d probably have done the same in their place. Anyway, Mrs Nullis called for an assembly first thing. So we’re all sitting there and she calls for all the football team to come up onto the stage. The current football team, she says, not me and the others who got kicked off, and I’m kind of thinking how much it sucks when she announces to us all that someone in the team nicked my uniform yesterday and made it so I had to walk home wearing a skirt.

“Some arsehole shouts out that that's alright 'cos I obviously like it and everyone laughed, only Mr Blackwell saw who it was and he's got himself a week’s lunchtime detention for it.

“Anyway, Mrs N asked for whoever done it to own up, which of course they don’t do, so she walks off stage and comes back with all this pink poofy ballerina stuff, I mean you know, like leotards and tutus and tights and everything, and she gives one outfit to each member of the team and says if she don’t find out who done it very soon, they’ll all be joining us on the cheer team.

“Peter, you know Peter Bellamy? He’s our centre forward. Anyway, Peter steps forward and says it wasn’t right for the whole team to be punished for what a couple of idiots did. He says it was Kyle Martin took my stuff, but it was Mitchell Parker's idea. You remember I said he blocked us from going into the changing room?

“Mrs Nullis takes back all the girly stuff, except for two sets and now Mitchel and Kyle get to cheer with us, except they’re gonna look so much more stupid than us.”

“I thought you were friends with Kyle.”

“Yeah I was, but that was before what he did yesterday.”

“If your positions had been reversed, might you have done the same thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“If it had been Kyle in the cheerleader gear yesterday and you’d still been on the team, might you have nicked his uniform if Mitchell suggested it?”

“Mitchell’s an arsehole.”

“Yes, but even so. Might you have thought it would be a good joke to play on your friend?”

“It was really crappy, what he did to me yesterday, Mum.”

“Language please Steven, and I do understand. But before yesterday you wouldn’t have known that, so maybe it might have seemed like just a bit of harmless fun?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Why are you defending him?”

“Because I’d hate for you to lose a friend over a silly mistake.”

“Yeah, well I don’t think he’s that happy with me now ‘cos he reckons it’s my fault he gets to wear poofy pink on Saturday.”

“I’m not sure poofy’s a word I like you using either. I think I may have enough material to make a couple more costumes like yours.”

“Not for Mitchell; he’s an arsehole.”

“And not even an arsehole deserves to be the only boy out on the field in a pink tutu. Maybe he’ll be less of an arsehole if someone does something nice for him.”

“I doubt it.”

“Maybe you’re right, but this isn’t about Mitchell. If you’d like me to make a kit for Kyle, so your friend doesn’t have to be quite so embarrassed on Saturday, then I will, and it’ll be up to me if I choose to make another one for the arsehole.”

“Yeah, okay. I don’t think Kyle would ever forgive me if he had to go out there looking like a poo... I mean looking that girly.”

“It looks like you made quite a few new friends today.”

“Yeah.” His dreamy smile was back. “Ann Summers...” he breathed and he was lost in a cloud of memories and pheromones.

“Stevie’s in lo-ove,” Michael sang quietly.

“What if I am?” he replied, but there wasn’t any of the usual aggression in his tone.

My phone buzzed as I was letting us into the house. I told the boys to go upstairs and get changed while I hunted in my bag for it.

“Do I have to, Mum?” Steven asked.

“Just go,” I said and stabbed at the answer call icon. “Hello?”

“Mrs Bush? Maximilian Andrews, from Clark’s and Spencer’s?”

I was hardly likely to forget in the twenty minutes or so since he’d last called.

“Hello Mr Andrews.”

“I’m sorry, I did try to rearrange the time for the interview tomorrow, but Mr Clark has a very busy schedule and two-thirty is the only time he has free.”

“It’s alright Mr Andrews, I’m sure I can sort something out. I’ll see you tomorrow at half two.”

“Alright. You know where we are?”

I answered by telling him the address.

“Until tomorrow then, Mrs Bush.”

“Mum, what’s this?”

I turned to find Steven standing in the doorway, still in the cheerleader kit and holding the dress I’d bought him in the charity shop.

“It’s a choice,” I said. I sat on the sofa and patted the seat next to me. He didn’t move.

“Do you want to turn me into a girl?”

“No sweetie.”

“Then what?”

I sighed and searched for the words. “When you put on those clothes you’re wearing for the first time, how did you feel?”

“I don’t know.” Evasive. Too embarrassed by the truth.

“Did it make you feel kind of soft and warm inside?” I remembered my first time in women’s clothes.

He turned red which was enough of an answer, but he nodded as well.

“Then yesterday at practice, it was kind of way scary because you knew what people would say?”

Again the nod.

“But the warm feeling was still there and after a while you realised you didn’t really care what anyone else thought.”

A shrug this time.

“And when you stopped caring, you started enjoying yourself, which was when you started entertaining the crowd and you became someone to laugh with rather than laugh at, you and your friends that is.”

A shrug and a nod.

“Then a couple of your friends did something that ruined it all, plus your dad locked us out of the house meaning you had to sit on the doorstep for over an hour dressed like a girl. I could see how much that upset you.”

He moved over to the sofa and sat, leaning against me.

“But even then you didn’t want to get changed.”

“You said it was my way of saying sorry to Jake.”

“I know what I said, and pardon me for covering for you. When you went and changed for bed, your personality changed too, did you know that?”

He nodded. “I could feel it. All the anger came back. I didn’t like it.”

“Is that why you put the skirt on again this morning?”

I felt his nod against my side more than saw it.

“That’s kind of what I thought, so when I saw that,” I pointed at the dress in his hands, “I thought maybe you might like something else to try on.

“I’m not trying to turn you into a girl, but if this helps you find that softer, kinder bit of yourself, if it helps to put the angry and unkind part of you to sleep for a while, then it seems like a good thing to me. You can just dress up at home if you like, so you don’t have to try and explain it to a whole bunch of people who won’t understand, and maybe just knowing you have that option when you get home will be enough to stop you feeling so angry the rest of the time.”

“What about Michael?”

“What about him? He’s a kind boy, and if we tell him how important it is not to say anything, he’ll keep your secret.

“I bought him a dress too, just in case he wants to join in with us.”

“What if I, you know, if I end up wanting to be a girl?”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we’d have to talk to a lot of people who know about these things to be absolutely sure, and we’re a really long way from that, but we can deal with that if we need to.

“You know, we all have a mix of girl and boy in us. Or maybe we don’t really know what we’re doing when we say girls are like this and boys are like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we say things like girls like to make themselves look pretty and boys like to play football, don’t we?”

“Mhm.”

“Which is the most successful England football team at the moment, men’s or women’s? And how many boys do you know in your school who paint their nails and maybe even wear makeup?

“When we say something is girly or blokey, we only ever mean that it’s more common in girl’s or boys. I’d never have been able to stand up to your dad if I hadn’t found a little bit of ‘manly’,” finger quotes, “aggression.”

“I’m kind of glad you did.”

“Me too. And that’s not something I’d have expected my angry, sulky older son to tell me, so if it takes wearing a skirt to help you find the kinder part of you, then I’m all for it.

“As for whether or not you want to become a girl, I’m not sure I’d be too worried. The way you went all dreamy eyed about this Ann Summers, doesn’t sound very girly, unless you intend to be a lesbian too.”

“Mum!”

“Seriously though, if that is something you think you might want, please talk to me because we could have a word with our doctor and he could maybe give you something to stop you growing and getting all muscley.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because if you really did want to be a girl, you wouldn’t want to be broad shouldered and beefy. It’s not a great look in a summer dress, believe me. And maybe the fact that you sound like you can’t wait for those sort of changes means you don’t want to be a girl. So take the time you have now to explore your girly side if you want to, and when you find out where she fits inside you, then become whoever you need to be.”

I stood and he stood with me. “Your choice Steven, or Stevie if you prefer when you’re dressed like that. It’s your life and you have to decide how to live it. The more you grow up the less I’m going to tell you what to do and the more I’m just going to make suggestions. I’m hoping that you’ll trust me enough to at least consider my words before deciding for yourself.

“Now, I do have a request to make. I have a job interview tomorrow and the only time they can do it is at two-thirty, so I’m not likely to be back in time to pick you up. Kyle’s mum has offered to look after you and right now I can’t think of anyone else who could do it. I know things are awkward between you and Kyle right now, but would you be okay if I took Cindy up on her offer?”

“Will you make Kyle one of these?” He lifted the hem of his skirt.

“I’ll even say it was your idea. You know, since he has to be in the cheer squad, this would be so much less mortifying than the alternative.”

“Then sure. I mean even if it doesn’t work out, it’ll only be for an hour or two, right? I could always do my homework.”

“Thanks sweetie, and thank you for the reminder. You have yesterday’s to catch up on as well as any you got today.”

He growled and rolled his eyes.

“It might be more fun to do it in a dress. Either way, I need to wash that tomorrow.”

He ran back upstairs and I called my newest friend.

“Cindy, hi, it’s Sandra. Would I be able to take you up on your offer to pick the boys up tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” She sounded guarded. “What’s this Kyle’s saying about Steven getting him in trouble and now he’s off the football team too? Not just that but something about a pink skirt?”

“I think your son’s being a little economical with the truth. Has he told you what his part was in all this?”

“Well, no.”

“Perhaps you should ask him about it, and maybe ask him about Steven’s school uniform.”

“Steven’s...? What are you talking about?”

“Why don’t you ask him about it now and I’ll call you back in ten minutes?”

I hung up before she had a chance to respond and headed through to the kitchen to put together some snacks. Banana and apple this time with a plateful of carrot sticks as an alternative.

“Mummy, why’s Steven wearing a dress?” Michael appeared in the doorway.

“It’s something he’s trying to see if it helps him not be so angry all the time.”

“What if I want to wear one too?” The whine was definitely powering up.

“Then it’s a good job I bought you one then, isn’t it?” I pulled it out from the bottom of my bag and offered it to him. “I didn’t know how you'd feel about it, so I didn’t offer it to you straight away, but here you are.”

He ran upstairs and by the time I had my cup of tea and was calling Cindy back, we were all in skirts.

Cindy was all apology and outrage. Apparently mentioning Steven’s uniform had broken through the web of lies and Kyle had tearfully confessed. The uniform had still been in his sports bag with some fairly revolting smelling football gear. “I’m putting it through the washing now, but I’ll drop it round later. I am so sorry about this.”

“Boys will be boys,” I said, perpetrating the most heinous lie given the decidedly un-boy-like behaviour of the two sitting at the table in my dining room.

“Are you sure Steven won’t mind coming round tomorrow? I mean he can’t feel that kindly towards Kyle at the moment.”

“Well, you know what Mrs Nullis has told him to do on Saturday?”

“He did tell me, yes. It serves him right in my opinion.”

“Well, Steven suggested I should make him a skirt like I did for the other boys, you know like the one he was wearing today?”

“Yes, I was wondering about that.”

“His choice, since he didn’t have a school uniform.”

“I can’t apologise enough...”

“I’m not asking you to. But Steven thought it would be a little less embarrassing if Kyle turned up on Saturday wearing an outfit that matched the rest rather than looking like something out of Swan Lake.”

“He has a kind streak in him, that boy.”

“Yes, although I’m only just discovering it myself. If you wait till after nine before coming round, I should have Kyle’s things finished.”

“Thank you, Sandy. I’ll see you later.”

Michael spent the evening playing, pretending his transformers were dolls, while Steven caught up with his homework. This freed me up to put a little effort into food preparation. I’ve never been that keen on cooking, and couldn’t be bothered going to any effort when it was just me I was cooking for, but now I had two sets of young taste buds to work with, the challenge being to introduce them to healthy food that didn’t leave the craving that came from deep fried fast food. I worked from a recipe I found on the internet and came up with something that was a long way from terrible. The boys – or whatever they thought themselves to be – were suspicious at first, but one or two tentative bites soon turned into some highly unladylike manners as the plates emptied in record time and what I’d hoped to keep for tomorrow’s lunch became second helpings for both of them.

The promised bath time followed with the inevitable reluctance from Michael being dealt with by a reminder that girls took cleanliness seriously, at which point his let’s pretend turned a little esoteric with him continuing to act out his girl persona while naked and quite evidently not a girl.

Teeth brushed and in their pyjamas, I sent them up early to bed suggesting they could read for a while before lights out, while I took out my sewing machine and the scraps of spare material. With limited fabric I had to get creative and make one skirt mustard yellow with burgundy pleats, but I was pleased with the final result. I still had a few pairs of underpants and tights from my original work, but only one yellow tee-shirt. Digging through the rags George had made of my clothes I found something close enough to the colour of the skirts that I was able to cut down to a workable crop top in Steven’s size. The contrasting colours and slight difference in design would mark him out as the group leader and he was slender enough still to make it work with a bit more skin showing.

I took the new stuff up and let him have a look. He immediately jumped out of bed and stripped out of his PJs to give the new kit a go.

“I could make this work,” he said with an appreciative nod.

“It’ll be cold.” Probably not necessary to impart that piece of obscure wisdom. The look he gave me confirmed it.

“Okay, back into bed. I’ve a few minor finishing touches to do to the other kit and Cindy’s coming to collect it in twenty minutes.”

“I could have given it to Kyle tomorrow.”

“Yes, but she’s also bringing your school uniform.”

“Oh.” His face fell.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but there is a uniform policy at the school, and you really don’t want to spend too much time in public wearing a skirt, unless you want that to be a part of who you are.”

“What if it is?”

“Then I’d still take it slowly at this stage. We live in an enlightened age, but not everyone got the memo. You don’t want a repeat of what your friends did to you a couple of days ago, do you?”

“I suppose not. Can I take my cheer gear with me tomorrow?”

“I’d rather you didn’t wear it at school tomorrow, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I guess not.” His body language said anything but.

“Mummy, will you read us something?” This from Michael as Steven climbed back into his bunk.

“I suppose I could, but only for ten minutes. Do you have anything you’d like me to read?”

“Not really.” The comics they’d been browsing weren’t really going to work. I had a thought.

“Give me a minute,” I said and went to fetch my phone. A little hunting through the immense number of books on the Project Gutenberg website and I had what I was looking for. “I hope you’ll like this one,” I said and perched on Michael’s bed. “This is the story of the great war that Rikki-tikki-tavi fought single handed, through the bathrooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee cantonment. Darzee, the Tailorbird, helped him, and Chuchundra, the muskrat, who never comes out into the middle of the floor, but always creeps round by the wall, gave him advice, but Rikki-tikki did the real fighting.”

Of course there were interruptions. “What’s a bungalow... a cantonment... a Tailorbird... a muskrat”, all answered with a little help from Google, but soon enough they were drawn into the story, as was I and we’d not gone that far when there was a knock on the door downstairs.

“That’ll be Kyle’s mum, and I don’t have the skirt finished. To be continued.”

Cries of “Oh Mum!” followed me down the stairs, but they settled quickly.

I thanked Cindy for the return of Steven’s uniform, neatly laundered and folded, and offered her a cup of tea while I finished the skirt.

“You’re really good with that,” she said as I worked quickly round the hem.

“It’s not difficult,” I smiled. “I really don’t have much experience with it.” None before a couple of days earlier, unless there was some sort of muscle memory thing going on, but then the old Sandy didn’t seem like much of a clothes maker. Most of her stuff had been store bought with quite a lot of reasonably good repairs here and there. The hardest part had been figuring out how to set it up, but a good read of the manual had sorted that. Once I’d corrected the mistakes.

I finished off and packed the skirt, tee-shirt and tights into a carrier bag.

“I should be getting back,” she said apologetically.”

“It is late. Maybe next week sometime during the day.”

“Well, unless you get that job of course. Good luck with that by the way.”

“Thanks. I’ll call you when I’m on my way to pick them up. Could you remind me where you live?”

She showed me on her phone. “How did people cope before these were invented?”

“I know, tell me about it.”

“Why don’t the three of you stay for tea tomorrow? I mean it’s not much different cooking for six than for three.”

“That’s really kind. It’ll be one less thing to think about.”

“Okay. We usually eat about six-thirty, so let us know if you’re likely to be any later.”

“I shouldn’t imagine I will be. I really do appreciate it, Cindy.”

“I’m grateful for this too. I mean I never thought I’d be thanking someone for making my son a skirt, but...”

We shared a laugh and I let her go. A quick peek into the boys’ room showed them both fast asleep.

Ten minutes to tidy everything away. All the tedious minutiae that I’d struggled to cope with in my former life now seemed to fit in as a natural part of my new one. There was a sense of satisfaction in arranging my environment that made all the effort worthwhile. I picked out the smartest of the clothes I’d bought earlier, made sure all the price tags were removed and hung them up. I’d decide in a while if they needed ironing.

With nothing else to do with the evening, I plugged my phone in to the charger and sat down with it to refresh my memory on aspects of Clark’s and Spencer’s that might come up in the interview.

It had been a long day though and after just ten minutes I was fighting to keep my eyes open. I changed for bed and snuggled down for the night.

The following morning started off with the usual routine. Up, wash, change – casual clothes to start with. Interview clothes could wait. Make lunches, check Steven’s homework diary and sign off on what he’d done, breakfast things onto the table and upstairs to chase them into their clothes.

For the second night in a row, I managed to encourage a rather dopy Michael through to the upstairs bathroom where he did his business without having an accident. Reason enough for praise, for which he gave me a bit of a muzzy smile.

I’d laid out Steven’s uniform for him and he’d dutifully put it on. The dark clouds I’d come to expect from him stayed at a distance, although they were in there at the back of his eyes.

“Your homework diary says you have PE today, so don’t forget your kit.”

“What about my new cheerleading stuff?”

“You shouldn’t need it today. I’ve put your old uniform in another carrier bag for you to give to Mitchell though.”

“He doesn’t deserve it.”

“What he deserves is a chance to make up for being a prat, don’t you think?”

He shrugged, and there was the usual sullenness peaking out from behind.

“Don’t forget Kyle’s mum is picking you up after school. I’ve written a note for both of you, and put them in your bags in case anyone asks. I’ll stop by both schools to let them know. We’ll be eating with Kyle’s family when I come to pick you up, so best behaviour please, and Steven, I’m making you responsible for ensuring Michael doesn’t get left behind.”

“Sure, okay. Did you give Kyle’s mum his cheerleading kit?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be alright if I took mine with me. I mean, he doesn’t know any of the routines, so I thought we might practice them this evening. If I have my gear he’ll be more likely to put his on too.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll put it at the bottom of your school bag, but it stays there until after school, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Right, now breakfast, you two. We’re a little behind today.”

We caught up, but not without me wheezing for breath by the time we reached the school.

I spent the morning doing my refresher research on Clarks and Sparks. Sorry, that’s an in joke. Back when my mother had still been alive and I’d first landed the job, she remarked on how the name of the place was like the retail outlet Marks and Spencer, which she always called Marks and Sparks. Anyway, I read up until I knew more about the place than its founders, ironed my interview clothes, arranged my hair into something resembling a style, and sat down with a cup of tea – didn’t want coffee breath for the interview – for a half hour of quiet before heading out the door for the bus. I’d considered makeup, but I had no idea what I was doing with most of it, so trusted to that clear skin of mine to do the job instead. I did have a go with some lipstick and, after a couple of tries, I felt my efforts had actually improved my appearance.

My phone buzzed. Caller ID said it was Charlotte.

“Hey girlfriend!” I greeted her.

“You don’t call, you don’t write. How the hell have you been?”

“Good thanks. I knew you were busy, so I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I’m never that busy. I was wondering if you had time to get together to go through a few things before we meet your husband and his lawyer on Monday.”

“That’d be great, but not today if you don’t mind. I have a job interview.”

“Hey, that’s amazing. Who with?”

I gave her the details.

“That is so perfect. It shows you as the responsible parent chasing after a source of income to help support your family. Helps our case with getting you custody.”

“I thought you were trying something with that.”

“I am, and now I can factor this into my plan.”

“I don’t have the job yet.”

“No, but you do have the interview. Whether or not you get the job is immaterial. To the case I mean. I’m sure you’ll get it.”

“I hope so. It’s been a while since I had an interview.”

“I didn’t think you ever had a job. Didn’t you get married straight after school?”

Oops. “Yes, but we did some practice interviews at school. Kind of careers lesson sort of thing.”

“Oh. It’s not the same. Just be yourself with these people. They’ll love you.

“Would tomorrow afternoon work for the legal prep?”

“That would be great. Where?”

“My office in the city. I can drop by and pick you up from the school after football.”

“That would be so helpful. Thanks.”

“You got any questions to ask at this interview today?”

“What, like how much they’re going to pay me?”

“Never ask about the salary. You can always walk away if they don’t offer you enough, but it gives the wrong impression if you ask about it. I mean questions about the firm, about different working policies, that sort of thing.”

“I could probably come up with a few.”

“You’ll do great. Okay, see you tomorrow.”

She was gone. What remained of my tea was cold and it was time to leave.

The bus route seemed to go through every road works in the city. I’d deliberately given myself an hour’s leeway, which was just as well as it shrank to half an hour by the time I arrived.

I announced myself at reception and took the indicated seat in the waiting area, until on the dot of two-thirty, a buzzer sounded and the receptionist showed me through to an office with a panel of three interviewers. Max was there, as was Mr Clark. The third was a woman I vaguely recognised but couldn’t name.

Introductions were made, so I learned she was called Jeanette. She simply smiled and shook my hand. Token woman? Seen and not heard? That didn’t seem like the Mr Clark I knew.

“So, Mrs Bush, Thank you for coming in.” Mr Clark was all smiles. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you since we received your email. You do know that manual you sent in isn’t one we proofed?”

“I should hope not. I wouldn’t want to work for anyone who let something like that go to the publishers.”

“It caught my eye though. Very clever idea. What made you think of it?”

“It was one of the things we were taught at school. A prospective employer sees so many CVs, they will only look at yours for a few seconds before deciding what to do with it, so be distinctive. Our teacher told us about a girl who wanted a fashion designer job with Levi jeans, so she sent in her CV hand written on a piece of denim.”

“Did she get the job?”

“I don’t remember, but she definitely got the interview.”

“I’m sure she would have. Now, speaking of CVs, we would like to see your qualifications, obviously.”

“Ah. Well that might be a problem. I made a number of poor choices at school, so I really don’t have any formal qualifications. I’m trying to turn my life around though, and I hoped actions would speak louder than words.”

“You have no qualifications? No GCSEs, nothing?”

“Not a one I’m afraid, but you can see, I can do the work “

“Well, that is if we assume it was you made the corrections to that manual.”

“I suppose there is no way I could prove that, is there? You could always test me here?”

“Why would we do that, Mrs Bush?”

“Because it’ll give you an opportunity to assess my abilities, something which I imagine you’d want to do with someone who actually has some pieces of paper that tell you they can spell and add up.

“Mr Clark, I’m sure I remember reading an interview you gave some time in which you said you had no qualifications when you started out.”

“That’s true, but then no-one would hire me, so I built my own business instead.”

“So what if I’m something like you were back then? Would you rather give me a trial to see what I can do for you, or send me away and wait for me to set up in competition?”

He smiled. “I like this one. Let’s see what she can do.”

There were more questions. What had I been doing since I’d left school? Why was I looking for a job now? Where did I see myself in five years time? All pretty boilerplate.

When it came to the trial, I was given a couple of texts to check alongside one of their teams – one of the better ones I discovered when I found out their names.

I took my time with the work, but still finished well within the allotted time, picking out all the mistakes and offering corrections using the notation I knew they favoured.

When it came to my questions, I asked about the possibility of working from home with flexible hours. I also asked about their equal opportunities policy, which brought a hint of a smile to Jeanette’s face, pretty much the only communication she made.

At the end of three hours, they thanked me for coming in and promised to be in touch. One last handshake all round I found myself back out on the street, waiting for a bus.

I called Cindy to let her know I was on my way, then brought up Charlie’s number

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“Pretty good, I think. They said they’d let me know next week.”

“Great. Listen, you sound like you’re all tapped out, so what say we leave the blow-by-blow till tomorrow?”

“That’d be great, yeah.”

I rang off and stared out the window at the passing traffic for the rest of the journey, arriving at the Martin house shortly after six.

“Success?” she asked.

“I can only hope. ‘We’ll let you know’ I finger quoted. Where are the boys?”

“Up in Kyle’s room.”

“Even Michael?”

“Go on up. You may want to knock before you go in.”

I did as instructed and was greeted by three cheerleaders, one of whom was a little small for the uniform.

“I thought you were going to give that one to Mitchell,” I said pointing at my youngest.

“I tried Mum, but he told me to eff off. He said he wasn’t going to ponce about in any effing skirt and that we were all effing... Well, he used the C word and he called us other mean things as well.”

“It’s true Mrs B. I was there when he tried to give him the kit. Since he didn’t want it, we hung onto it, then Michael asked if he could join in. I hope that was alright.”

I couldn’t tell if it was the clothes, especially Steven showing off his skinny ribs, or that we were guests in someone else’s house, but they really did seem to be overdoing the politeness.

“It’s fine. I suppose we shall see if Mitchell gets out of his punishment tomorrow. I think we’re going to eat really soon, so maybe you should change and wash up.”

“We were hoping we could stay like this,” Steven said.

“It may be a little revealing for mealtime. Mr Martin will be there, remember.”

“Dad’ll see us tomorrow anyway,” Kyle offered. “I was hoping we could get him used to it today.”

“Fine. I suppose I did make that outfit for you Steven, so I don’t really have a right to complain about you wearing it.”

My older son actually smiled and gave me a hug.

Kyle’s dad made something of a joke about feeling a bit outnumbered. It was a dad joke and was given a cursory hahaha, but it worked to break the ice and allowed us to eat without any sense of awkwardness. After tea, both Steven and Michael wanted to stay in costume for the walk home.

“I won’t stop you,” I said, “but you know how many twitching net curtains we have on our street. The more you’re seen like this, the quicker you’ll get yourself a reputation.”

“I already have a reputation, Mum, and I’d rather be the boy in a dress than what Mrs Harris called me the other day.”

“Well, I don’t mind putting her in a snit if you don’t.”

So all three of us walked home in skirts. The curtains twitched as predicted and, following my lead, the boys joined me in waving and smiling at our curious neighbours.

“Can I be a cheerleader tomorrow?” Michael asked when I settled him into bed.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll have to alter it so it fits better, but leave it with me.”

“Can we finish the story tonight?” Steven asked.

I smiled and reached for my phone.

It was some time later with the boys asleep and the necessary adjustments made to Michael’s kit when there was a knock on the door.

I checked my watch. Nine-thirty. Not outlandishly late, but I couldn’t think who might want to call on me at this hour, not without phoning first anyway.

The new door didn’t have a safety chain or a peep-hole, so I resorted to the only other thing I could think of.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Open the fucking door,” came a familiar voice from the other side.

Somewhat reluctantly, I opened it to find the face I’d seen in the mirror for thirty years of my life looking back. Behind it was another familiar figure in a red trilby.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 13 - 14 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 Still a lot of unfortunate language, but other than that, nothing to cause nightmares.

-oOo-

Chapter 13

“You can put those cigarettes out for a start,” I said, more than a little disappointed to see them both smoking.

“Whatever,” my counterpoint said tossing his on the ground and stamping it out. The man in red did the same and they pushed gently past into the living room. “Done a bit of remodelling?” My former self asked pointing at the wrecked television.

I ignored him. “What are you doing here?” I asked, directing my question at the man in red.

He removed his hat and smiled. Well, since he didn’t seem to be capable of any other facial expression, the smile broadened.

“Your, er, swap-buddy seems to think your exchange wasn’t exactly equitable. He came looking for me to sort things out.”

“I thought you said no take-backs.”

He shrugged. “My clients quite often get cold feet on the first day. The transition tends to be quite traumatic, so the no take-backs thing is kind of an incentive to commit.

“If the exchange really does turn out to be unequal, then there are a few things I can do.”

“I thought you checked beforehand to make sure that didn’t happen.”

“Sure, I check, but I’m not God you know? Sometimes I miss a thing or two.”

“So, tell me about the checks you made before this particular swap. Did you know what you were letting me in for?”

“Do you recall what you asked for?”

“Remind me.”

“You wanted to be a woman of about the same age, close to home and not unattractive. Would you say I delivered?”

“Well, not unattractive is a bit of a stretch. I mean have you seen the size of this arse?”

“Oy, I’m right here!”

“I’m sure you’ve found your driver’s license, so you know what potential that body has. You do have more self-control than its former owner, so there’s no reason you couldn’t look that good again. I can see you’ve already made a start.”

“Oy! Will you stop fucking talking about me as though I wasn’t in the fucking room?”

I did as requested. “Would you mind keeping your voice down. I have a couple of kids sleeping upstairs.”

“Yeah, and who’s fucking kids are they?”

“That’s actually a good question. I naturally assumed they were part of a package deal, along with that hideous creature you married, but maybe I’m wrong.” I looked back at the man in red.

“Why don’t you ask what he – then she – asked for?”

“Alright, what did you ask for?”

“I wanted out of my fucking life. Out of my marriage to that fucking fuck-turd and his fucking ungrateful kids. One a fucking murderous bastard and the other a fucking whinging prick. I wanted a bit of fucking independence and I wanted to never feel powerless. I didn’t fucking expect to wake up with a dick, but I don’t really mind that I suppose.”

“So not your kids then.”

“What?”

“You wanted out of this family and you have it. They’re mine now.”

“Not if he fucking switches us back, they aren’t.”

I turned back to the man in red. “You said you only switch people if they both want it. What if I said I didn’t?”

“Switching back is different. I try to avoid it where possible, but it depends on how much of an imbalance there is between your lives.”

“And how do you decide that?”

“Well naturally, I review what’s happened to both of you since the switch.”

“Once again, how?”

“Oh, like this.” He clicked his fingers and the smashed television screen mended itself, the set turned on and scenes from both our lives played out side by side. On the right a series of unfortunate events from my previous week, a large portion of which I really didn’t want to relive. From being snubbed at the football to Steven and his friends attacking Jake, to the drunken shit coming home and forcing himself on me. I focused on the left-hand side and decided I didn’t much care for what that showed either. The more or less constant stream of cakes and pastries, the almost immediate purchase and consumption of a couple of packets of cigarettes, the fateful but fortunately not fatal excursion in the car, complete with images of me juggling a slice of cold pizza, and a mobile phone while driving, the dropping of the latter and subsequent crash. There was the ludicrous confrontation at work ending up in me quitting before they could sack me, there were scenes of me swearing at my friends and alienating them. Scenes of me appearing in court and exploding with outrage at the judge’s pronouncement. Scenes of me approaching a couple of gyms to ask about a job. One of them had suggested they could do a before and after thing for advertising if I was willing to do the before shots then come back in after I’d lost a few pounds. That inevitably led to an explosion of profanity after which no-one was laughing. It all wound up about the same time.

“Hmm,” he said when all was done, “well it seems you’re right, there is something of an imbalance here.”

“So, you’ll switch is fucking back?”

If ever there was a gratuitous use of the f-bomb.

“That rather depends.”

“On what?” I didn’t like the cold sensation creeping through me.

“On whether or not you want to,” he asked me, “which I believe you’ve already answered, but I need to be sure.”

“There is no way I want him to become Michael and Steven’s mother again.”

“I could arrange for them to go into care. If you really wanted, I could even arrange for you to adopt them.”

“It wouldn’t be the same. Right now, they have a mother who cares for them and they’re doing well...”

“Well! You think putting the two of them in fucking dresses is doing fucking well? I mean Michael’s a fucking poof anyway, but...”

“Will you keep your voice down?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the man in red said. “They’ll sleep right through this no matter how much noise we make.”

“Oh, okay, but what about the neighbours?”

“I assure you, whatever passes between us in this room won’t reach beyond these walls. But let me get this straight. Your main reason for not wanting to switch back is the boys? I mean what if I offered for you to swap places with that girl in the bar last week?”

“Then she’d have this life, and how would she cope with everything that’s going on. More than that, how would she be with Michael and Steven?

“I can’t really explain it. The boys matter to me and I would do anything to make sure they don’t have to go through any more misery in life than they’ve already had to endure.”

“And the rest of it? The... well, pretty much everything?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a fixer upper, but like you say it has potential. I’d rather keep going with what I have than go back to the train wreck he’s made of my old life.”

“I’ve made of your life? You’re the fucking cunt who left me with a fucking dangerous car to drive...”

“Which passed its last MOT with flying colours and which was serviced only a couple of months ago.”

“Well, your garage is fucking crooked then. And what about that fucking fine?”

“I don’t see any point trying to argue with you. If you can’t see that what you were doing was dangerous then maybe it’s as well you had your license taken away.”

“Okay,” the man in red said in order to get our attention. His smile had slipped about as far as it could and still be called a smile. “This is how it’s going to go from here. You both were given the change you asked for, so no foul there, although I’ll admit that there is a degree of inequality in the switch...”

“Too fucking right there was.”

“The fine, the loss of the car, the loss of your job, the loss of your friends, let’s call it karma balancing out. You don’t have any ties, so you have the freedom to go and reinvent yourself any way you please, and the things you were left, like the car and the savings, they weren’t ever really any part of the deal.

“As for you,” he turned to face me, “I think karma still owes you a little something, and before you ask for something for your boys, this is for you personally. So, what would you like?”

“Well,” I gave it some thought, “healthy lungs would be a good start.”

“Done.”

“Twenty-twenty vision?”

“Okay, keep asking.”

“A little less weight would be nice “

“You can do that yourself.”

“Alright then, maybe some friends?”

“Again, I think you’re doing well enough on that front without any help from me.”

“I don’t want George to bother us again.”

“I can help with that.”

“A decent man in my life?”

“You want a fucking man in your life? I thought you was a bloke.”

“Only ever on the outside.”

“Well, the best I can do on that front is arrange for you to bump into one or two. What follows will have to be down to you, and them. One of them at least.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Most people ask for money.”

“Money’s overrated. As long as we have enough to keep the wolf from the door, and I’m happy to earn that.”

“Then an opportunity to do that?”

“Well, I already had a job interview today.”

“How the fuck d’you manage that?”

“Well, you said you weren’t interested in working for Clark’s and Spencer’s, so I wrote to them.”

“Fuck me.”

“No offense, but you’re not my type. Besides, I’ve decided to come off the pill.”

“What? Why?”

“You saw what George did to me. I have no intention of letting him anywhere near me again. Apart from that, do you think any man would look at this and want to climb into bed with it?”

“I dunno. You don’t look that bad.”

“There’s nothing else you’d like to ask for?” the man in red interrupted us.

“I can’t think of anything, no.”

“Well, let’s say you’re still in credit then. If you think of anything else, let me know.” He handed over a business card. A red one, of course.

“What a-fucking-bout me?”

Okay maybe there were more gratuitous ways to abuse the f-word.

“You get to start over. There are a few things of value in your flat you can sell to cover your fine, then I think you should stop expecting a free ride out of life. Whether or not you believe in karma, you still get out of life as much as you’re prepared to put into it, and so far, you haven’t put a lot in.

“Come on, we’ve taken up more of your former life than we have a right to. Sandra, I’ll see you again at some stage.”

They were gone as quickly as they had come.

-oOo-

Saturday came bright and cheerful, which couldn’t be said for me. After the two visitors had left the previous night, I hadn’t wanted to go to sleep. It was exactly one week since the magical transformation that had brought me into this life and, regardless of what the man in red had said, something inside me worried that, once I fell asleep, I might not wake up in the same skin. It was long past midnight when I finally gave into my fatigue and so, quite late in the morning when I came to.

Things were different. There was a brightness to the world that had not been there before and a freshness to each breath, but my brain was not functioning well enough to make anything of it. I staggered about in an uncomprehending blur for ten minutes before I realised the reason I couldn’t see straight was because I didn’t need my glasses anymore. I took them off and the world swam into focus.

A glance at my watch told me it was half past eight, a degenerately late hour to be rousing in a household with young children. I headed upstairs to find the boys – if the name really applied – wearing their cheerleader gear and sitting in the middle of a moderately tidy room playing together.

Michael beamed up at me as I came in. “Stevie remindedid me to go to the toilet when I woke up and I was dry again.”

I shook my head and looked over at Steven, smiling self-consciously. “All right,” I said with mock severity, “who are you and what have you done with my children.”

Michael giggled and even Steven’s smile broadened a little. It was all the encouragement I needed.

“Oh no!” Perhaps my acting was a little too realistic, because they looked worried for a moment. “It can only be that I’ve left you two to starve for so long, you have brain damage. Come on, quickly! If we have breakfast soon, maybe I can save some of your brain cells.”

I ran downstairs with the two of them making zombie impressions, which they spoiled slightly by giggling.

I made pancakes from a recipe I found on the internet and served them up with fruit and yoghurt. Bananas for the boys and blackcurrants and raspberries for me. I gave them a taste of my fruit but they both preferred the sweetness of the banana.

“What's the occasion?” Steven asked through a mouth very full of carbs.

“Well,” I said, putting my fork down and finishing my own modest mouthful before continuing. “I have two wonderful children who were kind enough to play quietly and let me have a lie in this morning, and it’s the weekend. What more occasion do I need.”

“I’m not complaining. These are great.”

Michael, very much the mimic, put his fork down and swallowed before saying, “Mummy, what happened to your glasses?”

“You know, it’s a funny thing sweetheart. When I woke up this morning, I found I didn’t need them anymore.”

“That’s good, because they made you look a bit like a baby owl.”

“Did they indeed?”

“They kind of did,” Steven said after he’d finished snorting with laughter. “You do look better without them.”

“Well, I’m glad I meet with your approval. While we’re handing out compliments, can I say how much more I like you two like this? What’s made you so much more cheerful?”

“I don’t know. Just everything feels lighter somehow, like this is where I sort of belong.”

“I dreamed about you last night, Mummy. You were talking to a smiley man in a funny red suit, and you said something like I would do anything for my boys. It made me feel all gooey inside. You know, in a nice way.”

“Yeah,” Steven said quietly.

“Well, I hope you two know I really would do anything to keep you safe and happy.”

“Alright,” Steven said with mock severity. “Who are you and what have you done with our mother?”

“Oh no!” Michael exclaimed. “She must be brain damagedid.”

“I think you’re right, Mikey. I think she has some kind of selective amnesia.”

“What’s ambleesha?”

“It’s when you forget things. I don’t think she remembers what we’re really like.”

“Alright you two, enough is enough.” I couldn’t help smiling though. “Have you finished with your pancakes?”

Which was enough of a prompt to get the forks moving again. Steven finished first.

“Can we head down to the school early today, Mum? I’d rather be down there while people are arriving rather than get there and have everyone looking at us.”

“I don’t see why not. That okay with you Mikey?”

“Yeah. I want to be a cheerleader too.”

I quirked an eyebrow at Steven who shrugged and nodded.

“When do you want to get there?”

“I don’t know, I thought maybe nine-thirty or somewhere around there.”

My watch said it was already past nine.

“We’d better get going then. Can you grab something for the two of you to change into? Charlotte’s picking us up from the school. We need to go over a few things to do with future arrangements with your dad.”

“No problem.” He jumped down and dashed upstairs, returning a couple of minutes later with his sports bag over his shoulder. Meanwhile, Michael had finished his breakfast and I’d put the crockery into the sink to soak and was helping him into his shoes.

“All set?” I asked him.

“Yep.” There was something sheepish about his reply, but I was feeling good enough not to let suspicion ruin the mood.

I set the pace heading to the school with Michael especially struggling to keep up. I still felt pretty fresh by the time we arrived and paused to suck in and savour a lungful of cool air as the boys headed over to the far side of the pitch to set up.

The rest of the crew turned up over the next fifteen minutes and I suspected Steven had told them to come early. They were ten minutes into a warm-up routine when Mr Gibson arrived. Mitchel had come wearing his football kit and was standing with the rest of the team making snide comments about the girly squad when the coach walked over to him and had a quiet word in his ear.

He didn't look happy and reluctantly slunk off towards the changing rooms.

The gathering of spectators, mostly parents of the players, were pointing at Steven and his friends and doing a half-hearted job of covering their smiles when, five minutes before kick-off, Steven led the group, Michael included, onto the field.

“Right, you lot,” he shouted with a bright smile on his face, “Let’s give a warm welcome to the visiting team.” Without further delay the whole group jumped through an enthusiastic routine, spelling out the name of the visiting school, all of them ending up on their knees with their arms wide and pompoms shaking.

It was a consummate performance and earned them a smattering of applause from the small crowd.

The cheerleaders ceded the pitch to the players and both teams ran onto the field, just as Mitchell appeared. Very abruptly, Steven and his friends weren’t the funniest thing on the school grounds.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, from his football boots up, he was now wearing white tights, a lurid pink, tulle tutu and a pale pink leotard. The furious red blush on his face clashed dramatically.

He ran across to the rest of the cheer squad, chased by the enthusiastic laughter and clapping of the crowd who had no idea what lay behind it all.

Steven handed him a pair of pompoms and spoke quietly into his ear. Mitchell was not happy, but accepted his instructions and, while the rest of the group ran through some quite effective routines cheering on the visiting team, he pranced about performing comical jetes in front of the rest of the group. His face remained deadpan throughout which made it all the funnier.

“Who’s the clown?” a voice asked at my elbow, so suddenly I jumped.

“Charlie! I thought you were at another match.”

“Cancelled. The other team came down with some bug or other and couldn’t make it. We win by default. Jake asked if we could come here. So, who is he?”

“He’s the kid who thought it would be fun to steal Steven’s uniform at practice last week and force him to go home in a skirt.”

“And suddenly I feel a lot less sorry for him.”

Oddly enough, I did. A week with Steven had taught me that kids – boys especially – of his age had just the wrong mix of pride and stupidity, which meant they very swiftly became their own worst enemy.

I continued to watch as the people around me kept on laughing and pointing, and the harder they laughed, the greater Mitchell’s embarrassment became, manifesting itself as an even more wooden expression and stiff movements until his attempted ballet moves looked more like something from Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks.

Mercifully the whistle blew for half time and Mitchell ran for the changing rooms. I might have followed, except I doubted he’d want to hear anything I had to say to him. Besides, Steven had a set of routines prepared for the break, and my first priority was to stay back and support him. He and the group gave their performance, much to the crowd’s evident enjoyment, then with a few minutes to spare before the game resumed, he brought things to a halt and made his own way toward the changing rooms.

The game was five minutes into the second half when he reappeared with Mitchell in tow. The crowd let out an appreciative cheer and the boy ballerina added his own brand of idiocy to the somewhat tongue in cheek cheers Steven and his friends were making.

A somewhat unexpected consequence of the cheering was that the opposing goalkeeper found himself distracted just once too often and the home side, who hadn’t played an exceptional game, managed to slip one past him, giving us the win.

The final whistle blew and Steven and Michael made their way across the pitch towards me. The other cheerleader’s, Mitchel in particular, felt too self-conscious to remain out in the public eye and bolted for the changing rooms at their first opportunity.

“Hey Stevie,” a pretty young girl called as Steven approached.

“Hi Ann,” he called back. The infamous Ann Summers, I presumed. Like me, she was an unfortunate victim of incompetent parenting. I wondered how she coped with school, but I supposed being attractive enough to appear in one of the catalogues that bore her name must have helped.

“Is this your brother? He’s cute. Tell me, do all the men in your family wear dresses?”

Steven snorted. “I’m sorry. I just had an image of my dad in a dress. You really wouldn’t want to see that.

“You know this is kind of a punishment, don’t you?”

“I did hear something about that. But you really own it, you know? You look so good in that outfit. My mum would kill me if I showed so much skin.”

“I’d like to see you in this outfit.”

“I’d like to see you in some of mine. Maybe you should come round sometime.”

It came as a surprise that someone so young could be so sexually forward, but then again, with a name like hers, who knew what her home life was like. Time to be a parent.

“We’d be glad to have you over some time,” I said, interrupting them.

“Oh hi?” She offered her hand. “I’m Ann.”

“I heard. I’m Mrs Bush, Steven’s mum.” I still felt a quiet thrill when I said that.

“Yeah. Well, I’ll see you around... Stevie.”

“Did you have to, Mum?” It was more disappointment than sullen anger.

“Yes,” I said watching the girl’s retreating posterior with its very much accentuated wiggle. “I’m sorry, Steven, but I really think I did.

“What did you say to Mitchell?” If the shit’s getting deeper, change the subject.

“Oh, only what everyone but he saw, that the crowd enjoyed his clowning about, even if that’s not what he intended.”

“You’re a better friend than he deserves.”

“He’s actually alright most of the time. I think he just saw this as a chance to get my spot on the team.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because he’s wanted it since he joined the team.”

“Hey, Steven.”

“Oh, hi Jake.”

“Mum told me about the things you and your friends were being made to do because of what you did to me.”

“Is that why you came? To have a laugh?”

“No, not really. I mean, my game was cancelled, and I guess I was interested to see, but mainly I was hoping to talk to your coach.”

“Mr Gibson? Why?”

“Just, you know. Would you introduce me?”

“Sure.” Steven looked at me to check it was okay. I shrugged and nodded.

“If you’re curious, you should go listen in,” Charlotte said. “You should know this is his idea, not mine.”

Now I was curious. I tagged along close enough to listen in.

“Oh, hello Steven,” the coach said as he approached. “You look, er... Well, you look the part, I suppose. I want you to know, I don’t agree with what you and the others have been made to do, but you really rose to the challenge. Maybe not Mitchell so much, but even he wasn’t such a dead loss in the end. Er...”

“It’s alright Mr Gibson. Erm, this is Jake. He’s the boy we... Well, I mean he’s who we attacked. I don’t know if you remember, he was the other team’s goalie?”

“Yes, I do remember. You were pretty good as I recall. What are you doing here Jake?”

“I was hoping I could talk to you, sir. I understand Steven and his friends have been kicked off the team for the rest of the season?”

“That’s right. It was pretty serious what they did to you, and we need to make sure they take it seriously.”

“Yeah, except you’re also making them do this cheer leading thing, which has to be a pretty brutal punishment on its own. Especially that kid in pink. I mean what did he do to deserve that? I don’t remember him being with the kids that hit me.”

“Yes, well er, that was their mothers you know. Er...”

“It’s just that I wonder if you realise who else you’re punishing over this.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean your team is pretty good, or at least it was.”

“Excuse me?”

“Last week’s match was the toughest competition we’ve faced this season, and we really didn’t lose by much. Now that Steve and his friends are off the team, we pretty much have the trophy in the bag.”

“Isn’t that a good thing for you?”

“Not really. If we win it’ll be because you’re putting your B team out there, it’s kind of a win by default. We want to win because we’re the best.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we won today.”

“Yeah, by a single goal. When we played these guys, we won eleven nil.”

“Eleven nil, eh? So, what exactly is it you’re saying?”

“I’m asking you to consider if getting these guys to prance about like girls isn’t punishment enough, and maybe you might let us get our revenge on them on the field.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Deliberate fouls are not a part of the game and definitely not what we want to teach.”

“Oh, I don’t mean anything like that, sir. Beating your guys in a fair match would be revenge enough. When we take the trophy away from your best team then you’ll know you’ve been beaten by a better one, and we’ll know we earned it.”

“You’re a cocky little so-and-so, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a bit. Look, all I’m asking for is a chance at some decent competition. Would you at least consider it?”

“I’m sorry, son. You have to understand, if we allow Steven and his friends back on the team, it would be like telling them they could get away with whatever they liked.”

Jake looked pointedly at Steven in his short yellow skirt and crop top. “It doesn’t look like they got away with anything. I mean, didn’t you say this punishment is a bit over the top?”

“Well, yes, but...”

“So maybe letting them back on the team would be kind of a way of making up for the overreaction? And remember, you wouldn’t be doing it for them so much as for us, for me. And aren’t I the victim in this? Shouldn’t I have a say in what happens to them?”

“I’ll tell you what Jake. I’ll give it some thought. I’m not promising anything, but...”

“When we first came over, it sounded like you were saying you were impressed with how Steven and the others have responded to their punishment. Like they were really sorry and doing their best to own it. Isn’t that what punishment is for? To show someone what they were doing wrong and try and get them to do right instead?”

“Yes, but...”

“So, what kind of message does it send when they show they’re sorry and you keep on punishing them. Isn’t that a bit like you kicking the little guy when he’s down?”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“It’s not what you do when you know you’re right. I think you know I’m right too.”

“When’s our next game against you?”

“I think it’s next week at our school.”

“Fine. I’ll have a word with the others involved. If they agree then we’ll let them back on.”

“Thank you, Mr Gibson.”

“Hey, it’s not just me who makes the decision.”

“No, of course not. But thank you all the same.”

Jake turned to Steven and led him by the arm back towards us. Charlotte had the smuggest grin about her.

“That apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?”

“You’d better believe it.”

“Reminds me so much of what you were like in court.”

“Hell, you ain’t seen nothin’ of what I can do yet. I was just as precocious at his age, and now I’ve got years more training and experience behind me.”

“I’m so glad you’re on my side.”

“Shall we go, or do your boys want to get changed first.”

“Can we just go?” Steven asked. “I don’t want to give Mr Gibson a chance to change his mind.” The way he was eyeing his sports bag left me wondering if he had an ulterior motive, but again I chose not to believe the worst.

Chapter 14

“Mummy, Steven packed my dress.” Michael didn’t sound upset. Far from it in fact.

I looked across at Steven standing in the doorway, looking more than a little guilty, also wearing the dress I’d bought him.

“What is this?” Charlotte asked.

“A private family matter,” I replied. “At least I thought it was.” I gave Steven a stern look which he returned with a sheepish grin. “Perhaps you’d care to explain?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Try.” I looked pointedly at Jake who had a distinctly worried expression.

He shrugged and sat. The gesture was unconsciously girly, holding his skirt tight so it didn’t crease under him, but then I remembered how I’d picked up my own mannerisms by observation almost without realising it. We all waited to hear what pearls of wisdom would drip from his lips.

“I don’t know if it’s possible to become someone you don’t like without trying, or if it’s possible not to notice while it’s happening, but I think it kind of happened to me.

“Last weekend when I organised for my friends to gang up on Jake... I don’t know, I think part of me knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but most of me felt like I’d come up with a cool plan that would trick my mum and cause her grief while at the same time... I don’t know. When I talk about it now it really feels like a stupid idea, but I remember feeling justified in doing it.

“Then Mum made me cut up my football shirt...”

“She what!” Jake was outraged.

“Man U strip, number seven.”

“Ronaldo! She cut up a Ronaldo shirt?”

“No. She made me do it.”

Charlotte gave me a look of renewed respect which I pretended not to notice.

“Then she told the school about everyone who was involved and got us kicked off the team.

“I was so fu... Sorry Mum. I was so angry, all I could think of was how unfair it all was. Then the other mums decided that a suitable punishment would be for us to cheer for the other side, and just so we were in no doubt that it was a punishment, that we should… well you saw us in the costumes.

“I wasn’t going to do it, but then Mum made the kit...”

“You made those? You got skills girl.”

“...and got me to try it on, and something just seemed to change.

“It was like all the anger I’ve had in me just melted away and I could see how much of a prick I’d been.

“Then Wednesday happened and being stuck outdoors in a short skirt with nobody offering to help was a pretty crappy experience. Sorry Mum, but it was, and it was weird because I didn’t get mad like usual. I kind of started thinking about all the cr... mean things I’d done to other people. Like Jake. I really am sorry, Jake.”

“Yeah, I would be too if I lost a Ronaldo shirt.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I’m really sorry we picked on you. It was not cool.

“Anyway, since I didn’t have a uniform, Mum let me pick what I wore to school, and I chose my cheerleading kit...”

“They let you in with that crop top?”

“No, it was different, like one of the others. I think Mum ran out of material when she had to make two more which is why I ended up in what I had today.

“I think I chose it as a sort of act of defiance. You know, a way of saying to the prats who were picking on me that they wouldn’t break me that way, but I ended up feeling different all day. Good different.

“While we were at school, Mum bought us these dresses from the charity shop.”

All eyes swivelled in my direction.

“I was playing a hunch,” I said, shrugging.

“Well, it was a good one, because I’ve found whenever I go back to wearing my usual clothes, I feel the old angry me coming back. I know it’s weird, but I like who I am much better when I’m wearing something like this.

“Mum asked me to pack some things for Michael and me for after the match and I kind of picked these things without letting on.”

“Do you want to be a girl?” Charlotte asked point blank.

“I don’t think so. I just don’t want to be, you know, the sort of selfish git who’d plan to attack another kid just because he was really good at a game I liked and nearly beat me.”

“Wearing a dress doesn’t make you kind, you know? Any more than wearing trousers makes you cruel.”

“I know, but somehow it does help. I don’t know, it makes me feel kind of vulnerable, but soft as well. I just have to figure out how to hold onto those feelings while I’m wearing boy clothes, is all.

“I didn’t really think about it being a problem, but I suppose I should have.”

“Fair enough. What do you think Jake? The way I see it, we have three options. One, we can tell this family of degenerates to get the...” she may have very briefly formed an f with her mouth before thinking better of it, “out of our house. Two, we can accept that the world is full of differences and choose to celebrate those differences, even if they do seem a bit weird to us.”

“And three?” Jake prompted.

“Three is I have a couple of dresses upstairs I think would look really good on you.”

By the smile in her eyes you could tell she didn’t mean the last one.

“I’m good,” Jake laughed nervously. “Let’s go with option two.”

“Option four is Jake could lend some of his clothes to Michael and Steven,” I said. “I’d wash them before getting them back to you.”

“I think we’re okay,” Charlotte looked for and received a nod from her son. “If Steven feels he needs this at the moment, we wouldn’t want to get in the way of it. Now, do you think we could get down to what I brought you here for?”

So, we spent the afternoon strategising in preparation for Monday. Jake found a few games that Michael could join in with and we didn’t hear a peep from them until quite late in the afternoon when a heavily laden pizza delivery boy rang the doorbell.

“I ordered for all of us, I hope that’s alright.”

It definitely was, although I had to limit myself to just the one slice. I had made some small headway in the battle of the bulge, and I was unwilling to give up my progress to something so small as an extra slice of delicious... Oh alright, maybe just one more.

We’d worked enough and the kids had played enough, so Charlotte ran us back home.

“We’re in good shape for Monday,” she said as we pulled up outside. “I’ve arranged for a conference room at the courthouse for ten-thirty. I assume you won’t have any difficulty getting there before then.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Is there anything I should bring?”

“Your marriage certificate would be useful, since your marriage is what we’re discussing. The rest we can sort out at the meeting. Enjoy the rest of your weekend and I’ll see you Monday.

It was still daylight as we stepped through the front door, but I locked it behind us even so. Recalling the previous night’s visitors, I made a mental note to call the locksmith and have some form of safety chain fitted. While I was contemplating the door, Steven had noticed something else.

“When did you get the TV fixed?”

I looked at the enormous unit on the wall. The screen was pristine, exactly as the man in red had left it.

If in doubt, go with the truth. “A couple of friends came to visit last night while you were sleeping. I don’t know how, but one of them managed to fix it for us. Tell you what, you guys could really do with a wash, so what do you say about a quick bath and change for bed? Maybe a snack if you’re hungry and a hot chocolate, then we’ll pick something to watch. Steven’s choice tonight, don’t you think, Michael?”

“Really?”

“It’ll have to be age appropriate for your brother, but otherwise yes. I’d say you’ve earned it today.”

They went thundering off to get their sleepwear while I ran the bath and put the kettle on. They were clean in record time and settled in front of the screen before I’d finished tidying up after them.

In the end I relented and allowed a twelve rated film, which was officially too old for Steven as well, but I’d watched it before and a swift mental audit told me there was nothing in it I thought inappropriate, nor was it the sort of thing that nightmares were made of. I set the film going and disappeared to make the drinks. Tea for me because I’d allowed myself way too many calories for the day.

There was a fair bit of action in it, but the scenes involving blood and guts all happened tastefully off camera. The good guys won in the end, which was the main point of importance, and it was long enough that by the time the credits started scrolling up the screen, a had two small bodies snuggled against mine with eyes half lidded.

I could have stayed like that all night, but they wouldn’t have thanked me when they woke. Besides my legs were growing cold.

I nudged Steven until he was awake enough to head off to bed – via the bathroom and his toothbrush – and I tried to lift Michael, eventually acknowledging that I would never have the same strength I’d once had and settling for hauling him to his feet and leading his zomboid form on the same short journey as his brother.

“Mum?” Steven asked muzzily once I’d tucked Michael in.

“Mm?”

“Thanks for today. It was fun.”

“You’re very welcome. I shall have to drag you along to more of my boring meetings.”

“No, I mean it. Jake's really cool and he wouldn't be my friend if not for you. And the cheerleading was a lot of fun as well, in a different way to playing football.”

“Better, or not so good?”

“Neither. Just different. For one thing it takes a bit if getting used to being dressed like a girl in public.”

“You didn’t seem to mind this afternoon.”

“That wasn’t the same. Apart from Jake and his mum, we were kind of on our own.”

“I had a thought on that. Do you think you’d feel more inclined to going back to wearing your normal clothes if you had a nightdress to sleep in?”

His face turned dreamy. “Could be worth a shot.”

“Well, that gives us something to do with some of tomorrow then. We go shopping for nightclothes.”

“Goodnight Mum.”

“Do I get a kiss goodnight?”

He put an arm around my neck and gave me a peck on the cheek. What would have felt a bit weird a week ago was, without a doubt, the best thing in the world.

“I want one too,” Michael said, and how could I say no? His hug was altogether more enthusiastic and his kiss more sloppy. It was also the best thing in the world.

I watched a little more television, catching up on the current affairs I’d been too busy to learn about lately. It was depressing though. Same old litany of wars, poverty and governmental misdeeds.

Having allowed enough time for the boys to settle, I explored some more of the TV’s capabilities, eventually finding a choice of Zumba workouts for beginners on YouTube. The ad breaks were an annoyance, but for all its gentle approach to exercise, I could feel the activity doing me good.

Fiddling with the smart TV set me wondering about WiFi and utility bills. A quick dig into the TV’s settings found me the name of the WiFi service we were using, but hunt as I could, I couldn’t locate the router. My phone used the 4G network, but could see the same service, albeit with a weaker signal than I’d have expected. I decided to let my hind-brain work on the problem.

More worrying were the other utilities. With the pittance he’d given me for housekeeping, I suspected my husband had control over things like gas and electricity, even my mobile. If he cancelled them, I’d really be up the polluted river without a means of locomotion.

I suspected the only reason he hadn’t done so was because he hadn’t thought of it yet. I could pick up a pay-as-you-go SIM on our shopping expedition tomorrow which would at least give me a backup with the phone. As for the rest, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about them till Monday, when I hoped I could get some advice from Charlotte before he had a chance to do anything more.

I made use of the upstairs shower to wash off the workout and changed for bed.

The morning brought a break in the clement weather, which meant our excursion into town was a little more damp and drizzly than I’d have liked. Still, no such thing as bad weather, just wrong clothing, which it turned out we had. Wrong clothing, I mean.

Apparently, between George’s tight-fists and Sandra's fiscal ineptitude, no investment had been made in decent waterproofs, and the only umbrella in the house was broken and useless.

I added to the shopping list. It wouldn’t leave much from the cash I had left in my purse, but food wise we had what we needed for a few days and my Nationwide card should be arriving any day.

We limited the shopping expedition to a small retail park five minutes’ bus ride away. Both boys elected to be boys for the day with Steven succeeding in holding onto his happier mood, possibly because of the prospect of softer nightwear.

The afternoon they spent helping me cannibalise some of the furniture their dad had wrecked in order to repair other bits he’d only ruined. I put together a chicken pasta thing for dinner, which met with universal approval, and set Steven to his homework and Michael to some reading, while I hunted out a few documents I thought would be useful for the following day.

Bedtime saw us all in new, floaty, flouncy nightdresses with both boys giggling like... well girls I suppose. I read another story from Kipling’s Jungle Book, which went down well enough, but it wasn’t as good as Rikki-Tiki-Tavi. I asked what sort of stories they might like and offered them a choice from the Project Guttenberg children’s selection. They settled on Peter Pan as a starting point, and I promised to have it ready for the following day.

Monday was still rainy, and we were glad of the new waterproofs walking to school. For once no drama, no meetings with the head, no dirty looks from the other mums, although that could have been because they were too busy hiding from the weather. No public displays of affection from the boys either, but that was okay, I understood about things like street cred.

I took the bus into town and found a coffee shop near the courthouse where I texted Charlotte my location. She promised to come find me and I occupied my time downloading an ebook reader onto my phone and adding a few titles I thought might interest the boys. I found something for myself too and was a couple of chapters into A Room With a View when my friend and lawyer’s shadow fell across me. She sat opposite and offered me one of the cups of coffee she was carrying.

“I thought you could do with a top up. Whatcha reading?”

So I told her and we chatted about literary preferences, finding a degree of common ground in the classics. That being said, the things I’d enjoyed in my old life didn’t seem to grab my attention in the same way. I’d tried E M Forster before in my old life and hadn’t much enjoyed it, but my new body seemed to have a wider and subtler response to stimuli, and I was already enjoying my reading a lot more.

I steered the topic round to utility bills and she told me not to worry about it as she’d already contacted the utility companies, and any attempt George made to close the accounts would be referred to her first so I’d have the choice of taking them on. The spare SIM was a good idea since my mobile account wasn’t protected in the same way, and she copied the new number into her phone in case I needed to switch.

Fifteen minutes before we were due in the courthouse, we headed for the ladies to take care of what was becoming progressively more urgent business following that second cup of coffee.

It was a sort of power play, being the first ones in the room as well as being better dressed – I’d elected to give my interview clothes a second outing. George had been allowed to change out of his prison clothes, but he still looked pretty rough with several day’s growth of stubble.

He kept looking at me oddly, something which disarmed his scowl, but still left me feeling nervous.

Charlotte put a hand on my arm, making me jump, then leaned in. “Relax,” she said. “He’s just noticing how good you look.”

“I don’t...”

“New dress, contacts – you do look better without glasses – you’ve dropped a few pounds. Trust me, he’s beginning to remember why he got together with you in the first place.”

“Well, I’m not about to forget why I’m getting us untogether.”

“That’s my girl. This is no time for signs of weakness.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant. I think the weakest sign I was likely to offer at that moment would have been to throw up over him. He was a truly revolting human being.

We started with the prenup. Actually, not quite. We started with both lawyers turning on expensive looking recording devices, then Mr Simmons handed a copy of the prenup to Charlotte who thanked him and checked it against my marriage certificate, a copy of which she handed over.

“Naturally, we’ll be contesting this,” she said.

“On what grounds?” Mr Simmons asked.

“On the grounds that it was signed the same day as the wedding. Prenups have to be signed at least three weeks before, as I’m sure you know.”

I wasn’t so sure he did know. Despite only knowing my husband off and on for just over a week, it felt in keeping with what I’d learned that he wouldn’t want to spend much money on a solicitor, and Mr Simmons had proven less than competent in our previous encounters.

Next came custody.

“She can keep the fucking kids,” he growled. “I want nothing to do with them.”

“That’s all very well, Mr Bush, but they are your children and even if your wife...”

“Ex wife.”

“Not yet, Mr Bush. Even if your wife assumes full responsibility for their care, they are still your children and you will be expected to provide financial support, especially if looking after the children means she is unable to find gainful employment.”

George’s menacing gaze turned on his lawyer. “You told me I wouldn’t have to pay for any of this shit.”

“I said nothing of the sort George. I did tell you the children weren’t covered by the prenuptial agreement.”

“Fine, I’ll take them then, and you can fuck off. I’ll put them in fucking boarding school and neither of us gets them.”

“Do I understand you’re contesting custody, Mr Bush?” Charlotte asked, “because if you are, we’ll be forced to bring a motion to have you declared unfit as a parent.”

“On what grounds?” he snarled.

“Breaking into the house late at night and attacking your wife in full view of your children, changing the locks on the house so one of your sons was unable to get indoors when he came home from school, making no effort to check and see they were being cared for after the separation. Oh, and that comment you just made on record won’t help much.

“You should be made aware that if we’re successful in proving this, you will be legally obliged to inform anyone with whom you may wish to cohabit in the future if they already have children.”

He fumed, then through gritted teeth, “Fine, no fucking contest.”

“You agree to cede full custody to my client and to provide adequate child support until they each reach their eighteenth birthdays?”

“That’s not what I said. I won’t contest custody, but I’ll fucking contest paying for the fuckers.”

“Mr Bush, please. As we discussed, please let me handle the negotiations.”

It went on from there. While matters were contested in the courts he would continue to pay mortgage and upkeep on the house and I would continue living in it with full tenant rights, including the right to privacy. I wouldn’t pay rent as this would count as part of his interim support. In addition, he would continue to pay me a hundred and seventy-five pounds a week housekeeping. Charlotte wanted to hold out for more, but he argued I’d made do on a hundred and fifty for fucking years. She argued inflation and managed to raise the figure slightly.

She wanted him to pay for repairs to the damaged furniture, which he said he wouldn’t do since it was his fucking stuff, and if he was letting me stay in the fucking house for free then he was going to count it as fucking unfurnished.

The next topic was division of assets. He jokingly said I could keep the TV, for which I thanked him, then went on to say we could fight over the rest in court, assuming I could afford to.

It wasn’t a bad start, Charlotte assured me. She would continue to represent me pro bono because, even if Refuge refused to fund her anymore, George was just the sort of arrogant, misogynistic, selfish asshole – her pronunciation, not mine – she had trained as a lawyer to fight.

He had officially given up any rights to custody of his children, which meant he would only ever see them again if I allowed it, and the rest of it we’d duke out in the courts.

The meeting had taken up all that remained of the morning and Charlotte was treating me – yet again – to lunch when my phone buzzed.

I put my spoon down and answered.

“Hello?”

“Mrs Bush, Maximilian Andrews here. From...”

“Clark’s and Spencer’s, I remember.”

“Yes. Well, I’m very pleased to say that Mr Clark was extremely impressed with your interview on Friday and has decided to make you a probationary offer.”

“That’s wonderful news, Mr Williams.” I gave Charlotte a thumbs up in response to the genuine delight dancing in her eyes.

“Yes, we were wondering how soon you could start.”

“Well, I’m in town at present and my afternoon is free, so... half an hour?”

“Woah ho there. I like your eagerness, but why don’t we say two o’clock? We can set you up with a computer and a desk.”

“At the interview I did ask about the possibility of working from home. Is that still possible?”

“Well, we would like to keep a closer eye on you, at least at first, so...”

“I mentioned I was a single parent, if you recall. I will at least need the flexibility to take them to school and pick them up afterwards.”

“That should be possible. We can set you up part time from nine till three if that works for you.”

Just. The bus took fifteen to twenty minutes each way and the timing was right.

“That would be fine, Mr Andrews, and I’d be happy to make up the extra two hours in the evening.”

“Alright, let’s work the details out when you get here. I’ll see you at two, Mrs Bush.”

“They want me to start this afternoon!” I said as I swapped my phone for my spoon. The seafood chowder was too good to let it go cold.

“That’s great. We gotta go celebrate girl. D’you have time to go shopping before you start?”

“I have about an hour,” I said glancing at my watch.

“Easily enough time. You’ll do for today,” she said looking over my dress, “but we gotta get you some office wear.”

“They’re pretty casual about what you wear to work, I believe.”

“Don’t you believe it. I mean, I realise you ain’t never had a job, but when they say smart casual, it means something different for us girls. The guys can get away with chinos and a polo shirt, but for us the emphasis is more on the dress and less on the casual.”

“If you say so. I still don’t have my bank card though, and I’m running low on cash.”

“Don’t be dumb girlfriend. I said we were celebrating, which means I’m buying. I hate to think what you might get if you spend more time looking at the price tag than the clothes.”

“You know, if we’re not careful, people will start to talk. You keep buying me lunch, and now presents.”

“Don’t get your hopes up darlin’. I may be off men at the moment, but I ain’t ready to swing that way just yet.”

We found the perfect outfit in the first ten minutes and I rather suspected Charlie had seen it earlier and thought of me. It didn’t stop us from spending another half hour trying on other things and I resolved to come back as soon as I had easier access to the contents of my bank. I wanted to wear the new purchase out of the shop, but since I was only going to be there for an hour, I deferred to Charlotte’s better judgement.

The next hour was surreal. Being introduced to people I already knew, being given my old desk back, being given the introductory presentations, half of which I’d helped to write. We were done by three and I headed for home with a shiny new laptop slung over my shoulder.

The bus dropped me off with a couple of minutes to spare, which meant a power walk to get to the school on time. I still had the issue of bits of me wobbling out of phase with the rest of me, but I wasn’t out of breath when I reached the school.

The kids came out looking bright and cheerful, and Mrs Nullis approached me, asking if I could give her a few minutes in the morning.

I explained about the job.

“Oh, congratulations. Do you... Do you have a few minutes now? This shouldn’t take long.”

I asked Steven if he would keep an eye on Michael while I talked to his head teacher, and he agreed readily enough, only both his eyes were on Ann Summers who smiled and gave him a wave. I told Michael to stay with Steven and headed into the school.

“Let’s be brief, shall we? I’ve heard excellent reports from parents who were at the game on Saturday, saying how entertained they were with our little squad of cheerleaders.”

I smiled but let her continue.

“As you recall, the punishment was only supposed to last until they showed they’d learned their lesson, and I think they did. Even Mitchell. So, if you’re amenable, I’d like to say that part of the punishment is done. I mean, I’m aware you put a fair bit of effort into making those costumes.”

I raised my hands in protest.

“In addition, I understand Mr Gibson was approached by the young man who was attacked, and he argued quite eloquently that your son and his friends should be allowed back on the team. I don’t know how you might feel about that.”

“I was there, and I have to say I agree with most of what Jake said. I think the lesson’s been learned and would actually be reinforced if they were now rewarded for their positive response.”

“Which leaves Mitchell and Kyle. Since it was Steven who suffered at their hands, how do you think he’d feel about their being allowed back on the team?”

“Why don’t we ask him?”

So we did and, as I’d suspected, he was just as magnanimous if not quite as erudite as Jake in his forgiveness.

“There’s just one more thing then, and you can feel entirely free to say no if you like, Steven. Several of the parents were so impressed by the cheer squad, they’ve asked for a repeat performance. As I say, don’t feel any pressure, and I will be asking each one of your friends individually, but would you be prepared to exchange your football kit for a pair of pompoms every now and again?”

Ann, who had been standing close by, said, “I’d be happy to join any cheer squad you were leading, Stevie, and I could name a bunch of other girls who would too.”

Steven grinned. “Then I have to do it, Mrs Nullis. Mitchell can play right wing.”

Back home it came as no surprise when Steven changed into his charity shop dress. I shook my head in mock despair, but I understood, at least in part. A bit of me worried that I’d directed him down a path he would struggle to come back from, but his was a new generation, and gender fluidity had a certain coolness factor in some circles. If Ann Summers happened to be in that particular orbit, then maybe it would be for the best.

“Do you know where your dad hid the WiFi router?” I asked.

He looked at me oddly. “We don’t have WiFi,” he said.

“Then what’s the TV connected to? Things like Netflix and Amazon Prime need the Internet, and the TV does have a wireless link.”

“That’ll be next door,” he said pointing to our neighbours to the right – that is to the right if you faced our house from the street. “Do you remember, he did some work for them last year? That was about when he bought the TV, and he was actually in a good mood for a couple of weeks.

“It was one of the few times I had more curiosity than common sense. I asked him about it, and he laughed and told me he’d taken a picture of the login details for their router while he was in there fixing their pipes. He got serious then and told me never to breathe a fuc... I mean a word. Sorry Mum.”

“You’re doing alright sweetheart. Just keep working on it. If you’ll excuse me, I should have a word with our neighbours. That side you say?” I pointed.

“I think so. They don’t like us much mum.”

“They will probably like us less in a few minutes, but let’s see what a little honesty can buy?”

There was no bell, so I knocked.

“What do you want?” Like Steven said, not that happy to talk to me.

“I was hoping to have a word with you about my husband.”

“Cheating fat slob. What’s the bastard done now?”

“It’s actually something he did quite a while ago. This would be easier if we weren’t shouting through a door.”

“I don’t care.”

“Alright, I’ll come back when you’re feeling a little more reasonable.” I turned away from the door and heard it unlock behind me.

“What did the arsehole do?” He was an elderly man with thin grey hair and a wrinkled face set in a permanent scowl, though it could as easily have been thoughts of dealing with that family next door.

“Is this the name of your WiFi?” I showed him a picture on my phone I’d taken of the TV settings.

“I knew it! I knew he’d been using my connection. It was since he did that work for me wasn’t it?”

“I think so. In any case, I’ve disconnected the TV now.” I showed him another photograph of the TV showing no WiFi connection. “He’s gone, hopefully for good, and only he knew the password, so you don’t have to worry about us doing it anymore. I’m really sorry about this.”

“Well, you’re better off without him if you don’t mind me saying. There’s something different about you too. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I suppose it goes without saying I’m a lot less stressed now that he’s gone.”

“A little more polite too. Well, thank you for letting me know. I suppose I can forget it, you know, since you’ve disconnected now. But if you’re trying to trick me...”

“I’m not, sir. This won’t happen again. Tell me, do you like cottage pie?”

“Eh?”

“Cottage pie? Mince, carrots, mashed potato?”

“I know what cottage pie is, young lady.”

“I was planning on making it for the boys tonight. I wondered if I might bring you some, as a sort of apology.”

“Well... That would be very kind. I haven’t had a home cooked meal for a while now. Not since...” He sniffed. “I have to go now. Thank you for calling.”

He closed the door leaving me with enough jigsaw pieces to put together half a picture. I suspected I’d be making more than just one peace offering.

It also meant I was going to have to sort out my own broadband. I set up the TV to work with my mobile acting as a hotspot just to see how well it would work, then disconnected. I didn’t know what mobile package I had and if I ended up stinging George with too much of a data charge, it would most likely convince him to cancel my contract. Besides, however much I disliked the man, it wasn’t reason enough to compromise my own principles.

Next, I put tea together while Steven worked through his homework. I looked over his shoulder and pointed out a few mistakes he’d made. English was easy. I loved our language and knew a lot about it. Maths was okay and I’d felt my numeracy returning to its old levels over the past week. The rest was a bit of a mixed bag, but year seven stuff shouldn’t challenge most parents, and Steven was no scholar anyway.

While I was serving the food up, I asked Michael to take the extra plate, which I’d covered with a large bowl, next door.

He was back a couple of minutes later.

“He’s a funny man,” Michael said cheerfully. “He said thank you, but he was crying. Why was he crying, Mummy?”

“I think he misses his wife,” I said.

“Will you miss Daddy like that?”

“Oh, I doubt it. What about you guys? Will you miss him?”

“Well, he’s not dead,” Steven said, “So it’ll just be like he’s not here, as usual.”

“Only less scary,” Michael added. “I didn’t like it when Daddy got angry.”

“Well, you do know Daddy and I are getting a divorce, don’t you?”

Steven nodded. Michael wanted to know what a divorce was.

“It means that he will only ever be allowed to see you two if I allow it, and I will only allow it if you say you want to see him, and I think it’ll be safe. Which, since I don’t think that’s ever likely to happen, means that it’s just the three of us from here on. Would that be okay with you?”

“As long as you keep on being nice Mummy, I think it will be wonderful.”

“Yeah, I’m good with it,” Steven agreed.

“Nice Mummy is likely to stay as long as you two keep giving me reasons to be proud of you, like you have these last few days.”

“Will you ever get married again, Mummy?”

“You know, I’d really like to say yes to that, but he’d have to be the right man, and you’d have to like him, and he’d have to like you too, so you know, that narrows down the options a bit.

“Right now, you two are the only men I want in my life. It’ll probably take a while after things are sorted out with your dad before I’ll even think about other men.”

“Will we have to move?” Steven asked. “I mean, this is Dad’s house, isn’t it?”

“It’s in Dad’s name, but it’s our house. He may have earned the money to pay for it, but I looked after it and you while he was doing so, so I’ve as much invested in it as him.

“We’ll have to see what’s decided in court. It is possible we’ll have to move, but if it does come to that, I’ll try to stay close so you can keep going to the same school. I wouldn’t want you to have to say goodbye to your friends.”

The tension visibly eased from his shoulders.

“Please don’t be shy about asking questions. I mean, I know sometimes there are going to be things you don’t really feel like you can talk to me about, but if anything worries you, please let me know and we’ll figure out how to deal with it.”

“Thanks Mum. This is good by the way.” He scooped in his last mouthful.

“There’s more if you want.”

“No, I’m full. Can we watch something before bed?”

“You’ve finished your homework?”

“Nearly.”

“Get that done first. Michael, please go and get changed for bed.”

“Can I try without pull-ups tonight?”

“Well, it’s been, what three nights since you had an accident?”

“Four.”

“Then I think it’s definitely worth a try.”

I washed up and tidied while Steven finished the last of his homework, then signed his diary while he ran upstairs to change, reappearing moments later in his nightdress. Michael had chosen to wear pyjamas, the novelty of pretending to be a girl something of a yesterday’s thing.

“Just a short thing tonight as it’s a school night.” And I was concerned about the amount of data my phone would use. They didn’t know what to choose, so I picked Porco Rosso as it was a favourite of mine from Studio Ghibli, and we watched it to about halfway through with me promising they could watch the rest the next day.

I then used the mobile hotspot on my phone to connect my laptop to the work server and download a couple of pieces of work. Once I had them, I was able to go offline and get on with doing my job.

I stopped around eleven and put things together for the next day. Breakfast sorted, lunches sorted, a quick check on the kids showed them out for the count. Michael’s clothes were still thrown anywhere, but Steven’s, I noted with approval, were neatly folded on the end of his bed.

I picked out fresh underwear and removed the dirties, which I added to the washing basket. A quick shower, toothbrush and moisturise and I was in bed before half past.

I didn’t get halfway through the night before I was woken by the sounds of movement in the room next-door.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 15 - 16 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 Still some bad language, but things are getting better.

-oOo-

Chapter 15

I stuck my head through to find a ghostly shape wavering back and forth. There was a sickly-sweet smell in the room which told me all I needed to know. I led Steven through to the en-suite off my bedroom and turned on the light.

He blinked and squinted at the sudden brilliance. I could see the front of his nightdress was spattered with pale stains.

I turned on the shower and undressed him while the water warmed up. When it wasn’t going to come as too much of a shock, I pushed him in and helped him clean the sticky mess from his front. I then left him towelling off while I went to fetch him some PJs. He only had the one nightie, so that would have to wait till I could run a wash.

“I don’t know what happened, Mum.”

“It’s alright sweetheart, I do. Did you dream of anything?”

His reddening ears told me the answer.

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to.”

“I was with Ann at the prom, and we were both wearing the same dress. Then we were kissing and it felt so wonderful, then I kind of woke up gasping and everything was, you know.”

“I do. Tell me, what do you learn in PHSE classes. I know you have them because I’ve seen them timetabled in your diary.”

“Mostly it’s about STDs and how easy it is to get a girl pregnant.”

“Did they ever teach you about wet dreams?”

“Oh. Is that what that was?”

“Yes. You should be okay for the rest of the night, but we should have a chat soon. Not now because you need to sleep, and I need to clean up. You sleep in my bed, and I’ll take some spare bedding downstairs.”

“It’s not fair. We just fixed your bed.”

“Yes, and I’m glad we did because at least you have somewhere to sleep tonight. Go on, settle down. I’ll see you in the morning.”

So, that left me to strip his bed and take a wet cloth to where the semen had made its way through to the mattress. I took the soiled bedclothes downstairs and put them in the bath to soak. A quick examination of the duvet showed it hadn’t escaped unscathed either, however, the washing machine was family sized and would take both duvet and bedding. I loaded it up and set it running, then hunted out a few musty blankets and settled on the couch. I was warm and cosy enough and slept through to my usual waking time.

Upstairs to take a semi-comatose Michael through to the toilet. I was probably being over cautious, but I didn’t want to take chances with his first night without pull-ups resulting in an accident.

“Why’s Steven in your bed?” he asked after a mammoth yawn.

“He had a bad dream, sweetie. Are you done?”

He nodded so I helped him down and back into his nightclothes. He didn’t take much persuading to climb back into bed, and he was asleep before I’d left the room.

The weather looked promising, so I emptied the washing machine and stepped outside in my dressing gown to hang up Steven’s bedding. The skies may have been clear, but it was chilly enough that my legs were turning blue by the time I’d done.

I tip-toed into my room and sorted out my new clothes, removed the tags and stepped into the en-suite to change. Both bra and knickers felt a little loose, which was pleasing. Sorting the bra meant adjusting the straps a little. The knickers didn’t have that option, but they weren’t that loose and the tights helped keep them I’m place. I dressed as quietly as I could, but Steven was still sitting up in bed when I reappeared.

“Wow, Mum. Looking good.”

I thanked him for the complement then suggested he should get dressed.

“Could we have that talk? I mean, I know we don’t have much time, but...”

“Of course, sweetie.” I sat next to him. “Do you want to start, or should I?”

“You go.”

“Okay. You know what happened last night, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“It means your body’s beginning to mature. That almost certainly won’t be the last time you have an experience like that, but it’s nothing to be ashamed about. It’s just a bit messy and it’s part of my job as your mum to help get you sorted when it happens, so don’t feel you have to go through it on your own.”

“Okay.”

“I wanted to talk to you about something else though, because now this has started to happen, you’re going to start changing. You’ll most likely grow tall like your dad, and you’ll develop quite a bit more muscle, most likely get hairier, also like your dad.”

“I don’t want to be anything like him.”

“Wait there a moment.”

Something else that had turned up when I’d been clearing through the aftermath of George’s wanton destruction was a box of photographs. Not great quality since they’d been taken with phone cameras from ten to fifteen years ago and printed on photo paper using a cheap inkjet printer, but they were still good enough to make out a few details, like the smiles. I handed a selection over to Steven.

“Is that you? Wow, you were hot!”

He didn’t mean to be unkind. Besides, it gave me incentive to stick with the diet. Maybe I could be again.

“Your dad looked pretty good too,” I said pointing him out in a few shots. “You have a mix of his and my genes in you which means I think you’re going to end up looking pretty amazing yourself.”

“So what happened? I mean I don’t remember either of you ever being this happy.”

“It’s rather a sad story, love, and not one for right now.” I held up a photograph of his dad in his prime. “I want you to imagine him in a dress for a moment.”

His mouth writhed as he fought to hide the smile.

“Now imagine yourself in maybe a year’s time looking like your own version of this. Think about how wearing girl clothes helps you find the gentle part of your soul at the moment. Do you think you’ll be able to do the same if you look like this?”

He didn’t have to fight the smile anymore. It was gone.

“There are a few things we can explore, sweetie. The first, if you want, is we could go see a doctor...”

“I’m not sick.”

“I know, I’m not suggesting you are. But do you remember what I said to you a while back about those drugs to stop you developing?”

“Yeah?” He replied warily.

“I don’t know a lot about them. I mean, I don’t even know if they’d be right for you in any case, but we could ask. What I remember reading about it is that they can stop the changes you’re about to go through, at least temporarily. The way I understand it is as soon as you stop taking them, your body picks up where it left off.

“The thing is, if we don’t do anything, your body will develop, and it’ll be pretty much impossible to reverse the changes once they’ve happened. Now I realise you may not want to do that, but until we know for sure, or until you’re ready for them to happen, maybe it would be worth seeing if we can put it all on hold. That way we’ll have a little more time to figure out what’s right for you.

“Or we could just let nature run its course and make sure you at least have a nightdress or two to wear so you won’t feel the weight of all that anger while you’re asleep. And since it’ll just be you me and Michael that sees you, we’ll know not to laugh at you if you look a bit ridiculous.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“That’s not really for me to say. How do you feel about the idea of growing tall and strong and hairy? Does it excite you or scare you?”

“I think it scares me a little. I don’t want to turn into Dad.”

“Not wanting it is at least half the battle won, love, and it took more than being big and strong to turn your dad into an arsehole. That being said, we don’t really know enough to make any well-informed decisions, so maybe we should talk to someone who knows a bit more about this sort of thing and get some professional advice. There’s a kind of doctor called an endocrinologist who specialises in the body’s hormonal systems, like the one that’s starting to change you. He’ll be able to tell us what we need to help make up our minds what’s best. But if we’re going to do it we have to do it soon before your body changes too much.”

“How soon?”

“I really don’t know, sweetie. I’d guess we have a month or two before the changes start to show, but it could be a lot more or a lot less. The thing is, just talking to someone doesn’t commit us to doing anything, it just gives us options.

“Okay, let’s talk to this doctor. I’m not sure about the drugs thing, but I don’t really want to look stupid doing the cheerleading stuff.”

“There are male cheerleaders as well you know? We could make you a uniform that would look good on you.”

“Would it still have a skirt?”

“That would be a challenge. Making a skirt that would look good on a young man, but I think maybe I could figure something out.

“Whatever else happens, just know that nothing you’re going through is unusual. All men have to cope with what happened to you last night at some stage, and you’re not the first young man to benefit from wearing a dress. Whatever you decide, I’ll be beside you all the way.”

“I love you, Mum.” He buried his face in my chest. “I wish you’d always been like this.”

“Well, I am now, and it’ll have to do. Go and get dressed and give your brother a gentle nudge. I may have woken him a little early this morning.”

I found a mirror to make sure I still looked good. My blouse was a little rumpled but with some straightening and tucking back in, I was happy enough with the result.

I noticed a few heads swivelling in my direction when we arrived at the school. They turned away just as quickly when I looked back, so there didn’t seem much mileage in responding. The boys disappeared towards their respective establishments and with nothing more to keep me there, I left, heading towards the bus stop.

On the way into town, I brought up my GP surgery’s website and put in a request for a call back. It had a box for preferred time, so I put in after three pm to avoid awkwardness at work. I then did a little research on broadband solutions and settled on what looked like my best option, given that I needed it pretty much immediately.

There was a shop that offered what I was looking for about a hundred yards from Clark’s and Sparks. By managing to catch an earlier bus, I just had time to pop in and make use of my newly minted debit card to buy the necessary hardware and set up the associated contracts.

The day at work whizzed by. With the work I’d done the previous evening I was ahead of the game, but you don’t stay in the lead if you stop for a rest when you see how far ahead you’ve gone. That’s what happened to the hare in Aesop’s fable. Slow and steady may have won the race there, but that was just because they hadn’t considered fast and steady. I was on probation, so this was the time to shine.

As three o’clock approached, I was struggling to find enough work to keep me going for the evening. What there was, I downloaded before packing up, then on the way out I had a quiet word with my line manager, asking for a few more bits to work on when I came in the following morning.

The doctor called during my bus journey home.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Bush,” he said with a world-weary sigh. “How can I help you today?”

“Good afternoon, doctor,” I replied, ignoring his sarcastic tone. “I’m worried about one of my sons. He’s been showing some indication of gender fluidity, and last night he took his first major step into puberty. I was hoping you could arrange for him to speak with someone to discuss options before he changes too much.”

I’ll give him his due, he took the call seriously from that point on, asked several questions to clarify the situation, then made notes while I was still on the line. We hadn’t quite finished when the bus pulled into my stop and I stepped off onto the kerb with the phone still glued to my ear.

He said he would email a few specialists that afternoon, making a point of the urgency of the matter, and that I should have a response within a week. I thanked him and joined the rest of the mum’s awaiting the release of the masses.

“You’re looking very smart, Sandra.” It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment, but I took it as one anyway. A compliment I mean.

“Thank you,” I replied cheerfully. The speaker had a pinched expression that added at least a decade to her appearance. I looked her over for any clue as to her name, but there was nothing.

“So, what’s the occasion?”

“Nothing special,” I smiled, “but you have to make an effort for work, especially on your first day, don’t you?”

“He has you working now, does he? What’s the matter? Can’t he scam enough out of people by himself?”

A few sycophantic titters fluttered around us.

“I don’t know, and I really don’t care. I kicked him out a week ago and he’s being awkward about child support. It seemed sensible to arrange an alternate source of income.”

“Doing what? I didn’t think there was much call for screaming profanities. at the top of one’s voice.

Yet again that ripple of suppressed laughter. Enough was enough. I rounded on her.

“At least when I don’t like someone, I have the courage to say it to her face.” I said it calmly with a smile. “Hiding behind a thin veneer of false civility and sniping at people for cheap laughs is pathetic and cowardly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve better things to do with my time and better people to do them with.”

With perfect timing, Michael chose that moment to come running up to me. I stopped to embrace him and gave him my full attention. Steven took longer to appear, but given that he was walking alongside Ann Summers, I was inclined to forgive him. I was filled with a vicarious thrill just from watching them. They separated reluctantly, Steven approaching me and his companion heading towards the pinch faced woman.

Oh shit.

It was hard to see the resemblance between her daughter’s carefree smile and her own sour demeanour, now overshadowed with a simmering rage at having been bested by the likes of me.

I sighed. For the sake of my son’s happiness, I was going to have to eat a little humble pie. I walked over to her.

“Mrs Summers?”

She looked up and pursed her lips.

“We got off on the wrong foot there. I overreacted, and I’m sorry.”

“I’d like you to stay away from me, thank you very much. Just who do you think you are? And your freak of a son can stay away from my daughter too.”

“Now that’s uncalled for. Whatever your feelings towards me, there’s no need to take them out on Steven.” I could feel something of my eldest’s sullen anger returning. I put a hand on his shoulder and felt him tense under my touch. It had all been going so well too.

“What did you do?” he raged at me as we walked home.

“I reacted angrily, a bit like you’re doing now.”

“You ruin everything! I hate you!” He stormed off ahead leaving Michael and me trailing in his wake. His little tantrum was spoiled slightly when he had to wait, fuming, at the front door until we caught him up and I opened the door. The moment I did so, he charged in and upstairs where he slammed the bedroom door. Teen speak for leave me alone. Okay, so he wasn’t quite a teen, but he was getting there.

I set Michael playing with a few toys he’d left downstairs. We’d both had enough experience of their dad to know it was unwise to disturb Steven in his current mood. Considering his mood, I scrapped my original plans for tea and dug some sausages out of the freezer, setting them to defrost in the microwave.

While it was humming away, I gathered in Steven’s bedding, then unpacked and set up the G4 router I’d bought at the mobile phone shop and linked both the TV and computer to it, my phone as well since it gave us an unlimited amount of data and I wasn’t sure about the contract I had there.

The microwave dinged and I set the oven heating. It didn’t take long to put the sausages and chips in the oven and set a pan of water boiling for some peas. I’d have to invest in a steamer sometime soon, but that could happen when I was a little more financially independent.

My body seemed to have a sense when things needed doing to the food, so by listening to it, everything ended up cooked as well as could be done with such things. I served up one plate for Michael and sat him at the table with a reminder that any peas left on his plate would be in his lunchbox the next day, then I took the other plate up to Steven.

A knock on the door gained no response. I stepped into the room to find him still in his uniform and sitting in the corner.

“I thought you might be hungry,” I said settling beside him.

“Mnph,” he replied.

“Oh. That really is a shame. I mean, you know I hate to waste food and this is all calories and no goodness. Except the peas maybe. I hate to think how this will set back my diet if you make me eat it.”

He ignored me.

“Oh well, here goes.” I cut a piece of sausage and lifted it towards my mouth.

He raised his head enough to watch me.

“Okay, so you called my bluff.” I put the knife and fork back down. “I’m not going to eat your dinner, but you need to. You have practice tomorrow.”

“I’m not going.”

“I thought you were the group leader. Aren’t they all relying on you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Isn’t Ann part of the group?”

“Do you think she will be now? Who’d want to be in a cheerleading squad led by a freak?”

“You know, mean words can only hurt us if we let them. Huh! Look at me handing out advice I should really be listening to myself.”

“What do you mean?”

There’s something I need to remember. Nothing brings a youngster out of a sulk quicker than curiosity.

“I mean your girlfriend’s mother...”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She could be if you wanted her to be. She’s really into you, but okay, your friend – who also happens to be a girl – ’s mother said a few mean spirited things to me while we were waiting for you guys to come out, and I really should have just ignored her. Instead I did something really cruel.”

“What?”

See what I mean about curiosity?

“I told her the truth about herself.”

“I thought you were all about the truth.”

“Oh I am, but some people are so good at lying they can even lie to themselves, and about the worst thing you can do to someone like that is hold up a mirror.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ann’s mum thinks she’s a good person, and the way she convinces herself this is true is by telling the people she thinks aren’t so good just how bad they are.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You tell someone the same thing enough times, they start to believe it. There are few things worse than taking away a person’s ability to believe in themselves.”

“Like Dad did to us.”

“Yes, like Dad, only he was a bit more in your face with it.

“I’m really sorry about what happened this afternoon, Steven. That was my fault and you have every right to be angry with me. I give you my word, I’m going to do everything I can to put it right, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, is that too cold to eat, or would you like me to put it in the microwave for thirty seconds.”

He picked up a chip and bit into it. “Microwave,” he decided.

I picked the plate up. “Are you going to come downstairs to eat it, or is it your majesty’s wish to have one’s dinner served in one’s bedroom.”

He gave me a wry smile. “You’re weird.”

“And that’s not an answer.”

“I’m coming.”

“Bring your bag. I need to check your homework diary.”

“I have some maths which I really don’t get.”

“Why don’t we look at it together after you’ve eaten. Then we can watch the rest of that film if you want.”

I rustled up a tuna salad for myself while Steven munched his way through his dinner, then we looked at the intricacies of converting between decimals and fractions together, which was made only slightly more challenging by Michael, who was feeling left out, wanting to sit on my lap. Despite himself, he paid attention and actually understood Steven’s homework before he did.

We ended a second day snuggled in a row on the sofa, watching an Italian pig in his red flying boat fighting against sky pirates.

Seriously, if you haven’t seen it, you have to give it a go.

Evening routine as before. Once the kids were in bed, do a couple of hours work then put things together for the morning. Lunch boxes, breakfast things, suitable clothes for work. I was going to have to get a little more shopping in as my selection of work attire was limited. I fired off a text to Charlotte asking if she might be up for a little retail therapy at lunch and we made plans.

Sleep, for once, was undisturbed, probably at least in part because Steven had chosen to sleep in his pyjamas.

Morning routine also much the same. Up early, shower, dress, experiment with a little makeup, rouse the boys and set them up for the day. Walk them to school and head for the bus.

“Erm, Sandra?”

I turned to find Ann’s mother standing apart and waiting for me.

“I’m really sorry about yesterday,” I said, wishing I had some way of finding out her name. “I was totally out of line.”

“No, no, it’s me who should apologise. I’ll admit your words stung rather a lot, but it was me who started it all.

“I spent most of yesterday evening thinking about what you said.” She laughed apologetically. “Mainly angrily wondering how you could possibly dare speak to me like that, but when I finally ran out of steam it occurred to me that you were right. I really shouldn’t have said what I did about you or about Steven.”

“Well, if you want to make it up to him you’ll let Ann go to the cheerleading practice this afternoon.”

She laughed again. “Do you really think I could stop her?”

I smiled.

“Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?” she continued. “We could find some neutral ground somewhere and see if we could negotiate a more lasting peace.”

“I’d really like that. Perhaps we could talk about it later? I need to get to work.”

“Of course. Maybe talk this afternoon.”

“I look forward to it.”

I nearly missed the bus, but it was worth it.

My line manager had a pile of material waiting for me. More challenging stuff which had me researching specialist vocabulary, which made it more fun. I heard a few grumbled comments from my neighbouring colleagues about how I was making them look bad, but an apologetic smile seemed to be all the offering I needed to settle the dissent.

Lunch involved a quick bite with Charlotte in one of her favourite haunts followed by a real bonding experience, sadly restricted to just half an hour, but which netted me a smart dress, a couple of skirts and three blouses which, along with a few accessories, gave me enough variety to keep me from repeating my appearance for the next couple of weeks at least.

Michael and I stayed to watch Steven and the girls practice. He stood to one side, copying their moves, and by the end managed to get himself adopted as unofficial mascot.

Listening in on the other mums' conversations proved helpful in furnishing me with a few names, including Ann’s mum’s – Barbara – who suggested we meet for lunch on the Friday.

The chip shop benefitted from our custom on the way home, which saved enough time on cooking and washing up that I managed to persuade the boys to play a board game rather than rot our brains on some more televisual rubbish.

We made a start on Peter Pan that evening. Michael was delighted to find a character named after him in the story and insisted on reading his parts while Steven, who had already spent part of the afternoon in a skirt, sheepishly put on his nightdress and read Wendy’s lines.

Thursday and Friday were much the same, with variations on evening activities. Friday also saw me spending a rather longer than intended lunch break with Barbara, who it turned out shared my passion for the English language and promised to lend me a few books.

“It’s a shame you’re not free during the day,” she said. “A friend of mine runs a book club on Thursday afternoons, which I’m sure you’d thoroughly enjoy.”

I told her I hoped to be working more from home soon and might have time in the future, and she made me promise to tell her when I was free to attend.

Her face lost a lot of that pinched look I’d noticed when we first met and relaxed into an attractive older version of her daughter.

I broached the idea of her and Ann joining us for lunch after the game on Saturday. She declined, saying she saw little enough of her husband as it was, but that was no reason to stop Ann from joining if she wished.

When I made it back to work after lunch, I found a memo from Mr Clark asking me to come and see him. I rushed over to his office, half-expecting a dressing down for taking too long a break, but it was nothing like that.

“I’ve been looking over your work,” he said after he’d invited me to sit and ordered coffees for us both. “I really wasn’t sure what to expect when we invited you on-board, but certainly nothing like this. Tell me, how much have you been doing at home?”

“Two to three hours usually.”

“Well, colour me impressed,” he said. “Your work is meticulous, precise and quicker than just about anyone else we have on staff. This probationary thing was supposed to last three months, but it hardly seems fair that we should be paying one of our best workers a probationer’s salary, does it?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. Starting Monday, you’re a full-time member of staff. I recall you were keen to work from home?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’d still like you in the office two days a week, say Tuesdays and Fridays?”

“That suits me fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Great. We have a big project coming up. Technical manuals for a new commuter aircraft. Do you feel up to the challenge?”

I assured him I was and headed back to my desk in something of a daze.

Chapter 16

Saturday’s lunch date very nearly turned into an unmitigated disaster after both Steven and Ann changed out of their cheerleading kits once we were home. In Steven’s case this meant pretty much his smartest jeans and tee-shirt while Ann had brought a pretty yellow sundress.

Unfortunately, once in male mode, Steven transformed into the sort of bumbling, tongue tied moron that absolutely no girl in existence wants anything to do with. This was both confusing and embarrassing for Ann and I could see her looking for excuses to pull the plug on the visit, just as I could see Steven’s growing anger and frustration.

We hadn’t finished eating and I could see he was rapidly approaching the point where he would say something they’d both regret when Ann excused herself to go to the bathroom.

“Go and put your dress on,” I said to him once she was out of earshot.

“What the fuck, Mum! Do you want to totally fucking wreck this afternoon?”

“I’ll let that slide since you’re evidently upset about how much of a wreck it already is. If you want to salvage anything at all from it, you’ll do as I suggest.”

Angry Steven was close enough to the surface to peek out. He glared at me for a moment, but decided that nothing else he’d tried had worked. He dashed upstairs and changed so rapidly that he was back in his seat and eating again when Ann reappeared.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Bush. Thank you for lunch and everything, but I really need to... Oh!”

She was staring at Steven who returned an embarrassed and shy smile.

“What...?”

“Mum’s idea,” he said. The change in his mood was little short of miraculous. Even he could sense it as he favoured me with a grateful smile. “It’s kind of totally weird, but I think she’s onto something. Please don’t go, unless, you know, this is too much.”

Ann sat back down, a bewildered smile on her face, and for the next few minutes it was her who tripped over her words. She got over it though and by the time we were through dessert, they were chatting contentedly like two human beings.

I shooed them through to the living room with the warning that if I heard the TV go on, Michael and I would join them. It was enough of a deterrent and when I checked on them half an hour later, they were snuggled up together, both with dreamy looks on their faces.

Much later, after I’d managed to pry them apart and suggested that Steven ought to change back before walking his girlfriend – no question on the status of their relationship now – home. After he’d drifted back home in a dreamy haze of hormones, after I’d chased him and Michael through their bedtime routine and settled them down for a chapter or two of Peter Pan – Steven very much in Wendy mode. After I’d tucked them both in and given them a kiss. Steven spoke up.

“What’s happening to me, Mum?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, love. I have some thoughts, but I’m no trained psychologist so I’m not sure if I should share them.”

“You have to give me something.”

“Well, I did talk to our doctor a few days ago and he’s arranging for a referral to a specialist. Can it wait till then?”

“I don’t know that it can.”

“Alright. Come on back downstairs so that we don’t disturb your brother.”

I made us both a drink while I ordered my thoughts. I’d half hoped he’d fall asleep on the sofa and give me a reprieve, but he was evidently too worried to sleep.

I perched down next to him and handed him a mug of hot chocolate.

“Do you remember a few days ago when I told you everyone is a bit of a mixture of male and female?”

“Sort of. I wanted to know if I was turning into a girl.”

“That’s right. The first thing I think I should say is that I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen to you. Not unless you choose to make it happen.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“This is where it all becomes a little bit guesswork, but let’s see what we can find out. Would you say your friends think that boys are better than girls?”

“The boys do, yeah. The girls think the opposite.”

“I suppose that is the way things are going these days. Would it surprise you if I told you they were both wrong? And maybe a little bit right?”

“Huh?”

“Boys tend to be better at some things while girls tend to be better at others. We’re different is all. And just because most boys are better at one particular thing doesn’t mean that somewhere there’s a girl who couldn’t wipe the floor with them.

“The reason we compete separately as men and women in sports is because men tend to have an unfair advantage when it comes to strength just as women do when it comes to agility and flexibility, but I’m not really interested in our physical differences. More in what’s up here,” I tapped his head, “and in here.” I placed a hand over his heart.

“I have to say, most women do have an advantage there, but only because they realise it’s possible to be a woman while embracing both their female and male characteristics. Men, because they think they’re better than women, tend to suppress those parts of themselves because they see them as weakness.”

“And you’re saying that when I put on a dress or something like this,” he smoothed out the lap of his nightie, “it gets me to act more like a girl.”

“What I think I’m saying, and I need to emphasise, I’m no expert here. What I think I’m saying is when you’re wearing girl clothes, there’s no way you can convince yourself you’re all boy, so it lets all of you shine through. When it’s just the boy in you, you’re only half there, so there’s no wonder you’re a mess.”

“So I need to convince myself that the girly side of me is just as good as the manly side.”

“That’s my best guess at the moment, but let’s wait to hear what the experts have to say before we commit to that as an idea, okay?”

“Okay, thanks Mum.”

“Well, like I say, they’re just my thoughts. I may be completely wrong. You should brush your teeth again before you go back to bed, and I’d be grateful if you’d drop your mug in the sink.”

“Sure. Goodnight.” He reached across and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Did you ever want to be, you know, a man?”

I smiled. “No sweetheart, I can safely say that I have never wanted to be a man.”

…

The weeks that followed fell into very much of a routine. It bothered me that I might become bored and frustrated with the repetition, but there was enough variety to the kids’ responses day by day to keep me interested, and I found myself feeling very committed to their welfare.

A combination of maintaining a diet with very little in the way of carbohydrates and particularly sugar, along with a commitment to keep moving – relatively gentle dance moves behind closed curtains while I did my work at home took care of that – saw the accumulation of fat melting away from my body and within less than a month I began to see the pretty face and body in my driving licence re-emerge. An added bonus was that the dancing taught me to move with my body's natural rhythms, allowing an unexpected fluid grace to emerge in my movements.

Work was about as I remembered it; interesting without being particularly challenging. The aircraft manual made a fascinating project and I learnt a lot about commercial aviation, even to the extent of spotting what I believed was a mathematical error in one of the tables. They dismissed my concerns when I phoned them about it, but a week later we received a revised version of their proof document with a table containing values suspiciously close to mine.

No-one likes an I-told-you-so though, so I let it slide.

The one fly in the ointment happened at the end of my first month, when pay slips were passed out and I discovered my hourly rate to be a good ten percent lower than I had been earning before switching lives.

My first contact for personnel matters was Max the Axe. I didn’t much care for the idea of speaking to him, but it seemed my choices were limited.

“How can I help you,” he said with his artificial smile.

“I was just checking to see if there was any mistake with my pay check,” I said.

He took it from me, gave it a brief once over and handed it back. “Looks in order to me.”

“You know I’m no longer a probationer?”

“Mr Clark did send me a memo about that, yes. You’re being paid at the appropriate rate for a female member of staff.”

“I thought it was illegal to do that.”

“Not if we can show that the value of the work done is less. We’ve found that the men who work for us tend to be more focussed than the women. The women tend to be more distracted, so require a greater level of checking.”

“Mr Clark mentioned to me that my work was meticulous, precise and quicker than just about anyone else here.”

“Yes, he does like to get a little flowery with his words. However, it’s me that has to decide how the work is allocated and who’s work needs the most inspection.”

“Perhaps you’d care to show me evidence of that?”

“In order to do so, I’d have to permit you to look at other staff members’ work records, which would breach privacy laws.”

“How convenient for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that the only way you have of providing me with evidence that my work is of any less quality than the men who work here, or that it needs any greater degree of quality control, is covered by data protection laws, which prevent you from doing so.”

There was a touch of a sneer in his smile. “I’m pleased you have such a good understanding of the situation.”

“I wonder if Mr Clark has a similar understanding.”

“Mr Clark understands that if we were to pay the women who work here the same as the men, the wage bill to the company would rise by seven percent, resulting in a rise to our fees that would make us considerably less competitive, meaning we’d have less work and would, at the very least have to downsize.”

“And I suppose it couldn’t be paid for out of the company’s profit margin?”

“Either way would result in a reduction in profits, which would lead to unhappy share holders.”

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to be a share holder, Mr Andrews?”

“That’s none of your business, Mrs Bush, and neither is the rest of this.”

“I wonder how many of the women who work here aware of this situation.”

“You’re certainly not the first to talk to me about it. Those who didn’t leave to pursue other career paths have accepted they can’t do a great deal to change the status quo, and you’d be wise to do the same.

“No-one likes a troublemaker Mrs Bush, and you don’t have to work here if you don’t want to.”

One of the things I’d learnt from my body’s reduced strength was if something refused to budge when you pushed at it, there wasn’t a lot of point in continuing to push. It was frustrating, but you had to know when to back down.

I didn’t quite slam has door on the way out, but I did close it firmly enough to turn a few heads.

The next office day, I had a summons from Mr Clark’s office. He didn’t offer me a seat.

“What’s this I hear about you causing trouble, Mrs Bush?”

“I don’t know sir; this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Did you speak with Mr Andrews on Friday?”

“Yes sir. I had some queries about my salary.”

“Yes, he told me you threatened some sort of industrial action.”

“I’m not sure how he inferred that, sir.”

“I’m disappointed, Sandra. I took a chance on you and this is a poor way to repay me.”

“I believe the way I’ve repaid you is by doing the job you gave me to the absolute best of my ability. If anyone should be disappointed, it’s me.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“I seem to recall you complementing me on the quality of my work when we spoke a few weeks ago.”

“Your efforts as a probationer were exemplary.”

“I think if you’ll examine what I’ve done since, you’ll find they’ve been no different.”

“So why all this fuss?”

“I want to know why my work is worth so much less than any of the men who are employed here.”

“I’m intrigued. How do you know how much your colleagues earn?”

“I’m acquainted,” loosely speaking, “with someone who worked here up until a month or two ago. He told me how much he earned.”

“Ah yes, I think I know to whom you are referring. You do remind me a lot of him. Sad the way he went. It would be sad to see you go the same way.”

“Is that a threat, Mr Clark?”

“Perhaps better to call it a warning, don’t you think? In my experience, those who rock the boat tend to be the first ones to fall overboard.”

Another immovable object, and me very definitely less than the proverbial irresistible force.

“Are we done sir? I have quite a lot of work to do.”

Needless to say, I made less of an effort after that. I continued to work diligently and at a fair rate, but I felt no incentive to do any more than the job expected of me. Call it value for money if you will.

With my focus directed elsewhere than on work, I found time to develop friendships, chatting with any of the girls who paused for a coffee the same time as me and arranging to share lunch breaks. Without Sandra’s reputation to contend with, I found it easy to make friends, especially once my continued efforts with weight loss began to show results, and many of them wanted to know how I’d done it.

“There’s no secret to it,” I’d say, blushing slightly at the compliments directed my way. “Eat less, move more.”

“I wish I had your self-control.”

“You know, you’re something of an inspiration around here?”

You know, comments like that.

I lunched with a different group of friends every Friday, chatting about all sorts of nonsense and loving the sense of belonging that came from spending time with like minded people whose only motivation was to be friendly. Tuesdays I reserved for lunches with Charlie.

The grape vine did its thing and rumours of my confrontations with both Max and Mr Clark did the rounds, so inevitably lunchtime conversations would often turn to dissatisfaction with the way pay was handled. None of the girls was particularly happy with the situation, but apparently I was the only one who’d had the courage – or recklessness, depending on who I was talking to – to make an issue of it. I learned that every one of my new friends received an occasional memo admonishing them for poor quality or rate of work. They were, for the most part, unjustified and anyone who cared to challenge them received a verbal apology, but the paper trail remained on record providing the evidence necessary to justify the company paying them less.

The unfairness of it incensed me, but since there was no record of the verbal apologies, neither was there any way to prove the injustice of it all. I limited my responses to sympathetic support, but I made mental notes.

Meanwhile, home life improved dramatically. Michael almost completely lost his whine and, probably as a direct consequence, gained a great little circle of friends. Steven’s friendship with Ann developed into a full on romance, which would probably eventually only last as long as most teenage relationships, but for the time being he was happy – ecstatically so. Jake’s team had their rematch towards the end of term and won by the narrowest of margins, spurred on to victory by Steven and the otherwise all girl cheerleaders squad rooting for the visiting team all the way. End of term brought glowing reports for both children, with fairly mediocre academic results but enthusiastic congratulations all round for their effort. Steven brought home the school's best improved award which I displayed with pride of place in the living room. A little bit hidden by the TV, but then it was a big screen.

Barbara’s book club ended up being my way back into the local community, since her endorsement counted for a fair number of brownie points, as did my improving figure apparently. I suppose I’d always been aware that women were self-conscious about their appearance, but it took actually becoming a woman to discover how much it mattered.

Half term proved to be somewhat trying as I had to juggle working with entertaining two easily bored pre-teens. Fortunately, the weather improved as we headed towards summer, and I found things to keep them occupied in the back garden.

Have laptop will travel. I was spared the usual visits into the office while I was looking after the boys, and my work machine had enough battery capacity that I could afford to take it along with me on regular visits to the park where, I’m pleased to say, Steven engaged in considerably less violent pastimes. I was even able to pay Charlotte back in some small degree by looking after Jake for several of the days.

Shortly after school resumed, the Inland Revenue investigation into George’s business affairs returned a verdict of inconclusive in relation to his reported annual income of less than twenty-five thousand pounds per year over the previous six years. They accepted that the money I’d found under the sink had to be winnings from gambling and returned it to him, at which point Charlotte insisted that it be included as part of the assets that needed settling in the divorce.

When we finally met in court to hash that out, the judge started by raising the matters of both the prenuptial agreement and my charges of rape against my husband.

“These are both issues with enough irregularities associated with them that ultimately it will take a lot of court time to return a verdict in either case. As regards the rape, there is physical evidence to suggest the intercourse was not consensual, but at the same time, eleven years of marriage and two children shows a very different pattern of behaviour. As to the agreement, it was not signed three weeks prior as required by the law, which does invalidate it, but the fact that it was signed at all suggests that an agreement was made at some stage.

“Might I propose that Mrs Bush withdraws the accusation of rape and that Mr Bush cedes any potential claim under the prenuptial? If both parties are agreeable to at least considering the merits of this course, we can recess until tomorrow.”

Charlotte convinced me it was a fair trade off and would potentially save thousands of pounds in court costs, and Mr Simmons evidently managed to persuade his client of the same. The next day we both signed papers to withdraw those elements of the dispute and we turned to wrangling over the split, which was done out of court and eventually ended up with me getting the house, along with the mortgage and other associated bills and George keeping his cash. It turned out that, with the low level of inflation, he hadn’t paid that much in mortgage fees, and the difference between the amount still owing on the mortgage and the value of the property came to just under the thirty thousand cash he’d squirreled away. Charlotte wanted to hold out for more, but the balance would only have been a couple of thousand at most and I just wanted out of it. We settled for him signing an agreement never to contact either me or the kids directly, he could contact me through Charlotte if he ever had anything to say.

With the ink drying on the contract, I handed him back the two rather cheap and nasty rings he’d given me on our wedding day. I’d offer to redeem them from Charlotte by paying back the money I owed her, but she’d had her own ideas.

“Don’t be stupid,” she’d said handing back my – for want of a better word – jewellery. “I only took them to make you feel better about taking the money, and you can’t afford to pay it back, at least not yet. I know you’re good for it.”

The rings slid off my newly slender fingers easily enough, and I was officially free.

A full salary would have made covering the mortgage and utilities easy. Between the lower income and my need to keep adding to my wardrobe – my diminishing size led to the dresses I had so recently bought hanging off me like so many sacks – I was hard pressed to make ends meet. I did manage some savings by taking in a lot of my clothes, and learned a great deal about what was possible with a sewing machine by consequence.

This was as well since Steven, with his girlfriend’s support and encouragement, wanted to continue his journey of self-discovery with respect to his feminine side, and I wouldn’t have been able to afford a clothing allowance for both of us.

The first doctor we went to see told Steven that he was not the least bit gender dysphoric and all but shouted at me for wasting his time. Despite being an unpleasant experience, it did tell us something worthwhile as Steven decided he agreed with the doctor, which meant that whatever route we took had to enable him to become a man in whatever form he decided worked for him. This led to another conversation with our GP and an eventual appointment to see a child psychologist.

It didn’t happen straight away. With the unfavourable report from the gender specialist, there was little hope of Steven being prescribed androgen blockers, which lessened the urgency of dealing with his problem, so it ended up being more than a month before we finally received a letter from Doctor Marsh’s clinic.

He could only fit Steven in on Thursday after lunch, which meant it’d be tight getting to book club for a while, but that was a small enough sacrifice under the circumstances.

All the smaller when we met him for the first time.

Doctor Paul Marsh. If ever I needed proof I was in the right body, he was it. Of course, there was the possibility that my brain was being bulldozed by my body’s hormonal response, but I didn’t really believe that. Being controlled by hormones was more of a teenage thing, which meant, if anything, George was more likely to be my body’s preference.

Paul was different in almost every way. Quite a lot shorter with a trim figure that must have come in at less than half my former husband’s weight, dark curly hair and an easy smile that turned my legs to jelly.

He stood and extended a hand. “Mrs Bush. A very real pleasure. And you must be Steven.”

I was glad of the distraction. It gave me a moment to get my breath back. Once he’d shaken Steven’s hand, he turned back to me.

“Erm, it’s Ms Shaw,” I said apologetically. “Sandy Shaw if you can believe it. I’m recently divorced, and one of the things I was happy to give back to my former husband was his name.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry...”

“Oh, don’t be.” I laughed nervously. “It’s quite a recent thing. The changes probably won’t have made it into my records yet.”

“Well, I’ll make sure they make it into mine. Steven, does that make you a Shaw or a Bush?”

“Er, Shaw, definitely.” I’d given the boys the choice and neither of them had wanted to keep their father’s name.

My eyes wandered around the doctor’s office, settling specifically on the photographs scattered around the place, which showed him to be well travelled with a wide range of interests. No pictures of women or children, which was a good sign, unless he was gay, which would be just my luck.

He caught me looking and must have picked up something of what was going through my head, because he suppressed a smile.

It occurred to me that a man in his profession had to have better than average people reading skills. “Was I being that obvious?” I asked, reddening more than a little.

“Not at all,” he laughed. “To be honest, I’m rather flattered. It’s rare that I’ve been shown so much interest, and I can safely say never by anyone so beautiful.”

I cannot recall ever having blushed so furiously. Whatever the next stage after jelly-legs, I reached it in that moment. Somehow I still managed keep upright, though that may have had more to do with the tight jeans I was wearing than anything else.

“I believe I'm sensing a but,” I said, which prompted him to twist around and looked at his rear end. “No, not that kind of but.” He had me laughing, but then I doubt it would have taken much.

“The but is that I make it a rule never to get involved with patients or members of their family.”

“Oh.”

“However, I don’t anticipate having to see Steven indefinitely, and I’m going to hope like hell that nobody else catches your eye in the meantime.”

“I don’t think there’s much danger of that.” My brain had entirely turned to mush and I didn’t trust myself to say much more. “I’ll, er, I’ll let you get on with it, shall I?” I made my exit before I embarrassed myself any further.

I’d brought my laptop with a view to doing some work during Steven’s session and settled onto one if the low seats in the reception area. A coffee was offered and gratefully accepted, doubly so when it proved to be real.

I spent most of the hour staring blankly at the screen, imagining myself with the doctor. He was just the right height for me to tuck comfortably under his arm and that’s just where my mind put me, feeling safe and secure and cared for, bathing in the warmth of his smile.

After the session, while we were waiting for the bus, Steven gave me a knowing smile. “You like him, don’t you?”

That deserved a facetious answer, but mindful of the delicacy of young egos, I settled for, “Do you really have to ask?”

“I like him too.” He wasn’t going to say any more, but it was as good as a stamp of approval.

“I take it you found the session useful then?”

“It was amazing. I felt like I could tell him anything.”

I glanced down at him. Not very down. Not anymore, certainly nowhere as far down as when I’d first entered his life. A part of me wondered exactly when the growth spurt had started. The rest of me stood amazed at how animated he was all of a sudden.

“I mean, I told him everything. About beating Jake up and about how the whole cheerleading thing started, then about how I felt and like everything.”

“You did that all in one session?”

“Well, we managed to skip quite a bit because it was already in my records, but I did tell him about what you said, you know about what it’ll be like when I start growing.”

“You’ve already started growing. I’d say you’re about two inches taller than you were a month ago.”

“I suppose. He showed me some pictures on his computer, you know, of celebrities, Like Brad Pitt, Harry Styles, Jaden Smith, all wearing skirts and dresses and he asked me what I thought about them.”

The bus arrived and we climbed aboard. Downstairs was a little crowded so we headed to the top deck which we had pretty much to ourselves. Steven liked sitting right at the front so that’s where we settled.

“So, what did you say? Unless, of course, you’d rather not tell me.”

“No, I need to talk to you about it. I mean it was kind of... I kind of liked it and I didn’t sort of thing. The dresses were pretty cool, especially the ones Harry Styles wore, you know all see-through sleeves and frilly bits. But at the same time, it looked kind of wrong. Especially Brad Pitt, ‘cos he’s kind of buff.” He blushed. “That’s kind of a girly word and I’m not attracted to him or anything. It’s just he’s got really muscly arms and a wide chest, you know, he looks kind of...”

“Manly?”

“I suppose, which means that when he wears something girly, it’s too different and he looks wrong. Styles is kind of skinny with longish hair, so he doesn’t look as wrong, except when he doesn’t shave, then it’s, I don’t know.”

“Too much of a contrast.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, unless I miss my guess, you’re going to end up as more of a Brad Pitt than a Harry Styles.”

“I think so too. Anyway, Paul pulled up some other pictures, you know from movies. Gladiator, Braveheart, other really old stuff.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that. “Roman soldiers in tunics. Scotsmen in kilts. That sort of thing?”

“Yeah, sort of dresses and skirts for men I suppose. They kind of looked right, you know? What was that word you used? Manly? Manly clothes for manly men?”

“So, you mean men sort of wearing dresses but still looking like men. The clothes looked right on them, but it didn’t do much for your inner girl?”

“Yeah, how did you...?”

“It kind of made sense from what you were saying.”

“He suggested I try something different, but I’m going to need your help.”

“Oh?”

“It doesn’t exist yet, at least not that I know of, and he doesn’t think so either. I’m kind of looking for something in between. It has to fit right so it looks like it was meant for me, but it also has to say I’m a bit of a girl too. Does that make sense?”

“A lot of sense, but I’m having trouble picturing what it would look like in my mind.”

“Do you think you could come up with something like that?”

“It’ll be a bit of a challenge, so I’m not going to make any promises, but I will try. Is this just for you to wear when you’re at home?”

“He said that kind of depended on me, and on how I end up looking in it, sort of. He said we’re living in an age of transition right now and it was down to people like me to decide what that would mean.”

“Did he?” I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I needed a second opinion on the guy after all. What he was proposing sounded dangerous, for Steven.

“Yeah. He said that people tend to resist change so if I were to go outside wearing something like that, I’d get some people laughing it me, some people insulting me, maybe even attacking me sometimes.

“That’s why it has to be my decision, ‘cos if I keep it indoors, I won’t be as satisfied. It’ll still be like I’m hiding that side of me a bit, just showing it to me, kind of.

“He said for people like me there are no easy choices and I had to figure out for myself whether I’m going to hide my real self, or go out there and show me to the world and deal with the consequences.”

“Those consequences can be pretty rough and it’s hard to go back once you’ve started.”

“Yeah, he said that too, but I figure if I’m going to end up being big and strong like Dad, then people will think twice before calling me out on it.”

Images of Buster Bloodvessel doing the can-can in a yellow dress flashed through my mind. An iconic vintage moment in Top of the Pops history. Bad Manners’ lead singer wasn’t the sort of person you’d make fun of without his permission, but bullying people into accepting you didn’t feel right either.

“He also said that, in his experience, the ones who succeed in making changes are most often the ones who are supported and encouraged at home, and he could see I had that level of support and encouragement.”

Well, Doctor Marsh, flattery will get you... well maybe somewhere at least.

“Did you tell him about what kind of man your dad is?”

“He did ask about Dad a bit. I told him a few things.”

“Like what?”

“That he used to scare the shit out of me. Paul asked if he ever hit me and I said no but he did hit you sometimes, that he got angry real quick. Why are you asking about Dad?”

“Just thinking about what you said to me a while back about not wanting to become like your dad.”

“I don’t want to be anything like him.”

“I know sweetie, and I love you for that, but if you think about the way you get when things don’t go your way. The last time was when I fell out with Ann’s mum, remember?”

“Yeah, I kind of lost it a bit, but I was in full guy mode then.”

“That’s true. When you ended up locked out of the house in a skirt you responded very differently.”

“It’s why I feel I really need to do this, Mum. Anything to help me keep hold of, you know, what you call my softer side.”

I smiled and decided maybe Doctor Marsh might not need that second opinion after all.

“He also said I should maybe try wearing, you know, like lacy underwear and stuff under my clothes.”

“I can see how that might help. Just wearing something pretty next to my skin helps raise my spirits when I’m not feeling that attractive.” Like time of the month time. I’d been through a couple of those since my transition. They were not a fun part of being a girl.

“I don’t see why you’d ever not feel attractive, Mum. Now you’re all thinner and stuff you're, you know, like really smoking hot. Like MILF material.”

“I really do not like that term, Steven.”

“Sorry Mum. It’s just something I heard some of the older kids at school saying. Usually right before they say something like, ‘I’d do her.’” His expression darkened as he looked back on the memories.

“And that upsets you.” No Sherlock Holmes award for that deduction.

“Maybe a bit. The worst thing is I could kind of see myself doing the same. You know, if I went back to being the old me.”

“Well, please don’t get into any fights over immature people calling me names.”

“It’s not really fair though, Mum. They used to call you names and laugh at you when you were, you know, bigger.’

“You can say fat. I was fat.”

“Yeah okay, but now you look good they’re calling you names all over again. Just different ones.”

“Well, Steven, I have a feeling that’s going to be one thing you’re going to have to learn to live with. The world isn’t fair, largely because of the number of selfish people in it, and your best response is to strive to be your best version of you. Give them an example to follow, if they choose.”

“I’ll try, Mum, but it’s hard. I really hate it when they speak about you like that.”

“And I’m guessing they’d laugh at you if you just asked them not to.”

“Oh yeah, and then some.”

“Well, if you have to respond, maybe just tell them, 'What makes you think you have a chance with someone like her? She’s way out of your league.’”

He laughed. I was getting used to seeing the more cheerful side of my eldest. It was a side I really liked, and I decided I would do everything I could to make sure it stayed on the surface.

“So, this outfit you want me to make for you, tell me what colours you like, and what sort of shape. Full or tight skirt, long sleeves or short, stuff like that.”

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 17 - 18 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 To F words and one S word . It’s all calming down a bit.

-oOo-

Chapter 17

Steven attended his second appointment with Doctor Marsh wearing the dress we'd designed between us. I’d suggested we might call it a tunic, so it didn’t have such girly connotations, but he shook his head and said, “It’s a dress, Mum, let’s call it what it is.”

It was white with blue monarch butterflies all over it. My original idea had been for colourful butterflies on a blue background, but we’d been unable to find a material with that design. When our research stumbled across the blue butterflies though, we were both sold on it from first sight. Butterflies seemed to be a good compromise, landing in relatively neutral territory, somewhere between flowers and football in what they said about you.

The bodice, for want of a better word, I made close fitting to match Steven’s developing physique with sleeves that almost reached his elbows, aiming for something that would set it apart from both a tee-shirt and the three-quarter length sleeves that were so popular in women’s fashions.

From the waist down, and this was very much Steven’s idea, it had a very full skirt that reached to just above the knee with enough frills and ruffles to declare, “I may be a guy, but there’s a girl in here too.”

Finish it off with some navy-blue tights – Steven had a really spectacular pair of legs – and a pair of white trainers and I couldn’t imagine it looking better.

Ann had been the first person outside the family to see him in it. He invited her round for a private viewing, and she fell in love with it at first sight, all but insisting I make her one to match. Michael had already asked the same, which I’d anticipated and bought enough material to make a second dress. With two requests on the table, I was limited to making matching skirts for each of them, but that actually worked better since the final result said, “We’re together,” rather than, “We’re sisters and our mum dresses us like this.”

Paul was effusive in his complements, decidedly overegging the pudding when he asked if I made clothes for a living. I’d dressed up a bit myself, but might as well not have bothered, given the way Steven hogged all the limelight.

The second session ended up being a lot shorter than the first, but given that the National Health Service was paying for Doctor Marsh’s time, I hardly felt like I was in a position to complain. Besides, Steven had a grin on him to rival the Cheshire Cat’s when he came out.

“One more session,” Paul promised, “and this next week is going to decide whether or not he needs any more. How well he copes will be down to his personality to a large degree, but also down to your support and encouragement.

“I have every faith in you,” once again he melted my knees with his megawatt smile, “and next time I’ll be hoping to have a private word with you at the end.”

“Can you take a picture of me please, Mum?”

Steven was all but dancing with delight and it was too good a photo op to miss up. I caught him in mid twirl, giving off a radiance to rival the Sun, the skirt swirling about his thighs.

“Let me see.” He grabbed the phone out of my hands and tapped away for a few seconds.

“What did you just do?”

“Sent it to Ann,” he said with proverbial butter refusing to melt on his tongue.

It shouldn’t have taken that many key presses, but I wasn’t about to risk his mood by challenging him. I returned the phone to its place in my mammoth bag and dug out my purse as the bus pulled up.

Same as the trip out here, we endured a range of looks, from anger to amusement. Steven’s beatific smile disarmed most of them before we were upstairs and on our own. We stopped off at the shops on the way back to pick up some frillies for him, then home for lunch where he changed into his uniform so I could drop him back at school for the afternoon.

“Would you like a skirt to wear to school?” I asked him.

“I’m okay with lacy underwear for now,” he said, smiling. “but I’ll think about it.”

Being Thursday afternoon, I headed for Barbara’s and the book club. I’d have to put in a few hours in the evening to keep up with my quota, but that was the nature of flexitime and I was glad of the freedom it gave me.

The next day was an office day. I asked Steven if he’d mind me showing the photograph to some of my friends and he gave me his consent. Which was probably where the seed of the idea first germinated.

The Friday girls’ lunch had become something of a thing at Clark's. It had probably grown out of my lunchtime socialising, but in all honesty, it had a life of its own which had very little to do with me. Not that I was about to say anything of the sort to Max Andrews who saw it as evidence of me being subversive. Nothing he could use as evidence to sack me, of course, which meant I was happy to let him stew in his own juices. The man deserved his paranoia and the associated ulcers.

Anyway, my phone was passed around the table, meeting with a unanimously enthusiastic response, starting with joking comments like, “I could see my husband in something like this,” to more genuine praise of the sort, “You know you could make a living selling stuff like this,” to reflective comments like, “You know, I used to really enjoy sewing,” and “I haven’t touched my sewing machine for years,” to more wistful ones, “I wish I could do something this creative,” and, “Do you think you could show me how to do something like that?”

That last comment was the spark that lit the flame and before long one of the older ladies from admin had announced she could get us access to her church hall on Sunday afternoon, quite a few of the others said they had bolts of cloth just gathering dust in the loft they could contribute, almost everyone said they had a sewing machine they could bring, several of our number offered their cars to pick everyone up, complete with their machines and, pretty much before we’d finished eating, I’d been elected as the leader of an impromptu sewing circle.

Which gave me Friday night and Saturday afternoon to sketch a few ideas. Fortunately, I knew little enough about sewing that I didn’t know what wasn’t supposed to be possible, and I had a couple of young lads with a growing enthusiasm for the peculiar ideas I was coming up with to keep me inspired.

Ann came round on Saturday afternoon, I think hoping to entice Steven away from the family, but she quickly joined in the fun, begging her mother for permission to join us all on Sunday.

Sunday morning found us all standing outside the house waiting for our lift. Steven, inevitably, was in his butterfly dress with both Michael and Ann complementing him in their matching skirts.

Mrs Harris appeared in her doorway, arms crossed, lips pursed. I smiled at her cheerfully.

“Good morning, Mrs Harris. Lovely day.”

It really was. Sunday not being its usual ironic contradiction weather-wise.

My neighbour chose to be disagreeable, gave me her typical disapproving hmph and closed the door on me.

Grumpy neighbours aside, I cannot recall enjoying a day more. A lot of the girls reached the church hall ahead of us and had the place set up like a factory. Some of the other women brought their children along as well, so there was no shortage of companionship for Michael who ended up playing most of the day with a group of girls his age. Steven and Ann pretty much provided for one another all the companionship they needed, but they did get involved in some of the sewing projects going on about the place and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

For my part, the day started with me sharing my sketches. My lack of experience in design meant a lot of fresh ideas which ultimately weren’t that practical. When I was shown why, that just prompted me to come up with work arounds, so that by the end of the morning everyone was working on something refreshingly different. Quite a few of the pieces ended up extending Steven’s wardrobe, since he was about the only boy present with the courage to dress unconventionally, but there were quite a few deliberately made for adults and I wondered just what sort of reception the new clothes would receive from their intended recipients at the end of the day.

I split my time between making complimentary outfits for Ann and Steven, using materials they picked out, and wandering around the room looking at what other people were doing. There was pride in good workmanship everywhere I looked, and I was completely blown away with the quality of what we were producing between us.

Shortly after noon, a new crowd walked into the hall. Mainly women, I noted, but with one prominent male sporting a dog collar. They all came burdened with Tupperware boxes and cellophane wrapped plates piled high with sandwiches. Honestly, I might have worked the day through without thinking of food, but the eager response from some of the youngsters left me feeling quite guilty.

Work came to a halt, and space was cleared for the offerings, which very soon redistributed themselves around the room as everyone tucked in.

I helped myself to a small bowl of tuna pasta salad and a token butterfly cake with what turned out to be real cream, then looked around for the dog collar.

I found it sitting under a slightly worried looking expression.

“Feeling a little outnumbered, Father?”

He laughed. “Jeremy, please. Or pastor if you insist on using a title. Father is a Catholic term. And to answer your question, I’m actually used to being the only person in the room not wearing a dress. It’s just that usually that means I’m also the only male.”

“Does it bother you?” I asked. “I thought clergymen would be used to wearing frocks.”

“And that would be the Anglicans. It probably shouldn’t bother me, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t.”

I couldn’t think of a response – at least not one that wouldn’t come across as ungrateful – so instead scooped up a small mouthful of pasta.

“Are any of these children yours?” he asked conversationally.

I pointed out Michael, sitting with his circle of newfound playmates and Steven, looking marginally cuter than his girlfriend. I couldn’t help smiling at the pastor’s added discomfort.

“Steven used to have serious anger issues, then one day circumstances conspired to put him in a skirt and he... It’s hard to say exactly how he changed. He says he felt all the rage melt away. Now he's choosing to dress like that. With the full support and encouragement of his doctor I might add.”

“And your younger son?”

“Oh, Michael just wants to be like his big brother, I suspect. There’s every likelihood he’ll grow out of it.”

“And what if he doesn’t. Aren’t you worried about what all this will do to them?”

“I’m their mother. Worrying is in the job description. As for what ifs, would it be so wrong if my sons chose to look like this every day?”

“The Bible...”

“I think we’re likely to hold very different views on the Bible, Jeremy. Where you see the divine, inspired Word of God, I see something quite different. I wouldn’t want to give offense by telling you exactly what.”

“Fair enough, but aren’t you setting them up for a lifetime of abuse and ridicule by encouraging this?”

I looked him over. He looked a bit younger than me and unmarried if the absence of ring was any indicator. He meant well, which is why I chose not to give him the full broadside.

“I’m not encouraging them, Pastor. I’ll admit I’m not discouraging them either, but then I don’t see anything wrong in what they’re doing.

“As for the rest, I recently escaped from an abusive marriage – quite possibly also the source of Steven's anger issues – and the major life lesson I've taken from the experience is that you don’t beat abuse and ridicule by giving into them.

“If I can teach my children to be strong and stand up for what is right for them, and to do so in a way that is not openly confrontational or antagonistic, then I believe I will have fulfilled my obligations as a parent.”

“I’m not going to win this, am I?”

“Not outright, no, but then I thought it was a conversation, not a competition.”

He smiled a very genuine smile. “Well, quite possibly the most significant lessons I’ve learnt in life are to recognise when I’m outmatched and to know when to stop pushing.”

“Again, not a competition, pastor. I doubt I’d be able to change your beliefs.”

“And you are courteous enough not to try. I feel I could learn quite a lot from you Mrs er...”

“Please, call me Sandy.”

“In that case I’m going to have to insist you call me Jeremy, or Jerry.”

“I’ll let you win that one, Jerry.”

We shared a quiet chuckle.

“So, you’re the reason for all this then?”

“I’d hardly say so. We were all talking on Friday and somehow it just happened. I’m still amazed at what can be achieved when a group of like-minded people decides to act.”

“But I thought Marjory said you offered to teach them some things.”

I really did laugh at that. “I’ve learnt so much more from being here today, Jerry, than I could possibly have been capable of teaching.”

“That’s not what I’ve picked up from listening in to some of the conversations going around. Don’t sell yourself short, Sandy.”

“If you say so.” I bit into the butterfly cake and allowed myself a few moments indulgence as the texture and flavour of the cream caressed my taste buds. “We should probably get back to it. Thanks again for the use of the premises, and for the food.”

“You can thank Marjory for that, or... Oops, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, it’s too late to stop halfway.”

“Marjory paid for the use of the hall today. Providing lunch is a part of the service we offer.”

It would have been crass to ask how much, but a quick search of the church website showed their rates. I dropped a few words while I made my rounds during the afternoon and in return received eager contributions which more than covered the costs.

At the end of the day I gathered everyone together and thanked them for their contributions. Those who’d donated fabric refused payment for it, as did those who’s petrol had brought us together. In the end I gave Marjory more than twice what she’d paid hiring the hall, much to everyone’s approval. When she tried to refuse it, I suggested that if she didn’t want it she could donate it to a charity of her choice.

There was an almost unanimous request to do it again, which I only agreed to if everyone accepted recompense for any contributions they made, and if the results of our labour ended up being more evenly distributed. I’d been as embarrassed as Steven had been delighted when about half the clothes we’d all made turned out to have been made specifically for him.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. The latter part of the day he’d been trying on one outfit after another and preening like a peacock.

We packed up, tidied up and headed for our respective homes with a new date in our diaries for the same time next month.

Ann stayed long enough into the evening that I ended up feeding her as well. Steven had let her try on a few of his new things and, oddly enough, they didn’t look quite right on her. The two of them worked through their homework together while I cooked, then we all walked Ann home, Michael and me keeping a discrete distance behind the happy couple.

“Did you enjoy today?” I asked my youngest who was still wearing his butterfly skirt.

“Yeah, I made lots of friends.”

“I’m sorry there weren’t any other boys there.”

“That’s okay. I really liked playing with the girls. We did lots of stuff together which was much more fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when I play with boys, they’re always, ‘We’re better than you-oo. Ner ner ne ner ner’, but the girls were all, ‘that’s really good, I like how you did that.’ They made me feel special.”

“You are special.” More or less an autonomic response, but said with feeling. “Do you mind that Steven was given all those clothes?”

“Nah. I like him better when he wears a dress, so it’s cool that he has a lot more.”

Both boys wore their nighties to bed that night, with their giggling conversation carrying long enough after their bedtime that I ended up having to have a few stern words with them. Unfortunately I spoiled it by smiling, and what started off as a telling off turned into an all round tickle-fest.

They did settle afterwards though.

…

Monday was a work at home day, except I found someone waiting on my doorstep when I came home from taking the boys to school.

“Mrs Bush?” She was probably best described as formidable. One of those women who seemed to be as broad as she was tall with enough of a bosom on her to provide a significant contribution in the third dimension. She had a stern, no nonsense expression and a clipboard, neither of which boded particularly well.

“Until recently,” I responded. “I’ve gone back to my maiden name since my divorce.”

She consulted her notes. “Mrs Sandy Shaw? Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Ms Sandy Shaw, and if it is, then it’s one my parents perpetrated on me a great many years ago. That being said, I’m happier being a Sandy Shaw than a Sandy Bush.”

Not the least hint of a smile. She made a note on her clipboard. People with no sense of humour have always bothered me, and I started to feel nervous.

“My name is Hilary Blunt. I’m with social services and here to investigate a complaint of child abuse.”

I glanced across at Mrs Harris’s door which had just opened. The old harridan had her arms crossed as usual and wore the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile on her face.

“You’d better come in,” I said to Ms Blunt and opened the door for her. “I’m assuming you’re not going to tell me who made the accusation.”

“You’re correct.”

“So how do I make a complaint against her for malicious interference?”

“I don’t believe I mentioned that it was a woman.”

“No, you didn’t. However, I would still appreciate an answer to my question.”

“We don’t really have a procedure...”

“So, someone with a grudge against me can make a false report to you, which you are obliged to follow up. The least that will happen is that you inconvenience me and scare the willie’s out if me for no reason, and you have no procedure to discourage it from happening again?”

“If we didn’t protect the identities of those who contacted us with their concerns, then we’d have a lot less calls.”

Fewer, but I didn’t want to antagonise her over trivia.

“As I understand it, your job is to protect the welfare of children. How can you say you’re doing that if you allow an abuse of the system that brings frivolous complaints against innocent parents?”

“Perhaps we can start by establishing whether or not you are innocent.”

“All right. Please tell me what this is about. If you’ll follow me through to the kitchen, I rather feel the need for a cup of tea.”

She did so and I waved her into one of the dining room chairs, ignoring the less charitable part of my brain that was telling me, if it had been strong enough to support my lardy arse when I’d been larger, then it shouldn’t be at risk from my visitor. I offered her a cup of tea while I was making mine, but she declined.

“We have received reports that you are forcing your sons to dress as girls,” she said with no small amount of disapproval. “You are aware that this would constitute abuse?”

“Of course, assuming that I did in fact force them.” Emphasis on force.

“Perhaps you could produce evidence to the contrary.”

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“Mrs Bush...”

“Shaw.” Maybe I was going to antagonise her with trivialities after all.

“Ms Shaw,” she sighed, “surely you must see that the welfare of the child has to come first.”

“Oh, I absolutely agree. What I’m struggling with is how the welfare of the child is best served by requiring innocent parents to justify themselves at the risk of having their children taken away from them.”

“Nobody’s suggesting we take your children from you Mrs B... Ms Shaw, but if you’re going to continue to be obstructive, I’ll be forced...”

“Give me a minute please.” I fished my phone out of my bag and hit one of the speed dials. “Good morning, this is Sandra Shaw. I’d like to speak with Mrs Nullis if I may. It is urgent.”

She put me through straight away.

“Hello Sandy, is everything alright?”

“Hi Teri. Sorry to disturb you, but I have someone from social services asking why my sons are wandering around the neighbourhood in skirts. I wonder if you’d be willing to tell her what you know.”

“Of course.”

“I think she’d prefer to do it in person rather than trust that the random phone call I just made was really to the head of my son’s school.”

“Not a problem. Shall we say twenty minutes?”

I covered the mouthpiece, not that would do much on a modern mobile. “Twenty minutes? The school’s ten minutes’ walk away.”

She nodded.

“That would be great, thanks. See you in a short while.”

I hung up and prodded my computer to wake it up. Security details entered and pull up the browser. A brief search and the contact details for Paul’s practice.

“My older son is seeing a child psychologist at present. This is him.” I punched in the phone numbers on the web page and showed them to my humourless companion before pressing connect. The phone rang a couple of times while I switched it to hands free.

“Doctor Marsh’s surgery,” the nasal voice of Paul’s receptionist answered.

“Hi Pippa, it’s Sandra Shaw. I know he’s likely to be busy, but is there any chance I could have a quick word?”

“Oh, hi Sandy.” We’d made friends chatting while Steven was having his second session. “You’re in luck. His first patient is a no show, so I can put you straight through.”

A moment’s silence then, “Sandy, hi. This is unexpected. Is Steven alright?”

“Steven’s fine, Dr Marsh, but I have a Miss Hilary Blunt from social services asking why I force my children to wear dresses.” The Miss was a guess based on her unadorned ring finger.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Miss Blunt, there isn’t a great deal I can tell you without breaching patient confidentiality, but I can assure you that Steven is not being coerced in any way.”

“Then why are both he and his brother doing this?”

“You know I’m not at liberty to answer such questions. Have you tried asking him?”

“Not yet, though I certainly intend to.”

“Miss Blunt, you are barking up the wrong tree here. From what I’ve observed, and I do have considerable experience in these matters, Ms Shaw is a supportive and committed parent.”

“Thank you, Doctor Marsh. I’ll include an account of your words in my report.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I added.

“Sandra, please be sure and tell Steven he is under no obligation to explain why he’s doing what he’s doing. All social services need is an assurance that you’re not forcing him.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. We have to go. I’ll see you when I next bring Steven.”

“See you Thursday then.”

I hung up the phone and turned to the social worker. I could read no expression on her face, which suggested she still had an agenda she wasn’t prepared to share. I was going to have to tread carefully.

“We should go,” I said, slipping my feet back into my shoes.

I managed to set a satisfyingly punishing pace, despite the heels and the skirt. By the time we arrived, Miss Blunt in her sensible shoes and slacks was looking a little red around the face. I wasn’t being vindictive you understand, just keeping her off balance.

Well. Maybe a little vindictive.

Mrs Nullis was ready for us. I made introductions and suggested I should let them speak in private. I would have preferred to stay with them, but there was something else I wanted to do more. I hoped the headmistress knew the best way to handle the Hilary Blunts of our world and went hunting for a quiet place to make a phone call.

“Hey girlfriend. You wanna do lunch tomorrow?” Given Charlotte’s occasional Tuesday court appearances, we’d fallen into the habit of confirming our lunch rendezvous on a week by week basis.

“Sounds good,” I said, “but it’s not why I called you.”

“Go on.”

“Social services turned up on my doorstep this morning. Apparently, there’s been a complaint about the way I’ve been looking after my boys.”

“That fucking husband of yours!”

“Actually, I think this time it’s a neighbour. It seems I’m forcing my sons to dress as girls.”

“What have you told them?”

“Personally? Nothing. I called Steven’s psychologist for what he could say, and now I’ve just brought her to the school to talk to the headmistress.”

“Who’s the social worker?”

“Her name is Hilary Blunt.”

“Shit.”

“What, why?”

“She has a reputation for digging deeper than she should. I’m on my way to you now. Don’t let her talk to either of the boys until I get there.”

“Why’s that?”

“The attack on Jake.”

“They’re kids, Charlie.”

“Yes, which means they can’t be prosecuted, but if Blunt gets to hear of it, she’ll make trouble for you.”

“Okay. I should get back to them. When will you get here?”

“Half an hour, maybe less.”

“Alright, thanks.”

Well that didn’t do much for my nerves. I went back to the head’s office and knocked before entering.

“Miss Blunt was asking if it would be possible to speak with Steven,” Mrs Nullis told me. “I was about to send for him.”

“Actually, I’ve just been talking with a lawyer friend. She’s on her way here now. She advised against allowing Mrs Blunt to interview either of my sons without her being present.”

“I don’t have all day to waste on this, Mrs Bush.” Miss Blunt said petulantly.

“Ms Shaw,” I corrected her again, “and you’re welcome to come back at a later date when you have more time and have given me a chance to set up the interview correctly.”

She locked eyes with me, but I wasn’t about to back down. “How long until your friend arrives?”

“No more than thirty minutes.”

“Why don’t I organise some coffee then?” Mrs Nullis gave us both a way out of the staring contest.

Organisation of coffees took ten minutes, by which time Miss Blunt had regrouped.

“I’m curious, Ms Shaw. Why do you feel the need to have a lawyer present in these interviews? Could it be that your son has something to hide?”

Mrs Nullis gave me a nervous glance. On the plus side it suggested she’d managed to avoid saying anything incriminating so far, but on the minus, it signalled to the enemy that perhaps there may be something worth digging for.

I took a sip of coffee – disappointingly instant, but still useful as a delaying tactic.

“The suggestion came after I told her your name, Miss Blunt, so I’m inclined to believe that perhaps the advice has less to do with me or my children than your reputation.”

That comment went down no better than the coffee and we passed the next few minutes in frosty silence.

Charlotte must have decided to break a few traffic laws as she walked into reception just ten minutes later.

While Mrs Nullis arranged for Steven to be brought to the office, Charlie negotiated the terms of the encounter.

“Firstly, Ms Shaw and myself will be present throughout...”

“No, not acceptable. Abused children are often intimidated by the presence of their parents.”

She glanced at me and I shrugged. From having seen Charlotte work before, I suspected this was something of a ploy. Give the enemy an early win to put them off their guard.

“Alright, but I will be present throughout.”

“What’s your relationship with the boy?”

“Steven is friends with my son, Jake. Sandy and I are friends also.”

“Alright, but I’ll be watching you.”

“Secondly, I’d like to see your case summary.”

“Certainly not. There’s confidential information in it.”

“Fine. Put me in touch with your supervisor.”

Blunt’s phone was pink. She didn’t particularly look like the sort of person who'd be into pink, but people surprise you in odd ways. She put through a call and handed the phone across.

“Hello. With whom am I speaking please? Oh, Penny, hi. Charlotte Greer here. Yeah, doing good thank you, yourself? Listen, I’m with Hilary Blunt. She's looking into something involving a client of mine. Sandra Shaw – used to be Bush until a short while ago. Yeah, I know. Tell me about it. Look I need to know what’s on the case summary and Hilary won’t let me see it. Yeah, I get that. I don’t need to know that sort of stuff. Just what the brief is. Uhuh? Uhuh? Uhuh. Okay, thanks Penny. Give my love to Maddie, won’t you?”

She hung up and handed the phone back.

“Right. You limit your questions to the brief you’ve been given.”

“I’m entitled to investigate further if I think there’s more to the matter.”

“You’re welcome to try, but I’m going to advise Steven only to answer questions relevant to the brief.”

“And if the problem goes deeper? Are you prepared to accept the consequences?”

“There is no problem and there are no consequences.”

“Then what’s your problem.”

“My problem is your reputation, Hilary, and you are not going to make trouble for my client’s family. The interview will be recorded, and I will be reviewing it with your boss.”

Steven arrived and, after giving him a quick hug, I followed Mrs Nullis out of her office.

“Would you care to walk the grounds with me?” she offered.

It was a friendly gesture and I had nothing else to do – nothing I could do without access to my computer in any case – so I accepted.

She asked me about George and I gave her a brief and heavily expurgated version of what had happened between us. I asked her what her involvement with the man had been and she reeled off a list of all the things she suspected from the work he’d done for her. Several visits. Upwards of a thousand pounds worth of work, most of which she suspected hadn’t been necessary before he’d come, damage to walls gaining access to hidden pipes which he’d not fixed particularly well.

“I presume he gave you invoices for the work.”

“Oh yes. I wanted proof of everything he did in case I ever had anything to question him about.”

“Do you still have them?”

“Of course. Would you like to see them?”

“I don’t know. I have a nagging feeling something’s not adding up here.”

“Well, any time you want to, just ask.”

“Okay, thanks.”

We carried on walking around, chasing a couple of boys back to class who’d managed to persuade their teacher to let them take a bathroom break.

“We tend not to allow it during lesson times, except when there’s a known medical problem. We don’t have the staff to patrol effectively when most of us are teaching and this tends to be the time when the graffiti appears.

“You know, if they put as much effort into doing what they were supposed to as they do into breaking the rules...”

“What was that?” My mind had been drifting, worrying about what was going on back in the head’s office, but something about what she’d just said had caught the attention of that intuitive part of the brain I’d inherited.

“I said I wish they’d put as much effort into doing what they should as they did into breaking the rules. I mean, they’re not that clever and they must know they’ll be caught eventually.”

There was the nagging feeling again, but no connections yet. Past experience told me I’d get nowhere if I tried to force it, so I left it with my subconscious.

“We should be getting back,” Mrs Nullis said. “I can’t imagine the interview lasting much longer than this.”

“Sure. Teri, those invoices? I think I would like to have a look at them if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll bring them in tomorrow morning.”

“I’m working in the office tomorrow. I won’t have time in the morning.”

“After school then.”

“Sure. I’ll swing by your office before I pick up the kids.”

She gave me a mildly bemused look. “You know, I’m a little worried your American friend is influencing your speech.”

We were still sharing a chuckle when we stepped into the head’s office.

Steven ran to me and threw his arms around me. Not characteristic Steven behaviour at all. I glared daggers at Miss Blunt.

“What happened?” I asked him.

He was too upset to answer so I looked to Charlotte.

“She wanted to know about the dressing up and how it started, and to be fair that is why we’re here. Steven told her about the cheerleading punishment and she wanted to know whose idea it was. When he said it was the other mums’ idea, she insisted that he tell her exactly what happened. Which he did. Next she asked about why he was still wearing dresses and wasn’t that an odd thing for a boy to do. On my advise, he told her he was doing so from his own choice and not because you made him, but that the reason why he was doing it was entirely his own business.

“She then started fishing for answers on why he and his friends had been given the cheerleader punishment, and I had to keep intervening since it was outside her remit. The arguments ended up being a little heated over that – I’m actually surprised you didn’t hear us. I think we may have gone a little overboard. Sorry Stevie.”

Steven settled a little, but stayed close.

“I’d like to speak with the other one,” Blunt announced, very much living up to her name.

“I can call across to the primary school,” Mrs Nullis offered.

Charlotte was shaking her head. “Not if this is how you’re going to do it.” She pointed at my still quivering older son.

“You have no right to stop me.”

“Only if you allow Michael’s mother to be present.”

Blunt huffed, but decided she could permit it.

Once Steven was settled and sent back to class, we headed over to the other school and were ushered into an empty office where Michael was waiting. He smiled when he saw me – always a heart melter – and I went over to sit by him. He clambered into my lap and Hilary started her questions.

She asked about the dressing up to which he answered, “Mummy lets me. I like to do it because my brother does it too.”

“And why does your brother do it?”

“Well, he used to be really mean and angry all the time, but then he did something bad and he had to put on this short skirt and cheer for the visiting football team instead of playing himself, and...”

“What was the bad thing he did, Michael?”

“Don’t answer that,” Charlotte interrupted before he could respond. He looked up at me and I shook my head gently.

Blunt pursed her lips and tried a different tack. “How did your brother feel when he was made to dress up?”

“I think he felt kind of stupid to start with, but then he kind of changed.”

“Changed? How?”

“He wasn’t so angry anymore. Then some kids at school stole his uniform and he had to come home in his cheerleading stuff, and that made him really sad.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow in my direction which I took as permission to speak.

“My husband and I were going through some troubles. I’ll tell you about them afterwards if you like, but not here. He arranged to have the locks changed on the house while we were dealing with matters in court, which meant that Steven ended up being locked out and stuck in a skirt.”

“Sounds like quite a punishment. He must have done something really bad.”

Charlotte told Michael not to respond once again, then turned to the social worker. “You have what you need: a declaration from both boys that they are not being forced. Now I think this interview is over.”

She grunted but agreed, then, “I still want to talk to Mrs... Ms Shaw.” I also agreed and Michael allowed himself to be led back to class.

Mrs Nix, the primary school head, permitted us to keep using the office, which made things marginally easier.

“This situation with your husband concerns me. I’d like to hear more about it.”

I looked at Charlotte who nodded cautiously, so I told her about his abusive behaviour and how it had affected the boys, Steven in particular, about his attacks, the restraining order and the divorce.

“Since we finalised that, he’s had no involvement in our lives. I was given the house in the settlement and have been working since, earning enough to support the three of us.”

“And the dressing up?”

“I’m not going to stop either of them if that’s what they choose to do. I’ve been pretty clear on what they’re likely to encounter from the rest of the world, but choices like these ultimately belong to the individuals themselves.”

“Very well. I have enough to write my report. You shall hear from me in due course.”

“What about the person who made the complaint?”

“I’ve told you, I cannot give you any names.”

“I’d still like her to be prosecuted for making a wrongful complaint.”

“It hasn’t been established that she did.”

So, it had been Mrs Harris. I smiled grimly. Charlotte’s grin was wider.

“Nasty, when folks trick you into saying something you didn’t mean to, isn’t it?”

She huffed again and stormed out. I thanked Mrs Nix then walked Charlotte back to her car.

“Lunch tomorrow?” she asked as if nothing had happened.

“If you’re not going to have to put in extra time to make up for this morning.”

“Oh, I’m not done yet. Her boss is going to have a transcript of those meetings before the end of the day. I doubt you’ll hear from Hilary Blunt again.”

“I am so grateful to have you as a friend.”

“Works both ways, girlfriend. I’ll see you tomorrow, usual place and time.”

She drove off and I headed for home, bumping into a rather lost social worker on the way. Magnanimous in victory, I showed her the way back to her car.

Chapter 18

I had to work hard to catch up with the time I’d lost and just about managed to get back on track by working through lunch. I’d had a couple of deadlines looming, only one of which I missed, and that by a narrow margin. The important one I uploaded with minutes to spare. The internal one I finished and sent in ten minutes late. Chances were Max would want to chew me out in the morning, but that was tomorrow’s problem. I put in a bit of overtime, getting ahead on my next task, just in case social services needed any more of my time, which meant it ended up being a long and tiring day.

Instead of story time, we talked about what had happened that day. Michael was less bothered by it than Steven, but I left them feeling a lot less worried about it all.

I turned in early and still nearly slept through my alarm. Rather disturbingly, I dreamt of George doing his paperwork with Mrs Nullis’s words echoing in the background, “I wish they’d put as much effort into doing what they should as they do into breaking the rules. I mean, they’re not that clever and they must know they’ll be caught eventually.”

It still didn’t make any sense, but it reminded me to talk to Mrs Nullis about her receipts.

Because of my late start, everything ended up being a bit rushed. The boys were a little slow off the mark too, but then we’d all been a bit stressed out by the previous day’s events.

We made it to the school on time, but only just, then I missed my bus by seconds, which meant a fifteen-minute wait and a late arrival at work. I texted Max to let him know and he replied with ‘Not good’ and an angry face. I was still working flexitime and there were no essential meetings planned for the morning, so what was his problem? He sent me a second text which read, 'Cum c me when u Rive.’

I’m not sure if his choice of spelling was deliberate or simply misguided, but I wasn’t sure I was the right person to tell him.

The next bus was a couple of minutes late then stopped at every stop on the way, so I was closer to twenty-five minutes late when I finally arrived. I went directly to see Max.

“What time do you call this?” he asked tapping his watch.

I shrugged. “Flexitime?” I suggested.

“I can do without your facetious remarks, young lady.” That was ironically funny too, since he was only a couple of years older than me. “Your contract requires you to be in the office on Tuesdays and Fridays. Today is Tuesday.”

“My contract allows for me to leave early on Tuesdays and Fridays so I can pick up my kids. It doesn’t say anything about set hours, just that I do the required amount of work.”

“Like you did yesterday? Deadlines are there for a reason, you know?”

“I am aware. I met the customer deadline...”

“By less than a minute.”

“I still met it. Was the customer upset?”

“As a matter of fact...”

“Then as my manager you should have defended me since I still met the deadline. If he wanted it half an hour early just to be safe, he should have set the deadline half an hour earlier.”

“You’re not in a position to lecture me young lady. That wasn’t the only deadline you had yesterday, and you missed the other one.”

“By ten minutes, and I emailed you to let you know well ahead of time, and giving you the reason.”

“It doesn’t matter. A deadline is a deadline. I’m sorry, Sandra, but I’m going to have to give you a second written reprimand for this.”

From his expression, he was anything but sorry. It didn’t take a genius to recognise this was about more than deadlines.

“Do I scare you, Max?” I asked.

“What?”

“Or maybe it’s Mr Clark. I mean he was the first person to give me a formal reprimand. Is he worried I’m going to stir up all the women who work here and get them to demand equal salaries? Has he instructed you to find a reason to fire me before I cause too much trouble?”

“I don’t know what you’re on. You know, this is probably why we don’t pay women as much as men. Prone to flights of fantasy.”

“Does it bother you that we meet for a girl’s lunch every Friday? Do you think we’re plotting our revenge?”

“You have to admit, it looks a bit strange, gathering together regularly like that.”

“I suppose it would if you didn’t have any friends.”

“What was that?”

“Do you know what we plotted last Friday? We decided to get together and have a day of experimental sewing. Marjory rented her church hall, everyone brought a sewing machine, quite a few people brought bolts of unused material they had lying around and we had a go at sewing something completely new. We didn’t think about work for one second.”

“So? What’s your point?”

“Oh, I have a couple. The first is we are not plotting to wreck the business. For all that I don’t agree with what either you or Mr Clark told me, I do see that an abrupt change would be bad for everyone.”

“And the second?”

“You’re not giving any of us girls, and me in particular, any reason to show the company any loyalty. All you’re offering us is a day’s wage for a day’s work...”

“Which is all we do for anyone.”

“Except, as per our previous discussion, a different day’s wage for us for the same day’s work. You don’t even bother to check who’s giving you better value for the same work.”

“I’m not hearing anything new.”

“One day you might. One day someone might offer some of us girls a better deal and we won’t have any reason to stay in this place.”

“Well, good luck to you on the day that happens.”

“Thank you. I’d wish you the same, but I really don’t think I care what would happen to you.”

“Do you want your third written reprimand?” Clark’s ran a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy.

“Only if you want to contest it in court. That second reprimand of yours is a little thin. I’m sure I could demonstrate prejudicial bias without much effort.”

“Not with this insubordination you’ve just shown.”

“Oh, sorry I’m confused. It must be my inferior female brain. That insubordination, are you planning on using it as the basis for the third reprimand, or as a little added substance to make the second one stick better? I don’t see how you can have both.”

“Get to work,” he growled.

“Gladly, assuming you don’t need me for anything else.”

“Get out of here!” It wasn’t quite a yell, but it was close.

I spoke to Charlotte about my workplace woes over lunch. She suggested fighting fire with fire, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep working in a place that didn’t want me there. The problem was any references I'd get from Clark’s would be written by Max’s hand, and I didn’t predict a particularly glowing recommendation from him.

“You could come and work for me,” she suggested. “I have a little spare in the budget and I could do with someone to help me write up all my reports.”

“Secretarial work?”

“It wouldn’t pay much, but it would keep the wolf from the door. I’ve seen you type. You got mad skills, girlfriend.”

I forced a smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. “I really appreciate it, Charlie. You’re an amazing friend. My life seems to go from one crisis to another, and you’re always there, bailing me out.”

“It’s what friends do, girl. One day I’m gonna need help and I’ll know you’re gonna be there for me.”

My smile grew a little realism. “Here’s hoping that never happens.”

I raised my glass and she tapped hers against it.

“And here’s to an end to your troubles. Honestly, you deserve better than you’re getting.”

I trudged through the afternoon on autopilot, struggling to find the least hint of enthusiasm. I gave some thought to Charlotte’s advice, at least the bit she gave me before offering me a job. However little I liked my situation, bills would need paying and mouths feeding, so I had to do what I could to keep my job. I checked through the staff handbook on what to do when you have a complaint against your immediate boss and went to collect the relevant forms from HR. I filled in the easy bit on the bus home – you know, name address, phone number, that sort of thing – and was drawing a blank on how to word the nitty gritty of the issue when my phone rang.

I didn’t recognise the number which meant most likely spam or scam, but I answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Is this Sandy Shaw?”

Not spam or scam. They wouldn’t know me by that name yet. Prank caller, maybe. I stoked the coals, preparing to give him a roasting. Except there was something familiar about that voice.

“Who is this?” I asked.

He gave me his name and I could hardly believe I’d not recognised it from the start. He was on the radio most days, singing bittersweet songs of love and loss. He was also on most of my Spotify playlists.

“I understand you make clothes,” he said.

“Well, I’ve made a few things for my children, but I’m nothing special.”

“Oh, I disagree.”

“What do you mean? What do you know about it?”

“You have a smartphone, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Long, drawn out, wary.

“Put me on speakerphone and bring up your browser. Check out mymumsamazing.me. I’ll wait.”

I followed the link and found a fairly rudimentary website. One page with the title in sparkly letters across the top. Underneath it were dozens of pictures of Steven, all in the things I’d made him, or the fruits of our impromptu sewing group. Each one had a caption crediting the person who’d made it, but always giving me as the designer.

“What is this?” I asked. “And how did you find it?”

“I’m guessing your son put the website together in an IT lesson at school. As to how I found it, it’s gone viral. The website address is being shared everywhere on Facebook, Twitter, you name it.”

“He’s only eleven. There shouldn’t be pictures of him on the Internet. I’m really sorry, but I need to call the school.”

I ended the call and hit the school speed dial.

“Mrs Nullis please. It’s extremely urgent.”

“Hello Sandy. What couldn’t wait ten minutes till you were here picking up your children?”

I told her, and was highly impressed with how quickly she acted. Within ten minutes the website disappeared from the ether. It wouldn’t be a total fix. If the site address had been shared around the globe, there would be copies of the pictures downloaded on hundred of personal computers, possibly even thousands or millions.

My phone rang again. Same number as before.

“Look, don’t take this personally – or do, I really don’t care – I don’t particularly want to talk to someone who looks at pictures of children on the Internet.”

“You don’t understand. I wasn’t looking at your son. I was looking at the clothes he was wearing. I want you to make something for me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s going to be all over the media soon that I’m gender-fluid.”

“I’m not familiar with the term.”

There must have been something in my tone, because I could hear him smiling.

“Yeah, I'm not too keen on the title either. It kind of sounds like something you keep in a sperm bank.

“It means my gender expression shifts over time. Some days I wake up wanting to be a guy, others I want to be a girl, and then there are the days I can't decide.

“That’s why I got so excited when I found your son's website. I mean, I agree it wasn’t the cleverest thing, posting all that online with all the sickos out there, but your ideas are magical. I want to be wearing something you’ve made when I come out officially. You just need to name your price.”

“I’m really sorry, I can’t think on this right now. Not until I’ve figured out what to do about this website business.”

“I’m not sure there’s much else you can do. I noticed you already had the site taken down, which I totally understand. There really isn't anything you can do about the pictures people will have copied...”

“Thank you, I realise that. I need to work out what to say to him, and I’m nearly at the school.”

“Well don’t be too harsh with him, please. His heart was in the right place. He only wanted to show the world what an amazing mother he has.”

“And you know this how?”

“Right up at the top, under the sparkly title. I missed it at first because the photographs are so eye catching, but he wrote a short intro.”

“Well, the website’s been deleted now, so...”

“Ask if the school kept a copy.

“And when you’re ready, please call me back. I have a TV appearance on Friday evening and I’d really like to go appropriately dressed. Like I say, just name your price.”

Mrs Nullis was waiting for me when I arrived, all apologies and contrition. We waited together until Michael appeared then made our way to her office where a nervously worried Steven and an even more worried teacher sat waiting.

They both started speaking the moment the door was closed, but stopped when Mrs Nullis held up her hand. The secret powers of headmastery at work.

“Introductions first. Sandy, this is Mr Todd, our IT teacher. Richard, Sandra Shaw, Steven’s mother.”

“I am so sorry about this, Mrs Shaw. We’ve been designing web pages in class, but I had no idea this was what Steven was doing. The class was split into groups and Steven’s group were supposes to be making a page about the football team. Here, let me show you.”

Mr Todd was a typical tech guy in that he was happiest with his hands on a keyboard. Male pattern baldness had extended his forehead halfway to the back of his neck, and he had grown a thick moustache, possibly to compensate.

He brought up a screen filled with text and photographs relating to the school team. One of them was recent enough to show Steven and the girls cheerleading in the background.

“I haven’t actually done much on that,” Steven said. All eyes turn towards him. “Most of the guys on the team have been kind of weird with me since I chose cheerleading over football. They told me I should make my own page on cheerleading since I so obviously like it better.”

“You didn’t say anything, Steven.”

“What would you do? If you made them work with me, they’d just find ways of ruining my work.

“Then there was something Doctor Marsh said last week that gave me an idea.”

“Doctor Marsh? What did he say?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. I didn’t want to get mad at him, but if he’d been in any way responsible for Steven’s actions, I’d be prepared to make an exception.

“I told you about it. He said I had a couple of choices with the way I was. He said this wasn’t going to go away, so I had to choose between hiding it away again – which hadn’t worked so well last time, but maybe if I knew what it did to me, I could figure out a way to control it – or I could just be me and do what I was doing then. You remember, that was when I went to see him wearing my butterfly dress.”

Mr Todd gave him an odd look.

“He said I seemed so much happier and more relaxed like that, and I really was. He also said that if I was thinking about embracing that version of me, I should go big or go home. If I was all kind of timid about it, that would just make people laugh at me more, and that would put me back in my shell. I needed to show everyone that I wasn’t ashamed of being like that.

“That’s what gave me the idea for the website. When you took that picture of me by the bus stop, I didn’t send it to Ann. I emailed it to my school address. Then on Sunday, when I was trying on all that stuff, I asked your friends if they would photograph me and send me the pictures. A lot of them kind of didn’t want to, but there were enough who didn’t see the harm.”

“How did you publish it though?” Mr Todd wanted to know. “We’ve only been making webpages for the school site.”

“I talked to a girl in year ten who’s a real whizz with computers...”

“Wendy Lawson?”

Steven faltered which was more confirmation than denial. “She showed me how to get around the firewall and set up a free website, complete with domain. I only put it up this morning. How did you find out about it so quickly?”

“Someone called me, Steven. You put my mobile number on the site.”

“Didn’t I warn you about the danger of putting contact details on a website? Absolutely anybody can see it and not everyone is nice.” Mr Todd was doing my job of telling him off for me, which meant I could remain sympathetic and supportive.

“Did you keep a copy of the site? I asked. “I’d like another look at it.”

“I’m sorry. Steven uploaded it to a webhost that has nothing to do with the school. I traced them through their IP address and called them to tell them they were hosting inappropriate content and they deleted it straight away.”

“I’ve still got it in my workspace,” Steven offered. At Mrs Nullis’s invitation, he logged onto her computer and brought up the working files.

The text at the top of the page read, ‘My amazing mum designs skirts and dresses for boys. If that’s you, you should call her. Her name is Sandy Shaw and you can reach her on,' and then my phone number.

Mrs Nullis made a copy of the files onto a memory stick, then deleted them from Steven’s directory. The memory stick went into a locked drawer in her desk.

“We need to decide how to deal with this now,” she said. “It seems that your intentions were misguided rather than malicious, Steven, so you’re not in trouble, but hopefully you can see why we’re so worried about this.”

“I think so. I’m really sorry.”

I crouched down next to him and pulled him into a hug to let him know I wasn’t mad either.

“Mr Todd, I want you to have a quiet word with Miss Lawson. Again I’m not inclined to punish her, since that would probably end up landing back on Steven, but use this as an example of why she shouldn’t circumvent the school restrictions even though she’s capable of doing so. See if you can’t get her to help you tighten up the security a bit.

“Unfortunately, we are going to have to inform the police. Since this thing went viral in the short space of time it was on the web, I imagine they’re already aware, just trying to trace it back to its source. In fact, I’m a little surprised they haven’t called you yet. Incidentally, you’d be best changing your number as soon as you can. I imagine you’ll start getting some fairly unsavoury phone calls in a while.”

“I already have that on my list of things to do.”

“See how it goes, but you might have to switch your phone off if it gets too bad. Do you mind if I make that call to the police now while we’re all here?”

We agreed and she dialled out. The cybercrimes division had noted the website, but considered it low priority. They now noted that the site had been taken down and would send someone the following day to deal with it. Since they didn’t wish to interfere with the running of the school, they asked if four o’clock would be acceptable. We all made notes in our diaries and I went to collect Michael from reception.

“Sandy?” I turned to see Mrs Nullis holding up a sheaf of papers. “I know this situation has superseded a lot of other things that are going on, but did you still want to look at these?”

“George’s invoices? Let me take a few quick snapshots.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that.”

She laid them out on her desk and I put my camera phone to good use. They all looked in order, but... Something still nagged at the back of my mind.

After all the hassle, I didn’t feel much like cooking. We’d been making regular use of the chip shop on Tuesdays, but a Chinese takeaway had recently opened, and I was game for something a bit different. I gave the boys the choice. Michael wasn’t that keen, but Steven, still a little shaken by the afternoon’s events, sided with me. I made sure the boys had noodles and ordered a mix of satay and sweet and sour, which I was pretty sure would go down well. Special fried rice for me as it was likely to be the only thing I got to eat after the boys made up their minds how good the new flavours were.

I called Charlotte while I picked through my rice and bits. Probably the one bad habit I’ve not tried to do anything about, using my phone at meal times. It used to be browsing topics of interest, but lately I’d been using the phone for its original purpose.

“Hey girlfriend! How’s it with you?”

I updated her on Steven’s most recent misadventure while he sat across from me looking appropriately contrite.

“Sounds like you did everything right. Cyber squad may give Steven a roasting, but this shouldn’t amount to anything.”

“Thanks. I’m glad I don’t need you to bail me out this time.”

“We’re good. How are things otherwise?”

So I told her about my run-in with Max and the second written reprimand.

She talked me through how to find the built in voice recorder on my phone and pin it to my main screen.

“Whenever he approaches you, take out your phone, start recording and tell him what you’re doing. You need the evidence, otherwise it’s his word against yours, and he’s senior. You’re right to put in the complaint, but don’t expect it to come to much. It’ll be more of a backstop when he throws the third one at you.

“Anything else you’d like to share?”

“Yeah, I may be in the market for a child minder on Friday. You interested?”

“Could be. What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing’s decided yet, so I’d rather not say just now.”

“Look at you being all dark and mysterious.”

“Yeah. Look, I have to go. I need to see if I can get anything decided for Friday.”

The boys had finished eating, so I sent them upstairs to change for bed. Knowing them as I was beginning to, they’d take their time over it in the hope that I wouldn’t notice time passing. It would give me time and privacy enough for my next call.

I took a moment to put my thought in order, then called back my potential customer.

“Okay, I’ll do it. First question. What sort of event is Friday night and where?”

“It’s a talk show and it’s at the television centre in London at nine.”

“Okay, so we'll need to be there by eight. I’ll have a look at train timetables.”

“No need. Where do you live?”

I gave him my address.

“I’ll have a car pick you up at six.”

“Oh, okay. Second question. What sort of thing are you looking for. I’m assuming something with a skirt, but dress or skirt and top...”

“Dress, definitely.”

“Ankle length, below the knee, above the knee, mid thigh?”

“What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t make it too short, otherwise you might end up showing off more than you might want people to see. For safety I’d say no higher than just above the knee. The rest is kind of down to the statement you’re trying to make. Ankle length is elegant eveningwear for any age group. Below the knee would probably come across as demure – you know, shy and retiring; middle aged librarian sort of thing. Above the knee would be teen and twenties saying, ‘look at me, I’m fuckable.”

“That’s... not how I was expecting a young mother to talk. Er what would you suggest?”

“What are your legs like?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When you look at your legs in the mirror, do you find them attractive?”

“I’ve never really given it much thought.”

“Probably not spectacular then. Let’s go full length this time round. If you decide there’s a next, we can see what your legs are like and maybe show them off a bit.”

I went through colour, patterns, materials, degree of coverage up top. Did he shave more than his face, how did he feel about the smooth skinned metrosexual look. With each question answered, a new piece of the puzzle slotted into place. After about ten minutes of questions, I had a clear image in my mind of what I was going to make and how. I’d need to buy in quite a few supplies, which would take a fair bit of time, as would the cutting and sewing.

“So how much is this going to cost me?” he asked when I’d run out of questions of my own.

“I haven’t quite decided yet. What’s your budget?”

He laughed.

“I promise it’ll be no more than you think is fair. I have something other than just cash in mind, but could we talk about it after the event? If you don’t like what I have in mind, we’ll settle on a price and be done.”

“You don’t negotiate very well, do you?”

“It all depends on what I’m negotiating for. If I just wanted to make some money, I could think of a number and double it, but what if I want a more lasting arrangement? Wouldn’t it be worth making a concession or two to try and grow a little goodwill?

“Anyway, I think we’re done for now. If you’ll excuse me, I suddenly find myself with an urgent need to shop for supplies.”

“I’ll see you in London, on Friday.”

“Yeah. Like I said, I’d like us both there an hour before you’re due to go on.”

“A whole hour?”

“I don’t have your exact measurements and it may take that long to adjust this thing to fit you properly.”

“Fine. One hour. The car may come a little early to make sure you’re there in time.”

Shopping wasn’t that urgent. I crept up the stairs, managing, with my lightweight form, to avoid any creaking floorboards. I loved the easy grace of my new body. I was about to spring the door open when Michael spoke.

“Steven?”

“Mmm?”

“Um, nothing?”

“Come on, what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know, it’s silly.”

What sounded like the thump of two feet jumping down from a top bunk followed.

“I promise I won’t laugh.”

“It’s... We’ll, it’s just, what if Mum isn’t really Mum?”

“What do you mean? I mean, who else would she be?”

“I don’t know. She’s just so...”

“Different? So much nicer?”

“Yeah, I s’pose.”

“What about me? I mean, I’m different too, and in a good way. Does that mean I’m not me either?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not. At least... I don’t mean to, Mikey. I’m just trying to understand.”

“You changed slowly. You got less angry at first, then more like you are now. With Mum it was like we woke up one day and she was...”

“Different. I do see what you mean.”

“Then there was that day, you remember, you did cheerleading practice and had your stuff nicked.”

“It’s not something I’m likely to forget. It was like everybody hated me, and I was alone, and...”

“Yeah, well it was kind of scary for me too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know Mum and Charlie took me and Jake to the courthouse?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, while we was waiting...”

“Were waiting.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that.

“While we were waiting, this man came over and talked to Mum, then to me a bit. He was big, like Dad, and fat like him too, only not as much, and he said, ‘What the f...k,’” he whispered the word, but I could just hear it, “’are you doing here?’ and I mean, the voice was different, but it sounded so much like Mum. You know, the way she was before...”

“Are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

“No! I didn’t! I mean at first I wasn’t sure, but the things she said, I mean he said. The words he used, like ‘innit’ and ‘incha’, and he kind of talked through his nose like Mum did. You had to be there, Stevie.”

“It’s okay, I believe you. What else did he say, this guy?”

“I don’t know. Something about a car Mum never had, and about quitting his job. I didn’t really understand, but there was a lot of swearing.”

“Kind of sounds like Mum, I suppose.”

“Then he said something like, ‘Yeah. Your f..king kids. Right.’ Like he didn’t believe what Mum was talking about, and Mum said something like, 'They deserve to be loved,' and he said, ‘What would you know about that?’ and Mum said, ‘Hopefully enough.’”

“So what are you saying?”

“You remember that film we watched on Sunday? Freaky Friday? It made me remember the man at the courthouse.”

“You think Mum swapped bodies with someone? That was just make believe, Mikey. Things like that film don’t happen in real life.”

“I know. But what if they did?”

“Okay, what if they did?”

“Well, in the film, they changed back at the end.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want Mum to change back.”

“No, me neither. But you know, this isn’t that film. I mean, can you imagine waking up in Mum’s life the way it was? Like, what reason did we give her to even like us?”

“I s’pose. So what d’you think happened?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad it did.”

“Yeah, but what if she changes back?”

“What if she doesn’t? I mean we couldn’t do anything about it either way, could we?”

“No, I suppose. But what if she doesn’t want to stay?”

“Maybe we could make sure she has a reason to want to. You know, she’s the mum we want, so maybe we could do our best to be the kids she’d want.”

“Do you think that would work?”

“I’m sure of it.”

I’d heard enough. Tears were prickling my eyes. I made my way back downstairs, carefully avoiding the creaky steps, and found myself a box of tissues.

I must have sat there a while, either that or they had some sort of sixth sense thing going on, because the next thing I knew was a creak on the stairs as they came down.

“Mum, are you alright?” Steven asked. He was wearing his nightdress.

I sniffed and gave my eyes one last dab before hunting out the smile in my turbulent mess of emotions.

“I’m fine, sweetie. Have you brushed your teeth?”

“Not yet. Is this about, you know, what I did at school?”

“No dear. It’s about a lot of things, but mainly good ones.”

“Then why are you crying, Mummy?” This from Michael.

“Women cry for a lot of reasons, sweetheart, not all of them bad. I was thinking how lucky I am to have two such wonderful children as you two.”

“And that made you cry?”

“Sometimes when I fill up with feelings, it doesn’t matter what they are, they sort of leak out. There’s nothing wrong, but I suppose I could really use a hug right now.”

They obliged, filling my heart to bursting.

“I love you, Mum,” Steven said, “and I’m sorry for today.”

“Well I’m not. Your heart was in the right place, and that’s what matters most. I love you too. Both of you.

“But you have school tomorrow and it’s... Oh my, is that really the time?”

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 19-20 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 Bad language returns a bit here. Double posting as a gift for Easter, plus this has a slightly better cliff hangar

-oOo-

Chapter 19

They settled quickly enough, hugs and kisses all round, then I made a few online purchases for next day delivery and settled down for an early night myself.

The following morning dawned bright and cheerful. I roused the boys earlier than usual, and with much grumbling on their part. Then, while they were stumbling about, I found something summery to wear, that would go with flats as I had no intention of wearing heels with the amount of walking I'd be doing.

We were breakfasted and out of the house in record time, which meant we made it to the school just as a police car drove in through the gates. Michael ran off to play with one of his early bird friends under the watchful gaze of whichever member of the primary school staff had drawn the short straw this morning, and I steered Steven towards Mrs Nullis’s office to face the first challenge of the day.

The cybercrime officer turned out to be atypical for a nerd. Pretty and petite, she was just the sort of girl my former self would have been attracted to, all the more so when she opened her mouth and demonstrated both her eloquence and intelligence. She was thorough and efficient, reviewing the data Mrs Nullis had kept before deleting it and making sure it was erased from both server and backup. She had a quiet word with Steven and the girl who’d helped him, leaving them subdued and introspective as they headed off to their lessons. She finished by addressing the remainder of those who’d been involved.

“No real harm done,” she said with a quick smile. “They’re not really the kind of pictures that cause us a great deal of concern, and I doubt your son will be doing anything of the sort again in a hurry, Mrs Shaw.” She turned to Mrs Nullis and Mr Todd. “You may want to keep a tighter leash on the other one though. She’s very bright. I mean your security setup is pretty good here, but there’s always one or two who can’t resist the challenge of trying to poke holes in it. You may want to get her on your side and see if she can come up with ways of stopping anyone else from getting through your defences.” She turned her attention back to me. “There’s a possibility you’ll get some texts through from hate groups and religious fundamentalists. If that happened, you may want to change your mobile number.”

“I already ordered a new SIM,” I said.

“Good, then I’m pretty much done here. Anything crops up, give me a call.” She handed cards around with her contact details and let herself out.

It wasn’t yet quarter past nine. Time to make a few calls.

“Maximilian Andrews.”

“Hi Max, it’s Sandra Shaw.”

“What do you want?”

His sour tone acted as a reminder. I found the voice recorder on my phone and started it recording.

“Just so you know, I’m recording this and plan to record every conversation we have from now on.”

“You’re calling me so you can record our call?”

“No, the recording is incidental. I just wanted to make sure there’s nothing essential happening in the next couple of days. Next deadline I think is Monday and I don’t recall there being any meeting requests you wanted me online for today.”

“No, nothing. Why?”

“Because I need to take a day off.”

“You really want to request a personal day on the day after you were given a written reprimand?”

“Since I’ll be contesting the reprimand, I don’t see why not. You know as well as I do that it was unjustified. I explained that I had an unexpected visit from social services that took most of the morning to clear up, after which I still managed to meet the external deadline and only missed the internal one by ten minutes.”

“I gave you my response to that earlier.”

“Yes. You said a deadline is a deadline and refused to give me an answer when I asked you to explain the ramifications of my being ten minutes late on the internal one.”

His silence wasn’t quite an admittance of wrongdoing, but it went in my favour.

“I now have something else I need to take care of and, since there’s nothing urgent that requires my immediate attention, I’m informing you of my intention to take a day off between today and tomorrow.”

“You’re required to give twenty-four hours’ notice.”

“Except in exigent circumstances as is the case here.”

“What exigent circumstances?”

“One of my son’s posted something he shouldn’t have to the Internet from one of the school’s computers. The police are sending someone to deal with it.”

I silently thanked Steven for giving me a verifiable excuse. Okay, so she’d already been. Why should that mean I couldn’t benefit?

“You must be really proud of your children.”

“I am actually, yes. If you're really going to insist I work today, I could let the police know you wouldn’t give me time off. They did say they needed to see me before the weekend though, so this could be my twenty-four hours notice to take Thursday and Friday off if you prefer.”

“You said one day.”

“Yes, I can squeeze all I need to do into the one day if I do it today. If I need to go to the police station, it’ll take longer.”

I knew I had a planning meeting on the calendar for Friday, so it came as no surprise when he authorised my leave for the day.

I saved the recording and dialled through to a local taxi company. With the amount of stuff I needed to buy, I wouldn’t be able to manage it all on the bus. Certainly not with my diminished size and strength. I put together a list of shops to visit, and while I was waiting for my ride, I called through to each of them to ask for the things I needed to be set aside.

“Taxi for Ms Shaw?”

I turned to find my carriage awaiting me.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Regular drop off this time of day,” he said. “Where we going?”

I gave him the first address and we set off on the round robin.

The longest stop was at the material shop. It took me fifteen minutes to find everything I wanted. In all, the complete round trip took an hour and cost more than I’d have liked, but money was no object here, right. He helped me unload the car and earned his tip for doing so. I’d just close the door when there was a knock.

It was Hilary Blunt, and she wasn’t happy.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

“I would guess between an hour and a half and two hours. Which surprises me, because I seem to remember you saying you were busy.”

Her face coloured an apoplectic puce.

“If you’d called, I would have told you I had errands to run this morning, and I’m really busy right now, I don’t have time.”

“Can I suggest you make time Ms Shaw. Two visits in two days doesn’t bode well.”

“One minute.” I called through to Charlotte’s office.

“What is it now?”

“I have Hilary Blunt on my doorstep again, unannounced. Do I have to see her?”

“What’s it about?”

I passed on the question.

“About a certain website with photographs of a certain person’s son dressed in a certain way?”

“Oh, that’s already been dealt with. The site came down as soon as I found out about it and Steven has been spoken to, both by the school and the cybercrimes division.”

“The fact remains, you allowed him access to a digital camera and computer to make the site.”

“Computer access was at school. The only computer I have at home is a work machine, which my boys are not permitted to use, nor could they if they tried. As for the photographs, I’m not sure what to say. Do you have children, Miss Blunt?”

“No, I do not.”

“They need trust to grow. Sometimes they abuse that trust and there have to be consequences. Steven earned my trust back after our last confrontation, and everyone who has spoken to him since this incident believes he had no malicious intent. I plan to talk to everyone who contributed to his portfolio, so to speak, and make sure that it won’t happen again...”

“That’s all very well Ms Shaw, but this matter needs to be investigated.”

“Let me talk to her,” Charlotte said. I’d all but forgotten I had her on the phone.

I offered Miss Blunt my phone. “My lawyer wants to speak to you.”

I didn’t hear much other than Miss Blunt’s side of the conversation, but she wasn’t winning. She eventually handed the phone back.

I held it up to my ear. “Your too nice,” my friend told me. “She doesn’t have the right to barge into your life without warning, or to make the threats she has. I’ve arranged for you and her to have a sit-down next Tuesday afternoon at my place. Until then she’s welcome to follow up with the school and the police. If you’d let her have contact details for both, she should leave you alone. If she doesn’t, let me know and I’ll file harassment charges.”

“Okay.”

I let Charlotte go then dug out the police officer’s card, which I photographed for my records and passed over.

“You already know where the school is, don’t you?”

“Er...”

I remembered the difficulty she’d had finding her way back, so I sketched a rough map and added Mrs Nullis’s name and number to it.

“Well, alright then. I’ll see you on Tuesday. Don’t be late.”

I shut the door and put the kettle on, then took a bit of a comfort break. The tea helped settle my nerves, but it was a while before I found that creative space inside me that helped me back to the ideas I’d formed while talking to my client.

Over the next couple of hours, I put together the basic design. Long full skirts of shimmering emerald satin held out by multiple petticoats, which flashed glimpses of their lace hems when the skirt swirled about. A high waist of brocade in matching green and champagne, and a silk blouse above that with just a hint of champagne in it. Instead of a collar I put in a wide-open neckline that would show a hint of clavicle but wouldn’t drop far enough to suggest any non-existent cleavage. Full length sleeves that puffed out enough to hide any overdeveloped muscles. I cut slits into them and sewed in flashes of the emerald material. By lunchtime I had the basic form of it, rough and unfinished around the edges, and could go no further till the Amazon delivery driver turned up.

After a light lunch, I put in a few hours work for C and S. I mean I’d said I was taking a day off, not that it would all be within the same twenty-four hours. Oh the joys of flexitime.

Amazon turned up just before three and delivered the matching pair of his and hers tailor’s dummies I’d found on offer. They’d not been cheap, but quality tools meant quality products. I had just enough time to set the male dummy to my client’s estimated measurements and dress it with my morning’s efforts. A few moments’ refection to decide what I needed to do next, then out the door for a brisk walk to the school.

Steven had cheer practice, then we had to sort food, but I had an hour to kill, which I chose to spend chatting with the other mums. For the most part, I found them a little parochial and didn’t much care for their careless prejudices, but I’d learned that the person underneath the outward actions was often worth getting to know, so I made the effort.

I let Michael loose on the swings and roundabouts while Mr Gibson organised all the running and jumping. Michael, more or less as predicted, had lost interest in joining in with the cheer squad after only a couple of weeks, which left me dodging a stream of remarks about allowing my older son to appear in public as he was currently dressed. I tired of the comments after a while and decided they only deserved so much effort.

Barbara joined me as I made an excuse and went to check on Michael.

“Give them time,” she said. “It wasn’t long ago I was a bit like that, do you remember?”

I smiled. A bit? Still, she was right. She’d turned out to be a good friend. I wondered how the others would respond to my giving them a piece of my mind.

We chatted and watched the cheer practice – they were really getting quite adventurous with it – until Mr Gibson’s whistle called a halt to it all. Michael heard and ran over.

“Hey precious.” I said to him. “How do you feel about Chinese again for tea tonight?”

“Can’t we have sausage and chips like usual?”

“Shall I count that as your vote then? We can ask Steven once he’s changed.”

Which he didn’t. He grabbed his bag from the changing room and jogged over to us. I raised an eyebrow.

“The guys on the team get weirded out having me in the changing room dressed like this, and I doubt the school would let me share with the girls.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve never wandered around the neighbourhood looking like this.”

I shrugged. “Chip shop or Chinese?”

Which meant chips again.

With the kids fedded and bedded – something I remember my mother from my other life saying occasionally – I turned my attention back to my creation.

All the edging needed finishing, which meant cuffs, neckline and the fairly extensive hem. Parts of the bodice needed taking in, albeit possibly temporarily. I had some appliqué to add to the hem of the skirt and the breast pockets – not yet attached – and the flashes of colour in the sleeves needed tidying up. More work than I could manage in one evening, in fact probably more work than I could easily manage in the spare time I had between now and Friday night, but the thing about big jobs is that once you break them down into smaller ones, they become a lot more manageable.

I set myself the goal of finishing the neckline and cuffs before bed and did them both quickly enough that I had time to sort the appliqué as well.

The following morning I gave over entirely to hemming the dress. The material was too delicate to trust to the machine, so it meant a lot of painstaking hand sewing. My new body possessed a greater dexterity and capacity for neatness than I’d had before, which meant that, time consuming as it was, the final results were really pleasing.

Thursday meant Steven had an appointment with Doctor Marsh in the afternoon, so after the usual tasty but moderately unsatisfying salad for lunch, I stuffed my laptop in my cavernous bag, made a short diversion into the boys room to pick out something for Steven to wear for his interview with Doctor Marsh – should he choose to wear it – and I was out the door in time to pick him up and catch the relevant bus.

He elected to remain in his school uniform, which pleased the doctor immensely. Pippa was busy typing things up, so I used the time to catch up with my proof-reading work.

Doctor Marsh appeared at the door with a beam on his face. Steven was smiling as well.

“I think we’re done, he said.”

“Right. So same time next week?”

“No, I mean done, done. There’s always more that you can do, so you have to be prepared to draw a line somewhere.”

“Did he tell you about his website?”

“Oh yes, and the bollocking he got for it. Perhaps not the wisest thing he could have done, but it demonstrates he has no qualms about letting that side of him out in the open, and your response was measured and proportional, which tells me he's in very good hands. He tells me you brought something for him to change into.”

I pulled out a yellow and orange dress that one of the other girls had made for him. I remembered him really liking it.

“And yet he chose to remain in his uniform, which tells me he’s aware of this side of his personality as well. He’s adjusting well and doesn’t need me to tell him what to do.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d join me for a meal next Friday. There’s a pub over the other side of town I’ve heard does really nice food.”

Steven’s looked said, ‘Say yes,' and I almost certainly would have in any case.

“I’ll have to organise someone to look after the boys...”

“Of course.”

“But assuming there’s no problem...”

He scribbled on a piece of paper. “Call me when you know.”

“Alright.”

“I mean it. I’d hate to have to be forced to break ethics and use your patient records to get back in touch with you.”

I laughed shyly. He always seemed to have a way to make me laugh. The piece of paper ended up safely tucked away in my bag.

“You are going to call him, aren’t you, Mum?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“He’s really nice.”

“He is. You’d be okay if Charlotte and Jake came round two Fridays in a row?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something I have to do tomorrow night. I’ll be back in time for football on Saturday.”

“Good, ‘cos Mr Gibson’s asked me to sub in for Mitchell. He sprained his ankle.”

“What about the cheerleaders?”

“Ann can lead them for a week or two.”

“Cheerleading losing its appeal?”

“Maybe a little. You don’t mind, do you, Mum?”

“Not at all. You have to find your own way in life, sweetheart. If this is only for a while, then so be it. If in the future you want to go back to it, that’s okay too. What matters is you feel free to be yourself.”

We made it back to school in good time to pick up Michael, giving me space to let reception know I wouldn’t be taking Steven out of school on Thursday afternoons anymore.

This time we did pick up some Chinese for tea.

Early bedtime with a story left me with several hours to sort out the sleeves and make the last fiddly adjustments I needed to the gown. It amazed me how easily I could turn my hand to the work. I suspected there was more than a little muscle memory working for me, but most of the rest was tips I’d picked up on that one Sunday afternoon and my own brain helping me to come up with new ideas. I felt like it had always been in me, and now it had a way out.

As midnight approached, I reached the conclusion that I’d done as much as I could. Paul’s comment about drawing a line somewhere must have registered. I packed away my machine and kept my hand sewing kit out for the inevitable last-minute alterations I’d need to do.

I also hunted out a dress for myself for the following evening. I didn’t want to upstage him, but I didn’t want to look a mess either. I settled on the expensive dress Charlie had bought me on our first shopping expedition.

…

Friday morning turned into a trial from the moment I arrived at the office. Max hadn’t much cared for the way I’d stood up to him on our previous phone call and sought to pester me into submission with petty little criticisms of everything I did, including when I turned on the voice recorder of my phone. I didn’t respond but added it all to my bank of evidence.

Morning break saw him hovering over my desk, staring pointedly at his watch. I took a photograph and copied it onto the thumb drive I was sending to HR with my complaint form.

Lunchtime came as a relief. I left my desk at one o’clock precisely, the instant the second hand crossed the twelve, with Max hovering nearby to make notes. The flexitime policy meant there were no real restrictions on when you could take your break, but the unwritten rule was not before one.

Rather pleasingly, every single female worker in our little cube farm stood the instant I did and followed me out.

Our eatery of choice was just a couple of minutes away and they were used to us descending on them en mass, though not quite like this. Between us we stripped the food display bare like a swarm of locusts and stood about waiting while they hustled to fill our drinks orders.

It gave the girls a chance to offer their support with a gentle caress here and a sympathetic comment there. I was in tears by the time I was seated, and more from the show of solidarity than from the stress of the morning.

“I’m not sure how I’ll be able to keep going if this continues,” I told a very attentive audience, eliciting more supportive murmurs.

“I don’t know why he’s doing it,” one girl said. “I mean he’s always been a bit of an arsehole, but this is extreme, even for him.”

“I think it may be unofficial pressure from above,” I sniffled, not really having the appetite to eat the sandwich I’d bought. “You all know I made a bit of a fuss over the company’s pay policy with respect to women, and I think they’re worried I’m stirring up dissent among the rank and file. I think he’s been told to persuade me to leave before I incite rebellion.”

“It’s too fucking late for that, don’t you think girls?” I couldn’t see who said it, but from the reaction it didn’t really matter.

“It’s okay, you guys. I appreciate the support, I really do, but you don’t want to stir up trouble. You need your jobs, even if they are fiddling the system a bit, and they need you to keep the company afloat. You rock the boat too much and it’ll sink. With all of you in it.

“I may have something else lining up anyway, so don’t be surprised if I hand in my notice next week. If I do, it’ll be because I’m moving on to something better, not running away from this shit.”

“Yeah, well if there’s any space for someone else in whatever that is, let me know. I mean if they can do this to you, they can do it to any one of us, right?”

More murmurs of agreement. They pressed me for more details, but I wasn’t ready to commit to anything, though I did suggest they watch a certain chat show that evening.

We arrived back at the office at the stroke of two, equally en mass. I don’t know if the show of support scared them, but Max left me alone for the rest of the day. Not that there was much of it remaining with me leaving at three.

Charlie and Jake turned up at about five. Jake was visibly relieved to find both boys in trousers and ran upstairs with them to play. Charlie joined me in the kitchen where I was putting together dinner for them all. I put the kettle on to boil while she whistled her appreciation of the gown I’d left hanging in the corner of the room.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked.

“That is,” I replied. “It’s not for me. I mean do you think I could fit these in there?” I indicated my substantial pair of boobs which had progressively come out of hiding as I’d lost weight.

“Then...?”

“A commission. For a television appearance this evening. You might want to have ITV on at nine.”

“You want the boys to watch?”

“I’m okay with it if you are. It’s after the watershed so no guarantee it’ll be age appropriate, and Steven has football in the morning. Your call.” I turned the bolognaise down to simmer and added hot water to a French press preloaded with coffee. “I do need to ask if you can do this again next Friday.”

“Another commission?”

“No, a date.”

“Oh, do tell!”

I handed her a coffee and gave her a ten-minute introduction to Doctor Paul Marsh.

After that, I was hustling to get ready and was just taking care of the finishing touches when there was a knock on the door.

I hurried down to answer it, expecting it to be my driver. Instead...

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting you to come yourself.”

“Your place was kind of on the way, so it seemed a sensible thing to do.”

Charlotte appeared behind me in response to our exchange.

“You’re...”

“I am. Pleased to meet you.” Then to me, “Can I see it? I have to tell you, I can’t remember the last time I felt this excited.”

I led him through to the back room.

“Wow!” he breathed. “That is... beyond perfect.” Semantically impossible but pleasing as compliments go. “Can I try it on?”

“Since you’re here, why not? It’ll give me an idea what alterations I need to make.”

He was already pulling off his sweatshirt. I took the dress off the dummy and unzipped it for him.

The kids must have had their sixth sense working or something, because they came thundering down the stairs a couple of minutes later to find me adding pins here and there. I’d judged pretty well given that I’d had no access to my model ahead of time, but I still had quite a bit of hand stitching to do before it would be ready.

“Hey, I know you!” Steven exclaimed, “You’re...”

“Yes, you’re right. And you have to be Steven. Here, I’ve got something for you.”

He reached for his jeans.

“Please keep still,” I grumbled around my mouth full of pins.

He apologised and pulled a small leather picture frame out of his pocket. It held a selfie of him with his computer behind him and Steven’s website showing on the screen. At the bottom he’d written, ‘To Steven Shaw, who inspired me to be brave’ and then his signature.

“Wow! This is awesome! Thanks!”

“Thank you, and your mum. I mean what do you think?”

He did a twirl which put me on my backside, protesting loudly but laughing.

He kept still long enough for me to finish, then reluctantly changed back. I grabbed my bag, sewing kit and the dress and we hurried out to the limousine which had been blocking the road for the last few minutes.

Mrs Harris stood at her front door with her usual disapproving expression, which faltered when she recognised who I was with. I smiled at her but didn’t have time for much else.

It was an astonishingly smooth ride, but it wasn’t until we were on the motorway that I felt comfortable enough to get my sewing kit out. He watched me work for a while, but evidently wasn’t used to long silences.

“So, like I asked before, how much is this going to cost me?”

I told him how much I’d spent on materials – including the taxi fare I’d incurred collecting them and the dummies, and asked him what he thought was fair.

He doubled the amount and added a zero on the end which put it well into the four-figure range.

“You’d really pay that much for this?”

“Are you kidding? Hand crafted, one of a kind, with the personal attention of its creator. I thought I was pitching a bit low. If I was you, I’d hire someone to do your negotiating for you.

“You did mention you had something else in mind.”

“I haven’t thought it through yet.”

“We have a couple of hours. Why not do the thinking out loud? I mean you’re going to pitch it to me eventually, aren’t you?”

“Alright. You know I don’t do this for a living, don’t you?”

“You ought to.”

“And I would like to, but I could really do with a partner. A business partner,” I emphasised, feeling the blush rise up from below. “I don’t know how much you’d be prepared to get involved. Getting a bank loan might be a challenge for me since I have pretty much zero credit rating, and given the rather unusual line of products I’m planning to sell, but if I could show them I had someone like you as both a customer and a sponsor, I’d find it easier.”

“Or I could fund you. I mean how much are we talking?”

“I haven’t given it much thought, but I’d guess a couple of hundred thousand if I was going to do it properly.”

He whistled. “What do you mean by properly?”

I talked about the vague plans I had forming in my mind. They were ambitious, I knew, but between manufacturing, storage, marketing and all the other things that went into making a business work, my estimated start-up costs began to look a little shy of the mark by the time I’d laid it all out.

Silence returned to our little carriage, allowing me time to focus on the alterations. I’d done most of what was needed to make the top part fit better when we reached the end of the motorway and started the slow crawl through London. I put my work aside for the time being.

“Alright,” he said, “I’m in. I’ll fund you setting up, but I’ll want fifty percent of the profits, and I’ll want something bespoke from you whenever I have a big event to go to. This,” he pointed at the dress, “is not part of the deal. I’ll pay you for it.” He pulled out his chequebook and wrote down a figure that was double the one he'd mentioned earlier. “Don’t decide now. Get some advice, come back to me with a counteroffer.”

“Are you trying to improve my negotiating skills?”

“Well, if we’re going into business together, I wouldn’t want to be saddled with a partner who accepts the first offer every time.” He handed me the cheque. “I’m also learning a bit from you, like if you find someone you want to be in business with, then you show them you’re not just in it for the money.”

The driver twisted slightly in his seat. “I’m sorry sir, the traffic ahead is considerably worse than usual. I’m estimating we’re going to be half an hour late in arriving.”

“Is that going to give you enough time to do what you need to?” he asked me.

The only thing I had left to alter was the hem, but there was a lot of it, and I wouldn’t be able to do such a good job in the limited time.

“I may not have to do that much,” I said. “It depends on how good you are in heels.”

We phoned through to Television House and arranged for a selection of shoes to be available in his size. We arrived thirty minutes before he was due to walk on. I gave him a packet of new tights to wear along with a pair of boy cut underwear. It most likely wouldn’t make much difference under the full skirt, but I knew he’d feel better with the full package.

We settled on a pair of court shoes with a comfortable two-inch heel and I had five minutes of last minute tweaks to do before he went into makeup.

“I’ve reserved you a seat in the audience,” he said. “You’ll be able to slip in during the commercial break just before the show starts.”

I let myself be led away and into the seat in the middle of the front row, where I apologised to the people either side of me in true British fashion.

He was the second guest on the show, coming on fifteen minutes in, which meant I probably would have had time to re-hem the dress. As it was, the heels made more of an impression. They weren’t obvious until he sat down and crossed his legs, but they then became as much a part of the discussion on his clothing choice and what it meant to him to be gender fluid. I was singled out by a spotlight as the designer of his gown and blushed furiously under the audience’s applause.

He remained very much a focus of attention through the remaining interviews with a lot of complementary remarks, particularly from the female guests who followed, and he ended the set by singing his latest song. Not so much his usual teen angst, but a truly uplifting song called, ‘Now I’ve found the real me.’ I had very real tears in my eyes by the end.

He continued to wear the dress after the show and insisted I join him for the after-show party – not that I had a great deal of choice since I was relying on him to get me home.

I was introduced to quite a lot of people, many of whom were interested in having me design something for them. Most of them were women, which suited me fine as there were a lot of patterns around I could adapt, although most of the requests were for something evidently made for a woman but with a masculine feel to it, which wasn’t something I’d spent much time considering. I took a great many contact details and made just as many promises. I also drank a little more than I should. My capacity for alcohol had never been great, but now it was all but non-existent.

The party ended in the small hours of the morning, which was as well since my companion was determined to be the last man standing. Eventually both the booze and the company thinned enough that I could persuade him to leave, and we made our way unsteadily towards the limo.

He was considerably less drunk than me, despite the amount he had consumed, but there was a sense of euphoria in his eyes that went way beyond anything alcohol could bring. It was a feeling I remembered from younger days when I’d still looked good in a dress, and rather incongruously I found myself envying him.

Not so much the looking good in a dress, because I now had that well and truly down. Rather the heady adrenaline rush that I remembered from when I’d worn one. In my new form it was just ordinary. Good ordinary with a sense of rightness to it, and occasionally better than ordinary, but none of that breathless, almost orgasmic pleasure I remembered.

We were both too far gone to be able to make a sensible effort at conversation and without something to stimulate our minds, the gentle, quiet motion of the car soon sent us to sleep.

I awoke a couple of hours later to find my head resting on his chest. I moved away from him, feeling an odd mixture of pleasure and guilt.

“Don’t feel you have to move,” he said quietly. “I was kind of enjoying it.”

I had been too, but he was a bit young for me. Besides, there was Paul. Not that we’d actually started anything. My head felt muzzy and confused.

I looked out the window at the familiar streets of my hometown. We couldn’t be more than ten minutes from home.

“What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “Just gone three.”

“Did I sleep all the way?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I think I slept for most of it too. Woke up maybe ten minutes ago. Didn’t want to wake you in case you decided to move.”

I smiled. He was sweet in a boyish way, but he reminded me too much of my kids.

“I have a rule.” I realised I was slurring my words slightly. “Issa rule that I shouldn’t make important decisions when I’m drunk.”

“That’s a good rule. What important decisions?”

“Whether I should snuggle inna back of a limo with my soon to be maybe business partner.”

“That is an important decision. So what are you gonna do?”

“Watcha mean?”

“Well, you are a bit drunk, and you have to decide.”

“No I don’t.”

“If you choose not to decide you still have made a choice.”

“You... are too young to be a Rush fan.”

He smiled his dazzling, boyish smile and I felt my resolve crumbling. “I will choose a path that’s clear. I will choose freewill,” he sang.

Freewill. My choice. I could choose him or...

The limo eased round the corner onto a street lined with cars on both sides. I recognised my house before we started to slow down.

...or I could choose to go home to my kids.

“I’ll call you next week, once I’ve had a chance to listen to some advice.”

“You could invite me in for a coffee.”

“I could, but there’s nowhere to park, and I’m sure your driver wants to get home.”

“And there I was, thinking I was irresistible.”

“Very nearly. It was an amazing night. Thank you.” I kissed him on the cheek.

At least I intended to. He turned at the last moment and I found my lips on his.

Very abruptly I was back in my bedroom with my husband’s flab spreading over me like a sickness.

I jerked away, my heart racing.

“Was it really that bad?” he grinned, oblivious to the turmoil he’d caused.

“No, it’s just... I’m sorry, I have to go.” The adrenaline shock had done an amazing job of sobering me up.

“So, do I get that coffee?”

“Oh, I think that can be arranged.” I climbed out of the limo then leaned back in, directing my words towards the driver. “Your boss would like a coffee. There has to be an all-night Starbucks somewhere around here.”

“I’ll see what I can find Ma’am.” He couldn’t quite keep the smile from his voice. “Goodnight.”

I watched the car glide silently down the road, all the while fighting to regain control of the turbulent emotions inside me.

Chapter 20

Charlotte had fallen asleep on the couch, but she roused when I turned on the lights.

“Oh sorry!” I half whispered. “I thought you’d be in bed.”

“Well, the show ended at ten, so I thought I’d wait up for you. What time is it?”

“Nearly half three,” I said wincing slightly. “There was a party after the show and he didn’t want to leave. Sorry.”

“No, it’s cool. We were going to stay over anyway.

“So how was it? That last shot of you crying over his song was really sweet, by the way. Like a mom crying at her baby’s first performance.”

“I am not that old!”

“Well maybe so, but he’s definitely too young for you.”

“Too young to be a business partner?”

“Hello, this is new.”

“I asked if he’d consider funding me to, you know, make and sell clothes professionally.”

“Clothes like the dress he was wearing toni... last night?”

“Yeah. I mean women fought for the right to wear trousers, what, sixty odd years ago? Isn’t it time guys had the option to wear a pretty frock if they want?”

“’If they want’ are the operative words. I think you may be overestimating your market a little.”

“I’m not so sure. It’s kind of cool to be trans in the younger generation. Besides, if I can design dresses for guys, I can definitely do it for girls. I made a lot of contacts at the party, so I won’t be short of customers for a while.”

“What exactly did he offer you?”

“Two hundred thousand to set up for a fifty percent cut, plus I make him something new for each major appearance that he makes, but he said I should get some advice and make a counteroffer.”

“Too damn right you should. I know a guy you should talk to. I’ll call him later and see if we can set something up for Monday.”

“So soon?”

“Offers like that don’t stay on the table for long. If you take too long deciding, he may think you’re getting cold feet.”

“I have work...”

“Where your efforts aren’t appreciated, and your bosses are looking to rubber stamp your departure. This could be your way out. If it bothers you that much, use the weekend to get ahead.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Damn straight I am.”

“Besides, I’m too drunk to argue.”

“Drink. As much as you can.”

“I already did.”

“Water, you dumb broad. You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“You should get to bed.”

“You get to bed. I’m too comfortable to move.”

“Did you let the kids watch? What did they think?”

“You can ask them in the morning, assuming you wake up before noon.”

“I have to. Steven has football.”

“Best set an alarm then. Turn the lights out, would you?”

She snuggled back down onto the sofa. I doubted I’d be able to shift her, so I hunted out some blankets. She was asleep by the time I draped them over her.

I followed her advice and drank glasses of water till it felt like the stuff was running out of my ears, then I went and got ready for bed. This was one of those times when brush teeth and bed would have been great, but I knew I’d end up with zits if I didn’t do something about the war paint, which took enough time that a significant amount of the water made it through to my bladder before I was done.

The next morning I woke to a gentle knocking on the bedroom door and the welcome aroma of coffee.

“Mmm?” I asked eloquently.

Steven came into the room wearing a dress and bearing a mug of ambrosia.

I took a sip and felt the cobwebs clear a little.

“I thought you were done with this for now.” I nodded at what he was wearing.

“Yeah, me too. Then last night happened. You were so cool, Mum.”

“I didn’t do anything but blush.”

“Well. You were pretty cool anyway. Could I have a dress like that?”

“Like mine, or like his?”

“His of course, silly.”

“I may have enough material left over. You’ll have to take proper care of it though. It’s dry clean only. What time is it?”

“Quarter past nine. Charlie says you’ll have to hustle if we’re going to make football.”

“You too kiddo, unless you intend playing in that.”

The rest of the water I’d drunk the previous night wanted out anyway. I put my coffee to one side and took care of business. Pit wash then jeans and sweatshirt and a quick brush through the hair. Who said women couldn’t get ready quickly.

“We’re gonna be late!” Steven called.

I checked my watch and somehow it was quarter to.

Charlie swapped my empty coffee mug for a slice of toast and gave me a once over. Somehow, she had all three kids dressed and ready and she looked fresher than me.

“You’ll do,” she declared and led the charge out the door.

We made it in time for team selection. With the junior league over for the year, the school’s ran what they called mix and match friendlies where the coaches would select their teams from whoever turned up, the only proviso being that they weren’t allowed more than half their usual players. Quite often there were enough players to run two games. More often they’d end up with as many as fifteen players a side. It was usually good fun and helped mend any broken or bruised relationships. Steven managed to wangle both himself and Jake onto the same team. They didn’t see much of each other during the game, but between Jake keeping the ball out of their goal and Steven setting up chance after chance for his team mates to put one in their opposition’s, they were five nil up by Half time.

I still had enough of a morning after going for me that I was a little subdued in my cheering. Charlie understood and kept her own noise level in check.

“I spoke with my friend,” she said. “He can see you at nine thirty on Monday.”

“So, you think I should go for this business thing?” I asked.

“It’s mostly your idea, isn’t it? I mean you pitched it at him, not the other way round.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect him to go for it.”

“Why the hell not? You’re his only source for man-dresses.”

“Oh no!” I shuddered. “Let’s not call them that. You can’t make anything seem more masculine just by putting 'man’ in front of it.”

“So what then?”

“Just dresses. Dresses for men if you have to be pedantic.”

“Okay, so you’re the only person who makes what he’s looking for in clothing. He’s kind of invested in your success.

“When you pitch back at him, pitch low. He wants this at least as much as you.”

“You think so?”

“I thought you were there last night. Didn’t you see his face shining? I envy you; I really do. If I could make even one person that happy...”

“You’d be surprised at how happy you’ve made me. I’m just not great at showing it.”

“This ain’t what it’s starting to look like, is it?” she asked, backing away with a look of mock horror. “’Cos, you know, I ain’t into girls.”

I smiled. My head hurt too much for much else. “Date next Friday remember? Handsome doctor? Male doctor. My feelings for you are purely platonic, just massively grateful.”

“Well, maybe you should be a little cautious around your boytoy. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word platonic.”

“All the more reason to keep things professional between us. What do I need to do before Monday?”

“Not much, but try and give a clear idea on what you want to achieve and what you’ll need to get there. It doesn’t need to be complete. He’ll fill in the gaps soon enough, turn it into a business plan and tell you what your bottom line is, then he’ll tell you what you should be aiming to get out of the deal.”

“How’s that?”

“The more risk of failure, the more your investor will want a cut of any success. It’s like any bet you place. The longer the odds, the better the return. You just need to be able to show you’re a sure thing.”

“How much is this going to cost me?”

“Don’t worry about it; it’s covered.”

“You know, I’m going to have to buy you a beach house in the Bahamas when I get rich off this?”

“What makes you think I don’t already have one?”

“From one of your other clients you’ve made as happy?”

She smiled at me. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“Hey, this ain’t what it’s starting to look like is it?” I did a passable impression of her at her most American which set us both laughing hard enough to attract the attention of the other mums. They didn’t look particularly happy that we were enjoying one another’s company.

“You never did tell me what you did to end up in the pariah patch.” I said.

“Me? I had the temerity to turn up with the wrong coloured skin.”

“Please tell me your joking?”

“I wish I could.”

“They don’t deserve us.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought too.”

The final score ended up at eleven nil, which earned Steven and Jake a shedload of compliments, mainly from their proud mothers.

Charlie let me make lunch for everyone then she insisted we spend some time putting together a business plan. I misappropriated work facilities to type it all up, then set myself up a free email account and sent the working document to both her and me. She promised a printed copy for me if I dropped by on the way to my meeting on Monday.

Later in the afternoon we took the boys down to the park to kick a football around, with Steven grumbling because I made him change out of his dress before going. We’d just about talked out all options we could think of regarding my prospective venture into fashion, so we flitted about a number of topics, one of them inevitably being my ex.

“He hasn’t tried to contact you since the settlement, has he?” Charlie asked a little too casually.

“No, not that I’ve noticed. Why?”

“Oh nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Okay, maybe nothing. I’ve been keeping a casual eye on your ex’s lawyer and there are a few things he’s done recently that have raised some flags of a reddish hue.”

“Like what?”

“He’s been looking into the laws relating to child support and child custody.”

“And that’s unusual because?”

“Well, in and of itself, it’s not that strange. Simmons doesn’t usually deal in that kind of law, but that’s the point. The only one of his clients I can think of who’d be interested in that area of law is your ex.”

“Why would that be? He gave up any rights to custody and I don’t want anything from him. He barely gave us a thing while we were living with him, and I really don’t need him to start now.”

“That’s all very well, but the law doesn’t see it that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, despite your having full custody, he is still Michael and Steven’s father, and the law expects him to contribute to their living expenses.”

“Even if I don’t want him to?”

“Look, I get it, you’re a lot happier now the sumbitch is out of your life, and you want to keep it that way, but I don’t know if we’re going to be able to.”

“Why not? I do not need his fucking money! I’m earning enough for the three of us.”

“Yeah, but for how long?”

“You’re asking that after arranging for me to meet your friend on Monday?”

“Yeah, I’m... Look Sandy, this is coming out wrong. Say your ex knows about how things are at your work.”

“How would he know that?”

“You’d be surprised what you can find out if you put your mind to it. Say he knows. Say he expects you to get canned any day now.”

“I’m sure he’d be thrilled that I can’t fucking get by without him.”

“No, he wouldn’t. ‘Cos if you lost your job, I’d advise you to apply for income support or child support. Something to tide you over till you find something else.”

“And?”

“And they’d most likely agree to give you something, but they’d expect George to be paying his way. They wouldn’t offer you enough to live on and you’d most likely have to threaten him with legal action to get him to pay you what he should already be paying you.”

“Okay, so he’s screwed too.”

“Not exactly. There may be a way he can wriggle out of it.”

Something about Charlie’s body language sent a cold trickle of fear down my back.

“Tell me.”

“If he can have you declared an unfit mother, your boys will be taken by child welfare and neither you nor he will be responsible for them.”

“Fuck-shit-bugger-fuck! It’s just the kind of dick move he’d try. How...”

“Hilary Blunt. It’s bothered me that she’s been showing so much interest in you.”

“What does she have against me?”

“Well, you let your boys wander around in skirts for one thing.”

“And that’s not okay in this day and age? This is the fucking twenty-first century.”

“You know, you get really foul mouthed when you get stressed?”

“Fuck you.”

She smiled at that. “Hilary has a reputation as a Bible thumping fundamentalist, so her standards come from at least a couple of centuries back. After her first visit, she’d be primed and ready to listen to any poison Simmons or your ex can find to drip into her ear. All they need now is a like-minded judge...”

“Aren’t we supposed to be meeting her in Tuesday?”

“She cancelled, which is another alarm bell. It kind of suggests she has something else lined up.”

“What the fuck am I going to do?”

“Well, our best bet would be to discredit him as a witness. There’s no doubt he will perjure the shit out of himself if he’s given half a chance, so we need to be able to show something pretty convincing to persuade the judge not to trust his testimony. I don’t suppose you have anything like that?”

For some reason my mind flashed to my dream of George doing his accounts and Mrs Nullis.

“Maybe,” I said. I pulled out the photographs I’d taken of the headmistress’s invoices. “There’s something hinky about these, but I don’t know what.”

“Hinky? I must be wearing off on you worse than I thought.” She turned her attention to the photographs, zooming in on them and studying them. “Fuck me!”

“Hey, I’ll do it if you can get me out of this ton of shit.”

“No. I mean... I might be able to. Are there more like this?”

“What?”

“Invoices. I don’t suppose your ex kept his books in the house?”

“If he did, I’ve not found them yet.”

“That’s a shame.”

“But he’s done work for just about everyone in the neighbourhood. I’m not sure if they’d be ready to help me though. I still don’t have much of a reputation around here.”

“Right!” She stood and called for the boys to come. “We have a new job this afternoon. We’re going to canvass your neighbours.”

“And say what?”

“Show me to a house where your husband did some work, and I’ll show you what to do.”

I chose the house immediately to the right of mine. I’d continued to provide him with an occasional home cooked meal, so he’d likely be better disposed to us than most.

“Hello Mr Peters.”

“Oh, hello, er... yes. I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to bring your plate back to you. That was very tasty. Erm...”

“Don’t worry about the plate Mr Peters. This is my friend, Charlotte. She has something to ask.”

“Hello Mr Peters. I understand you had some plumbing work done by Sandy’s ex...”

“Cheating bastard – pardon my French.”

“That’s quite alright. I’ve met the man, so I understand how you feel. Would you like to get some payback? All I’d need would be to take photographs of the invoices he sent you.”

Once I knew what Charlie was after, we divided the street in two and went up and down its length. A lot of the neighbours hadn’t needed a plumber in all the time we’d lived there, but there were enough, and all were keen to help if it meant screwing with George.

Including Mrs Harris who happened to be on my allotted side of the street.

“What do you want?” She gave me her best shrivelling glare, which I returned with my brightest smile.

“I want my ex-husband to get what he deserves. My friend thinks she can deliver that, but we need evidence. Would you be prepared to let us take pictures of the invoices he gave you?”

“Will you be able to get me back some of the money he stole from me?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know what she has planned, but she seems to think it’ll work, and that’s not good news for George.”

It turned out to be incentive enough

It was getting on for six in the evening when we finished, so I cooked for us again while Charlie made use of my computer to compile and collate the information we’d gathered. She seemed quite excited about it. She and Jake left once they’d eaten.

“Leave this with me,” she said on the way out. “And don’t worry about what I said earlier.”

“You’re sure?”

“Have I let you down yet?”

“No. But there has to be something I can do.”

“Yeah. Get yourself ready for your meeting on Monday, get ahead with your work if you have to, and leave this with me. It may take a while, but it’ll be worth it.”

Sunday was more typical for British weather. It chucked it down making the boys fractious. I’ll admit I gave in and let the TV do the childcare while I worked hard getting ahead on my assignments. I’d done enough to put myself a day ahead by the time the credits were rolling at the end of the third film. I turned the box off and chased Steven to do his homework.

Just to make it seem a little less unfair, I had a go at setting Michael some simple maths problems and helping him to work through them. It was still early when we were done with everything, and the kids were bored with televisual entertainment, so I ran them a bath, then we played a game until bedtime.

Monday started with a phone call from Hilary Blunt informing me that she planned to come to my home for a meeting after the school run, to which I responded apologetically that she would find no-one in as I had an appointment in the town. I would, however, be in during the afternoon if she cared to come back then. This, it turned out was not convenient for her, so I was spared another unpleasant encounter with the bullish woman.

My meeting with Charlie’s business advisor, armed with the printout of the business plan she’d promised, was a resounding success. He offered to represent me and sent through a counter offer I felt was insultingly low. I’d never have dared ask for it, but it worked as the return counter-counter offer landed very much in my favour.

“He’s accepting twenty-five percent of the profits for his investment and has agreed to limit his demand for bespoke garments to three per year. I was expecting to get you a thirty percent deal so we’ve done better than anticipated.”

“Wow! So when do I get to start this grand new venture?”

“It’ll take time to get the papers drawn up, but I expect you’ll have the funds at your disposal on Friday.”

I dropped in to Charlotte’s afterwards to tell her the good news and to ask her to lunch, but she was way too distracted by something, so I allowed myself the afternoon off hunting around for something suitably spectacular for Friday’s date. My dress size had stabilised at about a twelve, which looked good on me. Curves without looking too skinny and of course a sizeable pair of assets out front.

This, I felt, had to be the time to go hunting for that little black dress. I indulged myself trying almost everything in a couple of boutiques and eventually settling on one with a price tag that genuinely supported the truism that less is more. I considered it money well spent, given how well the absence of clothing seemed to draw eyes from all over the room. Low cleavage, hemline around mid-thigh, backless, it was a wonder there was enough material in it to count as a colour.

Not that black is a colour of course.

Except maybe the hint of a sparkle in the material might count.

Maybe.

I also bought myself a casual pair of slacks and blouse. Very much the girl equivalent of chinos and polo shirt. Smart casual with the emphasis on the casual.

Tuesday saw me turn up at Clark’s in my new laid-back attire. Max inevitably intercepted me on the way to my desk.

“What the hell is that?” he waved vaguely at my attire.

“Smart casual,” I said pointing at the poster that described quite clearly what was meant by it.

“You could make more of an effort, like the rest of the girls.”

“You’re right,” I replied, pitching my voice loud enough to be heard pretty much everywhere. “I just thought it was time to make a point about the double standards in this place. You pay us less, yet you expect us to spend more on the clothes we wear to work. I dare you to deny it after your comment just now.”

He ground his teeth at me. “Mr Clark wants to see you in his office.” He offered me a smile which was more of a snarl. “Given your recent track record, I’d have made an effort to keep on his good side. I doubt this will do it.”

I smiled back, perhaps a little tight lipped, but I’d long since run out of patience with the man.

I knocked on Mr Clark’s door and let myself in when he called. He glanced up from whatever he was writing – usual power move. Let the proles see you working and that they were interrupting something evidently more important than themselves. This time he paused at my appearance and put his pen down, steepling his fingers and giving me a less than friendly look.

I took out my phone and set the record app running, showing him the phone so he could see exactly what I was doing.

“After that stunt you pulled on Friday, I’m surprised to find you still making waves, Mrs Bush.”

“The name is Shaw, Mr Clark. I’m sure there would have been a memo, and exactly what stunt did I pull on Friday?”

“That show of force. That mass walkout you staged. Call it what you will. I will not have that sort of insubordination in my office.”

“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr Clark. I simply went on my lunch break.”

“And the fact that every woman in the place stood up and followed you out, I suppose that had nothing to do with you?”

“No, it probably did have something to do with me, but I didn’t stage anything. I suspect my friends wanted to show me a little support after the morning I had.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Well sir, far be it from me to criticise, but I did find the amount of attention shown me by Mr Andrews on Friday rather distressing. It turns out my friends did as well.”

“Well, I find it highly unlikely that something like that would happen without a little prior organisation. I see you already have two written reprimands against your name and this will count as your third. I’m sorry Mrs Shaw, but it seems we are going to have to let you go.”

“You are aware that I’m challenging the reprimands? That I put my own complaint into HR on Friday?”

“I wasn’t, no. It seems it hasn’t been processed yet. And now it looks like it won’t be needed. Thank you for coming in Mrs Shaw. You may leave your laptop and any other equipment at the front desk. I wish you well in your future endeavours, but I wouldn’t ask for a reference if I were you.”

“May I ask if you have any problems with the quality of my work, sir?”

“It’s not your aptitude, Mrs Shaw, but your attitude. We gave you a chance, despite your lack of qualifications, and you repaid us very poorly.”

“Well.” I pulled the envelope with the letter of resignation I’d written the previous evening out of my back and carefully tore it in two. “Thank you for making this so much easier than it could have been. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor in due course.”

“Oh? More threats Mrs Shaw?”

“Not a threat, Mr Clark. I’m grateful for the opportunity you gave me, but not so much for everything that’s followed.”

I turned and walked out of his office.

“Get back to work. What do you think you’re doing?”

I turned toward the commotion, and once again all my friends were on their feet, reaching for bags and coats.

I tried handing in the laptop to the receptionist, who was also in the process of collecting her bag and coat.

“Please don’t,” I said.

“We’re not going to let them screw you Sandy,” one anonymous voice said.

“Yeah, if they screw one of us they screw us all.”

“Speak for yourself. I don’t want to be screwed by any of this lot.”

Laughter and general noises of agreement.

“It’s our turn to do the screwing.”

“Yeah, screw them.”

“Please. I don’t want to be responsible for you all getting sacked too.”

“Don’t then. We’re all responsible enough to get in the sack by ourselves.”

“Yeah, where better to get screwed?”

I gave it one last try. “No-one’s going to believe that I didn’t organise this somehow. Please, just let it be for now. I’ll be in the usual place for lunch at the usual time. Come find me there if you want, but don’t do this, please. Not now.”

It worked. They returned to their cubicles albeit with a degree of reluctance. The receptionist signed for receipt of my laptop and I managed to leave without causing a major incident.

My first stop was Charlotte’s office.

“I heard,” she said as I walked in.

“How? I came here straight from there.”

“There’s a modern invention you may have heard of called the tel-e-phone.”

“I didn’t think Americans understood sarcasm.”

“Yeah, but eight years living in this country is like a masterclass. So what now?”

“I don’t know. I was paid a fairly enormous sum of money for Friday, so we should be okay for a couple of months.”

“That sort of fairly enormous sum? You can afford to buy me lunch today then.”

“Glad to. I could do with something to do between now and then though.”

“Well, chances are, if I heard about you losing your job, then so did Simmons, so I’d expect him to make his move very soon. That being the case, you could have a go at coming up with ways of showing you are, in actual fact, one of the best moms I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks for saying so.”

“I’m only saying it because it’s true. Only just being true won’t help. You gotta lose that British reserve and go out there and blow your trumpet. If I can learn to be sarcastic, you can learn to brag about your achievements.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“You’ll do a damn site more than that!” She threw a pad of paper at me. “If I’m breaking my ass over this, then you’d damn well better be too. Write stuff down. Even if you think it’s stupid, write it down. We’ll review at lunch.”

“Okay. I told the girls I’d be in the diner across from Clark’s at one. If we’re going to be working over lunch, then either twelve or two would be best.”

“Twelve then, and there’s a bistro a couple of hundred yards this side of the cafe. Better food and quieter.”

“I’ll pop in and reserve us a table. See you at noon.”

With so much time on my hands, and given the level of stress I was carrying, I decided I deserved a bit of pampering. There was an up-market salon in the high street that always seemed to have empty seats. I’d suspected this to be because it set its prices too high, but being flush for a change, I decided to find out. It turned out not to be so bad as I thought and, since they did happen to have space to fit me in, I sat back for an hour and let someone do something creative with my hair while someone else tidied up my finger and toe nails.

I then spent twice as much again on a silk blouse and linen trouser suit because otherwise I’d have looked too good for my clothes.

I still had an hour spare by the time I was done, and since the bistro didn’t take reservations, I camped on one of the tables, drinking enough coffee to justify my being there. Twelve o’clock approached and I ordered crab salad for both Charlotte and myself, along with a pot of tea. It all arrived at the table just as Charlie stepped through the entrance.

“You know me so well,” she said, picking up a fork. “You look good, by the way. It’s about time you spent some serious money on yourself. So, tell me what you got.”

She was right of course. Looking like a million dollars meant I felt much the same, and that amount of self-worth gave me insight after insight into what made me worthwhile.

She scanned through the list, nodded her approval and tucked it away for whatever nefarious purpose her formidable lawyer brain had in mind.

With that apparently taken care of, we turned the focus of our attention to my business venture, and in particular to where I planned to set it up. The recession had hit quite a few local businesses hard enough to cause them to fold, leaving a good selection of empty premises around town, several of which had high street shop fronts, and all at bargain prices. I was spoilt for choice, which meant setting up viewings. By the time we’d finished eating, I had a half dozen lined up for the following day.

One o’clock was looming though, and we each had things to do. Less than five minutes walking took me to the usual Friday lunchtime haunt which, at just a couple of minutes past the hour, was already heaving with girls from Clark’s.

They all wanted to know what had happened, to offer their sympathy and outrage, to swear allegiance to whatever plan I had for retribution. It was heady stuff to feel so cared for.

I bought myself another cup of tea and gave myself over to answering their questions as best I could, while I mulled over a sort of inner moral dilemma.

Clark’s left me with a range of conflicting emotions. They’d been a good employer for most of the time I’d worked for them, but then again, I’d been a man for most of that time too. They’d offered me a job despite my lack of qualifications, or maybe they’d seen talent and an opportunity to exploit it. At the bottom line, there was a double standard about the place that only managed to stay legal by some fairly creative interpretation of the equality laws. It was deliberate too. I’d raised the matter hoping they’d address it, and their response had been robust and aggressive.

I decided I didn’t owe them a thing, so I didn’t try to make any excuses for them.

Once I’d shared with my friends the details of my dismissal, they wanted to know about my future plans.

So I told them.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 21 - 22 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 Still a little bad language, otherwise one more pothole in the road to happiness. Enjoy. Slight hiccup in the formatting forst time round. fixed now.

-oOo-

Chapter 21

Charlotte’s predictions proved to be right on the money. I’d barely walked back into the house after the following morning’s school run when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Hilary Blunt’s grimly satisfied smile facing me.

I sighed but found a smile of my own to offer her. “It really isn’t that convenient...”

“Don’t tell me you don’t have the time Ms Shaw, because I happen to know you were fired yesterday.”

“Oh? And just where did you come by that little piece of information?”

“That’s not important. What is important is you no longer have an income, which is sufficient grounds for me to give you this.”

She handed me a seriously official looking envelope.

“Thank you,” I said. “Is that all, or do you have any more questions for me?”

“Oh, I have more questions for you, Ms Shaw, but I think I’ll save them for the courtroom. You should open that,” she pointed at the envelope, “and cancel any plans you may have for tomorrow.” She spun on her sensible heels and marched off towards her car.

The contents of the envelope were a summons to a court hearing to ascertain my fitness to continue looking after my children.

I called Charlie.

“Three days in a row,” she greeted me. “People will talk.”

“I just had a visit from Hilary Blunt, to deliver a summons for tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, I guess when I’m right, I’m right. What time?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Shit. I imagine that’s deliberate since she knows we both have kids to get to school. Okay, what’s the earliest you can drop Michael and Steven?”

“Eight-thirty, I think. We don’t usually go that early.”

“Well tomorrow you’ll have to, and pre-book a taxi to pick you up at the school. I want you at the courthouse as early as you can get there. Dress smart. No trousers.”

“Seriously?”

“The summons doesn’t give the name of the judge, does it?”

“No, but...”

“It’ll be one of the dinosaurs, trust me. The sort who believes civilisation has been declining since women got the vote. A skirt won’t win you any good grace, but trousers will definitely lose it for you.”

“What do I need to bring, other than my A game?”

We discussed strategies for a while then I set about sorting things for the following day. I picked out a grey satin blouse and pencil skirt I’d bought as work-wear and tried it on, examining myself critically in a mirror, looking for loose threads and hidden stains. The hem of the skirt was beginning to come away in one place, so I put in a couple of minutes with a needle and thread to fix it before hanging it all back up. A pair of charcoal tights with a spare pack in my handbag in case of snags, and a fresh polish to my pair of two-inch black court shoes – named after the royal courts where they were first worn; nothing to do with law courts – and that much was done.

Next, I booked the taxi, stressing that it was to get me to a court appointment, so it couldn’t be late. I was assured it wouldn’t be.

I then put a call in to my soon to be business partner, or rather the person running interference for him. I hadn’t expected to be put through to him, but apparently my name was on his whitelist. I was asked to hold and heard faint strains of ‘Now I’ve Found the Real Me’ in the background for a couple of minutes.

The music stopped, followed shortly after by his cheerful greeting. “Hey Sandy, I was hoping I’d hear from you this week. How are things going?”

“Oh, well enough. I’m looking at a few places this afternoon to set up shop.” I’d been all for cancelling the viewings, but Charlie had said I’d have little enough to do by then and I’d need something to keep me distracted. She wouldn’t be available to join me as she suddenly had a lot of work to do in a very short time. “I was wondering if there was any way we could get the paperwork for our business partnership finalised and signed today.”

“My guy says it’s better to do it right rather than fast, and that Friday is the earliest he can manage. I won’t be able to free up the money any earlier than Monday as it is. I mean, isn’t what I paid you for the dress enough? I could forward you an advance of, say ten thousand if you need to start spending money.”

“It’s not the money, although yes, maybe a little advance would help. I need to be able to demonstrate to a judge tomorrow that I have an income.”

“I thought you did.”

“Not as of yesterday, no.”

“Would it help if I spoke to your judge? If you can video conference me, I’ll be recording all day tomorrow, but give me five minutes notice and I’ll be there for you.”

“That’d be great thanks.”

“I’ll arrange for the advance to go into your bank by lunchtime.”

My last call went through to Clark’s and Spencer's to Marjory, whose good sense and organisational skills I’d grown to appreciate.

“I was wondering if I could borrow you at lunchtime today?” More of a statement but the inflection made it a question.

“I imagine I could be available. I do have to be back in the office by two though. Mr Clark has called for a full staff briefing. I think he’s a little worried after our show of solidarity yesterday, and well he should be. What did you have in mind?”

“It’ll be something of a working lunch, I’m afraid. Sandwiches and a bottle of water sort of thing. We’ll be on the go for most of it, but I have a few decisions to make that would benefit from a second opinion, and I respect yours.”

“Colour me intrigued. Okay, when and where?”

I gave her a time and place and asked what she preferred in a sandwich.

I’d barely hung up when there was another knock on the door. A glance at my watch told me how much of the morning had already passed and that this was actually an expected visitor.

I’d spent some time the previous evening doing some shopping for the business. I opened the door to take delivery of several boxes of electronics. One smart little super-powerful laptop – small enough to fit in my cavernous handbag without bulking it out too much, and quick enough that I wouldn’t waste time waiting for it to start up. One docking station and ultra-wide monitor because I didn’t want to be straining my eyes when I didn’t need to. One ergonomic keyboard and mouse, one large, high quality drawing tablet and one large printer scanner. Large enough to handle A3.

Now all I needed was somewhere to put it. The flat pack desk I’d ordered was due sometime during the morning too, so most of it could wait. I gave some time over to setting up the computer then browsed for web design companies until the third knock on the door announced the arrival of my office furniture.

Time was running tight, so I called for a taxi, making it for my rendezvous with Marjory – via a nearby deli counter – with just a couple of minutes to spare.

One thing I hadn’t counted on with Marjory was her propensity for gossip. She kept a constant stream of titbits flowing through pretty much the whole hour, which didn’t bother me so much to begin with, since the places we looked at first had been picked bare and, if there had been any potential remaining, it was well hidden from my view.

The fourth place we looked at was very different though. It looked out onto one of the busier parts of the shopping precinct and it had a considerable amount of window space as well as a large storage area behind the shop itself.

“What do you think of this one?” I asked.

“This what, dear?”

“This property. For the shop? You know, what I was talking about at lunch yesterday?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. It’s a bit of a fixer upper, isn’t it?”

“They all are. This one less than the others we’ve seen.”

“Yes,” she sniffed, “well I’m not so sure. How much are they asking?”

The real estate agent who’d been showing us the place mentioned an amount. It was fairly eye-watering.

“And that’s per quarter, is it?” Marjory asked.

“Per month, but if you want it, you’d better decide pretty quick. I have someone else interested in it.”

“For that much? I should sign them up if I were you. I mean, if that’s what they’re ready to pay.”

I gave her a sharp look which she returned with a raised eyebrow. I’d already started planning how I was going to lay the place out in my mind, but I’d brought her along for a reason.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “I mean, it’s okay, but what were they asking for that first place we saw?”

We hadn’t even asked for quotes.

Marjory threw out a number that was about a quarter the agent’s asking price. It was all I could do not to react.

“I couldn’t go that low,” the agent said and shaved ten percent off his first price.

“No,” Marjory said and took my arm, leading me towards the front door.

“At least make me a counteroffer.”

“I might be prepared to if I thought there was any chance of you taking us seriously,” she said frostily. “Do you really think we don’t know how long this place has been empty? Do you think we’d arrange a viewing without doing a little research first?”

“I er...”

It was as well she had him flustered and on the defensive, because I was having some difficulty keeping my own composure. I’m not sure I’d have known where to start looking for that sort of information.

Apparently, Marjory did though. Either that or she was one seriously world class poker player.

“I know how much rent the previous tenants paid,” she said. “You want a counter offer? We’ll pay you ten percent less than that.”

“That’s my entire commission,” he moaned.

“You don’t have to take the offer.”

“Why would I?”

“Doesn’t your firm promise to pay compensation if you can’t lease within a couple of months?”

“I still have time.”

“Yes, eight days I believe. You have our contact details if you change your mind. Of course, the moment you let us walk out that door our best offer will drop to twenty percent below the previous tenant’s.” She steered me towards the door, against my wishes, but somehow I forced myself to go along. We were two paces from the door when he called us back.

“Wait. Alright, ten percent less. That’s...”

Marjory supplied him with the correct figure. “Shake the man’s hand Sandy. I think you’re right, this place will suit you nicely.”

There were a few formalities. Forms to sign that tied us both into a year’s contract. It didn’t take long to sign them and very abruptly, I was committed to the venture.

“How did you...”

“It’s the sort of work I do for Clark’s anyway, dear. It didn’t take much to add in a little bit of private research onto the things they wanted me to look into.”

“But I didn’t even tell you where we'd be viewing.”

“You wanted to meet on the high street which suggested local, and there aren’t many places big enough for what you have in mind. This was my favourite.”

“So all that gossip...”

“Oh, that’s all true dear, but if they think you’re a bit of a ditz they tend to drop their guard.

“Men are so easy when you know how. They’re so convinced they’re superior to us, they forget how vulnerable they can be when we’ve got them by the balls.”

“Would you like to work for me? I don’t know what I’d want you to do yet, but I’ll promise you as much responsibility as you feel you can handle and a salary to match.”

“Hold that thought. It’s about time I headed back to the office for that staff briefing. Do you have anything else to do right now?”

“Well no, I suppose. I'll have to catch the three o’clock bus if I’m going to get back in time to collect the kids, but apart from that...”

“Good.” She pointed at our usual lunchtime haunt. “Grab yourself a coffee and a cake – I recommend the choux buns – and I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

There was a stationer’s next door but one. I treated myself to a sketchpad and a selection of quality pencils and settled into a quiet corner with my drink and cream treat and let my imagination roam free.

It has a tendency to stay in the conservative shallows in the pool of wild imagination, so there were no seriously wild flights of fantasy, but as my mind pondered the sorts of things the women I’d met at the after-show party might be interested, I discovered a flow of creativity that filled half the book in thirty minutes.

To me, masculine says no frills or flounces, plain colours, hard wearing fabrics. That much was easy, but to put that essence into something that expressed femininity as well, that was the challenge.

My first sketch would have looked as good on a man as on a woman, but it prompted new ideas by highlighting what was missing, so the series of sketches that followed lived up to expectations. I’d taken pictures of the women I’d talked to at the party. A quick look at each prompted my muse and sent my fingers flying.

I might have filled the entire sketchbook had it not been for the mass influx of women, all chattering away animatedly and sharing smiles and laughter. The staff behind the counter endured ten very busy minutes as the new arrivals ordered drinks then rearranged the furniture to seat themselves around my little corner.

I looked around the sea of shining eyes then shifted my gaze over to Marjory who seemed vaguely to be at the centre of it all.

“What you were talking about at lunch yesterday. We’re in. All of us, if you’ll have us. We just quit.”

…

That settled it. I had to make this work now. I looked around at all the eager faces and did some mental maths and the bottom line scared me. If I were to take them all on and pay them at ten percent above what Clark’s had, as I’d always intended, I only had a couple of months to turn a profit before the money ran out. I was basing all of our futures on the premise that there was enough of a market out there for what I had to sell.

“How much notice do you have to work?” I asked.

“I think we just did, didn’t we girls?”

General laughter and noises of agreement.

“I don’t follow.”

“Mr Clark told us if we walked out, he’d fire the lot of us.”

“He can’t afford to do that.”

“Yeah, well that’s his problem.”

Whereas mine was figuring out how to earn enough money to cover everyone’s salary.

Well if that was the case, better to start sooner than later. I phoned the estate agent to arrange for Marjory to pick up the keys to the new place then arranged for a large skip to be delivered into the loading bay out back. We hunted out the nearest hole in the wall and I withdrew a couple of hundred quid, which I also gave to Marjory.

“For cleaning supplies. Ladies. Work clothes tomorrow. I have a court appointment first thing, but I’ll join you when I can. First order of business is clear out what junk is in the place. Second is come up with some ideas between you what the place should look like when it’s dolled up.

“We’re going to need the back space for storage and manufacture, so since most of us are going to be spending most of our time in there, let’s make sure it’s a place we want to be. The shop I want on a different level. I want people looking through our windows and wanting to come inside. We’ll arrange a short conference mid-afternoon to discuss ideas and raise concerns.

“I’ll be straight with you all. I’ve never done this before, so I’m going to make a few mistakes. Bear with me and let me know your concerns when you first have them. Marjory’s in charge tomorrow until I join you, then we’ll see what we can make of it.”

I called my business advisor on the way home to advise him of developments and he promised to send me a checklist of things I needed to organise.

While Steven did his football practice, I went through the checklist and made a series of phone calls, arranging for utilities to be restored and for a firm of interior decorators my business guy had recommended to come by in the afternoon to talk about transforming the place into something we could use. I put in an order for a dozen heavy duty sewing machines and a couple of large cutting tables, both promised for a Friday delivery, and was halfway through compiling an order of fabrics when the team came jogging off the pitch.

Once we were home, I fed the boys a snack and let them loose on the construction of my desk, asking them to put it in the corner of the dining room nearest the window, for ease of access to kitchen and toilet facilities and for distance from the distractions in the living room.

Dinner, bath and story time later, I checked over their work, fixed a couple of relatively minor mistakes and tightened everything up before unloading the rest of my office.

That left me just about enough time to scan in my sketches and email them to the people I’d done them for before taking myself off to bed.

The following morning we were out of the house in time to join the early birds at school. A taxi was already waiting when we arrived, so I kissed the boys goodbye and approached the driver.

“Are you here for Sandy Shaw?” I asked.

He choked briefly. “Sorry love. I was sure this was a gag. That really your name?”

I shrugged and climbed in behind him.

“Courthouse, isn’t it?”

“Yes please.”

We pulled out into traffic and I texted Charlie to tell her I was on my way. She replied to say she was stuck in traffic and would join me when she could. I asked where and she gave me the road she was on. I told the driver.

“Yeah, dispatch already said. There’s been a nasty accident wiv a cyclist. Could be a while getting sorted.”

I texted the news to Charlie, who told me to sit tight and she’d get there when she could.

“Didn’t I see you on the box the other night.”

“I was in the audience at a talk show,” I said, not really feeling like talking.

“That’s right. You was that designer who made that frock for whatsisface. Do you really think you can sell dresses to blokes?”

“I don’t see why not. I mean don’t you think you’d look lovely in pink taffeta?”

He laughed, but a little nervously.

“It’s not for everyone, I realise,” I said, putting him out of his misery, “but then neither are trousers.”

“I don’t know. Pretty much everyone I know wears ‘em.”

“Yes, but that’s because women have the choice to do so and men don’t have the choice not to.”

“Yeah, but a bloke'd look stupid in a frock.”

“Is that what you thought on Friday? When he sang that song, where you thinking he looked like a plonker?”

“No, I’ll grant you that. You know how to take a sow’s ear and turn it into a silk purse.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

“Denada.”

I watched the traffic roll by for the rest of the journey and tried to wrap my mind about what I was about to walk into. If Charlie didn’t make it on time, where would that leave me?

“Here we are, love.”

We were a little way from the main entrance, but traffic was pretty dense and it would help him if I jumped out here. I passed him a tenner, which covered the fare and his tip, and navigated through a tangle of stationary cars and up the steps.

The main desk directed me to the correct courtroom. I texted Charlie the information and let her know about the blockage out front. She sent me a grim face emoji by return.

I was half an hour early, but with nothing better to do, I turned off my mobile – as per the instructions at the entrance – and entered the courtroom, finding it empty but for a solitary security guard. He checked my credentials and waved me into any seat I cared to choose.

Miss Blunt turned up fifteen minutes later with George and Mr Simmons. She glowered at me. “No legal representation? I'd have thought you’d want it today.”

I ignored her and went back to my sketching. Another fifteen minutes passed and a bailiff walked in announcing the arrival of the judge. I stood with the others, glancing back nervously at the main entrance in the hope that Charlotte would arrive at the last minute.

“Mrs Bush,” the judge addressed me. It took a moment for me to realise this.

“Er, Ms Shaw, your honour.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Since my divorce I have gone back to using my maiden name, sir.”

“I see.” His expression told me he didn’t approve. Here was the anticipated dinosaur from the previous century. “Do you have someone to represent you, Ms Shaw.” He all but sneered the name.

“Yes, your honour, but unfortunately she has been delayed.”

“Miss Blunt made it on time. Mr Bush made it on time, as did his lawyer. Even you made it on time. Why, pray, cannot your legal counsel make it on time?”

“I believe there was a serious accident on her route into the city. She’s caught in the blockage.”

“If she had left to come earlier, this would not have been a problem.”

“Your honour, I was only given the court summons yesterday. Both Ms Greer and I are single parents and the small amount of warning we received did not permit either of us enough time to make alternative arrangements for delivering our children to school.”

“Precisely the reason why women shouldn’t be in business,” he said.

I bit back on every one of the responses I wanted to give. No sense bearding the lion in its den. I remained demurely silent, at least on the outside.

“We don’t have time to wait. Miss Blunt, would you care to outline your case.”

Hilary stood. I couldn’t fault her courtroom manner, as she was succinct and to the point. She outlined her plan to demonstrate my unsuitability as a mother, in large as my inability to control my sons and the inappropriateness of the measures I’d finally taken to overcome my older son’s excesses, that evidence from the boys’ own father would convince the judge that I should not be permitted to continue caring for my children.

“Ms Shaw. Care to respond?”

I glanced at the door again. No help coming. I took a breath.

“Up until a few months ago, my son’s and I lived in fear of that man,” I pointed at George. “While he lived with us, he was aggressive, threatening, demeaning, lazy...”

“Ms Shaw, my courtroom is not the place for you to vent your displeasure at your husband’s shortcomings. You will provide me with evidence, or you will be silent. Am I clear.”

“Yes, your honour. My counsel and I plan to present evidence to show that my former husband is not someone whose testimony is to be trusted. As for each of Miss Blunt’s accusations, I have evidence and witnesses to refute each and every one of them.”

“Very well. We’ll hear from those bringing the complaint first. Miss Blunt.”

She called George to the stand and led him through a well-prepared testimony. I wanted to object to it all, for the fabrication it was, but I didn’t know what grounds I could base it on. The judge didn’t offer any help and overruled me time and again, eventually admonishing me to be silent and telling me that if I should present another irrelevant objection, I would be removed from the courtroom and held in contempt.

I sat seething through the remainder of George’s smugly delivered tissue of lies and half truths.

“Ms Shaw, perhaps you have some questions for your husband?”

I stood nervously, trying to marshal my thoughts. Between Blunt and Simmons there would be so many objections, I wouldn’t get anywhere, not to mention that Charlotte had all the evidence we were hoping to present.

“Yes, I know court’s in session; I’m supposed to be in there. Now will you let me pass?”

I spun on the spot to find one of the double doors slightly ajar and Charlotte trying to fight her way past to of the security staff.

“Your honour, I would prefer for my lawyer to take over from here.”

Apparently, it was the thing to say. The judge would have been seen as highly prejudicial had he denied Charlotte entry. He waved her in.

“Your honour, forgive my tardiness. I...”

“I’ve been informed of the reason for your delay. You may take over from your client.”

“Your honour, may I have five minutes to go over the stenographer’s notes?”

“Five minutes Ms Greer. No more.”

“Thank God you’re here,” I whispered.

“You could have asked for a continuance.”

“I’m not a lawyer. I didn’t know what I could ask for. I kept trying to object, but must have done something wrong because he kept overruling me and eventually told me if he had to do so one more time he’d have me removed.”

“Is that so? Give me a few minutes.” She looked through the steno transcript, frowning from time to time. She reached the most recent part of the text and returned to the table, opened up her laptop and started fiddling. “So you've not asked him anything yet?”

“No. You turned up just in time.”

“Good. Show time.” She stood to indicate she was ready.

“Mr Bush, would you please retake the stand? I must remind you, you are still under oath.”

George stood back up with an annoyingly smug smile on his face. I hoped Charlie had the means to wipe it off.

“So, Mr Bush,” she clicked a button on the computer and an image appeared on the courtroom’s large monitor, “Is this one of your invoices?”

“Objection,” Miss Blunt and Mr Simmons said in unison. Hilary indicated for Mr Simmons, the one with the law degree to proceed. “Relevance,” he said.

“Your honour, this goes to the credibility of the witness. It won’t take long.”

“I’ll allow it this time, but see that it doesn’t. Mr Bush, please answer the question.”

“Yeah, that’s mine.” His smile had slipped a little, but more from confusion. It would have been hard for him to deny it, given the presence of the messy scrawl that was his signature at the bottom.

“And this one? And what about this one?”

“Ms Greer, I’m losing my patience,” the judge interrupted.

“Yes your honour.” She clicked on to the next slide which showed the three invoices side by side. “Mr Bush, will you confirm that the three dates are the same please?”

“Of course they’re fucking the same. Anyone can see that.”

“Mr Bush, please curb your language. Ms Greer...”

“Mr Bush, please read out the numbers of the invoices.”

The room fell silent. It didn’t take much brain power to realise that, while two of the invoices were sequential, the third was from an entirely different pad.

“I must have made a mistake,” George said without much conviction.

“Did you make a mistake here too, and here, and here?” Charlie stepped through three more slides, pausing long enough to show the dates were the same, but the invoice numbers... Some were close to the original group of numbers, the rest formed first one then several groups of their own. Charlie pressed a key on her computer one more time and the screen filled with groups of invoices overlaying each other until the screen was filled. “Your honour, I have copies of invoices covering the last three years, all of them relating to confirmed jobs that Mr Bush undertook. Less than half of them have the first series of sequential numbers that comprise the only invoices Mr Bush declared in his tax returns, according to my contact in the inland revenue.

“Over this three year period, it seems approximately two thirds of Mr Bush’s income was undeclared.”

“It’s unlikely that much additional money would have gone unnoticed.”

“No, except that we believe he made an arrangement with a bookie friend of his. They created a trail of winning bets after the fact which meant Mr Bush was able to keep his undeclared income as tax free winnings from his gambling, and his bookie friend was able to right off the same amount as taxable losses in his business.

“My client, Ms Shaw, discovered an amount of thirty thousand pounds in cash hidden in their home after their relationship broke down. Initially the IRS investigated Mr Bush and accepted his returns on face value. Since I presented them with this new information, they’ve reopened their enquiry and will be contacting Mr Bush very soon.”

“You fucking bitch!”

“Mr Bush, that is the last foul language I will accept from you. Ms Greer, I’m inclined to agree with you that this brings Mr Bush’s testimony into question, but it still doesn’t address the issues brought against... Ms Shaw.”

“Perhaps your honour would list those issues.”

“There’s the matter of one of Ms Shaw’s son’s allegedly attacking another child.”

“The child in question was my son, your honour, and he is now best of friends with both Ms Shaw’s sons. I know the actions Ms Shaw took in response to the incident. They were more extreme than I would have used, but they were effective.”

“Like forcing him to dress as a girl?”

“No, your honour. That was not Ms Shaw’s idea.”

“So what did she do?”

“She made her son cut up his prized Manchester United football jersey, then she reported both her son and the other boys involved to the school, resulting in all five of them being thrown off the school football team. That was the coach’s decision.”

“And this crossdressing nonsense?”

“The idea of the mothers of the other boys involved. They didn’t feel that Ms Shaw should be involved in the decision but she agreed to abide by the punishment they chose.”

“But there’s evidence of Ms Shaw’s son, of both her sons, being seen wearing...”

“Your honour, perhaps Ms Shaw might be permitted to respond.”

“Very well.”

Charlie looked my way. I felt like I’d been dropped in the deep end, which meant that my only option was to start swimming.

“Your honour, I made some statements about my former husband earlier this morning.”

“They’re called allegations, Ms Shaw.” There was a note of warning in his voice.

“Well sir, some of the strongest evidence for these allegations is in the nature of our children. I’m afraid I let my husband have the upper hand for most of our marriage and I wasn’t aware of the effect this was having on our boys until recently. Our oldest son, Steven – the boy you’ve been referring to – had become extremely angry and rebellious. He was beginning to challenge me in the same manner he saw his father doing, until I decided to stand up to him.”

“Who? Your son or your husband.”

“I suppose both things happened at about the same time. I believe Steven’s behaviour was an acting out of this anger, but then when he put on the cheerleading uniform I made for him for the first time, he said it was like the anger melted away.

“I never forced him to put on a skirt, your honour, but rather persuaded him to go along with the punishment that had been decided for him. When he found that dressing as a girl put him in touch with a gentler side of himself, I gave him the option to explore further, and I gave him the support he needed as he did so.”

“You turned him into a fucking poof, you stupid fucking cow!”

“Bailiff, please have Mr Bush remanded to one of the cells. Ms Shaw, please continue.”

“Steven showed signs of beginning puberty, so I arranged for him to see a specialist in gender dysphoria. I don’t think I actually believed he was transgendered, but I wasn’t prepared to make that decision on my own. I’m aware that puberty is when certain physical changes occur that are impossible to reverse and if he did decide that he should have been a girl, I wanted him to have the best opportunity for the future.

“The specialist informed us unequivocally that Steven was not transgendered and told me to stop wasting his time. Regardless of his gender, I felt that Steven still had issues to work through, so I asked for him to be referred to a child psychologist. We were put in contact with Doctor Paul Marsh, who worked with my son over several weekly sessions and encouraged him to explore the, shall we say, more feminine side of himself. For my part, I designed and made him a dress – that’s what he insisted on calling it – that encompassed both masculine and feminine elements in its design.

“My son has reached the conclusion that he is entirely a young man, but he sees no difficulty in expressing a part of himself that might be considered by most to be feminine. He has a girlfriend. On occasions they wear matching outfits. He is a lot calmer now than he was a few months ago, and a lot happier in himself too. Not because I forced him to do something he didn’t want, but because I allowed him to explore something he didn’t know he needed.

“When the ban on playing for the school was lifted – at Ms Greer’s son’s request – Steven chose to remain as the head cheerleader. He was the only boy in the squad and continued to wear a skirt while in the group. He has recently chosen to rejoin the football team.”

“I see. What of your younger son?”

“While I was still with my husband, he was timid, withdrawn and still wetting himself at night. He is now happy and outgoing and, do I need to say, going through the night without difficulty. If he wears a skirt from time to time, it’s because he wants to be like his big brother, who he idolises. Compared to a few months ago when he was scared of everyone in the house, I’d say that’s positive progress, and I’m not worried about his choice of clothes. He’ll either grow out of it or into it, and I’ll be happy whichever path he chooses, as long as it’s his choice.”

“Miss Blunt, I’m beginning to wonder why you brought this case to me. I was expecting Ms Shaw to be a very different individual from the picture you portrayed.”

“Your honour, she was fired recently. How is she expected to care for her family.”

“Is Mr Bush paying child support?”

“Your honour, I don’t want anything from my former husband except his continued absence from our lives.”

“So how do you intend to support your family?”

“I’m working on a new business venture, sir. I have a partner who is funding me and I just signed a lease on a high street property.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“The documents of the partnership are being drawn up and I expect to sign them on Friday. I can show you my bank account which shows a ten-thousand-pound advance paid into it in the last day or so, I can show you the preliminary agreement for the lease of the property, and my business partner has agreed to video conference with us if we give him five minutes’ notice.”

“None of which constitutes proof, Ms Shaw. I mean how will I know this man you’re proposing to put us in contact with is indeed in a position to be in business with you.”

“I think you’ll recognise him, your honour.”

So we had the video conference. My partner was as good as his word. Resplendent in his emerald gown – he was doing a video shoot for his song – he corroborated everything I said.

As a parting shot, I asked if he’d be available to talk later, and he agreed to take another call from me when the court case was wrapped up.

“I thought I recognised you, Ms Shaw. I think you’re taking something of a risk with this venture if all you’re doing is designing women’s clothes for men...”

“With respect sir, they’re not women’s clothes for men, but rather men’s clothes with a more feminine flavour to them, and they’re not all I plan to sell. I already have a number of female clients who’ve asked me to design something specific for them.”

“Three piece pin stripe suits with bowler hats I have no doubt.”

“Not quite, sir, but in essence, not far off. My intent isn’t to make women’s clothes for men or men’s clothes for women, but to reintroduce a little femininity into what men wear as well as a little masculinity into what women wear.

“Men and women have become more polarised in their opinions and attitudes in the last half century than at any other time in our history. So much so that both sexes are denying the aspects of their personalities that reach across the gender divide, and it’s having a detrimental effect on us all. What I’m trying to do is help to blur the lines a little. To help us all recognise that we are more alike than we realise. Maybe it’ll give us reason enough to stop fighting so much if we can see that we have more in common than we’ve come to believe.”

“Like the Christmas Truce in 1914?”

“Perhaps, but hopefully with a slightly longer lasting effect on the battle of the sexes, unless it’s a full-blown war by now.”

“Hm. Ms Shaw, I won’t pretend that I understand you, but I can see that you care very much for your children and it would be a travesty were they to be taken from you. I’m not sure I’m inclined to wish you well in your business venture. At my age, I’m not sure I’m ready to see grown men walking down the street dressed as your business partner was just now, but I do wish you enough success that you are able to support your family. Miss Blunt, this case is dismissed, and I won’t be pleased if I hear of you continuing to pester Ms Shaw. Do you understand.”

“Yes sir.”

“Then we’re done here.” He banged his gavel and half the stress I was carrying evaporated.

Chapter 22

“Is it too late to renegotiate our agreement?” I asked a vision in emerald green.

Following the judge’s departure, Charlotte and I had congratulated each other on our brilliance and she’d apologised and rushed off to rescue her little car from where she’d abandoned it on the way in. The only way she’d been able to make it as quickly as she had had been by pulling into a convenient parking spot and running to a parallel road where she’d hailed a cab.

After I’d watched her run off, I’d made my way down to the courthouse cafeteria and tethered my little laptop to my phone. I hadn’t managed to take a sip of my coffee before he answered my call.

His eyes turned flinty. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not handling this well. We have an agreement and of course I’ll honour it, but I was hoping we could come up with something better. Something that would benefit us both more than what we have.”

His gaze softened a little. “I’m listening.”

“The two hundred thousand we’ve agreed would mean a relatively slow start to the venture. I’d be able to afford salaries for maybe half a dozen people including myself for maybe six or eight months, by which time I’d hope to have income enough to sustain us. I’d only really be in a position to take on more staff once we started making a decent profit.”

“Sure.”

“With half a dozen people, we’d be spread thin. Sales, marketing, design and admin wouldn’t leave much time for manufacture, so the amount of product we could put together and shift would be low to start, so that’ll delay how long it will take to reach the profit.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve recently found myself in a position to take on four times as many staff. It would make the work force more balanced and it would mean we’d be producing in bulk quicker, so we’d start to make a profit sooner. The only thing is...”

“Two hundred thousand wouldn’t pay two dozen people for very long.”

“Exactly.”

“So what is it you want and what is it you’re offering?”

“Enough of a stake to keep all two dozen of us going for six months. I make that double what you’ve already agreed to invest.”

“For which I get?”

“A quicker return on your investment and a bigger percentage – say thirty five percent. I’ll also agree to a couple more bespoke outfits per year.”

“I can’t deny your bargaining skills have improved, but you’re asking me to double my investment for less than double returns.”

“I think you’ll find that the quicker turnaround will make up the difference.”

“What if you agreed to go out with me?”

“You mean, like on a date? I think that would be a terrible idea.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” The flint was back in his eyes, but then I hadn’t been particularly diplomatic.

“It would be a memorable night...”

“Doesn’t sound so terrible.”

“But it would only be one night. Let’s face it. We don’t have a lot in common.”

“We have the same taste in clothes.”

“Which is a great basis for a business relationship, but once we’ve had our little roll in the hay, you’ll have scratched your itch and we’ll be stuck trying to make a business partnership work in the aftermath of a steamy, sordid, intensely pleasurable but ultimately short relationship.”

“So that’s a no then.”

Men could be so dense sometimes.

“I’m afraid it’s going to have to be a no from me on the new deal too.”

And so immature.

“And that’s your final word?”

“Unless you’ll go out with me. I mean, imagine us in matching gowns! We’d be a sensation!”

“Let me think on it.”

“It’s a limited time offer, sweetheart. Yes or no?”

“Just one date and you’ll agree to the new deal.”

“One date and we can talk about it. Or you can decide which five of your two dozen friends you like well enough to give a job to, and which nineteen you’re going to kick to the curb. I mean that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?”

“This was a mistake.” I’d bruised his ego and now he needed to hit back.

“I’m beginning to think the same. Maybe we should call the whole thing off.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No? What did you mean?”

“I meant that this is the reason why I didn’t want to mix business with pleasure in the first place. You’re feeling insulted because I don’t want to go out with you, which isn’t true because I really do find you attractive...”

“Then why...?”

“Because in the space of a few minutes we’ve gone from being two perfectly rational human beings with an agreement that benefits us both, to two entirely irrational ones on the verge of throwing it away over a few words that I really don’t think we mean. I mean are you really the sort of person who would strong-arm a girl into a date by openly threatening to put her in an impossible situation?

“You want me to go out with me, you convince me you’re the kind of guy I want to spend time with.”

“Okay, then you stop being such a cock tease.”

“Alright, that I can do. The answer is no, I will not go out with you. The question that remains is do we still have our existing agreement? Before you answer, please remember that when you came to me, you were only interested in the clothes, and you still seem pretty pleased with how that’s turned out,” I waved at the screen, “and lastly, I’ve had a few ideas recently and thought I might make something new for you to wear to the grand opening of the shop when we’re ready in a week or so.”

Avarice overtook anger in his eyes. “Would this count as one of my three a year.”

“No, it would be a gift. A celebration of our partnership and a thank you for your involvement in the launch.”

“Tell me about the dress.”

So I talked of a russet, summery dress with a high neckline at the front but very little back, with slightly less than half length bell sleeves and a full skirt falling in loose pleats to just below the knee. It would have a subtle pattern to it that hinted very gently of flowers, but also of something more abstract, not unlike the mottling of colours in camouflage. I had him hooked by the end.

“Alright,” he agreed, “but I’ll need a date and time for the opening so I can fit it into my schedule.”

“Can we pencil in a week tomorrow? I’m not sure how realistic that will be, so let me confirm by the weekend.”

“Okay, good, but no more talk of changing the deal though.”

I let him have the last word and closed down the connection. I’d averted the disaster at least, but it didn’t help me deal with how I was going to pay for everyone’s salary.

My phone buzzed.

“Hi Paul, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I wish that were true. I’m really sorry Sandy, I’m going to have to ask for a rain check on our date tomorrow. Something’s come up that I really can’t get out of. Could we delay by a week?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not disappointed?”

“Well, yeah,” I said in a matter of fact voice, “and you’re going to have to find some way to make it up to me, but that goes without saying, right?”

He laughed. “I shall make sure I do just that. What would do it? Expensive jewellery?”

“Oh heavens, no! You don’t fix a problem like this by throwing money at it. Maybe you could take some of next Friday off. I could do with a strong arm to lean on when we open the shop.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“If you can’t, you’ll just have to be extra-specially attentive on our date. You know, tell me how beautiful you think I look, laugh at my jokes, that sort of thing.”

“That I know I can do. You are a truly amazing woman, you know that?”

“That’s the kind of thing, but work on the sincerity.”

He laughed again. “Well, I can’t think of anything else I need to say, but I really don’t want to hang up just yet. I don’t suppose there’s anything else you’d like to talk about?”

What, like my ex-husband just tried to have my kids taken away? Like I very nearly blew my business deal before I’d even started? Like I have no idea how I’m going to tell my friends I don’t have the means to offer them all jobs as I’d hoped? I wanted him for a boyfriend, not a therapist.

“Well, it’s probably a good thing we’re postponing. I think I can feel my time of month coming on.”

He laughed again. “And I suddenly feel my need to keep talking evaporating. Sandy, you have an amazing capacity to do me good. I’ll let you know about whether I can make it to your grand opening in a day or two.”

I hung up and noticed I had an inbox full of emails. That was going to take a whole new cup of coffee and maybe some sugary goodness too. I’d have to watch the pastry intake though if I wanted to maintain my hard-won slimness.

They were all replies to the emails I’d sent off the previous day with the sketches, and they were all in a similar vein. “I’ll pay you two thousand pounds for it. Double if you can get it to me for Saturday evening.” “I want it, money no object.” “You are a genius. This is just what I’ve been looking for.” More of the same.

I emailed them all asking if it would be possible for them to call me when they had a moment. The calls started coming in almost immediately and I began making promises I hoped I’d be able to keep. I also outlined my dilemma with regard to staffing and received promises in return. Money wasn’t an object for most of them. If they could afford a couple of grand for an outfit, they could afford to loan me ten or twenty thousand easily enough. Interest rates, not an issue, but I made quite a few promises to design future wonders for them.

The coffee had made its way through my digestive system and was becoming fairly insistent about leaving by the time I finished my last phone call. I just about made it to the ladies in time, then cursed my way out of the tight skirt just in time to take care of business. A spot of blood in the knickers confirmed what I’d said to Paul earlier. I loaded up a torpedo to deal with it.

Having made myself fit for the world, I walked across town to where my friends were hard at work doing what I’d asked them. Between the heels and the tight skirt, the walk took longer than usual, but that gave me time to order my thoughts.

They’d taped over the windows so whatever was happening on the inside was hidden from view. I stepped through the door and stopped short.

“Hello Sandy,” a very dressed down Marjory greeted me. “You’ve come ready to muck in, I see.”

“I’m not sure I need to. I mean you’ve cleared the place. What more is there to do?”

“Well, you did say come up with some ideas for the layout and decor, so we’ve been working on that. Judy and Paula are giving the place one last sweep and Sally went to fetch some sandwiches.”

“Alright. I don’t suppose we have anything to sit on.”

“Apart from the floor, you mean?”

“There is no way I’m going to be able to get down onto the floor in this skirt.”

“Hang on. Linda, could you hunt through the skip and see if you can find something for our illustrious leader to sit on? It seems she’s too good to join us grubbing in the muck.”

“Oy!” I laughed. “That’s not fair and you know it.”

Sally returned with food and I gathered everyone around for the promised conference. Perched on my orange box throne, I munched my way through the tuna salad sandwich I’d been given and tried to put my thoughts in order.

“Before we start,” Marjory said. “I saw your expression when we all told you we’d quit yesterday. I did a few sums and I realise just how big the salary bill will be with all of us. We’ve talked it through and we reckon we could survive on a fifteen percent pay cut, at least until we’re on our feet.”

“Okay, let’s start there. I’d been planning on giving you all ten percent more, because that’s at least what you’re worth, but you’re right, money is a little tight with us all on board. I’ve secured us a little extra funding and I think we have enough to pay salaries and keep going for a few months, but we’re in this together. I’ll pay myself as much as the rest of you until we’re settled. The way things stand, I figure if I give you all that ten percent raise, we have eight months before we need to be turning a profit. If we take the fifteen percent cut then we’ll have closer to a year. Go with the same amount Clark’s paid us and we’re looking at maybe ten months. We don’t need to decide right away, so firstly, any comments?

They were, mostly along the lines of accepting the lower amount for the longer period, but there were one or two quiet ones who were eventually encouraged into saying the weren’t sure they could get by on less. Mainly young mums like myself, so I had some sympathy.

“Okay, we’ll put a pin in it for now and come back to it later this afternoon. I’m not dismissing your concerns, but I need to think on it a while. Next, a little organisation. Marjory, how do you feel about being office manager? Contracts, pensions, payroll, rotas, that sort of thing?”

“Well, it’s what I do so I’d be insulted if you didn’t ask.”

A few laughs and appreciative murmurs.

“Next, who amongst us is best with a sewing machine? I have a dozen workhorses coming in by the end of the week, so that’s how many of us will actually be making the clothes. Or we could rotate so sometimes you’re sewing, sometimes your cutting, sometimes you’re out in the shop.”

The division of labour produced a more animated discussion and soon everyone was feeling better, knowing where they were going to fit in the enterprise.

Lastly, and this was deliberate, getting everyone to feel more invested before letting them loose on it, how to organise our workspace.

We paced out the work area, positioning the machines and cutting tables. Someone produced a piece of chalk from somewhere and we began to rough out areas. Sweatshop – their choice of term – raw material storage, finished product storage, offices, then shop space. A little juggling until everything was balanced. Then discussion of what we wanted the place to look like. I shared my idea of Sandy Shore Couture as a business name – they insisted it should be Shaw rather than Shore – and a banner image of models walking along a beach suitably dressed. It would work for a shop sign and for a web page banner. The girls loved it and talked about designing the shop to look like a sunny day at the seaside. A further suggestion that we needed a mix of environments to display different colours and designs to different effect. Jamie, who was a little different from the rest of us, came up with the idea of display units on wheels that could be moved into the windows or placed around the shop floor. We could have one or two out back while new designs were being created and we could swap them out regularly.

This met with universal approval along with an impromptu vote that put Jamie in charge of displays. She looked both pleased and worried at the same time.

“I have a confession,” she said, raising her voice. The place quieted and all eyes turned on her. “I’m not like you lot. I was born a boy. I kind of lied about my sex when I took the job with Clark’s, but I want to be honest with you guys.”

I’d clocked her early on. I mean it takes one to know one, and I was sort of the same. “I think most of us know, Jamie. Maybe even Mr Clark knew and went along with it because it meant he could get away with paying you less.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re just one of us girls, at least where it counts.”

Universal murmurs of agreement.

“Okay Jamie, you’re with Marjory and me when the interior designers come. The rest of you, these are our first priority.” I pulled out the sketches I’d made for the women who’d become my most recent investors and talked them through the materials and colours.

The designers arrived at shortly after one and stayed till two thirty. We pointed out the spaces we wanted. Sewing machines furthest from the shop floor and adequate noise damping. All work spaces climate controlled, all storage spaces sealed off from anything that might cause damage.

They said it would be possible to be done in time for the following Friday, but it would cost a bit extra. Not enough to put me off, so they were put to work.

The last half hour before some of us had to head off on the school run, we revisited the salaries.

“The normal concept of fair says everyone should get the same amount,” I said, “but we’re about redefining normal here, so perhaps true fairness should be about everyone getting what they need. Some of us are single with few overheads, and some of us are married with two incomes. Others of us are single mums, and I know first-hand how much of a struggle that can be. Most of us have said they’d prefer to take a pay cut so that we have a few months more to make this work, but who’d be okay about the one’s of us who are raising kids on our own keeping their old salary for now?”

Again, unanimously agreed, as long as I agreed that I fell into the same category.

Marjory gave me a spare set of keys and Jamie took the third. I told Marjory to identify the office equipment she’d need and buy it, then headed home to the boys.

…

It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet. My phone buzzed while I was making the kids their snacks.

“You home yet?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes.”

“Turn on the TV, local news.”

I wandered through to the front room and flicked the TV on. It didn’t take long to find the news channel.

“...and finally, closer to home, local businessman, George Bush of Presidential Plumbing was arrested at the county court this morning on counts of tax evasion and tax fraud. Police have also arrested local legend, Billie the Bookie, on related charges. Neither individual chose to make a comment.” The camera shot showed George’s giant frame being wrestled by three police officers into the back of a patrol car, his face a livid puce.

“You should think of a way to break the news to your boys. It’ll be better coming from you than some asshole kid at school.”

I looked around at the door where two pairs of saucer like eyes peered in at me.

“Oh, I doubt that’s going to be a problem. I’ll call you back in a bit.”

I flicked the TV off and beckoned the boys over to me. Michael sat on my lap – and he was really getting a bit big for that sort of thing, especially since I had considerably less flesh on my thighs. Steven settled next to me on the sofa and snuggled in.

“The reason we went to school early this morning was because I had to go to court...”

“Again?” Michael conjured up a degree of indignation which made me smile.

“Yes Michael, again. Do you remember that woman from social services who wanted to talk to you a week or so back?”

“Yeah,” Steven said with some of his former anger. “She was a cow.”

“Between her and your father, they tried to convince the judge that I wasn’t fit to look after you two.”

“What!” Almost in unison and with genuine indignation.

“Charlie managed to convince the judge that what your dad said couldn’t be trusted by showing evidence of how he’s been cheating the tax man.”

“Dad always used to say that taxes were the government robbing the country.”

“I imagine he would say something like that, but it doesn’t matter what you believe. If you believe what your dad says, it’s still pretty stupid to steal from the biggest crook in the country isn't it?”

Michael snorted out a laugh, even though I doubt he came close to understanding what I’d said.

“What do you think, Mum?” Steven asked.

“Well, there is some truth that the government occasionally misuses tax money, but if we didn’t pay our taxes, then there wouldn’t be any money to pay for a lot of services we take for granted. The National Health Service for instance, so that time I broke my arm there wouldn’t have been anywhere for me to go and get fixed up without spending a lot of money. The police force is another, so there wouldn’t have been anyone to protect us when your dad broke into the house. Schools, bin men, street lighting. All sorts of things.”

“Well, it serves the fucker right. At least he won’t be bothering us again.”

“Not for a year or two at least, although they will let him out of prison eventually.”

“What happens then?” Michael sounded scared.

“Not something to worry about yet, but we have options.”

“Like what?”

“We could move.”

“What if I don’t want to move?”

“Then we won’t. We’ll improve security around the house, we’ll make sure we know when he gets out and get an injunction to keep him away from us...”

“That didn’t stop him last time.”

“I’ll take self defence classes, you’ll soon be big enough you won’t need them.”

“And Mikey?”

“Your father will only want to come after me.”

“What if he comes after you through Mikey?”

"That’s a problem for tomorrow. When tomorrow gets here, maybe the solution will too. For now, let’s just enjoy what we have.”

Friday, the decorators put up stud walls to separate the building into the different spaces we wanted and they decorated the sweat shop and material store. Our first delivery of materials arrived and went into the product store until the paint dried where they belonged. The machines and cutting tables arrived late in the morning and we set up the manufacturing side of the business. I also cut he materials I’d need for the one urgent commission I had. Friday night and most of Saturday morning was taken up putting it together. Ann called round to collect Steven for the football and I decided they’d be safe enough together. Just before noon I called through to the customer who’d promised to double my commission if I had the suit ready for Saturday evening. She drove over for her fitting and went away very happy, leaving me with four thousand pounds in cash.

Monday saw manufacturing begin big time, with the rest of the special commissions starting us off. I oversaw the work, which mainly meant showing people how to cut my patterns. I had no real clue how it was usually done, so had come up with my own method which I was told worked better, though they were probably just being kind. Anyone as yet unassigned was drafted into shifting the materials across to the material store. Since we were only making one of each of the bespoke stuff, we had a lot of time to put together examples of the things we intended to sell off the rack, and by end of play, we had enough to work with.

Last thing in the afternoon I called a few photographers and modelling agencies to ask if they might be free for a shoot the next day and enough said yes that we were able to set something up for early the following morning. I hired a small van for the day and loaded it with newly minted dresses, then I gave the van keys to Jamie, saying she should take one other person and go and get us a bunch of shots. I wanted one special one for the shop signage and website banner, and at least a dozen more for pictures in the shop.

“Play with negative space. You know, lots of bland, non descript scenery with a small or smallish contrasting image of one of our products prominently placed.”

“I get what you want.” She pulled up a few pictures of the sort I had in mind from the internet and to make sure we were on the same wavelength.

“That’s perfect. I need a lot of close ups too, for catalogues and the like. When you think you have the banner shot and the arty shots for the shop, send me thumbnails and we’ll get them to a printer.”

“My brother has a printing business.”

“If he does great quality at a fair price, I don’t object to a little nepotism.”

Marjory leaned in. “She means keeping it in the family.” At which Jamie’s face expressed a considerable amount of relief.

I mean, what do they teach kids in school these days?

The following morning I had the photographs I’d asked for before the school run. I’d wanted the photoshoot to start at first light, partly for the quality of the light, but at least as much so the beach would be empty.

The first picture was the money shot. A calm sea, a pastel sky and a single line of footprints leading to a seriously good looking young man in a brilliant red dress that looked just fantastic on him and stood out like it had been photo-shopped. The introspective look on his face was perfect.

The rest of the images she sent through were just as spot on

I texted Jamie. “Feel embarrassed to have asked to check. These are perfect. Image one for shop sign, the rest A1 framed photos.”

She sent back a smiley face emoji and a few questions. “Caption on shop sign? Colour? Font?”

“What do you think?”

“Sandy Shaw Couture, freedom to be you,” she replied. “text colour to match the dress, no nonsense sans serif font.”

“Perfect. You’re now in charge of creative expression.”

She sent me a poo emoji along with the one that looks a bit like Edvard Munch's The Scream.

Jamie was back at the shop before I arrived after dropping the boys off. I tried to tell her to take some time off, but she told me she had too much to do and she’d sleep when she was dead. She kept me out of the shop, which meant I spent the day in the sweatshop, working on the dress for our guest of honour while other forms of creation went on around me. I couldn’t ask for a lot of help with it since most of it was in my head, but by working through lunch, I just about had it finished by the time I headed home to pick up the kids.

Wednesday Jamie wouldn’t let me in the front and shooed me round the back where I found someone else had done all the tedious stitching to finish off the hem and the sleeves on the russet dress. When I asked about it, the Sweatshop Slave girls, as they were now calling themselves, said they needed me designing new stuff they could make since they were getting bored with the same designs, so I spent the day at my drawing board – a purchase Marjory had made for me without consulting – and set the crew to a whole new series of fabrications. I did take time to photograph the completed dress and send the images through to my very excited silent partner.

Thursday was my turn to be excited as Jamie finally let me in the front door. The windows were still taped over and would remain so until the curtains were in place for the grand opening the following day, but even under florescent lights, the colour blends were stunning, setting off the displays to perfection.

“What about the shop sign?” I asked.

“Oh shit! I forgot about that. Tell you what, just get me a roll of paper and some crayons and I’ll cobble something together. As long as it doesn’t rain, no-one will notice the difference. Whatever happened to, ‘You’re now in charge of creative expression’?”

“I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well you can’t, you bitch! Just come along tomorrow and enjoy the show. Assuming you can do that and wrangle that prima donna at the same time.”

“If you’re talking about my business partner, I’ll thank you to speak a little more respectfully about him. It’s largely his money that’s made this possible.”

“Sorry Sandy. I was hoping he might have a sense of humour.”

“Prima donnas don’t tend to,” I said with a twinkle in my eye. “Do you fancy picking anything off the rack for tomorrow?”

“Why would I want to do that? These are all men’s clothes.”

“I thought that might be your reaction. Follow me please.”

So she did, into the sweatshop where everybody stood about in, well not quite uniforms. I’d limited them all to certain materials and colours, but beyond that the only stipulation I’d made was that it should be sharp. I’d made Jamie’s, and there was no doubt from looking at it that it was intended for a woman. Not to be outdone, the girls had put something together for me using the same materials and colours, but somehow conveying the idea that I was in charge.

“We stole some ideas from those power suits you were making over the weekend,” I think it was Jodie said. “Not quite the big business in your face thing you managed to put into them, because, well, you’re not that kind of boss. It sort of says you’re one of us but still kind of in charge.”

It was only two o’clock, but there was nothing more of any consequence that we could do. We could maybe have finished a few more pieces, but they wouldn’t make enough of a difference.

“Well ladies, since I am in charge, I get to tell you all to bugger off home and get some rest. You’ve all earned it getting us this far, and I suspect we’ll all earn it again tomorrow. The ceremony is at ten, so let’s try and get in at least an hour before then.”

Mrs Nullis and Mrs Nix gave permission for the boys to take the morning off school, so at bedtime I asked them what they wanted to wear since school uniform was not compulsory for once.

“If I said I didn’t want to wear a dress?” Steven asked.

“Then you don’t wear a dress. Steven, the whole premise behind my business is offering a choice where there currently isn’t one. It would be hypocritical of me not to allow you the choice.”

“So you wouldn’t mind?”

“All I want is for you to be there with me, in whatever apparel makes you most comfortable.”

Once they were in bed, I actually allowed myself a night off. Whatever hadn’t been organised now was unlikely to be organised by ten o’clock, so I told myself not to worry about it, and to help me relax, I ran a bath and poured myself a glass of wine.

My monthly grottiness was showing signs of clearing up. With the extreme business of the week, I’d barely had time to notice what my body was doing, and now I felt the lift that followed a week of cramps and feeling bloated. All the good following none of the bad. It felt like a result.

I was towelling myself down when my phone buzzed.

“Hi,” said Paul’s voice. “I was just checking that we were still on for tomorrow evening. With all you’ve had going on, I wasn’t sure if you’d remembered.”

“Child minder is booked,” I told him. And would be confirmed as soon as I had a moment to call Charlie. “I’ll try not to bore you with all the minutiae of my week, but I have a feeling that it’ll end up feeling less like a date and more like either a celebration or commiseration over how tomorrow goes.”

“I think I can play second fiddle to a celebration. I seriously doubt it’ll go the other way. I mean you’ve worked so hard.”

“That doesn’t matter though, does it? If the public decide it’s not for them...”

“Well, you've always known your clientele is something of a minority in the world. You’ve been getting some good publicity from your pop star partner though, so who knows? Maybe enough of the minority will turn up tomorrow to make it worth your while.”

“It’s not just about tomorrow though, is it?”

“For heaven’s sake Sandy. Is there anything you can do now to make tomorrow go any better?”

“Pray maybe?”

“Well do that then. And when you’re done and there isn’t anything else you can do, choose to hope for the best. There’s no point stressing about it, is there? If it goes wrong, then believing it was going to go wrong ahead of time won’t make a bit of difference, whereas choosing to believe it’s going to go right will give you a little peace, and quite often will help to make it go right.”

“Is this the kind of nonsense you’ve been telling my son?”

“Are you calling my life’s work nonsense?”

We were still only joking, you could hear it in the smiles we both still wore, but it felt like the ice was cracking a little.

“I shouldn’t have said that, Paul, even as a joke. What you did for Steven wasn’t far short of a miracle.”

“Then have a drink of the same Kool-Aid.”

“I will, and tomorrow evening I’ll tell you all about how it worked out.”

“I look forward to it. Pick you up around six-thirty?”

“I’ll probably still be a good half hour away from making myself look beautiful.”

“You don’t need to do a thing to make yourself look beautiful, but I’ll hold off till seven if you prefer.”

“Seven then, and you can tell me whether or not the effort was worth it.”

“Oh, I know the answer to that one already. Goodnight Sandy.”

“Goodnight Paul.”

I hung up and called Charlie. “Just need to check there’s no last-minute hitch with tomorrow night.”

“Nope. Couldn’t get out of it if I tried. Jake’s been pestering me about it all week.”

“Great. Any chance you can make the opening tomorrow?”

“I’ll try, but with sorting out your legal issues I’m quite a way behind with my other clients.”

“I owe you so much.”

“Don’t I know it, girlfriend.”

“I’ll find out if Paul has any handsome doctor friends.”

“Don’t you dare! I’m quite happy sorting out my own love life and I don’t need no honky white chick interfering. Besides, who’ll look after your kids when I start tearing up the town.”

“I consider myself warned off. I’ll see you tomorrow, either in the morning or in the evening.”

“Yes you will. Sandy, it’s gonna go great tomorrow.”

“Yes, it will.” I hung up.

I wandered through to the living room. The red business card was still propped up on the mantle piece. I picked it up and stared at it a while. It wasn’t the same as praying, and it didn’t feel right. I dropped it back where I’d found it and threw out a few requests to whoever may have been listening.

It helped. At least it helped calm my nerves. Either that or the second glass of Chardonnay.

Buyer’s Remorse Chapter 23 and Epilogue by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 Just a couple of S words here and a few last things to tidy up before the close.

-oOo-

Chapter 23

“You know, after our last little disagreement, I wondered if you’d put the same amount of effort into this as you did the last one, but this is at least as good. Better maybe.”

He was preening in front of the mirror, enjoying the sensation of being backless and having skirts around his knees.

“You’ll never get less than my best,” I answered looking him over critically. “Call it a matter of pride.” I’d made notes at his first fitting and he hadn’t altered in size since, so the dress fit perfectly.

“Anyway, I was a bit of a dick.”

I’m not sure if he expected me to do the polite thing and object, but I opted for the marginally less polite thing and didn’t disagree.

“Er, well, I’m sorry is what I mean to say. And you know the saying, ‘say sorry with flowers’? Well, I have an apology for you.”

He led me to the back of the shop where the premises had its own parking spot, currently occupied by a Mini Clubman covered with floral decals.

“I can’t accept this,” I said. “It’s too much.”

“It’s not that much,” he smiled. “I mean it’s four years old. I did think about getting you a new one, but they're like thirty grand or something.”

“This has still got to be more than ten or twelve thousand? You don't spend that much on an apology.”

“I do, besides, the guy made me a deal. Look, call it an investment in our relationship – our business relationship, I mean. You made it pretty clear you’re not interested in more, and if we keep sharing cars to my events, I’m worried we’ll end up like we nearly did on our first evening together. In the long run this’ll be cheaper than my hiring a second car for you.”

“Who said I’ll be coming to your events?”

“Well for one thing, what if I have a wardrobe emergency?”

“The studios have people working for them who’re better than me with a needle and thread.”

“But don’t know the clothes like their designer. For another thing, where are you going to get that quality of free advertising?”

He had me there. He offered me the keys. “It’s taxed and MOTed for a year. You’ll just have to sort out your own insurance.

“Anyway, shouldn’t we be getting going? Our public awaits.”

We walked round to the front of the shop where we were met by an enthusiastic cheer. He held out his arms and made an elegant, twirling jump onto the stage his crew had put together the previous night, receiving a renewed roar of appreciation. For a while he was going to be the centre of attention.

“Hello gorgeous,” a voice said in my ear and I turned to find Paul standing behind me.

“You came!” I threw my arms around his neck in a far too familiar gesture, given we hadn’t been on our first date yet. “I didn’t think you could make it.”

“I wasn’t sure I could, so I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

I loosened his tie and eased his top button for him. “It’s not a formal event,” I said in response to his enquiring look.

He put an arm round my waste and I felt my knees buckle slightly. I leaned into him.

“I was worried I might be taking liberties,” he murmured.

“You are,” I said. “Don’t stop.”

Looking around the crowd, it seemed like nearly half were men wearing some form of skirt or dress. Women’s clothes that didn’t hang quite right or looked a bit at odds with their masculine occupants. I felt something of a thrill as I realised Sandy Shaw Couture really did have a market. I let the hope growing in me show while the crowd cheered its way through a selection of songs.

Eventually the music reached an end, having added to the gathered crowd, as it was intended to, and I was invited onto the stage. The crowd fell silent as I was put in front of a microphone.

“Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming out, despite the weather.”

That earned me a polite laugh since there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

“For quite some time now, the world’s of men and women have been drifting apart. Women are asserting their independence more and more, while at least some men seem stuck in the past trying to stop this.” My eyes chose that moment to find Max Andrews standing at the back of the crowd, looking disapproving. “There are other reasons, too many to go into right now, and it’s a shame, because every man has something feminine inside him, just as every woman has a masculine part to her. What we call masculine and feminine behaviour isn’t exclusively one thing or the other, and as we polarise, as we restrict ourselves to one part of our gender makeup, one limiting set of behaviour, we not only drive ourselves apart, but we bend ourselves out of shape. Perhaps not a square peg in a round hole, although that’s true of some of us, who can only find their place in life by filing off the corners,” I looked briefly at Jamie whose eyes were glistening with tears, “but at least an oval peg, which kind of fits, but not well.

“Sandy Shaw Couture is about blurring the lines a little. Back in the nineteen fifties, women fought for, and won, the right to wear trousers, and now almost no-one thinks twice about the bifurcated female form. It’s about time men had the same freedom of choice.”

I had to wait while the cheering subsided.

“It’s my hope that, as men embrace their feminine side without looking on it as a weakness, as women embrace their masculine side without thinking they have to give up the girls they carry inside, that we’ll realise we’re not so different, and that, rather than trying to prove that we’re each better than the other, that we’re better off discovering what we can do together.

“Ladies, and now at the outset, very much you gentle men. Without further ado, I would like to present to you Sandy Shaw Couture. Please come in and see what we can do for you.”

I waved at my business partner who did the thing with the giant scissors and the ribbon, which also dropped the cover away from the shop sign and signalled the curtains to be drawn away from the window displays. The effect was magical.

The crowd Oohed and aahed then started to move, most of them towards the shop. The girls could handle that though. I made my way over to where I had last seen Max.

“Hello Mr Andrews,” I said when I caught up with him. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in this sort of thing.”

“I’m not. It’s a ludicrous notion that’ll fail within a month, then you’ll all be asking for your old jobs back.”

I looked at the queue of customers waiting to go into the shop and shrugged. Evidence to the contrary, Mr Andrews.

“So, what are you doing out here at this time in the morning? I thought you’d all be hard at work now.”

“Yes. Well, thanks to you and your little stunt, we have a lot less work to do now.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. After you and your friends walked out, we missed quite a few deadlines, which meant we lost a lot of contracts and now we barely have enough work to keep the remaining staff busy.”

“Well, that’s not a bad thing is it? Having the correct amount of work to match your staff?”

“Our office overheads haven't changed Ms Shaw. We’ve all had to take a twenty percent cut in salary in order to stay in business.”

“Even yourself and Mr Clark?”

“Mr Clark chose to retire. The stress of the past month has... Well, suffice to say his doctor recommended and he accepted.”

One more dinosaur in the tar put then.

“Just think, all this could possibly have been avoided if you’d been prepared to work towards an equitable arrangement.”

“You’re a dangerous woman, Ms Shaw. Both arrogant and irresponsible. I regret having met you.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way Mr Andrews, but I suppose as long as you’re not prepared to consider that you and Mr Clark had some responsibility for what happened, we aren’t going to reach an agreement on who was at fault.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I doubt there’s any point in my trying to explain. You’d deny anything I accused you of. Why don’t you ask some of your staff – or some of mine for that matter – what prompted that first walkout, or what nearly turned into that second one? Why don’t you ask what it was that resulted in everyone quitting like they did? You know, that caused me as much of a problem as it did you.”

“How do you see that?”

“I didn’t have sufficient funding to pay twenty-four salaries – twenty-five including my own. I nearly lost the backer I had looking to renegotiate our deal.”

“By backer, you mean that singing abomination we were all compelled to listen to just now?”

“You really are limited to seeing the world through your own eyes, aren’t you? From my perspective, most people thoroughly enjoyed the music, and if you didn’t like it, nothing was compelling you to stay.

“I wish you well Max. But I’m not going to let you harsh my mellow any more.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means I’m having a wonderful day and I have no intention of letting you ruin it. Do feel free to pop into the shop any time.”

Back in the shop, we’d already shifted half our stock and we had a queue of people lining up at the enquiries desk with special requests. I joined them and spent the remainder of the morning sketching out variations of what was being asked for, showing swatches of the fabrics inspired by their ideas and generally helping to create one offs that people were prepared to pay four figures to own.

Steven had come in the first dress I’d made him with Michael in his matching skirt. They were in their element, talking to people – many of whom recognised Steven from his short-lived online fame – about what the whole thing was to them.

As lunchtime approached and I needed to get the boys back to school, I stepped away from the shop and dialled through to my old insurance company. I gave them details of the car and myself and used my debit card to pay the slightly eye-watering amount they wanted to charge someone with no recent experience and no no-claims.

I did a quick round of everyone there to thank them for their hard work. Paul had gone back to his clinic when the crowd started moving. The star attraction had stayed behind and apparently bought one each of everything we had in his size. He was still there, basking in the presence of his fans when I stepped into his line of sight.

“You might have told me you had a boyfriend.”

“It’s early days yet, so I wasn’t ready to say.”

“Listen, I know what we agreed to, and I know I was an arsehole when you asked to change things about, but is there any chance I can persuade you to do more than three outfits a year?”

“The three we agreed to won’t cost you anything, like this one which, as I said, is a gift. You want any more, you make a request and you pay the bespoke price. The more notice you give me, the more likely I’ll be able to do what you want when you want. Other than that, I’ll promise to try my hardest to fit in with your wishes.

“That’s great, because I have a tour coming up in a couple of months, and I want something new for every gig.”

“Nothing you bought today do you?”

“Hell no. That’s everyday wear. When I get up in front of my fans, it has to be all new, and eye-catching.”

“You know, it might have worked out cheaper if you’d renegotiated our deal. Call me on Monday and we’ll see what we can sort out. I’ll most likely need the girls’ help getting it all together in time.”

“They can stitch, but I want your designs.”

“Okay, deal. I’ll talk to you on Monday, and thanks for, you know.” I held up the keys.

I ushered the boys through to the back, blipped the remote to make the car talk to us and revelled in their excitement.

“Sandy,” Marjory called me back as the kids ran to the car to settle in. “We might have a teeny problem.”

“Oh yes?”

She showed me her phone screen which displayed how many orders we’d received through the internet.

“Wow! That’s... unexpected”

I’d spent a fair amount on the website, wishing to include an e-commerce option and knowing that a decent web provider doesn’t just give you a series of pretty pictures to look at, but does some sort of digital black magic to make sure people know they’re there to look at. I’d provided the photographs from the morning shoot on the beach, and since then the site had displayed the best of them on a rotation with a timer counting down to the launch of the site at the same time the shop opened. People had only been able to place orders for a couple of hours, but we already had significantly more than we could manage to make in a week.

“We need to find a clothing manufacturer who can take on at least some of this for us. Possibly all, given the number of individual requests we’ve had. A local business if possible, but at least UK based if not. I’ll want samples and prices, preferably today. Can you get on this and I’ll come back and help once I’ve dropped the kids off.”

I asked the boys if they wanted to change before heading into school, and neither of them did, so the school run ended up being quicker than I’d anticipated. Which was just as well given the mass of work we were facing. One of the girls phoned in an order to the local sandwich place, so at least I had something to eat when I returned.

I had three hours before I needed to pick them up again, so it was as well that Marjory was so good at her job, because, by the time I made it back to the shop, she had three local sewing shops waiting for us to visit. It took us a couple of hours to get around to them all, and we ended up agreeing a deal with two of them to fulfil our immediate needs with an open ended option to send more their way.

We were quick enough that I also had time to stop off and make a couple of additional purchases. Things I’d had my eye on for a while but had been waiting until I had a little more financial security to afford. The Internet orders hinted at a brighter future and this was definitely the time to invest in a little good will.

Back at the shop, I had the cutters cut out pattern pieces for each of the off-the-rack items we had on offer in all sizes, and I directed the sewers to focus on the bespoke pieces. The patterns, once the were cut, would be couriered to the sewing shops, who would then dispatch the orders by the end of business on Saturday. I didn’t feel that comfortable about sending stuff out without being involved in the quality control, but Marjory reassured me that the companies did that, and she’d been satisfied with what she’d seen.

She totalled the estimated intake just before seeing me out the door at three.

“We probably won’t need those other loans,” I said.

“Don’t count your chickens yet, Sandy. This is the first day which, from the way it’s gone, has been considerably better than usual. Give it a couple of weeks so we can see how business settles, and we’ll see how rich you’re going to be.”

“I want to bring everybody’s salary up to ten percent above what Clark’s was paying as soon as possible.”

“Again, early days. See how things are going at the end of the months and give them a bonus this time if you want to, but hold off on increasing salaries until you know you can afford it. Legally, it’s really hard to justify a reduction and wages, and it doesn’t leave your workforce feeling all that happy.”

“I bow to your superior wisdom.” I smiled and batted my eyelashes at her. “You’re so much better at this sort of thing than me.”

“Save that for your man,” she grinned. “I’m immune.”

The great thing about getting home around three fifteen, I discovered, was the availability of parking spaces. The parking problem in our street only seemed to manifest itself after the school run, and in particular at the end of the working day. Arriving home before the kids were released meant I had a pick of parking spots, the closest of which was within a couple of car-lengths of my front door.

I locked the car and headed straight for the school, arriving just as Michael’s class emerged. His school had no uniform, but needless to say, he was the only boy wearing a skirt. I’d been worried about how likely he was to be picked on, but the beaming smile he gave me as he ran over spoke of the acceptance his friends had obviously given him.

Steven wasn’t far behind, with Ann hanging off his arm and his usual friends hanging back and muttering to each other. Sadly, it didn’t take long for prejudice to set in.

Happily, he seemed to be coping with it all quite well.

“Hey Mum, Ann asked if it would be okay for her to come over after the game tomorrow.”

I still found it weird how much of a thrill came from being called that. I may not have been present when they made their appearance into the world, but I definitely felt a maternal bond.

“I don’t see any reason why not. Hello Ann.”

“Hi Mrs Shaw. Mum said she missed you yesterday, at the book club. Hopes everything is all right.”

“Tell her thanks for asking. It’s just been a busy week. I’m sure things will settle down soon.

“Do you fancy doing anything in particular tomorrow? Of course it depends on whether your mum’s okay with you coming in the car with us.”

“I didn’t know you had a car.”

“Something new and unexpected. I wondered if you might want to go to the Splash.”

“Sounds good. I’ll check with my mum. Does Steven have a bikini?”

“I think that might be going a little far, but he might look good in a tankini.”

“Hey you guys, I’m right here.”

And blushing quite furiously too.

Ann accompanied us most of the way home, then she and Steven did the saccharine sweet, ‘I don’t want to go’ bit. I snorted and shook my head. “You can walk her all the way home if you want,” I said. After all, most secondary schoolers went too and from school by themselves. I still had to be there for Michael, which meant Steven had to live with it.

The look of incredulous delight on his face gave me pangs of guilt that I hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“Really, Mum!?”

“Just don’t forget how you’re dressed, and keep an eye out for any older kids who might think they have a right to let you know how much they don’t like it. And if you’re not back here in, say... three quarters of an hour, I may have to come looking for you.”

Ann’s house was only ten minutes’ walk away, which gave them a whole twenty-five minutes to mope over how much they were going to miss each other, and that would have to be enough.

It gave me three quarters of an hour quality time with my youngest, which we spent snuggled on the couch, reading to each other – his choice.

When Steven finally drifted in through the door – close enough to his time limit that I’d started checking my watch – I sorted snacks and we chose a game to play.

Monopoly wasn’t my first choice since it could get quite acrimonious and it could last hours, but I’d played a version that at least fixed the latter problem. In addition to our choice of pieces – dog for Michael, car for Steven and iron for me – I put the boot on the starting place.

“What’s that for?” Steven asked.

“Special rule,” I said. “Every time anyone throws a double, the boot moves one forward. If you land on the square with the boot and it’s unclaimed, you can buy it for half price. If it is claimed, you pay double rent. The game ends when the boot makes it back to Go. Winner is whoever has most value at that time. It should keep the game to about an hour, after which I’ll need to start getting ready to go out.”

“Are you going to a show with that singer again?” Michael asked, rolling the dice. You know, youngest starts.

“Not tonight. This evening I have a date.”

“With Paul?” Steven asked. “I saw him there this morning, but I didn't get a chance to say hi.”

“Yes, with Paul. It was going to be last week, but he had something come up.”

“He’s really nice,” Steven said to Michael who was beginning to look worried. “Nothing like Dad.”

“And you have my promise, we all have to like him before he becomes a part of our lives.”

Steven rolled, bought and passed the dice to me. Double four which meant the boot moved, I had to pay income tax then roll again.

“What’ll happen to Dad?” Michael asked.

“Well, tax evasion’s a serious crime. He’ll go to prison, for some years I’d guess after what he did, and he’ll end up with a huge fine. He’ll probably still owe quite a lot to the government when he gets out.”

“Yes, but what’ll happen to him?”

“That’ll depend on him, sweetie. If he decides to be honest, he’ll get his business up and running again, he’ll pay off his debt and he’ll go back to living his life. He may meet someone else and get married again. He could be happy.”

“I don’t want that to happen to him. He’s a nasty man and he deserves to be punished.”

“Oh, he will be, don’t worry about that, but everyone deserves a second chance, and if they change, don’t they deserve to be forgiven?”

“Yeah, Mikey. It’s like me and you. Do you think I’m horrible and deserve bad things to happen to me?”

“No.’

“How about the way I used to be? You know around the time I beat up Jake?”

“That’s different.”

“How? I was mean and nasty just like Dad. I think I figured if I could be like him, maybe he’d like me, but fat chance of that.”

“Anyway,” I interrupted before Steven could be too affected by his memories, “it’s more likely he won’t try to change, which will mean he’ll get in more trouble and probably go back to prison.”

“Good!”

“You’d prefer for him to stay bad, so he can keep doing mean things to people and end up going back to prison?”

“Well...”

“Would you mind if I visited him in prison?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Oh, for a number of reasons. Partly to say sorry, because people don’t turn into what your dad is without a little input from those closest to them.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mum,” Steven said.

“Maybe, but I didn’t do anything right, either. If I’d stood up to him sooner...”

“You’d have ended up with more bruises and broken bones.”

“Or we’d have left him sooner before he could turn into what he is. Partly I’d like to say I don’t hold anything against him. I need to tell him that so I don’t end up hating him.”

“Nothing’s going to stop me hating him.” And there were the storm clouds still behind Steven’s eyes.

“What good will that do? I heard once that when you don’t forgive someone for the mean things they’ve done to you, it’s a bit like drinking poison and hoping it kills them.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your hatred won’t do anything to him – he probably doesn’t even think about the harm he’s caused – but it will eat away at you and stop you from becoming as utterly amazing as you can be.”

Michael landed on community chest an took a card. “It’s your birthday. Collect ten pounds from each player.”

We handed over the necessary.

“That reminds me,” I said. “I know it’s not anyone’s birthday any time soon, but I have a couple of gifts.”

A quick excursion to the car and I was back with a large box for Michael and a more floppy package for Steven, both smartly wrapped by one of the girls at the shop.

The paper on Michael’s didn’t last long. “Wow! Optimus Prime! And it’s the new one. He does so much more cool stuff!”

Steven was more careful opening his. He looked up at me, stunned.

“I took a bit of advise from Jake,” I told him. “It’s their latest strip and he suggested Fernandes is the new Ronaldo when it comes to who you might want.”

“Thanks Mum. This must have cost a fortune.”

It had. Neither present had been cheap, but they deserved something for coping with me while I’d been rushing around getting the shop open.

“Is it okay?” I could see he was considerably less enthusiastic than his brother, who had completely lost interest in the board game.

“It’s great. Just...”

“Just what?”

“Can I borrow your phone?”

I handed it over. He tapped away for a bit then handed it back. It showed the shop website and one of our new designs.

“You’d rather have this than a Bruno Fernandes Man U jersey?”

He shrugged. “I think I’d look good in it.”

“I’ll pick you one up on Monday, and you can keep that too. I mean, I’m not sure I could get my money back on it anyway.”

“Well, could I...? I mean I’ll pay you for it from my pocket money.”

“Could you what?”

The knock on the door was most likely Charlie and Jake. Conversation to be continued later.

Charlie had brought tea. Well, pizza from one of the franchise’s, so high on carbs and flavour but low on vitamins, but if I was going to have fun tonight, then they deserved to as well.

“Okay boys, can you clear up the game, since we seem to have lost interest, or maybe Jake could take my place? I need to go and get ready.”

“Jake, this is for you.” Steven had done a better than passable job of resealing the package. “It’s kind of my way of saying thanks for being such a great friend when I didn’t deserve it.”

Jake looked at his mum who looked at me. I looked at Steven, who shrugged and grinned a lopsided grin that would definitely have been something I’d have liked about his dad once upon a time. I shrugged too and nodded.

Jake’s enthusiasm over the gift left Charlie with no easy way of refusing it, so she didn’t. Instead she asked, “So, where’s my gift?”

“Not so much a gift,” I smiled, “but I do owe you some money, which I can give you with, what, twenty percent interest?”

“I’ll take the money since you so obviously can afford it, but you know what you can do with the damned interest. That loan was between friends.”

“Alright then.” I handed over what I owed her. “You’ll have to wait till next week for your gift, like Steven.” I’d known her long enough to have learnt what colours and styles she preferred, and I had an idea or two of what would look good on her. “Right now though, I need to get ready.” I left them to whatever they decided to do and headed upstairs to go through all the rigmarole of making myself look stunning.

I won’t go through the boring details, but suffice to say, an hour and a half later, I felt clean, smelt wonderful and was trying to convince myself that I looked awesome too. This was the evening to try out the little black dress, only either it had shrunk or I’d grown since I’d tried it on in the shop. I mean, I know the word is in the description, but mine definitely put the emphasis on the little.

I squeezed into it alright, and I didn’t particularly look like I was trying to squeeze out of it, but the cleavage was decidedly low and the hemline just as decidedly high. It was one of those figure hugging designs I’d never have considered in my previous life because I’d never have been able to hide my bulge under the tight skirt, and that might have been what persuaded me to buy it. Sheer charcoal tights showed off almost the entire length of my admittedly spectacular legs. I wouldn’t have got away with stockings and suspenders, unless my intention was to show off what was underneath. It would have been equally unforgiving with any rolls of fat, so it was as well that I had managed to get rid of the last of those too.

I draped a white crocheted cardigan over my shoulders, stepped into a pair of freshly polished two and a half inch heels to keep me at just the right height for my date, gave my makeup one last check and headed for the stairs.

“Damn, girl!” was about all Charlotte managed on first sight. The boys sat with open mouths and slices of pizza suspended half-way to mouths.

“Too much?” I asked.

“Depends on what you're trying to do. If you’re looking to turn straight girls gay, I’d say you got it about right.”

“Shit! Sorry kids, I really want him to like me.”

“Oh, no problem there, girlfriend. Ain’t no red blooded heterosexual male gonna say no to that.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Shit, he’s here. Stall him will you, while I get changed.”

“No thank you ma’am. I’s jus’ here to mind the littlun's. You can answer your own damn door.”

“Steven, would you answer the door for me, sweetie?”

“Huh?”

No help there then. I gave Charlie an angry glare, which only brought out more of her smile. She was having way tolo much fun.

No help for it. I swallowed as much of my nervousness as I could manage and opened the door.

“Good even... whoa!” His eyes settled on the assets I had so generously out on display.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?”

“Not the way I would have gone.” His eyes drifted southwards towards the equally expansive length of leg I was showing off.

“Look, come in.” I stood to one side and waved him inside. “I’ll get changed. It won’t take a sec.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.” His eyes were making their way back north, pausing to take in the view my very pert bum made through the tight fabric of the dress.

“I beg your pardon?” There must have been a sharper element to my voice than I’d intended. His eyes snapped to mine, looking concerned.

“I always knew you were beautiful, Sandy, but right now you are breath-taking, and if you could stand to be seen like that, it would give my ego an immense boost to have you on my arm tonight. You have my word that I will do my level best to address the most beautiful part of you throughout the entirety of the evening.”

“And have you made up your mind which part of me that happens to be.”

“No contest,” he said with a smile, and reached out a hand to caress my cheek. He waited until my features softened, then, “Actually,” he gave my various assets a quick look over, “maybe there is. A contest I mean.” His eyes returned to mine and he broke into a grin at the fire he found there. “Joking,” he said, then once again, softly, seriously, “Joking.”

“Well, if you’re sure this doesn’t look too trashy.”

“Not a word that could possibly exist in the lexicon of terms that describe you.”

“Will you two get the hell out of here before one of us throws up?” Charlotte shouted from the back room.

Little dress meant little purse, which meant bare necessities only. I checked to make sure I had them – lipstick, mini perfume spray, tampon, taxi fare, mobile phone, house keys. It’d have to do; the small bag was already bulging close to capacity. I followed him out to his car.

Epilogue

I didn’t recognise the pub until we’d almost arrived. The carpark was around the back, and it was only as we were pulling into an empty space that I began to spot familiar features.

I stepped out of the car and straightened my dress, pulling the hem down as far as it would go without stretching the material – which was a worryingly small amount. The back door would be there, which meant... I turned and looked across to the opposite side of the road...

A cigarette tip flared in the darkness.

“Are you alright?” Paul asked.

“Yeah. Would you give me a minute?”

He followed my gaze and gave me a cheeky smile. “Want to score some dope?” he joked.

“If it’s who I think, he doesn’t deal in that sort of thing.”

“What would you like to drink?”

“Spritzer please. Rose if they have it, white if not.”

“Any particular wine?”

“Nothing expensive in a spritzer. Pinot Grigeo, Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, something like that.”

“If you don’t join me in five minutes I’m coming looking for you.”

Echoes of what I’d said to Steven earlier. I wondered if my son had felt the same warm sense of being cared for.

“I won’t be that long.”

I crossed the road. Same red suit, same red trilby, same sardonic smile.

“Still touting for customers?” I asked

He took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it away.

“For a minute there I thought you were going to say victims.”

“It did feel like that a few times.”

“But not now?”

“No. At the end there it felt like a lot of things went my way that ought not to have.”

He shrugged . “I did say you were owed a little karma, and you wouldn’t ask for anything, so I decided for you. Did I do wrong?”

“I suppose not.”

“So, no regrets?”

“Why should I have regrets?”

“It happens more often than you’d think. You want something so much you can’t think of anything else until you have it. Only then do you realise you really didn’t want it in the first place. Buyer’s remorse, I think it’s called.”

“Well, I’m not sure about this dress. It didn’t feel like I was exposing quite so much skin when I tried it on in the shop.”

“It looks quite stunning on you, and you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“You’re not the first to say so, but I’m still not sure.” I tugged at the hem, then mentally chided myself for doing so. “As for the other, just what should I be regretting?”

“In my experience, most people like yourself who desperately want the physical reality of becoming a woman, don’t really have a realistic idea of what that means. There are pros and cons to any exchange, and you’d be surprised how many folk are so fixated on the things they want that they overlook the things they don’t realise they’re going to get.”

“Like the monthly grots, you mean?”

“That’s one of them, certainly.”

My turn to shrug. “They’re no worse than I’d imagined. What else?”

“Ooh, I don’t know. Being smaller, being weaker, being objectified, impracticality of clothing, cost of clothing, uncomfortable footwear, less capacity for booze, less capacity for food, constant need to diet, unwelcome attention from men, inability of some of them to take no for an answer, aggressive responses and name calling after being told no, being afraid of that sort of man, of going anywhere on your own, of going out after dark, the list is quite extensive.”

“Are you trying to put me off?” I laughed.

“Hey! You did ask.”

“I suppose I did.”

“It does raise a point though. I mean, now that your business is taking off, wouldn’t you prefer to be a man...? With options?”

“It isn’t just the clothes, you know? They were only ever a way to help me feel more... well... me.

“I’ve always preferred small and cute over big and intimidating, only I never had the choice before. Strength is overrated; it pushes you into thinking you need to be independent and self-reliant. Not having any of that leaves me free to look for support from the people around me. People who’re in a similar situation, so I’m just as free to offer it.

“I’m part of a community now, where we’re all just as ready to give and receive. I may have been bigger and stronger before as an individual, but it doesn’t come close to what I have with my friends. I have a sense of belonging now that I never had before.

“I could go on. Every argument you have I can argue back. Sure, the clothes are expensive and impractical, but they’re worth it for the way they make me feel. Sure, high heels hurt, but you should try wearing them when you’re twice my current weight. Again worth it for the heads they turn.”

“What about the envy you felt in the limo, on the way back from that first TV appearance?”

“Were you spying on me?”

“Keeping an eye on you, let’s say.”

“I was drunk. Okay, yes I miss the heady rush of stepping out of guy mode for a bit, but I wouldn’t trade it for the ordinary, every day sense of rightness I have just from wearing this skin.”

“You don’t mind taking on the responsibility of somebody else's children?”

“But they’re not somebody else's. They’re mine. When you put me in this body, it came with all the maternal instincts associated with being a mum...”

“The old Sandy seemed happy to be shot of them.”

“I can’t speak for her. After eleven years in her situation, I might have been just as desperate to escape, and now he doesn’t have any of the hormonal ties, he’s probably finding it easy to let go.”

“Sounds like you can speak for him.”

“Him, yes. Her, not so much. As for me, I may not have been present when this body gave birth to my boys, but I can’t help the way I feel about them, and I wouldn’t if I could. They’re my kids and I love them.

“Speaking of, how is my counterpart getting on?”

“That’s between him and me, don’t you think?”

“I suppose, but I do feel kind of responsible.”

“Why? You both made your choices. I was here to facilitate them. You don’t owe him a thing.”

“He wasn’t doing so well last time I saw him.”

“There’s always a period of adjustment after a transition. His was rougher than most, but he’s coming around.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair, is all. This was supposed to be good for both of us, and the last I heard he was broke and jobless with the mess of that car business to deal with.”

“Who’s to say it isn’t fair? I mean what was your definition of the word? Everyone gets what they need? What’s to say he didn’t need a chance to face the consequence of his choices without them being too severe?”

“So by that argument, what I needed was a couple of spoilt brats and a homicidal maniac for a husband?”

“I thought you said you loved your kids.”

“I did. I do. It doesn’t mean I liked them much when I first met them.”

“I suppose not. But then again, being fair you understand, maybe what your kids needed was someone like you in their lives. The same way all those people who came into your shop earlier needed a new way to feel like themselves.

“But to be completely fair, you should also get what you need out of this. So once again, any regrets?”

I thought about what I had. Good looks regained from what I'd been given, a caring and attractive man, also an improvement on what I’d started out with, two kids who made me proud and filled me with joy every day – ditto – the beginnings of a career I loved, and a circle of amazing friends. There wasn’t much else I could want.

“No.” I smiled at him. A deep seated, satisfied smile. “No regrets.”

“Then my work here is done. A pleasure doing business with you.” He touched the brim of his had and made to walk away.

“Why me?”

He paused and turned back. “I’m sorry?”

“Why me? There must be millions like me. Jamie, for instance. The trans-girl who works for me. I’ve never heard of you going to anyone else.”

“I didn’t do it just for you, Sandy.”

He, disappeared into the dark.

It wasn’t much of an answer, but I could live with it as long as I continued to wake up every morning in this new life, and he’d not given me any reason to believe I wouldn’t.

I headed into the pub, and found Paul at the bar. I walked over to him and melted into him, looking up into his smiling eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“I realised I deprived you of the pleasure of walking into this establishment with me on your arm. Maybe this’ll make up for it.”

I reached up a little towards him, but it didn’t feel like my place to initiate the kiss. It had never felt that way, which was probably why I'd always struggled to begin relationships in my previous life. I paused and backed off a little, waiting, letting him know I was his if he wanted me.

Apparently he did, but he made me wait for it. His way of telling me this wasn’t how it should be done perhaps. Eventually he reached forward and gently caressed my lips with his.

I’d worried that this might bring on another memory flash of my last experience with George, but Paul was so very different – all giving and no taking. The kiss was everything I could have imagined and more. It was electricity. It was waves of hot and cold. It was breath-taking adrenaline and so much more.

“Maybe we could wait until after we’ve eaten before we try that again,” he said once we had resurfaced.

“Anything you say. One proviso though. Either neither of us has garlic, or we both do.”

There was that smile. “Do you have to have the last word in everything?”

“Only when it matters.”

“Which is all the time?”

“Mmmnn.” I rested my head contentedly against his chest. He got me.

“It looks like our table is ready. Don’t forget you drink.”

I picked up my spritzer, which was a pleasing pink colour despite the half-melted ice cubes. That was okay too. They’d dilute the flavour, but a spritzer ought to be cold. I took a sip and latched onto his arm, leaning my head against his shoulder as he guided me through...

...past where my former drinking buddies were sitting. Stuart in particular stared at me over the top of his unfortunately bulbous nose.

Actually, the focus of his attention was about a foot below my eye level.

“Phwagh,” he said, “look at the jugs on that!”