Candy and the Firestorm I might not quite be ‘blue eyed murder in a size five dress’, but I'd definitely ‘hit the ground running’.

1981 was a great year to be in a heavy metal band, but not in our town. Every local lad seemed to be wearing an Iron Maiden or Saxon T-shirt, and sporting the beginnings of a mullet to match, so the audience was there. Unfortunately, every venue that wasn’t tied up by cabaret acts, catered for university students who were trying to convince themselves that our provincial high street was the King’s Road circa 1976. The sole exception was the ‘Coach and Horses’, a biker dive where flares were making their last hurrah. If you could convince its legendarily terse landlord, your band was good enough to grace his basement, you still had to fight your way into the regulars’ affections; tough venue, tough crowd, and for most bands tough luck.

My first guitar came via my older sister, who in 1978 decided she wanted to be a rock star. That notion lasted about six months, after which I became the de facto owner of a truly awful guitar — a Kay Strat’ copy with an action you could limbo under. After a few weeks of Burt Wheedon, I gave up on black dots and turned elsewhere for inspiration. My Friday nights were spent propping up a tape recorder in front of the radio, and it wasn’t long before I lost my heart to Eddie Van Halen. Emulating his every note became my grail quest, each tap, each squeal painstakingly tracked down and replicated. The onset of puberty was nothing compared to the day I cracked ‘Eruption’. Today I’d be called a ‘shredder’, but back then the names for someone who spent all their free time in their room with a guitar were far less complimentary.

Christmas 1979 found me the owner of an Aria Flying-V, and an amplifier that had once been a Vox AC-10. After that I was banished to the garage, unless no one else was home, but those times were special for another reason. When I wasn’t throwing shapes I was rummaging around in my sister’s closet, or playing with her make-up; as Bethany considered the world to be her dressing up box, there was always something new to try on when an opportunity arose. The names for boys who did that were even less complimentary, so it goes without saying that secrecy vied with guilt as the main emotion of my early teens. Worse still, we got on really well; Bethany began to join me in the garage, singing along to my guitar. I loved her voice, it was quite deep for a girl, but she could shriek when she needed to — the Carpenters had nothing on us. My sister decided we should form a band.

By then Bethany had moved to the local tech where there was a ready supply of wannabe musicians, and a few drummers too. She coaxed a couple of boys to our garage to hear her little brother play, neither of whom looked terribly impressed at first. Understandably, at thirteen I wasn’t impressive, I’d just starting my growth spurt, not too spotty but skinny, and weighed down by a mop of unruly curls. No one outside the family had watched me play - the neighbours had merely heard me — so shyly I picked up the guitar, dropping a few notes at first, but when I finally looked up I realised I was in a band.

Big Sis kept us hard at work — no one had any illusions about whose band it was - until she told us Firestorm was ready to appear in public. We started with a fundraiser at the tech, just three songs, but they seemed to go down well. After that we played wherever we could, a few more gigs at the tech, scout huts, school halls, and pretty much anywhere that would have us. We even picked up a few fans, although our sound was more American than the fashion, and quite soft when you compared to most British metal; the solemn warnings given at school gigs that headbanging would result in brain haemorrhages didn’t really apply to us. After a few months of this the time had come to try booking a slot at the ‘Coach and Horses’, as intimidating a prospect as that was.

Mike Price’s ‘office’ was the space behind the bar not filled with kegs, and boxes of crisps. Few of his regulars had paid us any attention as we trooped in with our tape, and asked to see the manager, which was fine by us as they looked a rum bunch. Rummest of all was Mike, whose tattoos held a hypnotic fascination for me, or at least something else to look at besides his grizzled face.

“How old are you son?” it took a while to realise he was talking to me, “are you in the band?”

“Nah,” Bethany butted in while I was untying my tongue, “my little brother just helps move the gear.”

“He’s the smallest roadie I’ve ever seen,” Mike shook his head, “but he can’t come in here, I’m on my arse with the licensing board as it is.”

“I’m sure we can manage, so does that mean we can play here?”

It did, we were booked in for the next Thursday. Outside we all looked at my sister, wondering just how the band would manage without a guitarist. “I’ve got an idea,” she said cryptically, and neither Dave, Phil nor I was going to press her any further.

“You want me to do what?” my voice echoed around the garage, “you’re not serious.”

“Oh come on you little perv,” Bethany poked me in the chest, “you’ve been in my closet often enough.”

“You know?” I managed to squeak.

“It was either you, Mum or Dad,” she laughed, “and I couldn’t see either of them in my tartan mini, so it had to be you.”

“But you never said anything,” I wanted to curl up and die, “you’ve not told them have you?”

“And spoil the fun?” she punched my arm, “I was just waiting for a chance to see you all dolled up!”

“Who’s your friend?” Dave asked as I clambered into the back of his van.

“Bloody Hell, it’s Martin,” Phil said watching me pull down the hem of the skirt with one hand while taking my guitar from Bethany with the other.

“Good innit, told you I had an idea, “it certainly was better than my fumbling attempts, though I was worried how we’d get the heavy eye make-up off. I had enough problems in school already without turning up in the morning looking like Dusty Springfield. Not that Dusty would ever have appeared on stage in fishnets, a denim mini and a pair of heels that would have been a challenge to anyone who hadn’t previously spent hours mincing around in front of a mirror.

“Well we can’t call her Martin,” Dave said, torn by the problem of whether to stare at me, or watch my sister get into the front seat, “ant ideas?”

“Candy innit?” Phil smiled, “Candy Rhoads.”

Keeping my balance was a problem, the Aria was a big old lump of a guitar and came close to pulling me over. That at least stopped me from dwelling on the fact that our handful of regular fans were staring at me. Bethany was milling around, quietly answering questions and asking everyone who knew us not to spill the beans.

We kicked off with Pat Benatar’s ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’, playing it pretty straight and letting Bethany take charge of the stage. People were wandering in from the bar to check us over, but quite a few of them were wandering out, it was time to step it up a notch. Good as she was on girls’ songs, my sister really excelled singing male numbers. For our second number we launched into Sammy Hagar’s ‘This Planet’s On Fire’; it had a killer riff that showed off my guitar playing, but the highlight was Bethany’s aggressive ‘burn in hell!’ during the chorus. The wanderers started hanging around, or bringing others in from the bar.

Mid way through ‘Eruption’ I glanced over at my sister to check she was ready to switch into ‘Unchained’, she winked and slid up to whisper in my ear.

“Someone’s having fun,” and I was. All the other times we’d played I’d stood rooted to the spot, but that night I was moving, grooving even. Terrified as I was that everyone would start pointing and laughing, stepping into someone else’s heels seems to liberate me. Skinny fourteen year old boys didn’t belong on the stage, they were there on sufferance, but a babe with an axe was so rock and roll. I might not quite be ‘blue eyed murder in a size five dress’, but I had ‘hit the ground running’.

For an encore — an encore! — we did ‘Devil Gate Drive’ with as many slides, taps, squeals and harmonics as I could coax out of my guitar. We had never played it live before, it was just one of the songs we would jam in the garage, but it went down a storm. We played on until the landlord pulled the plug on us — none too soon as we were running out of material.
Packing up a hand landed on my shoulder, the tattooed forearm announcing its owner.

“Cute trick kid,” Mike growled, “I should break your fucking legs for that.” Bethany dropped what she was holding and rushed to my defence, but he waved her away. “Best act we’ve had in for years,” he continued, “fancy a regular Friday night slot?”

We all nodded, wondering just how we could play there when he knew I was under age.

“Just make sure you bring the girl guitarist,” he barked over his shoulder, and left us to finish up.

author's note:

It's a bit autobiographical this one. I was in a band called Firestorm in 1981, but singing as I'd only recently taken up guitar. I still have the Aria, but not the amp which was sold on after it nearly electrocuted me. I was no shredder however, and didn't learn to play 'Eruption' until 1987. Back then my main aim was to start and finish a song in the same key :)

We wouldn't have been caught dead playing Pat Benetar, and couldn't have played Van Halen (though I was a huge fan of the latter - still am really, and my fingers are crossed for British dates in 2008). We stuck to Diamond Head, Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath in the main, and even wrote a few of our own.

Sadly I never got to take the stage in a skirt, but there was eye liner...

Candy and the Firestorm 'You're rock candy baby, hot, sweet and sticky'

“Here I come again now baby I’m like a bitch in heat.”

OK, it’s not the sort of thing you expect to hear from your sister, but she had half the audience panting like corgis chasing a milk float. For my part I was trying to keep in time with Dave and Phil, and trying not to reflect too much on a busy week.

Monday evening we’d had our usual practice session in the garage, half of which had been talking about my transformation into Candy. I had reservations about repeating it, not least because I feared being found out — not just for a boy, but a boy who was thoroughly enjoying it.

“You heard the man Martin,” Dave was getting hot under the collar, “if Candy doesn’t play, we don’t play!”

“It’s alright for you two, you’re not the ones standing there in a skirt,” I hoped I wasn’t protesting too much. In truth, a shiver ran down my spine every time I thought about the gig.

“You’ll be fine Martin,” Bethany put an arm around my shoulder, “everyone who knew kept their gob shut didn’t they?” I nodded, and she continued, “We’ll have more time to get ready on Friday night, I can really fix you up, so good Mum and Dad wouldn’t recognise you.”

Mum and Dad were another problem. I’d just about reconciled myself to my sister knowing about my ‘dirty little secret’, the thought of what my parents would do scared me more than a little. The best thing about playing on Fridays was that they both went out early to the bingo; Mum to play, Dad to call the numbers — we have showbiz in our blood.

“But wear something a bit longer this time please,” Phil quipped, “Dave dropped his sticks twice letching at your legs.”

We finally got down to practicing. Friday’s set would be longer, and we didn’t want to run out of material again. I was itching to put some Randy Rhoads into the set, and had been for while, hence Phil’s suggesting for my name. As much as I loved Eddie Van Halen, Randy had something extra; he sounded like Eddie, until you tried to play his stuff. After a few months I was just about figuring out exactly what he was doing. By then I’d seen his picture in ‘Kerrang!’, and spent an afternoon painting white polka dots on my Flying-V to look like his. Besotted is probably the best word, although it cut no ice with our leader who applied her veto, telling us she wasn’t going to sing ‘any fucking Ozzy Osbourne songs’.

My sister didn’t wait until Friday to start work on me. Our parents left us alone in the house while they visited my aunt. Bethany dragged me away from the garage to her room the minute the car left the drive.

“Catch,” she said, throwing a Marks and Spencer bag at me, “this’ll stop you wearing mine.” Inside were two bras, and two pairs of knickers, nothing as fancy as she — and I —wore, but pretty all the same. Suitably knickered I returned to her room, blushing furiously, where she was already laying clothes out on the bed.

“That’s a bit too short, isn’t it?” I pointed at a dress she had laid on top of the pile.

“Rubbish, now lift your arms up,” knowing my sister of old, I complied. “You’ve got no hips Candy sweetie, so we’re going to show off your legs.

“Is this why you bought me new panties,” I said, pulling at the hem, “cos they’ll be on show to everyone?”

My sister can be frighteningly organised, and I was quickly sat at her dresser having my face painted — two coats, plus gloss. I looked like one of my own wet dreams, big, smoky eyes competed with a full on pout that was only slightly redder than the streaks of blusher, slashed across my cheeks. I suggested that she had overdone it a bit.

“How would you feel about going blonde?” was her answer, “hmm we’d better ask Mum first.”

Our biggest problem was my bust. I’d got by on the night with a few pairs of tights stuffed in each cup, but they left a lot to be desired. We tried balloons, without success, and finally hit on the idea of filling pop socks with pudding rice. They looked about right, but felt awkward. Bethany suggested I tried them with the guitar.

“They don’t move with you like real boobs,” Bethany observed, “try not moving your upper body so much, work your hips more.”

“I thought you said I didn’t have any,” I sniped.

“All the more reason to get wiggling then.”

We spent the next hour working on how I should move on stage. The way I was shaking my bum I was sure Phil wouldn’t be able to play for laughing. Watching myself in the mirror, I had to admit I looked pretty good, and began to relax, which looked even better. Still, it was difficult to come to terms with how quickly everything had happened.
Friday night, dressed to kill, I sauntered — read tottered — into the Coach and Horses, back-combed and fabulous. My sister hadn’t had her wish to make me blonde fulfilled, but her friend from tech had feathered my hair, giving it a lot more shape; hairspray had given it about as much additional shape as my neck could support. Heads turned, wolves whistled, and women seethed. However, I resisted blushing until I heard ‘jail bait’.

Playing on a Friday night was a big step up. Thirty or so people were already in the basement when we arrived, and more trickled in as we set up. My new knickers had an airing when I bent to plug in my overdrive pedal — damn dress — earning an appreciative ‘phwoar’ from the bar. I blushed again, but those cheeks weren’t on show. There were more than sixty watching as we kicked off our act, and for a moment I thought Bethany looked nervous. I may have been mistaken, Bethany didn’t look nervous very often.

We’d added Ted Nugent’s ‘Stranglehold’ that week. It had a fairly simple, slinky riff, and an overtly sexual lyric for Bethany to grapple with. The two boys were in clover as the middle section was practically all bass and drums, to which I added short guitar fills standing at Bethany’s shoulder as she wrapped herself around the mic stand. The ‘stage’ was only two feet high, so we were at eye level with the taller guys in the audience. Suddenly, my sister pulled one of the better looking ones towards and frenched him. She lingered a little before pushing him away, obviously unsatisfied he caught my neck and gave me the rest of the kiss, or as much as he could before big sis shoved him again. As he stepped back she had a good look at my tongue on its way out past his lips.

“You didn’t?” her back was turned to the audience, who couldn’t see quite how wide her eyes were.

“He took me by surprise,” the look she shot back made it plain she didn’t believe that.

“We’re going to have to talk about that later,” my big sister hissed.

“OK,” I had to keep my eyes on my hands as I played, it had surprised me too. “Do you want your chewing gum back?” I knew I’d regret that grin before the night was out.

Quite a few blokes must have fancied their chances with us after that, and I had to step back a couple of feet to avoid craning necks for the rest of the show. Wiggling probably didn’t help much either, but I’d made it into a groove and couldn’t seem to climb out, especially when we played ‘Rock Candy’.

It was an old Montrose number we’d picked up from Sammy Hagar. The ‘Red Rocker’ wasn’t all that well known in those days, but he toured the UK every year, stopping off to play at our Town Hall. Its riff was a strut, and my stuff was strutted right across the stage - at least until I caught the lead with my heel. Fortunately, I didn’t go down, not all the way, and barely enough to show I was wearing clean knickers. I recovered in time to play the solo, for which I had a little surprise for the rest of the band. Even if Bethany wouldn’t sing an Ozzy song, I could still squeeze in a bit of a Randy Rhodes. Making sure the boys knew to follow me, I launched into a series of rapid arpeggios, and trills, I’d lifted from one of his solos that happened to fit in with the song. My eyes closed, and I just let it flow, kicking on the pedal to give it a bit more oomph. When I opened them again at the end of the solo, I realised that for the first time that evening, more eyes were on the fret board than my legs.

“She’s rock candy baby,” Bethany was singing, “hot, sweet and sticky”. If only she’d known how true that was, but I was already in enough trouble.

Candy and the Firestorm 'Knock down the old grey wall and be a part of it all'

After the events of Friday night, my return to school on Monday morning, was an almost surreal experience. Rock Candy had been left behind in the bathroom; nothing remaining after Bethany scrubbed ‘the slut’ away. Inevitably perhaps, she blamed herself for the latest manifestation of her little brother’s kinky secret; dressing up was harmless enough, especially when it helped out the band, but watching me tongue wrestle a stranger was a whole new magnitude of disturbing behaviour. I don’t think, however, that sis was as surprised as I was. Kissing men had never crossed my mind before, but then tarting around in frocks aside, I didn’t think overmuch about anything that didn’t have six strings and a pickup. We had a long chat, which left me with twice as many questions as I had answered.

I wasn’t blessed with a surfeit of school friends, which isn’t to say that I was despised, just overlooked, which threw Candy’s popularity into sharp relief. Ian and I were friends by default, having sat next to each other on the first day of comprehensive school, neither of us getting any better offer in the following three years. We had enough in common to get along, we were both fairly short, about the same scholastic level, and slightly different shade of music geek. Ian’s parents had sat him down at the piano when he was still toddling, and it showed. I could play well enough, better than most maybe, but I was a mimic; Ian lived music, he could read as well as listen, and I’m pretty sure he would have eaten it if that was possible. For all that, my friend knew nothing about rock music until I gave him a cassette of my favourites. The Phrygian Mode was a mystery to me, but apparently Randy Rhoads played in it — Ian had it all written down, and spent several lunch hours on the explanation.

First lesson on Monday should have been metalwork, which I much preferred to woodwork — it would be years before I was really comfortable handling wood — 1981 however, was the year my school discovered sexual equality. After Easter we had swapped the workshops for kitchen and sewing room, finding them almost completely alien. Boys had been able to study ‘home economics’ before, though the few that did were labelled sissies. To my later shame I wasn’t above name calling, even when my secret activities elevated it to the heights of hypocrisy. Three weeks into the term we had made little progress, partly in protest at being made to take ‘girls’ lessons’, but mostly because none of us had ever thought to pick up pan or needle. Strange as it may seem after three years of band saws and lathes, I approached the sewing machines with terror, thanks to Miss Mumford’s, allegedly well meant, advice about the best way to remove needles from fingers. The Singer held little in the way of danger for me that morning; nimble as my fingers were on the fretboard, I simply couldn’t thread a needle.

“You spaz Rhodes,” Mark Hopkins’s voice grated as never before. There was no love lost between us since he’d been suspended for hitting me in the head with a hockey stick in P.E. Usually, I tried to keep away from him as best I could, but Miss Mumford, intent on splitting up the normal classroom friendships, seated us together. “You mong, ha ha ha, you really are useless.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” His laughter had slipped easily under my skin as I struggled with the unaccustomed task, anger mixing freely with my growing frustration, and before I knew what I was doing I was on my feet and was screaming in his face. In the brief moment of silence that followed I glanced around the shocked faces, and faced with the enormity of what I had done I bolted for the door, barging past the middle-aged needlework mistress, whose every prejudice against teenage boys I had just proved.

Fifty or so yards later I began to wonder where I was running. Leaving school grounds meant a month of detentions, on top of whatever punishment my outburst earned. At one corner of the playground were a pair of fives courts, and I took refuge behind their concrete walls. It was hardly safety, but it would put off any pursuers for a short time while I collected myself. Hopkins had done much worse to goad me in the past — much worse — yet I had always walked away without giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled me, so why did I react so strongly this time? At fourteen I wasn’t given to self examination — who is — but even then I knew something significant had happened to me.

The Boulton twins appeared around the corner — they would be the ones sent to find me, teachers’ pets both of them, “Mr Hughes wants to see you,” they said, almost in unison. With anyone else from the class I could have joked about the fate that now awaited me, and I felt like joking. My ten year run of avoiding any form of corporal punishment was surely at an end, having someone to bounce my bravado off would have helped immeasurably. Still, old Fred wasn’t too free with his cane; I could expect six but with my trousers on — which given what I was wearing underneath was a blessed relief.

“So tell me what happened.” Mr Hughes’s demeanour was avuncular, and I found myself sat in front of his desk, rather than bent over it. I managed to mumble a few words about losing my temper, which he silenced with a wave of his hand. “You shouldn’t let people get a rise out of you Martin; you’re a bigger man than that.” He wasn’t to know how those last words stung me worse than any slap. I doubted his opinion of my masculinity would survive seeing the ever—so-pretty pink panties I was wearing. Part of me wanted to show him, to own up for the freak I was.

“Nobody wants things the way they are Martin,” Mr Hughes’s tone was almost apologetic, “if I had my way you’d be back banging around in the workshop. Equality’s fine for the girls, I just wish they’d do it without bringing the boys down,” and with that I was dismissed. It was time by then for morning break, so I didn’t have to return to the needlework room. The playground was buzzing with what I’d done - my first taste of celebrity notoriety — and my stock had risen several notches. Even teachers crept around me for the rest of the day, as I moved in a world of whispers and pointed fingers. It was all too easy to imagine this reaction amplified by the discovery of Candy, and yet it never occurred to me - not for an instant — to abandon ‘her’.

*****

Bethany had us rehearsing twice a week; she thought there was a danger of our audience growing bored with us if we played the same set week on week, so we had to find new material. None of us were confident writers, so the search was limited to songs we could cover, and while we all had songs we’d like to play, it was big sis who had the final say. Which is not to say that we gave in without a struggle.

“Not another golden oldie,” Dave struck hard at a snare drum, “we may as well throw in the towel and play wedding receptions.”

“You know how the Coach and Horses loves us to rock up these old songs,” Bethany glowered at each of us in turn, “just listen to it, the riff could have been written for you Martin.” I’d never heard of Badfinger before, but she was right about the guitar part; it had a strong rhythm and plenty of space for improvisation — just the way I liked them. With all the rehearsal, not to mention a regular gig, we were pretty tight and learnt the song quickly. My attention was focussed on making the riff my own, and as usual I just allowed the words to roll over me. The song was more melodic than the rest of our repertoire, but with a driving bass line from Phil, hard stick work from Dave, and screechy guitar pyrotechnics from me, it fitted right in.

Bethany had no problem letting us know how smug she felt, laying on ‘I-told-you-so’s’ all around, and the two boys home at the end with a self-satisfied smirk. As Dave’s van disappeared down the street, my sister’s full attention fell on me.

“You were quiet tonight,” she laid an arm around my shoulder.

“I didn’t bother hooking the overdrive up.”

“Not the guitar silly,” even when Bethany gave you a soft punch it still hurt, “we hardly heard a peep from you. What’s up?”

“Oh just school stuff, you know.” I filled her in on the needlework brouhaha, expecting her to burst into laughter at any moment.

“Is it that important to you to be able to sew?” I shot her a quizzical look, “you think it’s a girlie thing, so you should be able to do it. Isn’t that why you lost your temper and ran?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I turned to unplug my guitar. Could she be right?

*****

“It’s not very rock and roll is it?” Bethany had dressed me in a yellow sundress with cap sleeves, and a hemline ending a demure three inches above the knee. To heighten the effect she’d tied my hair in bunches.

“Last week was rock and roll, look where that got you!” Granted, she had a point, but I felt I was being dressed for a Sunday school picnic. “We could put you in school uniform if you want, like Angus Young,” a grin spread over my sister’s face which I knew spelt trouble, “I know you’ve been quite fond of trying on my old one.” Beetroots could have blushed no redder, I’d spent a great many evenings running around the empty house in Bethany’s school skirt and blouse, hair bunched as it was now, and pretending to get ready for a day’s lessons. Keeping quiet seemed the best option. At least she allowed me to wear heels.

Mike the landlord, rolled his eyes and groaned when we arrived in the Coach and Horses. Giving him a wink probably wasn’t the wisest move, but Candy was in charge by then, and she just didn’t care. Neither did Mike, it seemed, as he answered with a raucous laugh.

Feeling a little like Shirley Temple, I took the stage with the rest of the band, strapping on my Flying-V and hitting a chunky power chord to test its open tuning. Going into our third week we were building a fan base, with familiar faces crowding the stage, including the chewing gum donor from the week before. Feeling that such loyalty deserved reward I gave him a wriggle of my hips, which he appreciated a lot more than Bethany, whose icy glare made me cringe behind my guitar.

The lights going down was my cue to fire up ‘Unchained’, a fitting song for the way I felt. Even after a few minutes the pub’s basement was incredibly oppressive, heavy with cigarette smoke, and the combined musk of a hundred or so bodies. A cotton sundress was the perfect attire, I felt so free, almost as if it wasn’t there. Later I would find out, that for the audience it looked as if it wasn’t, due to a spotlight shining through the seersucker from behind. Candy thrived on attention, however, and took the extra interest as her due.

Our audience fell into two categories; there were the Coach and Horses’ regulars, older long hairs in ragged denim and Deep Purple or Led Zeppelin t-shirts, and older teens, whose jeans were artfully distressed, and whose t-shirts proclaimed allegiance to a new generation of bands. It was impossible, therefore, to miss one lad who looked like he’d wandered in by mistake. Not only was his hair trimmed short, and neatly parted, he was wearing the type of casual clothes of which my mother would approve. If that wasn’t enough, he stood head and shoulders above everyone else, like a nicely brought up Snow White among greaser dwarves. When the rest of the band stepped down for the interval, he made his way through the press to the stage, stopping in front of me.

“Hi, my name’s Adam, I’m with Ents in the university,” even with a boost from the stage my eyes were barely level with his chest, forcing me to look up to answer.

“You’re tall enough to be a tree,” I giggled. That’s right, I giggled.

“Not ents,” his accent was strange, posh like a newsreader’s, “ENTS, the university entertainment committee. I’d like to book your band for the Senior XV’s ball.”

“Oh,” the university crowd seldom troubled the Coach and Horses, “we don’t really play music students like, we’re more heavy rock to be honest.”

“Just the thing,” Adam grinned, “the chaps in the rugger team don’t give a stuff for all that punk nonsense, and New Romance thing. We just like a bit of rock, and a couple of pretty girls to look at.”

“Well,” every drop of blood in my body seemed to have made its way to my cheeks, “you’d best talk to my sister, she does all that sort of thing.”

“Tell her to give me a call,” Adam pressed a piece of paper into my hand, “anyway, must dash. See you again.”

“Collecting phone numbers now?” Bethany handed me a glass of Coke from the bar, her eyebrow doing its best to climb all the way up to her forehead, “I just can’t keep you away from the boys, can I?”

“It’s not like that; he wants to book the band for a ball or something.”

“Really?” the eyebrow still hadn’t come down, “why are you blushing like a Belisha beacon then?”

“It’s true! Here,” I gave her the scrap of paper with his number on, “and I’m not blushing, it’s just hot in here.”

“And getting hotter it seems,” she flashed me a wry smile, “let's do the Badfinger song next.”

The lights went down again, leaving me blinking for a second or two, and struggling to find the correct fret. I looked back at Dave, who nodded, and stole a glance at Phil and Big Sis who looked as ready as they’d ever be. Pausing only for a final knob twiddled, I launched into the song, everyone else taking their cue from my guitar.

Bethany crossed the few feet between us, her arm winding around my shoulder as she sang.

“No matter what you are, I will always be with you, doesn’t matter what you do girl.”

It was the first time I’d really listened to the words, and my eyes began to tear up.

“No matter where you go, there will always be a place, don’t you see it in my face?”

I did, it was written plainly in Bethany’s smile, better than any words could ever say it; a single tear trickled down my cheek, running into my own smile. It had been a long week, so many questions, and so few I could answer.

“I’ve been singing this to you all week, dumbo” she said in my ear, “no matter what, Martin or Candy, I’m always going to be here.”

Prologue

The women crowded around the crew room’s windows to catch a first glimpse of the new arrivals trooping after the squadron leader: the experienced pilots - the fighting pilots - who were there to take up No. 641 squadron’s combat responsibilities.

‘Oh gawd’ someone cried in a not very convincing parody of a cockney char she had once employed ‘they look like debutantes!’. The accent may have been wide of the mark but the description was not. While the women inside were dressed in a mishmash of civilian and service issue clothing, and all wore slacks the squadron’s three latest additions wore immaculate WAAF uniforms, neatly starched white shirts under a blue uniform tunic with matching knee-length skirts over grey woollen stockings. Even their issue gasmask cases were carried at the officially prescribed angle, barely moving as they picked their way through the airfield’s many puddles.

‘The one at the back’s a doll’ said another and all eyes were drawn to the diminutive figure trailing behind the group. She looked out of place in uniform with her tight blonde curls, a slight moue playing over her too pretty face and looked for all the world like Shirley Temple had raided the quartermasters and would suddenly break into a tap dance at any moment.

On one thing they were all agreed, there was no way they could be men.

Chapter One
Angels Without Wings


Mac felt a surge of pity for the three young men waiting for their transport to arrive. No pilot could resist the temptation to volunteer for special duties, for a greater share of glory and now they had to come to terms with the outcome Special duty yes, plenty of flying that much had been true but the secret costs were very high. They’ll bear up thought Mac they’ll have to there’s no going back for them now.

All three were difficult tell apart, same age more or less, same height (the physical profile after all had been the main prerequisite for the posting) and with the self-possession, or élan, the RAF worked so hard to imbue in its pilots (though understandably the latter was temporarily subdued in this company). If Mac had to pick out one characteristic to identify each man it would be from the service caps resting in their laps.

The slightly scuffed and deliberately creased cap belonged to Flying-officer Anthony Carstairs, one of the few surviving fighter pilots from the pre-war Auxiliary Air Force. Most of his comrades in the University Squadrons were littering the fields of South East England, or perhaps worse fighting their way back to a semblance of health in hospital. Carstairs had missed the greater part of the slaughter after breaking his legs in a motorcycle accident… in the officers’ mess at the end of July. Such frivolity had largely disappeared in the bloody months of August and September 1940.

In the next chair the owner of the badly battered cap, worn at the seams and almost crushed out of shape was Flight-Lieutenant Peter Watson, at twenty three the old man of the group. By rights he should not have been there, an officer of his experience was too valuable to fritter away but he had fitted the physical profile perfectly and it was felt he would steady the younger fellows. While service caps were routinely disrespected by new pilots eager to seem like old hands Watson’s creases had accumulated while flying Blenheims, first over France, then the Channel and latterly at night to intercept bombers they were barely able to catch.

The most pristine cap (though it was showing early signs of abuse) belonged to Pilot-Officer John Crabtree a nineteen year old, plucked straight from an operational training unit. Eager to find the quickest way to get at the enemy he perhaps most of all was ruing his decision to volunteer, a week or so would have seen him in squadron service, though perhaps he sensed that a pilot of his ability could have been held at the OTU or transferred to a basic training squadron as an instructor.

All three would no doubt perform admirably in their new task even though they might fail at first to see how it could be more valuable than the job they had trained for. They had a few minutes left to ponder their decision, what the future might hold while Aircraftswoman Penning brought the car around to take them away; Mac used these minutes to imagine how they would look in skirts.

---

‘Laydeez! Laydeez!’ Madame D’Hubert appeared increasingly agitated ‘must I remind you zat you are not on ze parade ground. Pay attenti-on to your deportement pliss’. Amanda, Patricia and Jessica grinned at each other, after six weeks they knew Madame’s rages were seldom meant and the movements which she had so patiently taught them had become almost second nature.

Despite throwing in the odd mistake for entertainment’s sake they knew the ancient matron was far kindlier than she let on, and had been a tower of strength in the early days while they adapted to the change of uniform. Now completely at ease they sashayed around the room as Madame directed. Their clothes were somewhat at odds with the finishing school elegance with which they moved, the heavy woollen garments often seemed to be fighting back at such overt displays of femininity and the substitutions Madame had insisted upon — grey woollen stockings had been replaced with silk, and the flat service issue shoes with heeled pumps so that they might better learn to move as women. In fact only one thing continued to upset them — they had as yet not been allowed to sew their wings to their tunics.

If Madame D’Hubert was an endearing, elderly aunt then Miss Goldring was their confidante, even conspirator. It was her task to teach the three how to dress, look after their hair (fabulously expensive pieces from London’s finest maker they were told) and how to discreetly apply those indispensable touches of femininity at odds with uniform regulations.

Miss Goldring’s archenemy was Flight-Sergeant Morris, a veritable battleaxe of a WAAF who had been installed to ensure the RAF’s highest standards were maintained. It became a game to see who could carry off the most contraband items under the statuesque Flight-Sergeant’s beady eye, a game which was inevitably won by Jessica Crabtree. Displaying a bravery almost equal to that which would carry her into battle Jess would rouge her lips or dab a little scent behind her ears and brazenly flaunt herself before Sergeant Morris. Needless to say she was often caught and dragged by her ear to the washroom for a sturdy application of carbolic soap.

Not that it put her off at all, of the three Jess was the most convincingly feminine both in appearance and movement, her only failing was her Yorkshire accent — a thorn in Dr Higgins’ side from their very first session.

A woman who delighted in the airs of a bluestocking, and armed with a rapier tongue that could cut even Sergeant Morris to the quick Honoria Higgins had taken charge of the trio’s vocal training. A public school education had given Pat and Amanda an accent that needed only minor modifications in pitch and phrasing to pass easily as a woman’s but grammar school had failed Jess in this respect. While nowhere near as broad as the doctor intimated her accent stubbornly refused to subside no matter how long the pair practiced into the small hours.

For all her fierce aspect however Honoria was delighted with Jess, at last she had a project to rival her father’s greatest feats and how she would enjoy telling him of her success… after the war of course. Their breakthrough moment occurred as the clock was striking midnight when Jess, broken down by hours of incessant exercises, wrestled her flat, drawling vowels into the open clipped tones the doctor demanded. In the flush of success Honoria whisked Jess to her feet, waltzed around the room and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her pupil’s lips. It won’t do she told herself while straightening her hair no matter how irresistible she is and despatched the bemused Jess to bed.

---

Two months had gone by before their instructors had pronounced them ready for the world’s attentions, and while all three had become firm friends in the face of adversity they had not yet fully abandoned the insularity that maintained a strict reserve between men, even men who appeared to be women to all but the most discerning eye. It had been a long journey however and the walls were beginning to crumble, they did not speak to each other but did exchange looks from time to time. Otherwise they sat in silence lost to their thoughts and innermost feelings.

Amanda crossed her legs (in the approved manner) almost regretting the loss of the silk stockings now consigned with her other meagre female possessions to the small card suitcase at her feet. The months of training had imposed new preoccupations and she struggled to bring to mind the faces of lost friends, no matter how hard she tried. What would they think of Anthony Carstairs now she wondered (it had become increasingly difficult to think of herself as anything other than ‘herself’), would they laugh, or pour scorn on someone who had escaped by dressing up as a woman? No matter what they thought Flying-Officer Carstairs was determined to fulfil her duty to the very best of her abilities, no whatever would be demanded of her. Still she had to fight back the desire to bite her nails, Miss Goldring would never forgive it

Flight-Lieutenant Watson had no difficulty remembering the dead, their names, their faces, their last words, she had pulled too many from wrecked aircraft, held them as they slipped away in her arms for anything to erase the memories. A new routine however had helped dim them somewhat, there was less time to dwell on them when she had to pay constant attention to her appearance, her walk and the way she spoke. It also helped that the posting was a Hurricane squadron; she had not flown a single engine aeroplane since the biplane Hawker Harts of her first squadron. This time death would come no closer than the range of the Hurricane’s guns, and should the worst happen she would die alone burdening no one with memories of her death. A slightly bittersweet smile formed on her lips as she absently straightened the hem of her skirt over her knees.

Jessica Crabtree was having difficulty thinking of anything except the way her new silk underwear felt against her skin. It had been the gift pressed on her by a flushed Dr Higgins to ‘remember her by’ and who had then proceeded to kiss the young pilot with a passion that quite belied her stern appearance. It was enough to turn a girl’s head, especially one who had never been so well kissed before. Jess may not have had to endure the all-male society of boarding school but a boys’ grammar school presented almost as few opportunities for romantic adventure (perhaps even less). She had at last come to an understanding of why she had envied the boys who took the female roles in school plays, an envy she could not have named before assuming a female identity. It worried her at times, were the others going through similar feelings, was she a… she did not want to use that ugly expression. Still Dr Higgins’ gift felt glorious and she hoped to have the opportunity to admire herself in it soon (and indulge in a little of what her old headmaster had termed ‘self-abuse’).

‘Attention!’ Flight-Sergeant Morris’ stentorian bark brought them all out of their reverie and to their as Flight-Lieutenant MacDiarmid entered the room. Mac had not seen his three ‘girls’ for a few weeks and was amazed at their progress. Standing ramrod straight and as impressively stiff as guardsmen (he had not been privy to their underwear requirements and knew nothing of the draconically boned foundations each had to wear), but they had an undeniably feminine appearance. That was an understatement they looked like women and the little minx on the end had winked at him… John Crabtree is not a minx he had to remind himself. Up until that moment he had not truly believed that they could pull it off, even as he had draughted the plans and selected the pilots he thought that they would get at best limited success. In that moment however he could not see anything getting in their way.

Chapter Two
Fallen Angel


Kate had a crush on her flight-leader, a silly, schoolgirl crush that made her blush every time that Patricia entered a room. The first week at Helton Hall had had a distinctly new term feel for the women of 641 with new uniforms to match their temporary WAAF commissions, and thrown together with a group where few knew any one else. As the male officers restricted themselves to a small lodge in the grounds they had settled the Hall in a state approaching chaos, the initial free for all over room selection had resulted in the older women queening it over the younger ones, whose resentment was constantly bubbling up in petty squabbles. Anarchy reigned until the trim, wasp waited flight-lieutenant Watson arrived and set at once establishing military order.

Life until then had not been so different for Kate from her time as a ferry pilot, the food was better and she dressed pretty much as she liked. The room she shared with another of the girls had already become a haven of sloth for both of them. Pat had appointed WAAF orderlies to clean their quarters while making it absolutely clear that this was not a licence to live like pigs, late nights and lazy mornings were also banished and order brought to the mess. She managed to do this with a minimum of fuss and very little rebellion from the ranks until she had insisted that slacks were only to be worn at the airfield and proper uniform at all other times. For many of the pilots who had spent years avoiding skirts this was an imposition too far, voices were raised, and conspiracies hatched.

Through it all Pat had retained an air of calm, talking to all the pilots individually and only when this had failed to bring round the most recalcitrant did she call on squadron-leader Trent to intervene. It had left a little bitterness in the mess, with several girls choosing to spend as much time at the field as they could get away with; which may have been what the flight-lieutenant had been trying to achieve.

There was however a deeper resentment that could have crippled all Pat’s efforts. Kate like all the others had been incredibly excited to join an all female fighting squadron, to be given a chance to do more for the war effort than ferry planes from factory to depot and the announcement that in reality the fighting would still be done by male pilots was a crushing disappointment. After the announcement that the newcomers would be disguised as women she and her room mate had speculated wildly about what sort of men would allow this indignity to be visited on them, and giggled themselves breathless at the prospect of three effeminate female impersonators mincing about the station. It had been rather a shock when the newcomers arrived, they might have been somewhat prissy, slightly old fashioned in behaviour but the realisation of the effort it must have taken to appear so natural made a deep impression on almost all of them.

So far it had been Patricia that had the most to do with the women pilots, the other two appeared in the mess for meals but largely kept themselves apart from the rest of the squadron. Kate did not doubt that she was not the only one who felt relieved that flying-officer Crabtree stayed away, no woman would be comfortable with a pretty creature around, even moreso when they knew that pout belonged to a man. Pat was eager to tap Kate’s knowledge of the Hurricane as she had probably flown more hours in them than anyone in Helton. Even at close quarters it was hard to believe the neat young woman, with the softly curled brown hair was a man, everything about her was so feminine, almost unbelievably feminine. The only clues about her true gender were the ribbon on her breast, which with the attention to these things Kate knew to be for a DFC and occasionally she caught something in Patricia’s eyes, a distance, and a sadness that was slightly at odds with her manner. It would be very easy to fall in love with someone like that Kate thought if only she was…

---

There had been a few smirks when Pat had emerged in slacks that morning but she had to admit that flying in the regulation skirt was impractical. It was the first time that she had worn trousers since the day Mac had revealed the nature of the assignment, and while a few weeks ago she might have welcomed the chance to adopt more masculine clothing. Madam D’Hubert’s training regime had been so efficient that she regretted the loss of freedom a skirt gave. She quickly banished the thought as she set off for the airfield, which was quite literally a field in the grounds that had been hurriedly converted to a landing strip, and furnished with an improvised tower, hangars and huts for the other ranks.

Kate Walton hung over the cockpit combing giving Pat a few last pointers on the Hurricane’s controls, and how the aircraft handled. She was a sweet girl, a typically blonde and cream skinned English rose whose enthusiasm seemed endless, and Pat thought a little guiltily, relentless. Still she was glad of the advice, it had been three years since she had flown a single-engined aeroplane and the Hart had been a relatively sedate two-seat light-bomber not a high speed, single-seat fighter.

‘Good luck’ said Kate giving her a quick peck on the cheek and dropped off the aeroplane, ducking away from the wing’s leading edge. Pat started the aircraft down the field wondering at the noise and the power in her hands, the Blenheim’s engines were not all that much quieter than the Merlin but they had the advantage of being further away from the cockpit. Buffeted by the rough airstrip and shaken by engine vibration she gently lifted the Hurricane into the air retracting the undercarriage in the slow climb over Helton. For the first time in months she experienced the utter joy that had drawn Peter to the RAF, the thrill he had first experienced as a young boy tucked into the rear cockpit of a barnstormer’s Avro.

Officially this was meant to be a test flight of the squadron’s sole serviceable Hurricane; there had been some jealous glances from the earthbound when she had taken the flight upon herself. Selfishly perhaps but Pat felt after months away from flying she needed to blow away the cobwebs and climbed to 5000 feet plotting a course to take her over Lacksford.

The small market town drifted into view a huddle of buildings surrounding the medieval church and market square. Its thin ring of anti-aircraft defences were a hideous imposition on this traditional English scene but a very necessary one while the Luftwaffe still presented a threat. They seldom came by day now of course, that door had been closed to them in the hectic autumn months when the hard pressed RAF had risen to meet huge fleets of German aircraft, but they raided nightly now and while Lacksford had not suffered greatly at their hands it was still within range of French based aircraft. Not that it was a likely target, there was no industry here to speak of and the railway station lay on a sleepy branchline far removed from the main. Quite why they needed nightfighter cover had not been explained to 641 but when they had the aircraft they would mount cat’s eye patrols over the town’s few searchlight batteries, probably keeping as many people awake as their presence reassured.

A summer spent scouring the channel for enemy shipping had improved Pat’s already keen eye and something tugged at her attention on the ground two or three miles east of Lacksford. Giving the town’s handful of barrage balloons a wide berth she reduced altitude to investigate. The Hurricane’s approach had sparked a flurry of activity in a large field, with tiny unseen figures hauling away at covers and hastily throwing up camouflage netting. Too late Pat thought whatever they’re doing down there they don’t want anyone to see and a little piqued turned the Hurricane’s nose around and headed back to Helton.

Her corselette was achieving the impossible, becoming even more uncomfortable as its bones dug into hers no matter how she tried to arrange herself. She almost missed the change in engine note and turned quickly to the control panel to find out what was happening. Its dials gave few clues other than a slight rise in engine temperature which she had little time to analyse before it sputtered out of life the propeller lazily windmilling in the slipstream. Peter has been in far worse scrapes she told herself trying not to add that he had never had to contend with corsetry cutting him in half at the same time. She calmly looked over the wing for somewhere to put down and was met by an unending vista of ploughed winter fields each no doubt as treacherous as any other. Pat thought briefly of baling out, but had visions of trigger happy home-guardsmen filled with stories of parachutists disguised as nuns. A small field came into view sparsely grassed hopefully it had been left fallow long enough for the soil to harden.

Pat had dropped to the ground beside the wrecked plane and was removing her flying helmet before she noticed the policeman rushing towards her pushing his bicycle over the rough pasture. ‘Christ’ she muttered ‘I hope this wig’s as fixed on as Miss Goldring said it would be’. Even from thirty yards she could see the look of surprise on the constable’s face as her hair fell to her shoulders but no farther.

---

Although had become accustomed to the sight of wounded men in service and in the streets of home she found it very difficult to look at squadron-leader Trent’s face. He had been famously handsome before the war, one of Britain’s most popular leading men, no great actor perhaps but his rugged good looks, easy aristocratic charm and tall, athletic build had ensured him a place in the pantheon of homegrown screen stars. The glamour of the Auxiliary Air Force had been the icing on the cake for the thousands, if not millions, of women who swooned in their cinema seats at every film he featured in. During the Battle of Britain he had increased his reputation further the press eager to report the latest victories of the one ace they had ready access to (the RAF guarded its heroes’ identities well seldom releasing the names of ‘star pilots’).

Michael Trent had however slipped from the front pages these past few months, shunning publicity and with very good cause. He had walked away from a crash at the battle’s height otherwise uninjured but with a vicious facial wound that had badly broken his nose and left a livid scar from his right temple to his left jaw. ‘It’ll be pirates and henchmen for me from now on’ he had joked when his three new pilots arrived in his office. It was a line he had used many times
since August, a few jokey words for the ill at ease.

Pat seldom felt at ease around him. Peter had never had a problem with his lack of height, if anything his small stature had made him even more determined to prove himself, but Pat was very conscious of the difference in their size, it added to the vulnerability wearing women’s clothing made her feel.

The two of them sat facing each other in a small study Mike had taken as his office off the airfield. The walls were lined with empty bookcases, the Hall’s owners had removed much of the estate’s furnishings when it was commandeered, but had left two large leather armchairs which were obviously too much trouble to manoeuvre through the lodge’s narrow doors. Pat could comfortably sit in one without any part of her body touching the chair’s arms, and her legs even dangled an inch or so from the floor in a way she hadn’t experienced since the nursery.

‘We need more planes’ she said inching forward ‘those we have are relics which I doubt will ever fly again and everyone’s getting impatient stuck on the ground’. Mike nodded he had his own problems with Pat. When Mac had outlined his idea of men dressed as WAAF officers Mike had never thought the ruse would work half as well as it did. He had to remind himself constantly that Pat was not a woman.

‘We’re working on it Watson’ he could not bring himself to call her Patricia, it was simply too strange ‘there is something else we need to talk about’. His expression became a shade more serious. Not too much he hoped but with his featured rearranged as they were he could never be sure without looking in a mirror. ‘It’s Carstairs and Crabtree’ he continued ‘they’re hardly ever to be found with the rest of the squadron. Carstairs it seems seldom leaves his room except to eat and Lord alone knows where the other one goes.’

Mike had not meant that to sound as harsh as it had, he paused softening his voice ‘You’re senior Watson; you have a responsibility to your flight’.

Pat looked at the floor trying to compose herself. She had been reprimanded by far less considerate commanders; why it should it affect her so now she did not know. ‘Sorry Sir’ she started ‘I’ve had a lot on my plate with the…’

‘Nonsense’ Mike interrupted ‘you’re first responsibility is to your subordinates, there are two other flight leaders to share the load’. What was wrong now, Pat had her face in her hands and her shoulders had just begun to heave. Was he crying, the man who had flown deathly slow bombers over Maastricht, through shellfire and Messerschmitts? Mike leaned forward to look closer. There were definitely tears, and the small figure sat opposite him suddenly became impossible to think of as a man’

‘Patricia’ Mike said softly reaching out to touch her shoulder ‘this must be very hard for you; it’s not an acting role I would relish…’

‘It’s not that’ she said her lips trembling badly ‘you don’t understand. I was supposed to be alone, no one to worry about…’ Words tumbled from her, terrible words of fire and death, the longing to escape their screams, to be free of everyone’s pain but her own. Pat remembered the day Peter had broken his arm when he was five, how his father ordinarily stern had comforted the little boy, wiping away his tears… Was that why she was saying these things? Colour started rising in her cheeks, she felt so small, so ashamed but the tears wouldn’t stop.

Michael Trent was too much the gentleman to be unmoved by woman’s tears, a courtesy that ignored the fact that this was not a woman. He slid from his chair, squatting at Pat’s side an arm around her shoulder. In the normal course of things he would offer comforting platitudes, this was by no means normal. Pat’s words had touched a sadness that he had himself repressed, the guilt of surviving when so many had not, and he began to tell her how completely he understood, about the replacement pilots whose names he had never learned, about the gut wrenching terror of dogfighting and the shame of survival. Tears came unbidden, as they could never come in other circumstances. He pressed his forehead against hers, her sobbing breath warm on his face.

Pat pulled her hand from her face, and looked directly into his grey eyes. She had never known as deep an intimacy with anyone, never shared so much of herself. Without thinking she crossed one last barrier and pressed her lips to his, sealing a connection between two people who had been hurt in so many, similar ways.

Chapter Three
Lonely Angel

Reverend Brown threaded his way through the veranda’s jumbled tables and wheelchairs pausing only briefly to acknowledge the patients’ greetings with a brief nod or smile. Everyone was fairly chipper considering their wounds, but it was a fine Indian summer morning with the trees of the hospital grounds only beginning their autumnal turn. He would spend more time with the more seriously injured when he returned though he did not think that he had anything to offer those in physical pain, his concern was the soul and one young man here was especially troubled try though he might to hide it.

He found Anthony Carstairs at the balustrade, smoking and staring out over the hospital’s extensive lawns. One of his hands rested on the rail as if to steady himself a habit only now as the young pilot’s broken legs had fully healed. The clergyman coughed quietly wondering on what thoughts he was intruding.

‘Morning Anthony’ he said ‘Matron tells me that you’re to leave us today’.

‘What?’ the young man turned his face hovering between a blank expression and a frown, ‘oh it’s you Padre… err yes I am

‘Time for one last game?’ the older man said tapping the wooden box tucked under one arm. Anthony smiled and pulled aside a chair at a nearby table.

Reverend Brown pursed his lips his finger almost skimming the top of his chessmen. ‘I think you’ve got me’ he said with a smile ‘I should never have loaned you that book… are you returning to your old squadron?’

‘No I’m being posted’ Anthony replied ‘don’t know where yet all very hush-hush…’ In the two months the clergyman had known him Anthony Carstairs had never looked so happy.

---

Mac opened another letter. Censoring mail was no more tedious than most of an adjutant’s official duties if you put aside the constant repetition, the vague phrases used to reassure family when the writers were under strict orders not to reveal their location or what they were doing. So far he had barely had to amend anything but no doubt that would change as time passed and the secrecy played more heavily on everyone. However the knock at the door was a welcome interruption. ‘Come’ he called.

‘Oh hello Sir’ Amanda Carstairs smiled from the doorway. ‘Do you have a minute?’

‘For you flying-officer always’ Mac said. Try as he might Mac could not help treating any of the three latest arrivals as women, even though he had known them as men. Their transformation was remarkable, miraculous almost. They had been picked for their small stature, soft features and their relatively high speaking voices yet he had never believed that they could acquire such convincing femininity in so short a time. ‘Take a seat please’

‘It’s a bit sticky Sir’ Amanda said closing the door behind her and picking her way though the mass of boxes in the adjutant’s office. Mac noticed that she straightened her skirt as she sat, pulling the hem over her knees. How had she been taught such innate, almost automatic, behaviour? Why had the French created an organisation to do this? That he had been lucky enough to inherit it was a blessing.

‘Thing is Sir’ Amanda was saying ‘it’s one of the other pilots…’ She paused briefly pursing her lips ‘…Verity Bliss, we knew one another before the war, her brother was in my squadron’. Amanda looked up from the square of desktop she had been focussing on ‘you promised that no one would ever know that we had done this. She waved her hand across her chest to indicate the WAAF uniform. Mac gave her an encouraging smile.

‘I don’t think you need worry about being recognised’ he said ‘you’ve been here almost a week and I haven’t heard anything. Have you?’ she shook her head. ‘In fact’ Mac continued ‘your own mother would probably pass you in the street without saying a word — I wish I were in a similar position’. That at least made her laugh a little although she still would not meet his eye, instead she seemed to be looking at the chessboard he had left on top of a filing cabinet. On a hunch Mac asked ‘do you play?’

He played chess no better than any other Cambridge mathematics professor, and while Mac was winning, he was winning narrowly. ‘You’ve been playing how long?’ he asked her over the board.

‘A couple of months’ she replied tearing her concentration away from the board briefly ‘there was a chaplain at the hospital, he loaned me a few books’

‘Ah that explains it…’ he said. Two months? Two months? No one gets this good in two months. ‘…and the Bible study too?’

‘I was in traction for six weeks’ she blushed ‘gives you a lot of time to think, especially when the beds are filling up around you… emptying too’ her voice became wistful for a moment, then rallied ‘and there’s bugger all else to read here either’. She smiled triumphantly as she put down the bishop ‘I think I’ve moved in mysterious ways’.

‘Don’t clear the pieces I want to see what you’ve done’ as he spoke Mac was reaching for a book on a shelf behind his desk. ‘How’s your French’ he asked passing her a well thumbed copy of ‘Therese Raquin’.

‘Surprisingly undreadful - do you think I have a guilty conscience?’ she laughed taking the book from him.

‘I haven’t unpacked my books yet, I was reading this on the train’ he said by way of explanation, adding quietly ‘and yes I think you have a conscience but nothing to feel guilty about’.

Amanda let that go she knew he was wrong on that subject. ‘You never really explained what we’re doing here. It’s obviously some sort of ruse de guerre but why do you need Pat, Jess and I?’

Mac made a steeple of his fingers pressing them to his face wondering how much he should say. He had asked a lot of them and they had not let him down, they were owed an explanation.

‘We had an idea’ he started ‘to fool Jerry about how many pilots we have. A fighting women’s squadron would really give him pause for thought don’ you think?’

‘Well yes’ Amanda said ‘but you could have done that with women radio operators on the ground’

‘Yes we could’ Mac said ‘but it wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny... we need women pilots up into the skies if there was any chance of combat, and we can't rule that out even in a quiet sector like this could we?’ He had placed his hands on the desktop as if drawing a line under the conversation. Amanda however thought she could push him further.

‘Of course not but why dress us up? We’re in the back of beyond here...’ her words trailed off in realisation ‘...you think they’re going to come looking for us on the ground as well’.

‘Clever girl’ Mac laughed ‘and when they do we’ll catch them!’

‘You’re not really in the RAF are you?’ Amanda asked but his attention had already switched back to the chessboard.

---

Pat returned the handkerchief back he had given her to blow her nose, straightened her uniform and turned to leave. It was only then she realised they were still holding each other’s hand. ‘Thank you Pat’ he said.

It had been a strange experience for both of them and necessary. Their kiss had been brief, very intense but entirely chaste. Neither could express why it happened their every instinct was to bottle up fear and emotion, to carry it like men. Yet Pat’s adopted role allowed them to share feelings they could never have done otherwise, a kiss was merely a way of sealing the connection, his arm around her shoulder a shared comfort. The hour they spent quietly talking should by their old code have been embarrassing, and yet...

‘Could you pop in to see Mac on the way out’ Mike said as she reluctantly let go of his hand to leave ‘ask him to see me first thing in the morning’.

---

Finding Amanda there had been a surprise, the chess board between them drinking scotch and smoking. Pat was tempted to accept their invitation to join them and would have had not the clock been striking midnight.

‘I’d better shoot off too’ said Amanda ‘tongues will wag if we both straggle back from the men’s billet alone at this hour’.

‘Have you been crying’ she asked Pat as they walked back to the Hall arm in arm.

‘A little’ Pat admitted ‘The old man gave me a bit of an ear bashing. Told me to buck up and look after you and Jess’. She gave Amanda a wan smile and told her the CO’s concerns over them not mixing with the women pilots.

‘That’s what I was having a chat with Mac about’ she said as they climbed the Hall’s main staircase. The three of them had for modesty’s sake the top floor to themselves, and to some consternation, single rooms.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Amanda asked as they stopped at her door.

Pat demurred. It’s off to bed for me’ she said ‘I’ll just check on Missy first’ nodding at Jessica’s door.

The door was ajar giving Pat a glimpse of Jess sat in front of a shaving mirror painting here face, a cigarette burning to stub on the table top. Their young comrade was wearing a beautiful lace trimmed red silk camisole, french knickers set, her legs folded to one side and encased in black silk stockings. Pat watched her for several minutes as she carefully applied kohl to her eyelids, delicately tracing their outline with the pencil oblivious to anything else. Pat pulled herself away from the doorway resolving to have words with Missy in the morning.

---

Amanda did her best to take Pat’s words (and Mac’s reassurance) to heart making an effort to mix more freely with the women pilots. Still Amanda had managed so far to always keep Verity Bliss at a distance fearful that she might make the connection between with the young pilot in her late brother’s squadron. Nothing however lasts forever and before very long Amanda found herself cornered with no way to leave the mess without attracting attention as Verity bore down on her.

‘Amanda’ she said in the breathy voice Anthony had once found so entrancing ‘can we talk… somewhere quiet?’ Amanda nodded and fearing the worst allowed herself to be guided outside.

The air was chill; thankfully as it explained away her shivering, but she was sure her galloping heartbeat could be heard from yards away. Verity led her into an alcove in the outer wall then squeezing in beside her.

Verity had been considered a society beauty much admirered until she had inexplicably dropped off the social calendar. Taller than most women she had a certain grace that allowed her to carry off the extra height with an air of not really caring, an impression heightened by wearing minimal make up. With bright blond hair however, a complexion to match and piercing blue eyes she hardly needed any.

‘I need your help’ Verity whispered. Amanda held her breath. ‘You’re quite close to Mac aren’t you?’ Verity continued.

Amanda nodded wondering where this was leading ‘We play chess’ she said. Verity paused as if taking a deep breath.

‘It’s like this’ she said ‘before the war…’ Amanda’s heart sank ‘…I was mixed up in this crowd; sort of on the edges really… we went to Germany…’ In short bursts Verity told her how she had rubbed shoulders with some of the Nazi elite, not the most famous figures but leading Party members nonetheless. By the time Verity had finished the words were almost spilling out. Her cheeks flushed and her voice even more breathy than Amanda remembered.

Amanda considered what to say while Verity looked at her with an almost pleading expression, wide eyed, nervous. ‘I’m sure if Mac was worried he’d have said something already’ she said slowly ‘he’s pretty switched on so he probably knows everything. I can have a word if you like?’

‘Oh thank you’ Verity said catching her in a hug, their cheeks brushing very briefly together. Verity pushed herself back while still holding Amanda’s shoulders. ‘Your skin is very smooth, no beard’ she said stepping back.

‘Electrolysis, not the best week of my life’ Amanda laughed. Verity gave her an appraising look.

‘Smashing legs too’ she said ‘doesn’t it bother you, dressing up like this?’

‘Not really’ Amanda said ‘just a change of uniform really, it’s hard to explain’

‘Say something to me in your man’s voice’

‘I can’t’ Amanda said, Verity was the last person she wanted to hear that ‘it’s part of the training we have to keep… ummm… in character or… well it’s like breaking the spell. Does that sound mad?’

‘A little’ Verity said ‘but you’re a man it must feel strange to give that up…’ she left off quietly fearing that she had gone too far.

‘Oh I gave that up when I decided to ride a motorcycle in the mess’ Amanda said.

Chapter Four
Faith, Hope and Charity


Deirdre Melling first called them Faith, Hope and Charity. Deirdre had a talent for giving nicknames that stuck, had done since school, unsurprisingly maybe for someone with a given name so rich in comedy potential. It was not a trait that endeared her to others but then she had always been, as she termed it, self reliant. A quality that had carried her on solo flights to many far flung outposts of empire; not that were very many left unreached and Deirdre’s exploits in foreign parts had brought her little of the fame that attached itself to other aviatrixes. Deirdre had a choice nickname for Amy Johnson.

Pat Watson’s habit of prefixing requests with ‘I hope this isn’t an imposition…’ or ‘I had hoped we would…’ offered Deirdre easy meat, and she was not alone in spotting Amanda’s Bible reading. With Faith and Hope taken care of Charity fell to Jess; of course the name could be construed a dig at Jess’s working class origins. Though she might deny that this was her intention Deirdre little minded offending someone younger and prettier than her. Of course she had enough taste not to use the name directly

Jess sloped away from the mess before Pat found her something to do (there was always something to do even though the squadron had no serviceable aeroplanes yet). She had discovered a spot at the edge of the dispersal area where she could pass time undisturbed few of her fellows caring to brave the wintery weather. She was not by nature a solitary person it was just that everyone else was older and a bit posh. Even when someone complimented her she felt as though she was being addressed along the length of their noses. So Jess crept off and spent a few hours smoking and wondering what it all meant.

It was less than a year since that John Crabtree had begun his apprenticeship as a draughtsman in the same engineering firm where his father was a foreman. He had earned a scholarship for the local art school and his father’s staunch opposition to his youngest son’s airy ambitions. Draughtsman was a proper job; John would never want for work with a trade, it had been a very lean decade after all. He hated drawing straight lines; he hated his pens, the rules, the compasses and most of all the unending geometry. When he was accepted for aircrew training he had slipped away from the family home one morning leaving a note for his mother. He had not been back since.

In pilot training for the first time in John’s life he found himself rubbing shoulders with young men from all parts of the country, and all social classes. It could have been overwhelming if he had not displayed such natural flying ability; he soloed before any of his classmates, and barely paused until he had been posted to an operational training unit. By that time there was a desperate demand for pilots yet John, who had stepped in to tutor some of the others, had not been posted to an active squadron. As the weeks passed it became apparent that the commanding officer was reluctant to let a good instructor go, so when the call came for pilots no more than five feet five inches tall John jumped at the chance to volunteer.

Not so very long later Jess found herself leaning against a sandbag wall a chill November wind whipping the greatcoat around her knees and whistling up her skirt. The intervening weeks had been very strange, in many ways more challenging than learning to fly a fighter; there had been so much to learn and yet she had taken to the new role as easily she had the Tiger Moth’s controls. It was as frightening as taking off for the first time and as liberating. Jess worried that she should have enjoyed it less perhaps resisted more; the closest she now came to rebellion was wearing sheer black stockings in place of regulation grey. Even that was a victory for her feminisation.

‘Ooh sorry miss… I mean ma’am’ one of the ground crew had strolled around the corner fumbling to remove a cigarette packet from her overall pocket ‘I’ll just leave you to it’

‘Oh don’t mind me’ Jess said told the girl ‘here have one mine’

‘Ooh Gold Leaf don’t mind if I do’ she said taking a cigarette from the offered packet while brushing away a few unruly strands of bright red hair that had escaped the scarf knotted around her head ‘thanks miss… I mean ma’am’

‘My name’s Jess I don’t really feel like a ma’am’ she smiled.

‘Sally… that’s Aircraftswoman Potter… do you have light I can’t find me matches’. Her face crinkled, freckles dancing under the grease smudges ‘you’re new here aren’t you mi… Jess?’

‘Got here two days ago, it’s all a bit strange. For me anyway’ Jess laughed.

‘Oh you’re one of the…’ Sally left the sentence hanging. The new pilots had been the source of much speculation among the other ranks who had only had a fleeting glance. Seeing Jess close up was a shock was she really? No it had to be a joke, a misunderstanding, but Sally knew all the women pilots by sight so Jess had to be… The silence hung between them for an age before Sally added ‘you’re very pretty’.

Jess blushed and looked away, compliments still embarrassed her. It was such a girlish gesture. Sally was bewitched by the exquisite little creature looking up shyly through her long lashes. Lord knows there had been enough shower room lurkers since she had joined the Air Force to satisfy any curiosity, had she felt any, about sex with another woman but Jess was stirring up all sorts of emotions. Sally could be quite brazen when she wanted but even then it was always a game for the man; here was a man — unbelievably — who had thrown away all the rules. It was dizzying.

What to say? Sally felt like a rare butterfly had landed in the palm of her hand and she was frozen fearing that it would fly away. Something was bound to slip out it always did.

‘Do you wear women’s clothes underneath too?’

Jess did not disappear into the gloom; she nodded earnestly adding ‘Oh yes, we have to wear terrible corsets but we can wear some prettier underthings as well’ and blushed. While they were both silently kicking themselves Sally took the initiative.

‘Will you show me?’ For Sally the years were peeling away, back to the day in infants’ school when Simon Arbuthnot — her first betrayer — had tricked her into showing her knickers. Now she was the one in trousers, long trousers too, watching wide eyed as Jess lifted the hem of her skirt revealing a band of deep claret lace just touching her stocking tops. ‘Oh they’re beautiful’ she said fighting the urge to reach out and touch ‘where did you get them? They must have cost a fortune in coupons’

‘They were a present’ Jess said lifting the hem a fraction higher ‘from Doctor Higgins she taught us how to speak like girls’

‘She must have liked you then’

‘She kissed me once or twice’ Jess said softly (‘Hussy!’ thought Sally) ‘but she used to smack the back of my legs with a ruler when I made a mistake’ Sally was suddenly intrigued by the idea of smacking the back of those legs, not a thought like any she had entertained before, and only just caught the flicker of something in Jess’s smile.

‘You liked that didn’t you?’ Sally squealed.

Jess bit her bottom lip as if she was fighting to keep the answer in. Right at the moment when it seemed that the struggle was almost over the air was torn by the snarl of an aero engine, a big one and by the sound in trouble.

‘That’s the sort of thing that starts people looking for me’ Sally said ‘I’d better go’. It was a bit too early for a kiss but she could not resist landing a smack on Jess’s bottom before she turned away and ran.

---

Teddy Mallory had been chased back across the Channel by two yellow nosed Messerschmitts losing his wingman, his squadron and his bearings in the process. He brought his Spitfire out of cloud above the coast with no clear landmark in sight before Lacksford. Had he really drifted this far north? The motor began coughing and a quick check of the fuel gauges showed why. Scanning the fields for a safe place to put down he found an airfield where there should have been none; it was far too close to the town to be Monksclere. Still there was nothing for it Teddy tipped the wing and began his descent.

---

Mac watched the pilot emerge from the cockpit and counted his blessings. He strode over to welcome the newcomer. Teddy was removing his flying helmet when he saw a figure striding up with his hand extended.

‘Welcome to Helton’ Mac boomed ‘looks like you’ve been in a spot of bother there’.

‘Oh nothing too serious Sir’ Teddy said running his hand through his hair and trying to shake the engine noise out of his ears ‘what station is this?’.

‘Helton old chap’ Mac said with a show of affability ‘only been here a few weeks… how’s that crate of yours? Got a few bullet strikes I see’

‘Just needs a bit of juice really Sir. Is there a telephone on the field?’ there was something strange about Helton he simply could not put his finger on it.

‘Afraid not still waiting for a few things to arrive… you’ll have to come up to the Hall’ Mac said directing the young man with an a hand in the small of his back ‘You’re just in time for lunch as it happens… wait a sec while I get some of our girls to give your machine the once over’. Girls of course! Teddy looked around and there was not another man in sight. With a silent ‘what ho!’ Teddy followed Mac off the field.

---

‘What the devil are you playing at Mac’ Mike hissed at Mac ‘what happened to secrecy?’

‘Just this once Mike I promise’ he said softly. Mac was looking very pleased with himself which irritated the squadron-leader even more ‘within a week every base in England will be talking about Mike Trent’s harem of WAAF pilots, by Sunday they’ll all be beauty contest winners!’

‘And what good will that be?’ Mike was desperately fighting the urge to punch Mac on the nose.

‘A couple of our lads are captured every week flying over France. ‘ Mac explained ‘they’ll all stick to name, rank and serial number but the rumours will be in the POW camps in no time at all…’ he let his voice trail off and waited for the CO to catch up.

‘You’re a devious cove Mac remind me never…’ he never finished the sentence. Jess had rushed through the entrance pursued by girlish merriment.

‘Pilot-officer Crabtree stop right there’ Pat barked catching hold of Jess’s coat and pulling it around to display Sally’s black handprint. ‘We’ll talk about this later mark my words’ she said before stalking off.

Amanda who had been walking a step or two behind slipped her arm in Jess’s. ‘Don’t mind Auntie Hope’ she said with a conspiratorial wink ‘she has extra bones in her corset. I had a Bentley that used to throw oil everywhere; I’ll show how to get the stain out tonight’

---

With no aircraft and only Pat’s efforts at keeping everyone busy meals were still largely formal at Helton even lunch. Teddy Mallory had a vaguely surreal feeling watching the ladies sit down at the long table, place settings neatly arranged on a pristine white tablecloth. He had enough presence of mind however to ignore the seat Mac was offering and to dive in beside a rather hot little blond number. Wasting no time he introduced himself to the table and to the blond in particular. To his delight Jess blushed like a schoolgirl.

‘What did you do before the war then?’ he asked ‘or were you still in school?’ The image of Jess running around in a gymslip was almost painful.

‘Oh no’ she said looking down at her plate ‘I was a dra… that is I was an artist’. It was not really a lie she had spent her days drawing. Mike jumped up, snatched a poster from the wall (to Pat’s obvious consternation) and laid it face down on the table between them. ‘Draw me something’ he said fishing a pencil out of his tunic pocket ‘as a keepsake’.

Jess put the end of the pencil between her lips hurriedly removing it when she realised it was already well chewed. She thought for a moment and began sketching conscious that everyone was watching her. ‘Finished’ she said as if it were a test pushing the drawing back to Teddy.

‘Oh that’s marvellous’ he laughed and held up the sketch for everyone to see. Jess had drawn a caricature of Teddy in his flying kit struggling under the weight of an oversize petrol can. ‘What a clever girl you are!’ he added patting her knee under the table.

Jess barely had time to shovel a few mouthfuls of food down as pieces of paper appeared from all angles with demands to ‘draw me!’ Two in particular were immense hit — one of Pat looking very cross tapping an immense pocket watch that hung from her neck like Jacob Marley’s chains, and a very accurate portrait of Deidre wielding an equally huge collection tin with ‘for charity’ written’ on it. Pat allowed herself to smile while looking daggers at Jess, but Deidre seemed genuinely pleased laughing heartily along with everyone else.

---

‘I have to be quick’ Jess told Sally ‘we have to be outside the Hall at eleven hundred hours… orders’. It was sunnier than the day before but the wind was just as bitter sinking through the still damp patch on her top coat where she had scrubbed off Sally’s handprint.

‘So what did you do then?’ Sally asked as Jess described Teddy’s roving hand running up and down her thigh ‘Did you biff him?’

‘Not all’ Jess’s eyes sought out and locked on to Sally’s ‘I just pretended it was your hand’. Jess blushed bright crimson, tipping her head to one side and smiling. It was too much for Sally to resist she snaked her arms around Jess’s waist. ‘Ooh stop! You’ll get me into trouble again’ Jess squealed pushing her back.

Sally put her hands on the sandbags to either side of Jess and very gently pushed her back against the wall. There was only a slight protest. ‘What’s the matter’ she whispered in Jess’s ear.

‘I’ve never kissed a girl before’ Jess murmured very aware of Sally’s breath on her flushed face ‘never properly anyway’

‘Me neither’ said Sally pressing her lips to Jess’s.

---

If anyone guessed why Jess arrived last, blushing and flustered they said nothing. All eyes were on the skies where a shoal of tiny dots were approaching, the noise of their engines growing louder by the second.
‘Are those Hurricanes?’ someone asked above the din.

‘No’ Pat answered ‘the radiator is too deep…could be Moranes I suppose’

‘They’re Masters’ Jess cried as the first jet black monoplane came in to land ‘I did my advanced training in them’ then sensing that everyone else seemed disappointed by the answer added ‘they’re not as fast as Hurricanes but you can loop them and all sorts… not that I ever did though’

Those final few words drew a laugh from everyone, they may not have known the little blond very long but no one could imagine her not charging at any gate, no matter how high or forbidden.

Chapter Five
A Quiet Night In


I wish Pat would ease up on Jess’ Amanda said to Verity ‘she’s a good kid, just a bit flighty that’s all’. The two of them were sitting apart from the main group in the mess, close enough to benefit from the fire but where there conversation could not be heard.

‘Why?’ Verity asked ‘has Jess been giving the glad eye to the CO?’ Amanda made a great show of looking appalled. ‘That’s just silly’ Amanda said ‘you could just as well say the same of Mac and I’.

‘There’s been talk’ Verity added a smile playing over her lips. Amanda’s laugh was like the first few raindrops of a shower that fails to fall. ‘Poor Mac’ she said ‘He’ll be devastated’. Since the night when Verity had taken Amanda into her confidence the two had become very good friends; much to Mac’s annoyance as he missed their nightly chess games.

‘Anyway’ Amanda continued ‘I believe our Jess has found herself a friend among the other ranks, that’ll always annoy a regular like Pat. I’m just glad I’m not pretty enough to be roped into a fantasy ménage a trois’.

‘You are you know’ Verity took her friend’s chin in hand turning her face this way and that ‘perhaps we should have a look at your make up’.

---

If keeping a grounded 641 occupied had been difficult for Pat keeping them out of mischief now they had aeroplanes was nigh on impossible. 641 was to be nightfighter squadron with Pat, Amanda and Jess doing all the night flying in Mac’s plan. Pat was quick to object, not only would that put an incredible strain on the three of them it would alienate the women pilots. Instead she proposed only two of them would fly each night joined by two of the other pilots in rota. Mac was unconvinced but Mike’s intercession brought the adjutant around.

The squadron had received twelve Miles Master aeroplanes; two were the standard two seat advanced trainer model, the others had been converted to single seat emergency fighters during the summer when it was feared Hurricane production might fail to keep up with Fighter Command’s needs. Fortunately they were not needed and had been standing around or used for communications work since. Although by no means a first line fighter (approximately the same size as a Hurricane but with a less powerful engine) the single seat Master was nimble enough to catch the Luftwaffe’s bombers and its six machineguns capable of giving a good account of themselves.

Pat’s first task had been to assess the women pilots. All had held civilian licences before the war and while the ministry thought them only fit to ferry Tiger Moths in daylight many had hundreds of hours’ flying time. Most had some night flying experience, some more than Pat, and with one or two exceptions all had flown advanced civilian types. Pat spent hours poring over their log books, while Amanda and Jess had flown with all of them in the two seat Masters. It was not her intent to turn the women into combat pilots but Pat would not send them into the night skies unprepared. She had seen the results of that far too often not to learn the lesson.

Mike had been a great help. He had not been cleared for flying by the MO yet but Pat had grown to rely on his help with the more intransigent pilots as well as with Mac. The two of them had taken to meeting in his study after dinner each evening to talk through the day’s events and plans for the next. At first they were more than a little reserved after baring so much of their souls to each other. The triumphs and tribulations of 641 however had brought them closer together and both looked forward to ‘vespers’ as Mike called their meetings.

Mike had dragged into his study a ratty old leather chesterfield that the Hall’s owners had left behind which the efforts of a couple of WAAF orderlies had cleaned to the point of respectability. It was not all that comfortable but easy enough on the rear for him and Pat to spend an hour or so over a glass of gin. Poor Pat was dwarfed by its huge wing back and arms, especially at first when she had made a point of sitting as far from him as the chair allowed.

Pat laid her head on Mike’s chest wondering at how quickly they had slipped into a couple’s roles and, with his arm around her shoulder, feeling safe in a way she had forgotten. He gave her so much she was unsure what she could offer in return, save warmth and something for him to hold onto. As he laid a reassuring hand on her knee she buried herself even closer in his side until she could hear his heart beating. Even in war it was possible to find peace, maybe contentment too Pat told herself her eyelids drooping.

‘Hey wake up sleepy head!’ Mike gave her a little shake. Pat pushed herself against him unwilling to open her eyes. The movement nudged Mike’s hand from her knee, his fingers slipping under her skirt’s hem and coming to rest a few inches higher up her thigh. ‘Just a few minutes more’ she said softly.

Watching Pat’s neat little bottom swish its way through the door Mike kicked himself for waking her. The image of him carrying her still sleeping to his bed was hard to suppress as was the memory of how his hand felt on her thigh — not the momentary accident when she woke but earlier when it had crept tentatively to her stocking top and the soft, warm flesh an inch or so further. Why, when he was surrounded by a hundred women, did he have to fall for one who was a man?

---

Sally Potter could not wait for lights out when the hut’s other inhabitants would hopefully shut up and let her think of Jess in peace. There was a lot to think about. Worryingly he had never fallen for anyone as swiftly or as deeply as she had for Jess. The pilot was so pretty (‘boys aren’t supposed to be pretty!’) Sally never knew whether to kiss her or to tickle her into giggles. Kissing usually won out. Jess even kissed like a girl, her lips parting slightly for Sally’s, so soft, often trembling. Her waist was so tiny Sally almost feared to hold Jess in case she snapped in her big oily mechanic’s hands but when she was held Jess gave everything of herself. The only fly in the ointment was the hard rubber false breasts sewn into the corset she wore, what Sally would not give to feel their bodies together without them in between. What if Jess had real breasts but was still a boy? Smiling, Sally drifted off to sleep.

---

‘Here it is’ Amanda said pulling the case from under her bed ‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to be up her at all you know’

‘Nonsense’ Verity replied ‘Kate Walton’s in and out of Pat’s room all hours… oh my!’ The last as Amanda opened the suitcase for her to see.

‘Kate helps out Pat a lot you’re not telling me there are rumours about her and Pat to?’

‘Rumours yes’ Verity said rummaging around in its contents ‘but not like that Kate’s inclinations are supposed to lay elsewhere… lipstick, perfume, proper stockings… where did you get all this?’

‘They gave us the lot when we finished training… what were you saying about Kate?’

‘Just rumours’ she picked out a lipstick ‘I don’t know her all that well. She wasn’t with us at Upavon… is this my colour?’ Amanda frowned women could be infuriating. ‘She and her twin brother raced aeroplanes before the war - their father’s something in the city — and somehow she managed to get past the medical board (no really is this my colour?) disguised as her brother, for the Air Transport Auxiliary. She ferried Hurricanes for six weeks before anyone realised that Toby Walton was also flying Spitfires in 12 group… bit of a stink about it’

‘Hmm wonder where Mac found her’ Amanda said reminding herself to ask him over their next chess game ‘it looks lovely; you can have it… have it all if you like’

‘Oh no’ Verity said pocketing the lipstick ‘these are yours… I bet your legs look wonderful in these’. She held up a pair of black stockings.

Over the next thirty minutes Amanda was cajoled into the stockings, and plied with scent and cosmetics — all in blissful ignorance as Verity kept her away from the mirror until she had finished. When she was allowed to look the results were striking and she couldn’t resist a little preening. She might even give Jess a run for her money.

‘Let’s go back downstairs’ Verity said taking Amanda’s hand.

‘Your room?’

‘No silly the mess I want to show off my protégé’ she laughed dragging Amanda to the door

---

Jess unfolded the letter and read it through again. Mac had raised an eyebrow when he had handed out the mail as the return address was plain to see on the envelope. She was just as surprised that Dr Higgins had written to her as well.

It was a short missive an enquiry after Jess’s health and little more. Or so it would seem to the casual reader. At the very end Honoria had added ‘I will of course be very disappointed were I to hear that you have not been keeping up the vowel exercises I set you. I might have to suggest to your commanding officer that I be allowed to visit and a cure be effected.’

Jess shuddered at the memory of the Doctor’s cures they usually resulted in red stripes on Jessica’s thighs, and sometimes her bottom. Without knowing exactly why she read that last part again remembering how her tutor had made her bend over the desk with the hem of her skirt lifted. Jess trembled at the memory just as she did when Sally kissed her. No one else enjoyed being spanked did they?

Sally had caught her daydreaming that morning in their usual place and had crept up close without Jess realising. She had then proceeded to tickle Jess until tears streaked her cheeks, and had laughed when Jess admonished her for ruining her make up. Then they had kissed Sally’s hands roving as though searching for a new place to tickle. Jess’s bottom was not ticklish nor were her stocking tops though she had to protest when the hands wandered further still up her skirt. All the way up her skirt in fact.

Jess’s hands were just about to do some wandering of their own when there was a knock on the door. She took a moment to collect herself, stuffed the letter under the mattress and said ‘come in’.

---

‘Wow! You’re dolled up tonight, been out?’ Pat had caught up with Amanda as they both climbed the final flight of stairs to their rooms.

‘Verity wanted to play dress up’ Amanda said with a wry grin ‘how was vespers?’

‘Oh the usual’ Pat relied hoping that her voice did not betray how unusual she felt. At the top of the stair she gave Amanda’s arm a pat ‘See you in the morning I’ve just got to have a word with Missy before I turn in’.

Amanda checked Pat, taking her arm lightly. ‘Go easy on her Pat’ she said ‘she’s young you know… this…’ she indicated with a gesture their appearance ‘…it’s a lot to take’. Pat nodded before turning away.

Unseen on the previous landing Kate pulled her dressing gown tight about her wondering what Pat had to see Jess about. Nothing to be a jealous about she told herself, probably nothing at all. Jess was pretty but she was not Pat’s type at all. She stood a moment more and trudged back to her room.

---

‘Pilot-officer Crabtree if you’re going to flaunt uniform regulations at least make sure your seams are straight!’ Oh no Jess groaned not again.

‘Ha!’ Pat laughed ‘Made you look’. She sat down on the bed beside Jess straightening her skirt (over her own black stockings Jess noted). Pat laid her hand on Jess’s shoulder. ‘I’m not here to give you a roasting’ she smiled weakly ‘You’re a good pilot Jess, better than most, and you’ll make a good officer when you get to your squadron too. I don’t want you to spoil your future by doing anything unfortunate now’ she gave Jess’s arm a gentle squeeze ‘aircraftswoman Potter’s a fine girl just remember that there are rules about us mixing with the other ranks… listen to your Auntie Hope and be discreet’. She smiled and kissed Jess on the forehead as she stood up.

‘Yes Auntie’ Jess giggled ‘Goodnight’.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ thought Pat as she left the room ‘first I’m Mike’s little woman, now I’m Jess’s auntie’ she shook her head and headed for her own room.

Jess’s eyes followed her out of the room. ‘Just who’s been making you wiggle?’ she thought.

Chapter Six
She swoops to conquer


Mac loosened the flap on the Webley’s holster drew the pistol far enough to feel its weight and was struck by a peculiar sense of déjá  vu. Always a solitary child Mac had spent many hours tracking redskins through the woodland around his home. A senior police officer’s son it had never occurred to him that he could as well be tracking cowboys; when he eventually rebelled it was of a far more subversive nature. While his brothers took up commissions in the Inniskillings or sailed away to take up the white man’s burden Mac set his sights on an academic life. To his father’s shame he had become a mathematician.

As the last son to join the colours, if belatedly, his father had entrusted him with the service revolver he had used in Flanders (and, it was rumoured, back home in Ireland too). ‘That’s a .455 boy’ he had said ‘a proper man stopper though I doubt you’ll ever get the chance to use it in what you’re doing’. Mac had taken great delight in proving his father wrong on many occasions but he hoped this would not be another. His greatest fear was that he would shoot from the hip, fanning the hammer like Tom Mix. He glanced across at the expressionless Sergeant Morton cradling a much prized and much polished Thompson. Was he harbouring similar fears about Jimmy Cagney?

Mac had brought the sergeant alone through the woods leaving the rest of the platoon with its boorish subaltern to guard their quarry’s bicycle ‘in case he doubles back’. The two men were moving as silently as they could through the dead, winter undergrowth, every step it seemed causing a twig to crack underfoot. ‘We’re walking bloody sotto voce’ Mac thought freeing the Webley from its holster. In the end it was not a twig that betrayed them but a jay screeching overhead as they rounded a large oak.

‘Halt or I will fire’ Mac shouted in an Ulster accent he had not heard himself use since prep school. ‘Oh bugger’ he thought and squeezed off a round at the retreating figure.

‘Good shot Sir’ said Sergeant Morton as the fugitive folded over, a red stain spreading between his shoulder blades ‘twenty yards and him running. Damn good shot!’

‘Not really sergeant’ Mac said rather dryly ‘I was aiming for his legs. Let’s have a look at what he left behind here’. A shabby mackintosh had been spread out on the ground a half eaten corned beef sandwich hurriedly dropped along with a camera and a pair of field glasses; both beautifully made, both German. Not too unusual equipment for a birdwatcher which is what he had claimed to be when stopped nearby two days earlier. His papers seemed to be in order but the constable, a keen amateur ornithologist himself, had grown suspicious. All local reports of this nature found their way to Mac and when the unattended bicycle had been spotted again that morning he had swung into action with an alacrity that would have stunned the elder MacDiarmid.

‘Let’s have a look at what he was watching’ Mac muttered lifting the glasses to his eyes ‘hmm not so inept after all’. From his vantage point he had an unobstructed view of Helton, the field, the Hall, even the window of Mac’s office in the lodge. Fascinating as this was two figures tugged at his attention near the field’s edge, hidden from everyone else’s sight behind a sandbagged wall.

‘What? Oh yes’ Mac answered the sergeant’s inquiry, bundling the dead man’s gear inside his overcoat ‘bring up the rest of the men by all means. I’ll just hold onto these’. Once alone he turned the field glasses again to the figures that had arrested his attention, but they too had left. Although no stickler for regulation by any means Mac was certain that Sally Potter could be court-martialled for what she was doing to young Jess Crabtree even if the latter seemed to be enjoying it.

---

Jessica gingerly pulled her skirt down from around her waist throwing reproachful glances at Sally who returned them with an impudent grin that clearly said that Jess had had exactly what she asked for. ‘How do I compare with your Doctor Higgins then?’ she teased.

‘Well she never once kissed it better afterwards’ Jess aid in a mildly hurt tone.

‘Your doctor might know all about talking proper but she obviously knows nothing about how to treat lovely bums’. Sally caught Jess around the waist pulling her closer ‘give us a kiss and get your fags out or I’ll give you a Chinese burn’. Jess barely had time for a squeal before Sally’s lips were pressed to hers.

‘You’re a strange one Jess’ thought Sally ‘but then so am I’. It was hard for her to remember if her girlfriend was a boy or her boyfriend was a girl; Jess was not however a lisping sissy like her cousin Albert mincing about in his mum’s frocks. Jess looked and acted more like a woman than Sally did, it was uncanny, and had prompted Sally’s investigative fumblings (those had finally convinced her that Jess was physically a boy). Then there was the spanking; Sally did not understand why Jess liked it so but loved the intimacy and trust it built between them. Not that she enjoyed hurting the little pilot though it was fun to see how far she could go.

‘Do you ever get homesick?’ Jess asked between puffs. The wind had driven them around the corner where their matches were not immediately snuffed out.

‘It’ll be strange being away over Christmas’ Sally replied ‘at least I won’t have mum tying ribbons in my hair and trying to get me into party frocks all the time’.

‘Mine did that too’ sighed Jess. Seeing Sally’s quizzical look she carried on ‘I have three older brothers and no sisters so I suppose she just wanted a daughter. I was always dressed as a girl before I started school, had my hair in ringlets too’.

‘I bet you loved that!’ Sally laughed. It was so easy to imagine Jess as a little girl.

‘Not really ‘Jess answered ‘my brothers made fun of me and Dad never liked it. I just wanted to be a boy like them…’ she lit another cigarette. ‘Some of the dresses were nice though’ she added wistfully.

Jess looked so sad that Sally felt she had to change the subject, ‘Are your brothers in the forces too?’

‘Shouldn’t expect so, they were all in reserved occupations when I left. Dad made sure of that’. It took a few seconds for Sally to understand all the implications of what Jess had said.

‘And you’ve not been back home since. Oh sweetie’ she hugged her friend tight to her ‘they should be so proud of you’.

---

‘Right chaps’ began Mike apparently oblivious to the fact that of the six people in the crewroom he alone looked remotely like a chap, a fellow or indeed a bloke. Even bundled up in their Irving suits the pilots managed to effect at least a hint of femininity with a brightly coloured scarf or more elaborate make up than usual (after all they were off out for the night). ‘We’ve been doing this for a few weeks now so you know the score. Get upstairs, beetle about for a bit and make a bit of noise’

‘But don’t get too chatty’ interjected Pat directing a stern look at Amanda and Verity.

‘…and although we haven’t been lucky enough to receive a visit yet remember our rules of engagement’ he continued.

‘Especially you Rodriguez’ put in Pat for Hannah Rodriguez’s benefit. Despite her surname Hannah was as English as any of those present it being acquired in Spain. Though women stunt flyers were fairly thin on the ground in thirties Britain she had been among the very best before leaving to join the fight against Franco. Her intention was to join the Republican Air Force to fly against the Nationalists, but she found that revolutionary egalitarianism did not extend into the skies. She had instead become part of a militia that was happy to welcome fighters whatever their gender. There she met a rather dashing comrade, married him and been promptly widowed. Back home eager to get back into the fray her ambition had been frustrated by official suspicion of her political leanings as well as male prejudice. Once back in a plane she had been among the most vocal about the women pilots being allowed to engage enemy aircraft too. This tended to show off her other Mediterranean acquisition, a temper that could only come from Iberia.

‘Was there anything else Pat?’ Mike threw her a sidelong glance. She was a good officer he though but did she really need to nag the other pilots?

‘Oh just that the met boys have cleared us but there could be ground fog rolling in later’ she said ‘so if the weather starts to get a little dicey get down as soon as you can’. She made a point of making eye contact with each of the four pilots.

---

‘That’s you all strapped in tight’ Sally said fussing over Jess in the cockpit. Somehow she had been assigned as Jess’s rigger a role that gave them an excuse to associate openly. Nothing had been said but Jess had her suspicions about who made it possible. She may have been a fusspot but good old Auntie Hope was a real brick. ‘Is anyone looking?’

Jess shook her head though her view largely consisted of Sally’s bust at that moment, not that she was complaining or had much chance as Sally landed a resounding kiss on her lips. ‘Good luck’ she said ‘I’ll give you the rest of it when you come back’.

---

‘Are you cold?’ Mike asked Pat handing her one of the cigarettes he had just lit. His arm was already about her shoulders as they walked back from the airfield.

‘F-f-f-freezing’ she said through a cloud of tobacco smoke and condensed breath. She took his question as an invitation to get closer so she wrapped her arm around his waist, pressing herself against his side.

‘You should have worn trousers’ Mike said looking down at her stockinged calves ‘you’ve lovely legs but it is the middle of winter’. He chucked her under the chin with his free hand,

‘Hoist upon my own petard’ she said trying to stop her teeth from chattering ‘I didn’t think it was worth changing into them when I’d have to put a skirt on when I got back to the mess’.

‘But you always come straight back to the lodge from the airfield’ he looked down at the small figure burrowing deeper under his arm.

‘Oh I didn’t think of that’ she lied

---

Jess had never been as uncomfortable in an aeroplane as she was that night, not even in the open cockpit of a Moth. Her bottom was still a rosy pink from Sally’s attentions that morning and no matter how she shifted her weight she always found a tender spot. It was during one particular manoeuvre she spotted the light dawdling below the starboard leading-edge. Nosing the Master over for a closer look she was lucky to catch a glimpse of its silhouette against a patch of moonlit river. ‘Dornier!’ she thought just as the radio crackled into life.

‘Hedgehog to Midnight you have a customer, bearing north-east, angels...’

‘I have a visual identification’ Jess broke in tipping the wing over to begin a diving intercept. Slow as the older German bomber was it could still outrun a Master with enough warning she told herself although the pilot seemed oblivious to any danger, flying a straight course with the navigation light pinpointing his position to anyone with a pair of eyes.

‘He must see me by now’ Jess whispered to herself as she jockeyed into position under the bomber’s port wing and repeated it over and over as the dark shape crawled across her gun sight. She was still saying it as she pressed the firing button and watched the first strikes hit the fuselage two hundred yards away.

Jess struggled with the controls as the Master buffeted by the force of the explosion yawed wildly pieces of the doomed Dornier striking it at random. Worse still was a sickly smell that had invaded the cockpit as she had flown through the ball of flame that marked its demise. It was perhaps a minute before she could announce her success to the world and only one word would do.

Any listener on the ground that night or in the air who thought that they had heard the full gamut of radio transmissions, from triumph to tragedy was struck by the novelty of a very feminine voice screaming ‘owzat!’ in a distinctly Yorkshire accent.

---

Everyone without exception had run down to the airfield as soon as the news got back to Helton and they were all peering through the growing fog hunting for the returning aeroplane. Three Masters were already being rolled into hangars when the first faint hum of a Kestrel engine announced Jess’s imminent arrival. Mike had ordered a flare path lit even though it was frowned upon, as Helton had no radio beacon for Jess to home in on and he like everyone else waited with his heart in his mouth (and an arm around Pat) willing the little pilot safely down.

Oblivious to their concern Jess brought her plane down neatly within the flare path, rolling to a sedate halt well inside the runway’s limits. Only when she began to haul the canopy back did she become aware of figures running towards her through the mist, so many people, more she thought than there were at the base. She shook her hair free from the flying helmet, climbed onto the combing and jumped down to meet them.

Sally caught Jess even before she hit the grass swinging her around like a dolly and yelling though Jess was unable to make out a word she was saying. When both of them were so dizzy they could barely stand Sally came to an abrupt halt, tipping Jess back and kissing her fiercely not caring a damn who saw them.

‘Pilot-officer Crabtree!’ Pat strode out of the mist. Jess and Sally both snapped to attention with a brisk salute. ‘Not now’ said Pat brushing past Sally ‘Pilot-officer Crabtree you are a ruddy angel’ and hugged Jess until she feared she might faint.

---

---

I've been working on this for about six weeks, and what started out as a long short story has turned into the first third of a novel. I wanted to write something that had the feel of a wartime propaganda film like 'The Way Ahead' or 'Millions Like Us' with a bit of 'Brief Encounter' thrown in. I was also aiming to contrast the 'modern' women pilots with the traditional roles the transformed pilots have been taught. Sorry if that seems a bit pretentious.

It's got away from me a bit and I think I'll go back to the beginning and edit it some before carrying on (I don't think I need Chapter One, and some of the research I've done on women ferry pilots contradicts some of the early statements, hence Kate's backstory). It's also become a lit more risque than I had originally intended... I may just need a week or so working on something else to clear my head a bit :)

Chapter Seven
Shall we dance?


Mac’s finger hovered briefly over his king before tipping it with, quite literally, a sigh of resignation; Amanda’s precocious displays were astonishing, and depressing. At Cambridge her reputation had rested on an ability to enact elaborate practical jokes, not the kind of fearsome intellect Mac had just seen romp across the chessboard. What had changed: was it purely the experience of war, or something even more profound? Perhaps what rankled most for Professor MacDiarmid was that this talent remained undiscovered by the institution to which he had dedicated his life.

“We’re overdue a chat about your future prospects young lady” he said, absently knocking out his pipe on the desk, “Remind me, what were you reading?”

“It really didn’t matter”, Amanda laughed, “university was merely a way of marking time until my majority; to keep me out of too much trouble.” She began setting up the pieces for another game, “The Empire’s seen too many Carstairs remittance men. They’ve caused no end of trouble, don’t you know.”

“She has, however, had her nose stuck in this all week”, chimed Verity, holding up a book for Mac’s inspection. On its tattered dustjacket the title could just be made out - ‘My Best Games of Chess 1924 -1937.’

“My ‘Alekhine’, you minx!” Mac roared, ”There was no need to steal it, you only had to ask.” He affected a hurt air while quietly pleased; the grand-master’s dashing style would appeal to a fighter pilot. Finding out how much of it she had absorbed would, however, have to wait for another day as the non-playing member of their party appeared distinctly bored.

“May I offer you ladies a drink?”, he said, reaching for the whisky bottle.

“You drink too much”, chided Verity, but took the glass he offered all the same. There was no doubt in Mac’s eyes that she had had a beneficial effect on Amanda. The dowdy flying-officer who, a few weeks previously, had hardly ever smiled, blossomed under the older woman’s influence, becoming the attractive young lady she had trained to be.

“It’ll have to be a quick one, I’m afraid”, he said unscrewing the bottle top, “Jess’s victory last night has created a few problems which have to be cleared up”, he poured them each a liberal shot, “and it may not be the triumph we had hoped for.”

“But positive, surely?” Verity took a sip of her drink, “they came looking, and we caught them. Isn’t that what we’re trying to achieve?”

“Hmm”, Amanda’s glass stalled between table and lips, “the way it exploded suggests it was carrying a full bomb load…” She left the unspoken question hang in the air alongside her drink.

“Precisely”, Mac grimaced, “Jess may only have caught a straggler from last night’s raid on London.” Mention of London brought a lengthy pause to the conversation, they all knew people who had already been caught up in the Blitz.

“That would explain why the navigation lights were on”, Amanda added, “they were probably lost.”

“Plus Mike and I have to drive to Monksclere tonight to mollify the station commander over you valkyries roaming the night skies with loaded weapons.”

“Well there’s no fear of that tonight, this rain’s in until morning”, Amanda said, “we’re planning a little celebration for Jess instead.”

“Ask him over”, Verity chipped in, “I’m sure we can show him what sober, responsible ladies we all are.”

“You may have a point”, mused Mac, “and if that doesn’t work we’ll get Jess to charm the pants off him... figuratively speaking of course.”

---

“So you’re the maiden who bowls Dorniers over eh?”

Jess has been cornered by a handlebar moustache of hypnotic bushiness; its owner was also a bottom pincher. Mike had hurriedly plotted an interception course that brought him to Jess’ side before the pinching fingers could make a second pass at their target

“It was an error of judgement Winky that’s all. Pilot-officer Crabtree has been severely reprimanded.” He raised an eyebrow, warning Jess to look suitably contrite.

“Cut a chap some slack”, the wing-commander’s eye twitched in irritation, “that was the funniest thing I’ve said in years. We’re not all film stars you know old boy.”

Damn Mac for his bright ideas. Winky Wilson had turned up at Helton with half Monksclere’s officers tripping after him like girl guides on a charabanc outing. Mike glanced across the room where Pat was fighting another fire, standing firmly on Hannah Rodriguez’s toes: they could do without another sermon tonight on the evils of capitalism. Mac, damn his eyes, was nowhere to be seen.

“The frame looks rotten, and it’s bound to be out of tune.” Amanda gingerly tapped the piano’s keys as if the slightest pressure would precipitate the instrument’s final collapse.

“Sounds fine to me ladies”, Mac grinning put his shoulder to the ancient upright’s side, “shall we?”

It had hardly been the most ladylike of entrances, but the decrepit piano did alter the tone of the evening. One of the Monksclere pilots had sat down at the keyboard, grimaced briefly then began playing; and after Mike suggested that his initial choice of number was inappropriate for mixed company he switched to a selection of popular dance tunes. Furniture was cleared away, rugs rolled back, and the first invitations extended in short order.

“So last night was a wash out then”, Amanda said while doing her best to avoid both of Mac’s left feet.

“Perhaps”, Mac answered, “but I’ve still a few tricks up my sleeve. What’s that look for?”

“Your hand is supposed to be at my waist!”

“Sorry”, he whispered sheepishly, “it’s too easy to forget that you’re not a woman.”

“Well try at least to remember that you’re supposed to be a gentleman”, she hissed.

“Only ‘supposed to be’ my dear.” He was framing a suitably wolfish look for Amanda when he noticed Verity at his shoulder. “I don’t believe it’s an ‘excuse me’”, Mac said half-releasing Amanda, “but if you insist.”

“Oh but I do”, she said sweeping Amanda out of his arms and into her own, “that man’s a rogue for all his donnish ways.”

“Hey! You’re leading”, Amanda protested as they danced away from Mac.

“You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago”, she smiled, “you’re going to miss all this, admit it.”

“Some of it”, Amanda said quietly, “not being short for one, and having friends who aren’t just waiting for me to pull another stupid stunt.”

“And being a girl?”

“Still just another uniform”, her broad smile switched to a look of surprise, “did you just try to dip me?”

---

Jess, who had been pinched, patted and fondled all through the evening, stood with her back to the wall declining drinks and dance invitations from a half dozen of the more persistent Monksclere pilots. Only when squadron-leader Trent broke up their formation could she be persuaded to take to the floor again.

“You’re far too pretty to be a wallflower”, Mike said as they danced. Jess looked up at him, fighting an urge to bat her lashes. This close it was easy to imagine where that wiggle in Pat’s walk came from.

“I’m black and blue”, she said shyly, her cheeks suddenly flushed with colour.

“It can’t be much fun”, he said, steering her effortlessly across the floor, “when the only person you really want at your party isn’t here.” Jess bit her lip, where was this was going? “My office in the lodge is open, there’s a fire in the hearth, and I bet if you go to the front door right now”, he glanced at his wristwatch, “a certain aircraftswoman might happen to be waiting.”

“Oh thank you Sir!”, Jess reached up on her tip toes, and kissed her commanding officer on the cheek, before rushing out at a dizzy pace.

“That was sweet of you”, Pat said from his side.
“There were three or four chaps over there ready to fight over her”, Mike looked at his shoes for an instant, “I don’t suppose you’d care to...”

Pat raised an eyebrow, quietly amused by how bashful he appeared. “Dare we?”, she asked, more than a hint of teasing in her voice.

“Probably not”, he answered, adding more loudly, “shall we step outside? There are a few things we need to discuss for tomorrow.” Hardly anyone noticed them leaving, and only Kate saw Pat’s hand slip into his as they walked out.

“How romantic”, was Pat’s only comment as Mike led her into what had been the Hall’s morning room, but was used solely as a place to dump 641’s kit.

“It’s not the place, it’s the company”, he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. Pat’s playful side had only recently emerged, coy and kittenish, reserved for him alone. Mike drew her close, but Pat stepped still deeper into his embrace, laying her cheek against his chest. Very gently, the two of them swayed to the faintly heard music coming from the other room.

“I’m in a spot of bother”, Mike murmured, “I’ve fallen in love with one of my flight-lieutenants.”

“I hope you’ll be very happy together”, Pat’s heart was beating faster than flak, “it’s dreadful Deirdre isn’t it?”

She raised her eyes to meet his, parting her lips without even knowing. Mike’s hand pressed harder into the small of Pat’s back lifting her onto the very tip of her toes. Instinctively she threw her arms around his neck an instant before their lips met.

---

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Everyone was laughing at Steve, not in his face of course, though there had been a rash of double entendres from the moment he walked into the office. After three increasingly frustrating hours someone had the good grace — or spite — to let the cat out of the bag; someone, somehow had found his blog. Pretty damning stuff with just enough incidental information to tie the transvestite posing suggestively in the photographs, back to the slim young man in Accounts. Life was going to be Hell until he found a way of taking down his page, which was impossible from his work PC. He resigned himself to emailing Uncle Bob.

Bob Thornwell was not a relative, but a family friend he had known from childhood. Uncle Bob had been the one who found him his job straight out of school, with the proviso that he would not compromise his position as a senior manager by acting preferentially. It was a mark of Steve’s desperation that he even considered contacting the older man, but his intentions were pre-empted by a phone call from Uncle Bob’s PA summoning him to the eighth floor.

Miss Banford was wearing the same smirk as everyone as she ushered him into Uncle Bob’s office, though she managed to suppress it somewhat in her boss’s presence. She did, however, announce him as Stevie, the thinly diguised femme name he used in his blog, a fact not lost on the young man. Uncle Bob looked up, and motioned for Steve to sit at the chair pulled up to the desk.

“Ah, our new celebrity,” he said wryly, his lips pursed in a thin smile.

“Uncle Bob,” Steve started, “they’re all making fun of me, you’ve got to help me.” Words tumbled from his lips in a panicked stream, the pitch of his voice rising all the time. Bob silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“How do you think this reflects on me eh?” His tone was cold, with no trace of the avuncular warmth he usually used with Steve.

“Sorry, Uncle Bob,” Steve stammered, “no one was ever supposed to find out, honestly, I’m very careful.” Another hand gesture silenced him.

“Well there’s nothing to be done but damage limitation,” Bob said flatly, “Ms Hawker from HR is on her way down; let’s see what what’s to be done for both of us.” As if on cue Ms Banford’s knock was followed by the angular figure of the chief personnel officer.

A conversation began upon her arrival, in which Steve did not take part, although he
was its subject. That is not to say that his position was discussed in any terms other than the effect it might have on the company. After ten minutes he attempted to redress the imbalance.

“Hey, what about me?” Steve interjected, “it has to be discrimination doesn’t it?” Ms Hawker turned her head in his direction with an almost reptilian precision.

“No it isn’t,” she laid her hands in her lap with an air of finality, “all you have experienced is mild ribbing over a sexual peccadillo, nothing more.”

“But...”

“On the other hand, we have already received several requests for clarification from your line managers, and a number of communications from other members of your department resulting from your disclosure that you wear women’s underwear beneath your male clothes in work.”

“Is that true?” Uncle Bob leaned towards him, “are you sitting there now in panties and such, in my office?”

“No Uncle,” the lie brought colour rushing to his cheeks.

“So,” the older man pressed, “if I asked you to lower your trousers rights now, you would have nothing to fear?”

“You have no right to ask me that,” Steve blurted.

“He’s correct Bob, but if I may remind you, Stevie’s six month probationary period is up next week, and her behaviour has already been enough to warrant a negative conclusion.” Ms Hawker’s words were addressed to the manager, but aimed squarely at Steve, or rather Stevie.

“Steve if you want to have any future in this company, undo your trousers and lower them to your knees.”

“OK I am,” Steve said, standing up sharply, “I am wearing women’s underwear!”

“Too late boy, how do I know you’re not lying to me now?” Bob turned to Ms Hawker, “I’m sorry you have to witness this Penny, but the little shit needs taking down a peg or two.” Noticing Steve’s continued hesitation, he added, “Drop ‘em, or just walk out the door right now. I don’t know what I’m going to tell your father, I can’t see him being happy with a pervert for a son.”

Slowly, Steve unfastened his trousers, paused long enough to see Bob’s frown grow deeper, and lowered them. His mother might have been proud that he was at least wearing clean underwear, but would not have been at all happy to see his black panties revealed, or the lace tops of the hold ups he wore. In contrast Ms Hawker could not disguise her amusement, nor could Miss Barwell who was hovering in the doorway, where she had been drawn by her boss’s raised voice.

“Christ Sally, what are we going to do?” Bob rubbed his eyes as if trying to scrub away the image of Steve, who was still standing there with his trousers clutched at mid thigh, “for God’s sake Steve put your trousers back on.”

“There might be a way out,” she answered, doing her best not to laugh at Steve’s fumbled efforts to regain some shred of modesty. “We could put a cap on the gossip, were Stevie’s dressing an expression of a gender identity disorder, rather than a mere fetish.”

“Go on,” Bob had always respected Sally Hawker’s ability to think on her feet.

“If Stevie,” Steve winced as she used his femme name once more, “ were to take this opportunity to be more forthright about her identity, say by adopting a more feminine outward appearance in work, we could consider any salacious gossip as discrimination and act accordingly.”

“You have got to be joking!” Steve was almost shouting.

“Not at all,” Ms Hawker answered, “if you were to wear that black pantsuit from your photographs, with flat shoes, and actually do something with your hair like pull it up into a ponytail; I think you could pull it off.”

“Come into work in full drag?” Steve asked incredulously.

“Not full,” she smiled, pleasure in someone’s discomfort was not a wholly healthy attributed for working in Human Resources but it helped. “Just enough to suggest that you are trying to work out a personal issue. You can go gradually return to your butch self after a few weeks, just as soon as the brouhaha dies down.” Steve still looked unconvinced, nor was the attempt at irony lost on him.

“They’ll slaughter me downstairs; everyone will be laughing behind my back all day.” He had to admit the idea was attractive, he had bought the pantsuit to satisfy his secretarial sartorial urges, but it was one thing to play dress up in the safety of his flat, and another to step out into the full blaze of scorn he was sure his appearance would provoke.

“Take the rest of the day off Stevie,” even Bob was using his femme now, “come in tomorrow in women’s clothes or don’t come in at all.”

“But...” Steve started.

“We’ve seen enough of your butt today thanks,” Bob added, “just be here in my office at seven tomorrow morning, and we’ll take it from there. OK, now go”

Author's note: I've been working on a couple of stories fairly steadily and don't want to post them until they're complete, but really wanted to post something other than another blog entry. So I had a go at writing ex tempore writing, as threatened last month. It's not particularly original, but I can't resist the temptation to have a poke at HR. :)

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Not being an addict, Steve had never used the smokers’ door before that morning, but then this would be a day of many firsts. Although the keycard used to open the door belonged to Steve, and even bore a photograph of him - taken six months earlier, during a brief teenage infatuation with facial hair — it was Stevie who entered the building. The photograph made her smile wryly as she pushed the keycard back into her purse, everything that had happened in the months since it was taken, seemed to have conspired to create the trap, sprung so finally the day before.

The smokers’ door — around which the refugees of wheeze clustered each break — had the advantage of leading to the service stairwell, which posed less danger of meeting anyone than the lifts did, on her way to the eighth floor. She had barely two hours of relative anonymity remaining, and intended to enjoy their calm, before the inevitable storm struck, over her current appearance.

Compared to the photographs on her blog, Stevie was dressed quite demurely. She had tried to keep to the spirit of Ms Hawker’s vague description of femininity falling somewhat short of full drag, with the black pantsuit, and an unfussy white blouse. However, the pants ruled out flat shoes — even had she had owned a pair — as their cuffs ended two inches below her heel; the solution had been a pair of sandals with a kittenish heel, which neither allowed the cuffs to drag, nor elevated her from a stockinged five feet seven inches, to an Amazonian extreme.

There had been some tense decisions to make in the mirror that morning. Afraid of comments the overnight manifestation of bust might cause, she had abandoned bra and breastform, but knowing all too well what hilarity the tight fitting pants would inspire, she had chosen to tuck one particular villain out of sight, and hopefully, out of dirty mind.

Make-up had been less of a dilemma; Stevie had only a few months of practice, and knew she lacked basic skills in its application. Her chief goal for the day was to avoid excessive attention, and had no intention of donning clown face, instead restricting herself to the faintest smudge of lip gloss. Hair was less of a problem, as it had already been shoulder length in the days when Steve imagined a goatee made him Johnny Depp’s double. Following Ms Hawker’s more concrete suggestion Stevie had pulled it up into a ponytail, much closer to her crown than Steve had ever tied it. The effect was striking, as it lifted her already artfully thinned brows, enough to suggest mild surprise.

After the intensity of her preparations, not to mention a largely wakeful night, the almost empty early buses were positively anticlimactic. There was no public stoning, or villagers with torches, in fact no one cared enough to rub the sleep from their eyes to stare at the plain, flat-chested girl hugging a large coffee as though it was her last. Of course, this isolation gave Stevie ample opportunity to think about the trials that lay ahead, and her first step on the staircase was a very shaky one.

Bob Thornwell was having second thoughts. Penny Hawker had made a very convincing case for how Stevie could advance both their careers, after he had sent Steve home, but Bob had to admit that his judgement had been clouded by anger. Steve had kept to their original bargain, and was not considered Bob’s protégé; any fallout from the affair would not have stuck to someone in his position for very long. In some ways he felt he had let the boy down, Steve was practically family, and he regretted his studied lack of interest these last few months. At his request, the Credit Control department had run a check on Steve and found his credit score was a few points from zero, which made keeping his job vital. Bob had almost resolved to send Steve home the instant he arrived, his lesson learned, when he heard his PA’s greeting.

“Good morning Stevie, Mr Thornwell says to go right in.” Belinda had been with him for nigh on twenty years, long enough for him to detect the amusement in her tone. Bob pushed up his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes and braced himself for the appalling vision about to be visited upon him. Opening them again, Bob was not faced with the posing grotesque of Steve’s blog, but something entirely more surprising. Stevie in the flesh, and with less of it on show, did not appear all that different from the latest batch of ‘modern apprentices’ in the call centre; a little gawkier perhaps, less confident and, thankfully, less heavily made-up. Back in the days when Bob had been responsible for recruiting junior staff, Stevie would have ticked all the boxes. Well, maybe not all the boxes, Steve was still under there somewhere. Any thought he had of sending her home disappeared, and Penny’s plan, while still risky, promised great dividends.

“Sit down Stevie, we’ve a lot to discuss.” It was not the avuncular tone Stevie was used to, but it was an improvement from that of day before. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask to see your knickers today.” Stevie eased herself into the chair at Uncle Bob’s desk, fighting a growing sense of unreality. What had been a fantasy a few days before had now happened, what had been a nightmare, was now in the hands of a trusted older friend. She knew that the coming weeks would not be easy, and when she returned to her old life, it would never be quite the same again, but it was good to have someone else share the load. Relaxing a little, she listened intently as Uncle Bob outlined what was to happen next. Stevie would not return to the accounts department, where her performance had been lacklustre anyway, but had been seconded indefinitely to the eighth floor as an office junior, reporting to Uncle Bob. When he asked how that sounded, she was almost gushing with relief.

“Great, really great, thank you so much Uncle Bob.” Stevie watched the smile fade from his lips.

“I’m an old fashioned sort, Stevie,” Uncle Bob said sternly, “and I keep a formal office. I’m ‘Mr Thornwell’, or ‘Sir’. Now it’s time for my morning coffee so run along.”

“Shall I help Belinda?” Stevie asked, rising from her seat.

“It’s Miss Banford to you, Stevie,“ he chided.

“Oh yes, sorry Uncle Bo...” he who was not known as Uncle Bob, reached over the desk and grabbed her wrist.

“A child could remember these things, Stevie, do you want me to treat you like a child?” Stevie shook her head, but Bob did not seem at all placated. “Well I think I’ll have to - go stand in that corner,” he pointed at a space between two filing cabinets, “and face the wall.” Meekly Stevie took her place, what was next - detention - lines?

“Didn’t Stevie show up, Bob? Oh no there she is.” Remembering kindergarten rules, Stevie refrained from turning her head as Ms Hawker entered the room, as much as she wanted to face the person who seemed the agent of her current misfortune. Their conversation continued talking in hushed tones that she was patently not supposed to hear. Stray words did escape this confidentiality, and the occasional phrase, but the first coherent sentence she overheard was ‘oh my that’s a perky little bottom isn’t it?’ Thankfully, the words were Ms Hawker’s not Mr Thornwell’s, but was that any reason to feel better?

Eyes fixed on the wall ahead, Stevie was only vaguely aware of someone approaching her, and Ms Hawker’s “good morning Stevie,” provoked a small start from her. The next few seconds, however, established a whole new magnitude of surprise, as the personnel officer’s hand made contact with Stevie’s behind. She was not so much stroking it, as examining it with her fingers, much as people inspect fruit in the supermarket; the hand roved over her rump, until finally slipping into the cleft between her buttocks, which finally seemed to satisfy Ms Hawker.

“You’re wearing a thong Stevie, how daring, “she whispered in Stevie’s ear.

“Yes Miss Hawker, I didn’t want any lines showing,” in reply she received a stinging slap.

“My name is Ms Hawker, and you’d better remember it,” and with that the older woman moved away. Stevie had to blink away tears that had prompted less by physical pain — it had not been a token tap — as the humiliation of having her bum paddled. It did, however, give her something else to think about, besides the three large cups of coffee she had drank on her way to work.

“Sorry Bob, that was unprofessional of me, but I can never resist...” whatever else Ms Hawker had to say on the subject trailed away, as she lowered voice once more. The next words Stevie hear clearly were Bob’s.

“Come here Stevie, so Ms Hawker can have a look at you.” Ms Hawker had moved the desk to the side of Mr Thornwell’s desk, and Stevie took up a position between them at its corner. “Well, don’t just stand there like a lemon,” he continued, “kneel so she can take a proper look.” Stevie nodded, and sank to her knees with as much dignity as she could muster after being made to stand in a corner, and a spanking. Ms Hawker leant forward, took Stevie’s chin between her thumb and index finger, and turned the new junior’s face this way and that. Stevie half expected to have her mouth pinched open to count her teeth, but Ms Hawker seemed content.

“Much, much better than I expected,” she said, releasing Stevie’s chin, “but I’m not sure I approve of younger staff walking around bra-less.”

“I thought they would make me look silly,” Stevie stammered.

“Never mind, honey,” Ms Hawker reached out and brushed Stevie’s cheek with the back of her hand, “I’m sure you’ll remember tomorrow.” With that she turned her attention to Bob, and the conversation carried on over Stevie’s head, pausing only when Miss Banford brought in a tray containing two cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits. Stevie eyed the latter ravenously, as she had been too anxious to eat anything since she had been dismissed a day earlier. Noting the direction of Stevie’s gaze, Ms Hawker picked up one of the small almond treats and pressed it to the girl’s lips. Try as she might not to, its fragrance made her mouth water, and Stevie parted her lips, allowing Ms Hawker to push it between them.

“Good girl,” remarked her benefactress, absently patting Stevie’s head. It was the worst indignity yet, but did little to dampen the pleasure of eating something for the first time in nearly twenty four hours.

“Thank you, Ms Hawker,” Stevie’s voice was almost a whisper, hoarse with embarrassment, but hoping also that another biscuit might be forthcoming. It was not to be, however, as the conversation turned to other things, leaving Stevie with a growing sensation that an altogether bodily need had to be addressed. After a few minutes consideration she raised her hand level with her face, and waited to be noticed.

“What is it now, Stevie?” Bob gave impression of being extremely irritated, which could not have been helped by her reluctance to answer.

“I need to pee, Sir,” she managed to stammer, “may I?”

“Of course,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, “use the gents’, just stay away from the urinals, I don’t think anyone is ready for that sight.”

Mercifully, the men's room was empty as Stevie bustled into a cubicle, desperately trying to disentangle herself from her underwear before disaster struck. It was a small moment of relief in an otherwise dreadful day. As she sat there she wondered if the job was worth it. A few days ago Steve could have begged his parents to bail him out of debt, though it would mean moving back in with them, and losing Stevie for a while. Instead she found herself being bounced along a road with no clear destination ahead, just putting up with whatever anyone threw her way. If she walked away now, with the threat of Uncle Bob letting Stevie out of the bag, would they even talk to her?

Fearing whatever punishment might be inflicted for taking too long in the bathroom, Stevie redressed hurriedly, but with one need sated she realised that she was incredibly thirsty. Who knew when she might be allowed a coffee break, so she ducked her head under the tap after washing her hands, and gulped down a few mouthfuls of cold water.

“This is the gents’ isn’t it, what are you doing in here?” Stevie straightened immediately, and found herself facing a man in his fifties, who she had never seen before. “Oh, you’re the new girl,” he placed heavy emphasis on ‘girl’, “carry on.” He brushed past Stevie, taking a place at the urinal, and began to unfasten his flies. Stevie had stood alongside others at urinals since infancy, but she found herself blushing to her hair roots. Muttering apologies Stevie scurried from the room.

“You do remember that not keeping your keycard on display is a disciplinary matter?” Ms Hawker was perched on the edge of Miss Banford’s desk, juggling something in her hands. Stevie’s heart sank, was there no end to the trouble she could get in, but cheered a little when she added, “I think we can let it go this time,” and held the object still enough for Stevie to see that it was a camera.

In a few short, moments Ms Hawker had manoeuvred her against the office wall, and was posing Stevie’s arms, as easily as an artist might a maquette’s. “I didn’t bring my bag Belinda, could you perk up Stevie’s eyes a smidge?”

“Of course,” answered Miss Banford, sliding open a drawer.

Uncle Bob’s PA held up a compact’s mirror for Stevie to inspect her handiwork. In a matter of minutes she had, with a few deft strokes, transformed Stevie’s face. It was a skill Stevie was desperate to acquire, and she pressed Miss Banford for details of everything she was doing.

“Time for that later,” Ms Hawker interrupted, “we’ve a photograph to take, remember.” One photograph turned into ten, as the demanding photographer repositioned her model after every shot, calling in Miss Banford for cosmetic alterations along the way. Stevie was almost dizzy by the time she left, but asked to borrow the mirror once again.

“It’s down to work now Missy, now to your desk!” Miss Banford pointed to a small table, on which stood only a tall pile of papers.

“I suppose my PC is arriving later,” Stevie took her seat, pushing the papers to one side.

“Oh no,” the older woman smiled, “you’ll not be doing anything that requires a computer dear, just filing, making coffee and whatever else we can find. You can make a start by putting those into date order.”

“What are these for?” Stevie lifted the uppermost piece of paper.

“You really don’t need to know Stevie, just sort them, and when you’re finished, I’ll show you where they live.” As Miss Banford’s tone indicated that there was nothing more to be discussed, Stevie set to work on what turned out to be expenses claims. A sidelong glance told her that she was being watched, so limited herself to picking out the date, ignoring the rest of their contents. Stevie had had less menial Saturday jobs when she was in school, and whereas downstairs in Accounts, Steve had been solely responsible for several clients, on the eighth floor Stevie was responsible for nothing more than doing as she was told. Still, the time passed pleasantly, except for the paper cuts.

“Of course Ms Hawker, I’ll send her right up.” After an hour’s wading through the pile of forms, Stevie was glad of an opportunity to stretch her legs, and wanted to see her new photograph, if only it did not mean a trip to HR. She dithered about whether to take the stairs or the lift, until she remembered the lifts had mirror walls, and vanity won out giving her two floors of preening. Belinda, that is Miss Banford, had done a wonderful job on her eyes, although she had done very little at all. The effect, however, was infinitely better than any of Stevie’s attempts.

HR took up much of the sixth floor, in one large open plan office, at the centre of which sat Ms Hawker, like a spider watching over her web. Silence had broken out immediately the lift doors closed behind Stevie, as if the entire department had been waiting for her arrival. Feeling very much like a fly, she picked her way through the maze of desks, until she reached Ms Hawker.

“Here you are Stevie, a new keycard, and lanyard so you can’t forget to wear it around your neck.” Stevie turned the keycard over to see her photograph, and alongside it, in big bold letters ‘MISS STEVIE WESTON’. It was almost a dream come true, almost but not quite. Lost for a few moments in her reverie, Stevie slowly became aware that Ms Hawker was still speaking. “You cleared your blog last night Stevie.”

“Yes Ms Hawker,” she answered, her mouth suddenly dry, “I thought it best if I did.”

“Hmm,” across the desk Ms Hawker made a steeple of her fingers,”I’d like you to log into it now.” She pushed back her chair beckoning Stevie to come around. Bending over to use the keyboard, Stevie realised that her bottom was well within the personnel officer’s reach, if she wanted to administer another slap, but then they were in an open plan office, so she should be safe from unwanted attentions. As much as the slap had stung, Stevie’s mind had drifted several times since to the moments before when Ms Hawker’s hand was merely wandering, and a small part of her regretted the present lack of privacy.

She stepped back from the desk to allow Ms Hawker to use the keyboard, and watched her change the account password. The significance escaped Stevie, until she was asked to access her personal email account, which also had its password changed. In the space of seconds Stevie had surrendered her online identity to another, and had to ask why.

“Almost everyone in the company has accessed your blog, Stevie,” Ms Hawker gave her a pale smile, “and will no doubt do so again. We need, therefore, to ensure that it doesn’t contain anything that compromises what we’re trying to achieve.” Stevie wanted to ask what it was exactly that they were trying to achieve, but doubted she would get a meaningful answer, and merely nodded her understanding. “Anyway, it’s almost time for lunch, and I could hear your stomach rumbling in the lift, so off you go.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Both Uncle Bob, and Belinda, had already gone to lunch by the time Stevie returned to the office. Had they gone together, she wondered, and not for the first time speculated about how close their relationship was. Stevie’s mum had joshed Bob about making a honest woman of Miss Hanford for as long as she could remember. There was, however, a more pressing subject to be addressed. Stevie had hoped the older woman would bring back a sandwich, or something, for her, and although people were still making their way along the corridor, she did not know any of them well enough to ask. Kicking herself for not bringing a packed lunch, Stevie sat at her strange new desk, and came closer to crying than she had all day.

Ordinarily Steve would run out to a sandwich bar down the block, easy enough if you aren’t afraid of laughter, or worse. She had fooled everyone on the way in because they were too tired to stare, but Stevie doubted she would escape attention in the full light of day. Would the company of those who knew her for what she was, be any kinder, and had the news of her new protected status percolated through the company? Feeling light-headed, but with her groaning insides pointing the way to its sticking place, Stevie gathered up her courage, and made for the staff restaurant.
Long before Stevie had been employed, in the days when it had still been known as a canteen, the first floor restaurant had been the building’s social hub, a meeting place for people from all departments, and all levels. Over the years it had fallen from favour, as most employees chose to eat in town, or at their desks. Stevie had only visited on a handful of rainy days, and found it largely deserted; with a modicum of luck, the fine weather would have drawn out even more. For the first time that day, fortune was on her side, and its only habitués were a handful of older workers, and a cluster of noisily arguing lads from IT.

There was a level of obvious curiosity from the serving staff, who were not part of the company as such, but otherwise no one appeared to take much notice of her. As she set about her baked potato she gave less concern for ladylike behaviour, than a quit exit. Hoping that she would continue to be less interesting than Star Wars, Star Trek or knitting patterns, Stevie devoted her full attention to her lunch, and her new tablemate’s, “I hate to see a pretty girl sitting alone,” almost sent her last forkful shooting across the room. Pushing his tray alongside her own before she had a chance to object, the newcomer held out a hand, not so much tanned, as bronzed, “I’m Daniel, by the way.”

Had he really mistaken her for a girl? She had never seen him before, and assumed he was a client, in which case, continuing the deception could land her in all sorts of trouble. “I’m Stevie,” she held up her keycard, as verification, “and I’m not really a girl.”

“You’re not alone either,” he grinned impishly, “but you’re still pretty.”

Sometimes there is nothing for a girl to do, but blush and say something stupid, “I like your moustache.”

“Gruesome isn’t it?” Daniel stroked his top lip, “but I’ve been in the Delhi office for the last six months, and they’re de rigueur over there.” As an ice breaker it was far from ideal, but it had the virtue of working. Daniel was not much older than Stevie, in his late-twenties perhaps, the moustache made it difficult to tell. Against her better instincts, Stevie began to relax, as he told her about the trip over from India, which he would retrace the following day. “Terribly boring,” he insisted, “and when I get here, all anyone can talk about, is very brave young woman who started work today.”

“If she’d been at all brave she’d have gone out for lunch,” Stevie could not put her finger on, what it was about Daniel that put her at ease, she knew only that whatever it was, worked.

“And I’d have had to traipse half way around the world again to meet her,” Daniel laughed, “shall I take our trays back?”

“Yes please,” a glance at the clock told her she had only a few minutes, “I have to get back to my desk.”

“Wait one minute and I’ll ride up in the lift with you.”

Much as Stevie would have enjoyed his company, she pointed out that she worked on the eighth floor, to which Daniel replied he was going up to the twelfth.

“I thought that whole floor was Mr Barrack’s, the one we’re all supposed to call ‘Sir’” Around the company, the chairman was an almost mythical figure, seldom seen by anyone other than senior management, and then only rarely. She felt sure Daniel was only trying to impress her, but a big ‘what if’ was rearing its head.

“That’s him,” Daniel helped Stevie move her chair out, “but I get away with calling him ‘Dad’ most of the time.”

“Lunch with the chairman’s son doesn’t excuse tardiness, Stevie,” Miss Hanford tapped her wristwatch, “don’t look so surprised, you should know IT are the worst gossips.” Indeed they were, and Stevie strongly suspected them of outing her.

“Is Mr Thornwell in his office?” Stevie gave nonchalance her best shot, but the quiver in her voice was unmistakeable.

“He’s not back for another hour dear, so you’ll stay out of the corner for now.” Stevie had waited all day for a warm smile from her uncle’s PA, and it cheered her no end.

“Does he do that often, to everyone I mean?” Had she pushed her luck too far? Miss Hanford’s expression would have foxed the most hardened gambler, and several tense seconds passed before she answered.

“It’s been a couple of years since I had to.” Open mouthed was not a look that Stevie wore well, but there was nothing else she could do to express her disbelief. Miss Hanford seemed at pains to defend her superior, “it’s not that he’s a tartar, he simply likes thing ‘just so’, and it’s a lot easier on his nerves to make you stand facing the wall, than it is to shout at you.”

Stevie could no more imagine the elegant, assured lady consigned to a corner, than she could imagine her making a mistake that might warrant it. Yet, she spoke almost affectionately of the man who did this to her. Bewildered, Stevie sat at her desk, and returned to the pile of forms she had to sort.

Ten minutes ahead of the appointed hour, Miss Hanford lead Stevie to the floor’s kitchen area, to learn how to make Mr Thornwell’s coffee ‘just so’. Along the way she introduced the new girl to the other clerical staff along the corridor, and everyone asked if Stevie had been in the corner yet. Apparently it was a standing joke Had it not been for Ms Hawker’s slap, Stevie might have put it out of her mind entirely, and a bounce entered her step as she carried the tray back.

Feeling quite proud of herself, she was disappointed when Miss Hanford insisted on taking the tray into Mr Thornwell. Shortly after his PA had entered, Bob appeared at the door and drew it closed, leaving Stevie with a sinking feeling that her late return from lunch was being discussed. When he reappeared at the door, asking her to come in her suspicions appeared confirmed, but instead she was asked to take the coffee things back. Relieved, she had picked up the tray and with an unconscious flick of her eyes, she saw the immaculate figure occupying the corner of shame. It would be another thirty minutes before she emerged, thanking Mr Thornwell, while tipping the junior a mischievous wink.

The day Stevie thought would never end, closed without any further incident. Her pile of forms had dwindled considerably by five o’clock, when Miss Banford said ‘goodnight’. Half an hour later, Mr Thornwell locked the door to his office, and asked if she intended going home.

“In a little while, when the buses are a bit quieter.”

“Not interested in a lift then?” Bob jangled his car keys.

“That would be wonderful, Mr Thornwell, thank you,” Stevie reached for bag, while he slipped into his overcoat.

“One thing Stevie, out of hours I’m still Uncle Bob. OK?” Just about the best reward for being an uncle, was a beaming smile.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Penny Hawker had also attended, every sensitivity seminar she arranged for her staff. She knew the professionally correct way to deal with issues from disability to body odour; knowing, however, does not mean understanding. Tact, sympathy, sincerity, Penny could fake them all, but why a man would choose to dress as a woman escaped her. On one level it was simply comic — Steve in panties had been hilarious — and yet at the same time, it angered her. Was it not enough for men to withhold so much from women, that they had to steal from them what was undeniably theirs? Her real difficulties began when Stevie’s face replaced Steve’s.

Computer-literate rather than computer-fluent, Penny had spent the previous evening piecing together a new blog for Stevie. The photographs had been an obvious place to start, which kept them on the monitor all the while Penny struggled to put words into Stevie’s mouth. It was almost impossible to look at those images without remembering Stevie’s infectious enthusiasm for Belinda Hanford’s make-up skills. It made the job ahead seem to Penny, easier, and somehow, harder. Never one to shirk hard work, or turn down an opportunity for advancement, the head of HR fired her camera’s shutter.

“How’s my good girl this morning?” A startled Stevie looked up from her desk, surprise at the flash, receding before a resentful memory of the day before.

“Mr Thornwell’s in a meeting I’m afraid,” she said, through her best impression of a smile. Ms Hawker perched on a corner of the desk, setting the camera down, alongside Stevie’s coffee cup. She complimented Stevie’s top, but wondered aloud if it complied with the letter of the dress code.

“I wasn’t sure myself, but both my bras are black,” Stevie blushed crimson at the confession, “I thought it would be better to wear something they didn’t show through.” Ms Hawker’s approving nod, brought a huge sigh of relief.

“Speaking of bras, these look impressive,” she jabbed a finger at Stevie’s nearest breast, then closed both hands around them, “they even feel real.”

“Mr Thornwell’s not expected back until eleven, can I take a message?” Stevie hoped her voice did not betray her anger. Nerveless silicon they might have been, but Ms Hawker may as well have gripped the heart that lay beneath it - the pain was no less.

“Actually, it’s you I wanted to see,” Ms Hawker released her grip on Stevie’s chest, “we need a few more photographs for your blog.”

“About my blog, Ms Hawker,” Stevie was on uncertain ground, “I’m not sure I’m happy about you...”

“Of course,” Ms Hawker brushed a stray hair away from the junior’s eyes, “and I don’t mean to exclude you, but let’s talk about it after we have the photos, shall we.” She left her hand rest on Stevie’s cheek.

Ms Hawker explained that she wanted a series of shots of Stevie doing her job; nothing special, just a typical working day, starting with a picture of Stevie at her desk. She brushed aside a suggestion that they take it at Miss Hanford’s desk, “we wouldn’t want the computer hiding your pretty face, would we?” Propelled by this combination of intransigence and flattery, Steve allowed herself to be posed, and smiled when prompted.

“I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing for her, Ms Hawker,” Mrs Green kept half an eye on the kettle, but found other two in the kitchen area much more interesting. “I hope you’ve thanked her young lady,” there was an emphasis on the last two words which galled Stevie, though she continued to smile inanely in her direction.

“Oh she has, don’t worry,” Ms Hawker answered sweetly,”why don’t we take a photograph of the two of you together?” The matronly secretary’s day had been made, and gladly accepted direction, “can you hold the kettle up to show her Mrs Green?” Taking Stevie by the shoulders, Ms Hawker arranged her pose so that her face was clearly visible to the camera, “look up a little at Mrs Green, a little bit more, and smile...”

Their progress back along the corridor, photographed from every possible angle, brought almost everyone to their door. Balancing coffee cups on a tray, even empty ones, was difficult enough in heels, but doing so with an audience, was unbearable. Though she kept smiling, Stevie wanted nothing more than to return to Uncle Bob’s office, and lock the door behind her.

“You file too, Sweetie, don’t you?” Stevie nodded, and lead Ms Hawker to the collection of shelves, and cabinets, where the office’s paperwork was stored. At least these photographs might suggest that she could read. After half a dozen shots over an open drawer, alternately smiling or looking puzzled, as instructed, Ms Hawker turned her attention to the uppermost shelves, and the set of steps used to access them.

“That’s it, put your right foot on the fourth step, and your left on the third, there’s a good girl, now pretend take out one of the boxes.” Stevie held the pose, her arms and back stretched as far as she physically could, for another four shots, and then Ms Hawker was beside the steps helping her down. “We don’t want you phoning Claims Direct, do we?”
Stevie laughed, glad to be off the steps, whose grilled metal surface had threatened to trap her heels, “is that it?”

“For today, now let’s get you back to your desk before old Bob comes looking for us.”

“About my blog, Ms Hawker?” Stevie was very conscious of the hand at the small of her back, propelling her briskly down the corridor, if she did not mention it now, who knew when the next opportunity would arise.

“I’m a little pressed for time now, Stevie,” Ms Hawker flashed her a smile, “and I’m out for most of the day, but why don’t you come to my office for a chat at... say four thirty. A final”OK?” was accompanied by two pats on Stevie’s bottom.

Disconcerted by the continued presence of the hand stroking her bottom, Stevie could only stutter out a dry mouthed, “that’ll be fine, Ms Hawker, thank you.”

“Good girl,” Ms Hawker squeezed the soft flesh under her fingers, adding, “this I know is real.” Without waiting for an answer, she left a blushing Stevie, a few feet from her office door.

*****

Miss Hanford accepted Stevie’s explanation, for her absence without question, and surprised her junior by placing a small wristwatch in her hand. “Mr Thornwell doesn’t like clockwatching, and you kept taking a man’s watch from your bag yesterday, it was very noticeable,” she closed Stevie’s hand around the watch, “and then I realised you didn’t have one of your own.”

“You’ve saved me from the corner again,” Stevie laughed, “thanks, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“Don’t mention it, we girls have to stick together you know,” Miss Hanford gave her arm an encouraging squeeze, and added, “now don’t mind me, your young man is at the door.”

“My young what?” Steve turned to see Daniel advancing behind an enormous bunch of flowers.

“I hope you like roses,” the bouquet obscured half his face, but the crinkling around his eyes told her he was smiling. “I just wanted to say goodbye before I shoot off.”

“I’ll put these in water for her, Mr Barrack” Miss Hanford relieved Daniel of his burden, and stepped quickly from the room. Leaving an awkward silence in her wake, which Stevie rushed to fill.

“No one’s ever given me flowers before, I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s been an honour to meet you Stevie, I want you to know that.”

Stevie bobbed forward and kissed his cheek, realising too late, that Daniel had extended his hand, for her to shake.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I did that,” she gushed, amazed at how her face burned.

“It’s what girls do, don’t you know,” Daniel returned the kiss, “well I’d best be off before Bob accuses me of waylaying you. Goodbye Stevie, I hope you’re still here when I’m next in the UK.”

Stevie managed to croak, “goodbye Daniel,” and flopped into her seat. What had just happened?

“You were just caught up in it,” Miss Hanford laid a soothing hand on Stevie’s shoulder, “he was right, someone treated you like a girl, and you responded the right way.”

“You don’t think I’m...” Stevie’s voice trailed off.

“Not for a second,” Belinda lied, “now pull yourself together. It’s almost time for Mr Thornwell’s elevenses.”

*****

Stevie looked apprehensively at her wrist, when the lift doors opened to reveal the waiting Ms Hawker. “You’re not late, don’t worry,” she eased her arm through Stevie’s, “there’ll be less distractions if we do this in one of the interview suites.”

Stevie, who had been working herself up about the meeting all afternoon, could think of nothing worse than being alone with the head of HR, but there did not seem to be an alternative; she had to find out what had happened to her blog, since surrendering her passwords. Numbly, she followed Ms Hawker into the windowless room. She had sat in its twin not six months before, and remembered how the only sound to be heard was the air conditioning, so efficiently were they soundproofed.

Ms Hawker steered her towards two chairs that had been drawn up against the table at its centre, on which a laptop was quietly purring. “Let’s sit down shall we, Stevie, and I’ll show you what I’ve done so far.”

The URL in the address bar was familiar, but the whole appearance of the page had changed; the background colour was set to a pale pink, and the title rendered in a swirling, cursive font. At the head of the page, Ms Hawker had set a photograph similar to that which now graced Stevie’s keycard. Beneath it was a short introduction, which appeared to have been lifted, almost verbatim, from the old blog. Among the things it still listed, Stevie noted wryly, were the very personal details, which had led to her discovery. She scrolled past another photograph, to the new first entry, purporting to be from her own hand.

Tuesday 8th April 2008

Monday was a nightmare. Somehow my blog became known to someone I work with, and pretty soon everyone knew about my secret life. I have never felt so humiliated in my life, everywhere I went people were laughing behind my back, or passing stupid comments about me. I was just a joke to them, how could they know the heartache I have always carried with me.

All my life I have known I was different from other boys, that in some way I was closer to being a girl, sometimes I have even asked myself if I should really have been a girl, but was always too afraid of the answer. So afraid that the only place I could talk about Stevie was in this blog.

Luckily the Human Resources department of the company I work for has offered me a way to get past this situation. They have given me a chance to come to work as a woman for the next two weeks, to help me resolve my unanswered question, and perhaps find a better life.

I know many of my colleagues will probably continue to read this blog now that they know about it, and I hope they will understand what it is I am trying to achieve, and wish me luck for the days ahead.

“So what do you think?” Ms Hawker leant across her chair, eager for Stevie’s reaction.

After a long pause she answered quietly, “well it’s not really true is it? I haven’t been asking myself if I’m a girl all my life.”

“It’s as true as it needs to be, Stevie.”

“But how can I go back to being Steve now, I’ll never live this down,” Penny heard the catch in her voice, and clasped Stevie’s hand in hers.

“It could never be the same once people knew about you,” she spoke very softly, stroking the back of Stevie’s hand, “but this way Steve can come back, if he wants to, and I can protect him.”

“What do you mean, ‘if he wants to’?” Stevie pulled her hand free from Penny’s grip, “you don’t think I want to stay like this do you?”

“All I know Stevie, is that in the last two days, you have been a perfect girl,” Penny looked directly into her eyes, taking up her hand again, “it has to make you think, doesn’t it? You must have wondered sometimes what it would be like, to be girl instead of a boy.“ She took a tissue from her pocket, and dabbed at the tear running down Stevie’s cheek.

“Sometimes, I suppose,” Stevie blinked back another tear, “but it wasn’t like that. Steve will be back.”
Penny’s arm wound around Stevie’s shoulders, “OK honey, I believe you. Here, blow your nose, and we’ll have a look at the photos we took this morning.”

“Do they have to make me look like I’m on work experience?” The photographs were very good, Stevie had to admit that much and Ms Hawker had selected only those that flattered her most, but every one showed her performing a menial task.

“We’ve taken you from Accounts, and moved you up to the eighth floor Stevie,” Ms Hawker closed the preview window, “if we gave you more important work it would look like favouritism, think of how that would affect for your Uncle Bob.”

“Sorry, Ms Hawker” Stevie pulled a face, she had not really thanked either of them for what they had done, “I’ve been a bit silly haven’t I?”

“Just a little bit,” Penny patted Stevie’s knee, “but we should have told more about what we’ve been doing, but you’ve been so good these last two days...” she reached down under the table, and produced a bag from what Stevie knew was the most expensive lingerie shop in town, “you said you didn’t have any white underthings, so I picked these up for you while I was out.”

Inside Stevie found a white bra, and two pairs of knickers to match, “thank you Ms Hawker, but I can’t accept these, they must have cost more than fifty pounds.”

“I’m not quite as cheap as my name suggests,” Penny laughed, “but you will take these Missy, I insist.” The head of HR had lightly poked Stevie’s ribs to emphasise each word, sending her into a fit of giggles, “it’s ten past five, so get along home.”

Penny leant back in the chair, Stevie’s parting kiss warm on her cheek, and watched her dash through the door. Most of her time was spent sorting through candidates resumes, or counting days lost to absence, it was refreshing to have a challenging project fall into her lap, especially with the latest news from India.

Author's note: this part a day malarkey is harder than it seems, and I'm sure this is full of all manner of typos, spelling mistakes, repetitions and who knows what else. I think I'll have a small lie down now :)

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Oh my God,” Stevie pressed her back against the front door, and groaned; had she really just done that? With a sense of dread, she forced herself to remember the last few minutes. Two steps from Uncle Bob’s car he had called her back, holding up Ms Hawker’s gift, she had ducked back in, and then — to her horror — had given him a peck on the cheek as a ‘thank you’. Worse still, she had stood on the kerb, and flappily waved away the man who had taken Steve to rugby matches, had bought him an air rifle, and his very first pint of beer. One more step along the road, Stevie thought, and one more Steve would have to retrace when the fortnight was over. She was spending too much time as a girl, if Steve was to stand a chance, she would have to bring him back in the evenings.

After a shower, and wholly unnecessary shave, Stevie dug out the pair of boxer shorts he kept for doctor’s appointments, and a t-shirt of his she sometimes wore to bed. These were not sufficient to cover up Stevie, so she added socks, jeans, and a football shirt. As a final flourish she pulled her hair into the untidy ponytail he favoured, and there he was — in the mirror at least. It was not enough, however, to look like Steve, she had to be him; if only she could remember how.

Over the months, Steve’s visits to the flat had become less and less frequent; Stevie had to think hard to remember a weeknight he had been around. Of course, he was always there for part of the weekend, mostly doing the things Stevie could not - grocery shopping - or would not — cleaning the bathroom. As neither needed to be done that evening, she would have to teach Steve what to do with his spare time.

Opening her sole can of lager - left over from her flat warming party - Stevie switched on the television, and scanned through the channels in search of sport. Finding a football match, she leant back on the sofa, one hand around the can, the other down the front of Steve’s boxer shorts, content that she was perfectly masculine. Five minutes later, Stevie was forced to admit, that she did not like lager, the chanting crowd irritated her, and thanks to her waxing regime, the contents of her shorts, were frankly disappointing.

Until Monday last, no one had suspected she even existed; Steve left her at home each morning, travelled, worked, and shopped, without anyone ever guessing. Of course! The missing element was other people; all Steve needed was someone whose expectations of how he should behave helped him to act appropriately. Who though? She could not go into work now, and the few school friends Steve had kept in touch with, were either gap-year travelling, or already away at university. There was a pub on the corner, but Steve had never been in because he knew he looked underage, which left the supermarket.

Stevie walked almost the entire way on the balls of her feet, two days in heels had ruined her for flat shoes; yet another skill poor Steve would have to relearn. Taking a basket from the stack near the entrance, she stopped for a moment and wondered what she could buy. Her supply of cereal was running low, and she could always stock up on coffee, both of which were kept at the rear of the store. After negotiating the produce section, resisting the urge to buy anything bar a small bag of oranges, she made her way briskly down the central aisle, eyes fixed on the far wall.

Stevie had, however, developed fine peripheral vision for a bargain, and was brought to a dead stop in the clothing department. Hanging at the end of a sale rack, was a black pencil skirt, with a fine blue chalk stripe, it was in her size, and at a price that was practically shoplifting. Coffee and cereal sales suffered a minor setback, as Stevie turned for the checkouts.

“Ah, I remember when I was a size ten,” the middle-aged assistant said wistfully, as she bleeped the skirt over the barcode reader. Stevie toyed with a compliment for her on her fine memory, but thought better of it, smiling sweetly as she handed over a crumpled five pound note. “Keep off chocolate, that’s what did for me” the assistant wagged a cautionary finger, adding as Stevie walked away, “and have a good evening, Miss.”

For the second time that evening Stevie pressed her back to the door, and groaned. She had gone out in search of Steve, and had returned with a new skirt, after being mistaken for a girl. Later on, she would find a few crumbs of comfort amidst the orange peel on the coffee table; the assistant had not used her glasses, which had very thick lenses, to look at Stevie, and it was a very nice skirt. Steve drew a hot bath, and consigned Steve to the laundry basket, “I’ll try again tomorrow,” she vowed, as she slipped under the covers.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Waking up with breasts was a novel experience, if only because it made rolling out of bed unexpectedly difficult. Stevie had fixed the breastforms in place before retiring, partly to save time in the morning, but also to test the claims made by the glue’s manufacturer. Everything seemed to be in order, but before putting on a bra, she jumped up and down several times; though not particularly pendulous, she also bent forward, and swung them from side to side. Nothing became detached, although Stevie acquired a fresh understanding of a bra’s advantages.

Shaking the last few crumbs from the cereal box, Stevie tried to keep any from landing on her new skirt, just as she was sipping coffee from a half filled cup, to guard her new white underwear. Such extra caution would not have been required, had not her four inch heels placed her a little farther from the counter than she was used to, but the skirt hung so much better with them, than without. How different these decisions were, from those of three mornings ago; how different she was.

Her newfound confidence carried her through the main entrance, where Frank greeted her by name. Once again, she was first into the office, and set down her bag beside Daniel’s huge bouquet. Lights on, and coffee brewing, she turned to her latest assignment. Removing staples from waste paper, was pretty much the most menial job Stevie had been given yet, but the paper would be recycled, and doing her bit to save the planet felt good.

“I was told you were an early bird,” Ms Hawker appeared in the doorway, camera in hand, and a document folder tucked under her arm, “what are you up to now?”

“Just saving a couple of trees, you know,” Stevie smiled as she dug out an exceptionally tenacious staple.

“Someone appears to have left one on your desk,” laughing, the head of HR took an extravagant sniff of the blooms, “been treating yourself?” With a shake of her head, Stevie launched into an excited account of Daniel’s visit.

“I felt such a fool for kissing him,” Stevie’s blush rivalled the roses’.

“Oh no you weren’t!” Ms Hawker smiled warmly, “women who receive a gift, kiss the giver; it’s just like kissing each other when we meet. Stand up and I’ll show you.”

“Mwah, mwah!”

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said, smoothing down her skirt, after twice grazing her cheek, against the older woman’s, “I feel so sophisticated.”

“You look it too” Ms Hawker stepped back to admire her outfit, “stockings, and those very daring heels. Is the skirt new?”
Stevie admitted that it was, and related the details of her attempts to recapture Steve. Delighted by the football match story, Ms Hawker clapped her hands with joy, but her expression darkened as Stevie recounted her trip to the supermarket.

“You left the house dressed as Steve?" Stevie was amazed by how quickly she became cross, “what if you had been seen by someone from work? You could have ruined everything.”

Stevie stared down at the bows on her shoes, “sorry, I didn’t think.”

“Obviously,” Ms Hawker snapped, “I should spank you for that.”

Stevie had formed a theory about Ms Hawker’s fascination with her bottom. When her Uncle Bob lost his temper, he sent her to the corner; after the first time, it meant nothing. Uncle Bob would cool down, she would apologise, and it was over. Ms Hawker was a bottom smacker, it stung some, but it too meant nothing. Turning quickly to hide the smile creeping across her face, Stevie presented her bottom for spanking - she may even have pushed it out a little.

“Mornin’ ladies, what are you two up to then?”

Penny was genuinely fond of Bob Thornwell, but she had never been so pleased to see him; had he been a minute later, she did not know what she might have done. “We’re about to get a photo of Stevie with her lovely roses,” to Stevie’s silent amusement, Ms Hawker bit her lip before continuing, “and I’ve some emails to show her.”

*****

note: I'd hoped to write a bit more today - Stevie's whole day is plotted out - but I lost a lot of time rewriting the last three paragraphs about ten times. I'm trying to keep up my post a part every day policy, and this seemed a good place for the break. Spanking has sneaked back in I know, but it is vital to something that happens later in the day, which is very important to the story over all.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Unlike any captured on the day before, Stevie felt the photographs Ms Hawker had just taken, did not make her look a moron. She had been posed, with a minimum of touching, sitting on her desk with the flowers by her side. Especially good was that where she had one leg crossed over the other, and her hands folded on her knee; it would be her choice to appear on her blog, if choice she had.
Ms Hawker’s folder contained about twenty email message she had printed from Stevie’s account. Mostly from people within the company, they were a mix of apologies for being unkind and good luck wishes. She flicked through, scribbling replies for Ms Hawker to send for her later, and then returned to removing staples.

“White,” Miss Hanford tapped the slightly bemused Stevie on the shoulder, “you’re wearing white knickers dear.” Noting the confusion on the girl’s face, she added, “your desk doesn’t have a modesty panel, you’ll have to be very careful how you sit, or you’ll be flashing people all day.” Stevie blushed, for all the free peeks she must have given already. She had Stevie stand, and demonstrated how best to avoid embarrassment, and then out of the blue asked, “have you ever tried putting your hair up?”

“A few times,” Stevie answered, “but I could never quite get it right.”

“Let me show you,” Miss Hanford undid Stevie’s ponytail, and in no time at all, was waving a mirror before the beaming office junior. “I’m surprised these aren’t pierced,” she lightly touched Stevie’s earlobe.

“Steve was always afraid people would make a big thing of it.”

“Steve eh?” Belinda’s raised an eyebrow, but when she thought about it, Steve really did seem like another person, “well we don’t have to worry about that now; how about we go out lunchtime, and get you done?” Stevie nodded vigorously, and her enthusiasm lasted right up until they entered the lift at lunchtime.

“Sorry, Miss Hanford, I don’t think I can go through with this,” Stevie tried to slip her arm from the older woman’s, “there’ll be too many people looking at me.”

“There will,” Miss Hanford nodded sagely, “and all them thinking ‘why isn’t that lovely young woman wearing ear rings?’” Her grave expression so highly amused Stevie, she failed to notice the lift doors closing behind her. By the time the two of them reached reception, Miss Hanford had explained where they were going, to passengers from half a dozen floors. With their good wishes ringing in Stevie’s ears, she allowed herself to be swept along into the crowds of lunchtime shoppers.

“My toes have gone numb,” Stevie had started to limp slightly.

“You’ll get used to that,” Belinda smiled, everything was new to Stevie, “not far now, there’s the place on the right.”

“Ooh it’s you, isn’t it?” an assistant had pounced the instant they had walked in,”Stevie with the blog!” Within seconds all the staff members were buzzing around.

“Who does your hair Stevie?”

“I’d never have guessed.”

“Have you decided yet Stevie?”

“Who gave you the roses Stevie, is he handsome?”

“I told you she wasn’t photoshopped.’

“Stevie, do you like girls?”

“I bet Mrs Green has been here,” Belinda muttered for Stevie’s benefit, adding more loudly, “she wants her ears pierced, if you can fit us in.”

Appointments were not necessary for ‘celebrities’, and Stevie soon sported a gold stud in each ear, for the price of a photograph with the assistants clustered around her.

“This is my email address, forward a copy, and we’ll try to fit it in the blog,” Belinda organised senior management meetings, so gaggle or excitable young women presented no challenge, “let’s get back Stevie, his nibs will be wanting coffee.”

*****

“Aw, doesn’t she look grown up Belinda?” Mrs Green had been waiting for them to return, and pointed out her niece in the photograph.

“She does Edna,” Belinda ran her tongue along an envelope, “but still hasn’t learned to hide her panties from the world.” Stevie pulled her skirt down hurriedly, cringing from the assault of alternating compliments and criticism. Edna Green was a lovely woman, but overpowering in even small doses. Stevie had already been chivvied into parading her outfit around the office, and slobbered over. She threw Uncle Bob’s PA a glance that clearly said ‘help’. Miss Hanford handed Stevie the envelope she had just sealed, “take this down to Mr Posnan, there’s a good girl.”

“Mr Posnan was my manager in Accounts,” Stevie held the envelope at arm’s length.

“Good, then you know where his office is,” she had been around Miss Hanford long enough to know when a subject was open for discussion, and this was not. To make matters even worse, she left just as Mrs Green was voicing her fears about the niece being a lesbian. It would have been nice to hear a really juicy piece of gossip, about someone else for a change.

Accounts’ cube farm stretched out before Stevie like a singularly unimaginative maze. Had her days in the rarefied atmosphere of the eighth floor granted her a new, Olympian perspective, or was she simply viewing her old office from four inches higher than usual? Her heels allowed Stevie to peer into cubicles, but also made her progress visible to all. Heads popped up from behind partitions as she passed, in a way that suggested the guillotine was back in operation.

Mr Posnan exuded a peculiar smell which discouraged long meetings. It was not a particularly unpleasant odour, merely unidentifiable, and had earned him his reputation for quickly getting to the point. Stevie’s delivery was accepted with a perfunctory ‘thank you’, and she was away with only a vague impression of cloves. However, a hundred faces barred her way to the exit.

Six months’ familiarity allowed her to plot the most direct route of return. A few ducked back into their cubicles as she approached, others muttered apologies, or wished her well, but one head loomed above all others - her former section leader in Bought Ledger. Tim Witlock had been wearing a sneer when the wind changed, and was incapable of any other expression, except in the presence of a superior. Such was his notoriety for brown nosing office legend held that he had once spent an entire hour, discussing the weather with Mr Posnan. Stevie braced herself for the inevitable taunt.

“Look everyone it’s the tea lady,” more heads ducked back to their workstations, “I see you’ve got two lumps for me, darling.” Stevie held her tongue until they were almost level, words ordering themselves in her mind.

“I may be a tea lady, Tim,” she paused as their eyes met, “but I’m tea lady on the eighth floor, and I haven’t seen you up there.” Other voices followed her to the door, loudest of all she knew from the cubicle next to Steve’s.

“You’re not bloody likely to either!” Good old Stacy.

*****

“You made quite a splash in Accounts this afternoon,” Ms Hawker must have spies everywhere, “I’ve just finished your blog entry for the day.” Stevie sat down beside her, carefully holding her skirt as she had been told to, and beamed at the head of HR. “I put this up earlier,” unbelievable the photograph was the one Stevie would have chosen, and beneath it was another of her surrounded by manically waving young women, including Mrs Green’s lesbian niece.

“It looks wonderful,” Stevie scanned over the captions. Daniel’s name was not mentioned, as Ms Hawker believed it too might spark accusations of favouritism, but she had included some messages from the girls in the other photograph. “About my emails Ms Hawker,” Stevie laid the folder down on the desktop, “are you reading all my messages?” It had been worrying her for days, not that she had anything she especially wanted to hide, but the address was not specific to her blog.

“Don’t worry Stevie,” Ms Hawker patted her hand reassuringly, “I’ve only opened those I know have been sent from within the company.” She opened Stevie’s mail account in another browser, “I am curious about Alison though; old girlfriend?”

“Just a school friend,” Stevie looked through the list of unread messages, wondering if they were just that. Six were from Alison, “she’s the only person I told about ...” she waved her hand above her torso, “this. She’s backpacking through Australia right now.”

“Well it’s nice you keep in touch,” Ms Hawker rose from her seat, “I’ll let you have some privacy while you read them.” Stevie read through them quickly; the first five were simply descriptions of places she had visited, the sixth, however, was her reaction to Stevie’s new blog. Alison had rambled for pages, and Stevie knew she could not write a proper reply, so she printed off the message to read at home.

“I’ve finished,” Ms Hawker returned to her seat, looking more than a little vexed.

“Stevie, about this morning when I,” Penny paused, the next word hurt, “threatened to spank you...”

Stevie leapt to her feet, and turned to present her bottom as she was sure Ms Hawker wanted, “I’m ready Ms Hawker!”

Penny slipped her hand around Stevie’s wrist, gently turning the girl to face her. “Sit down Stevie, there’s something I have to tell you.” Penny took Stevie’s hand between hers, “you did that this morning too, can you tell me why? It’s not a test, honestly.” She tried to look reassuring, but was not sure it worked.

“Well Ms Hawker,” Stevie stammered, “I thought it was what you wanted me to do; it’s nothing really, just a smack on the bottom, and it seemed to make you happy.”

Allowing Stevie’s hand to fall from hers, Penny brought them together at the bridge of her nose - what had she become? “When I was young...” she waved away Stevie’s protestation, “I’m thirty two, that’s old enough to be your Mum in some parts of town. When I began work, after college, there were still men who thought it perfectly natural to ‘handle’ female staff. I played along for a long time, I thought it was the way of things, but I hated it.”

Stevie was still young enough to be amazed by the way adults sometimes behaved, but old enough to realise when someone was in pain, “Ms Hawker, it didn’t hurt that much, honest.”

Penny shook her head, how could someone remain so innocent. “I’m sorry Stevie, I really am. The moment I had the opportunity, I acted just as badly as they did.” Penny sniffed back a tear, she might have been rocked to her core, but she was not about to cry in public, “it’s gone five, be off with you, just don’t forget anything in the car tonight, I don’t want to have to put your Uncle Bob through counselling.”

“Yes Miss Hawker,” Stevie danced out of the way, just in case, but her hands remained where they were. Penny laughed out loud, as she watched Stevie almost skip through the door. For all her innocence, she had a talent which the professional people manipulator lacked, and ironically, it was the talent Penny most desperately wanted.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Morning Miss Weston, nice new pictures on your blog.”

“Thank you, Ms Hawker is a good photographer isn’t she?” Stevie would never have put Frank down as a silver surfer, but then the whole world seemed to have booked a ringside seat on her life.

“A photographer’s only as good as her model, Miss,” for once Frank’s face betrayed him, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth, “you have a good day Miss Weston.”

“Call me Stevie, please,” she patted his arm, though she did not for one minute think that he ever would.

Whoever had switched on the office lights was nowhere to be found; “and this one was just right,” Stevie giggled, as she sat at her desk — the mystery visitor had left a packet of her favourite biscuits. Her Nan had loved Lincoln biscuits too, and always kept the barrel well stocked, even though they were not easy to find anymore; supermarkets only seemed interested in chocolate biscuits. Rotating the packet in search of the ‘tear here’ tab, Stevie found instead, a post-it note with a neatly lettered ‘sorry’ on it.

There were too many likely candidates to even begin guessing who had left the gift, and as CSI were not at hand to gather fingerprints, Stevie started to destroy the evidence. After a look left and right confirmed that Uncle Bob was not lurking anywhere — it was another of his pet peeves — his office junior dipped the Lincoln into her coffee. She had not yet had a chance to retrieve her private stash from her desk in Accounts, and Stevie’s eyes closed as she savoured it.

“It’ll go straight to your hips,” Ms Hawker stood in the doorway, laughing.

“I wish it would go straight to my hips,” Stevie answered wistfully; her narrowness in that department restricted the styles she could wear.

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re older Missy,” Ms Hawker dropped a buff folder on Stevie’s desk, “more email messages, but if you’re busy...” her voice trailed away, until Stevie protestations brought her back to the point. “You’ve a lot more mail today, quite a bit of it from outside the company, so we’ll have to go through those together.”

“This is quite long I’m afraid, but I’ll type it if you like,” Stevie handed over the four page reply she had written to Alison’s message; hours writing longhand had made her feel like a Jane Austen heroine, though she doubted her spelling and grammar were up to that standard. What to include in the reply had involved some careful consideration, she did not want anything too personal, or that could be taken the wrong way, passing under Ms Hawker’s eyes; even if the head of HR seemed less daunting after their last interview.

Ms Hawker’s vision was at least the equal of her namesakes’, and the slight changes Stevie had made to her make-up, and her success at putting her hair up, had demanded fresh photographs.

“I hope you’re getting the going rate, Stevie,” Uncle Bob had arrived as Ms Hawker was putting her camera away, “if she’s paying you in biscuits, you should at least get Hob Nobs.”

“OK, but not chocolate ones,” Ms Hawker beat a hasty retreat. Bob Thornwell was a legendary negotiator, who would talk her up to Jaffa Cakes in very short order, “see you at four-thirty, Stevie.”

“Laters,” how differently the week was ending for her, from how it had begun. There was no stifled laughter, no whispering, and the secret that had been tormenting her was almost a thing of the past. Steve would need to tell a few other people, or maybe she would tell them herself; after a week like this, Stevie would rule out nothing.

“Stevie, if that’s you making that infernal racket, get in here now!” Bob hated to hear someone humming, almost as much as he hated a whistler. She scurried into his office, brimming with apologies, but only one thing would satisfy Bob’s temper, “into the corner Stevie, until you learn not to make annoying noises.” No doubt, she would wear a smirk for as long as she faced the wall, just as Belinda always did.

Steve had from a very young age, been Bob’s favourite of all his friends’ children. Always quiet, almost withdrawn at times, he would surprise his ‘uncle’ with an insight beyond his years. Bob had long suspected that Steve’s reserve masked a secret, but had never dreamt that it would surface as it had. In fact, it was nearly impossible to reconcile his memories of the boy, with the figure in the corner; the piled up hair, earrings, stockings, and tight little skirt reminded him of someone else — especially the skirt. “That’ll be all Stevie, back to your desk.”

“That was quick,” Miss Hanford checked her watch, Stevie had been in Bob’s office for less than five minutes; humming had earned their last temp an hour facing the wall. She shot Stevie a concerned look, “I’d better see what’s wrong.”

“I couldn’t look at her Bel, I had to send her out,” Bob chewed an arm of his reading-glasses, while worrying his tie’s knot with the one hand.

“Was it her legs, or her bum, Bob?” Belinda had not seen her boss so rattled for years; she tried her hardest not to smile.

“It was the wristwatch, Bel; the one I gave you, the first Christmas we worked together,” Bob finally loosened his tie enough to open his collar, “that was a sneaky trick.”

“She needed a watch, Bob,” Belinda lost the battle with her lips, and hid the smile by changing the subject, “if things had worked out differently, you know, we might have had a daughter about Stevie’s age by now.”

“We haven’t talked about this for a long time,” Bob knew his PA’s moods, almost as well as she knew his, “what’s up?”

“I don’t know, maybe having Stevie around the office has made me a tad broody,” Belinda gave an embarrassed laugh, “fixing her hair, teaching her about make-up, all that stuff.”

“There’s still time, Bel,” Bob reached for his now cold coffee, “for both of us.”

“Did I really hear that?” it was the closest he had ever come to proposing.

“Maybe,” Bob took another sip, “but it would mean breaking up the old team, I’d need to find a new PA.”

“Tough job; she’d need to be able to put up with all your pernickety ways, your foul temper, know exactly how you like your coffee...” Belinda pursed her lips, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That you’re a devious woman, Belinda Hanford?”
Stevie wondered what they found so funny, but had a premonition that it somehow involved her.

*****

Miss Hanford had spent the morning showing Stevie how Mr Thornwell’s diary was kept; it would be important according to his PA if, for any reason, she was unavailable. Stevie could not help thinking it would be so much quicker to use a computer, but said nothing, as it made a pleasant change from removing staples. Lessons continued after lunch, and she began to look forward to her four-thirty meeting with Ms Hawker. It would end the strangest, and in some ways most enjoyable, week of her life. Miss Hanford, however, had other plans.

“How do you fancy another trip down to Accounts?” Stevie knew the question was rhetorical, and took the envelope from her superior, “you may as well go straight up to HR on the way back. Have a nice weekend Stevie.”

Purely by coincidence, Ms Hawker’s PA, Debbie, rode down in the lift with her. Only a few years her elder, she appeared to have the weight of the world upon her shoulders. Stevie remarked that she looked tired, and was told, “when the Hawk comes in early, so must all the little hawklings.”

Stevie had never heard the nickname before, but could well imagine what it must be like to work under the HR head’s beady eye, “I’m afraid that may be my fault.”

“Oh no, she’s always the first in, don’t worry,” Debbie gave her a weary smile, “to be honest, she’s been a lot easier to get along with the past few days. This is the floor you want, isn’t it?”

Accounts held no fears now for Stevie, and her passage to Mr Posnan’s office went off without event. Belinda’s wristwatch told her that she had ten minutes until her meeting, ample time to take a detour to her old cubicle, which she found, had not been allocated to anyone else. Steve had not been taken off the payroll yet, it seemed, Stevie however was more interested in his biscuits.

“Hey, what you doing in there again?” a familiar face popped over the partition, “Stevie, you’re back!”

“Only for a few minutes, Stace,” the two of them caught up quickly, unsurprisingly, as most of the office gossip was still about her. Tim Witlock had taken a day off, with ‘his nerves’, according to Stacy, who regaled Stevie with an impression of his face when she walked out.

“What did you mean by ‘again’, Stace?” Stevie did not know if it was important, but that one word piqued her interest.

“I thought you were Tall Paul from IT, he was in here yesterday, rummaging around in your desk,” Stacy had a poor opinion of IT, which was not uncommon, “I thought he was back to have another crack at your biscuits.”

Was there a connection, Stevie wondered, as she made her way back to the lift. She was sure that it had been someone from IT, who leaked her blog details, and they were the most likely people to be on site very early in the morning. Stevie was certain on one point - absolutely certain - it would take more than a packet of biscuits, to make amends for the damage done her. Frank might know who had been in first this morning, and she had just resolved to ask him on Monday morning, when the lift arrived.

Waiting for lifts to open still had an element of tension for Stevie; with no way of knowing who the doors would reveal, she could only hope for a friendly face. Every journey between floors, now made her feel like an entrant in a low-budget, daytime game-show. She thanked her good fortune, when her prize on this occasion, was Phil from the post-room. In the six months she had worked there, he had never failed to greet Steve with a joke every time they met. Squeezing past his trolley, she pressed the button for floor ten, and turned to face him. Phil had never seen Stevie before; still she was sure that her story had reached the post-room. “Hi Phil, remember me?” she said brightly, “I look a bit different now.”

His answer took an age or emerge, “nice tits, when are you getting a c**t?”

Tim Witlock’s remarks had been easy to fend off, they were intended to amuse others, and could be turned against him. Delivered in a flat, impersonal tone, the obscenities were meant only to be offensive, to provoke a reaction from her. Phil was not a large man; Steve had certainly tangled with bigger boys in school, but always with the luxury of friends nearby, or a bolthole. The mirrored walls made it difficult to look anywhere without meeting his gaze and its contempt was palpable. Stevie pressed herself into a corner, as far from him as was possible in the cramped car, and prayed that someone else would join them at the next stop.

When the doors opened, no saviour waited in the third floor corridor, and had the trolley not barred her path Stevie would have pushed her way out. Any fear of physical assault had dwindled - if Phil meant her harm he would have acted between floors - she simply wanted to be out of his sight. Not until the doors had begun to close again, did he nudge the trolley between them, leaving her alone.

His final snort of derision echoing around her, Stevie crouched in her corner, weeping uncontrollably from floors three through nine. For her dignity’s sake alone, she was fortunate that few travelled away from reception so near the day’s end. As the lamp blinked out behind the number nine, she was able to collect herself, straightening her clothing and running a tissue across her nose, while she thought about what Ms Hawker would say.

---

Note: I resorted to the dreaded asterisks as I didn't want to offend anyone with a particularly nasty word, but one I think Stevie's reaction required.

Bit of an early break again tonight, I wanted to take the story up to the end of the evening, but used up a lot of time on the final paragraphs - I really did honest - so it'll have to be tomorrow :(

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Penny Hawker’s first instinct was to take Stevie into her arms the instant she stumbled from the lift. Her eyes were red with tears, and her make-up streaked, but there was a distantness in the girl’s bearing, that kept the older woman at bay. Something dreadful had occurred that much was apparent, but getting her to talk about it would require great tact. Penny dealt with sensitive issues every day of her working life, and yet that was no help. She was far too personally involved, for convention to apply.

“This is assault, Stevie,” Penny crumpled the paper on which Stevie had written her assailant’s words, “no one has the right to treat you like this.”

“But they will,” Stevie spoke dispassionately, as though all emotion had drained from her, “from now on, everywhere I go, there will always be someone.”

“Tell me his name honey, and I can make sure... ” Penny checked herself, unsure if she was pursuing Stevie’s interests, or her own desire for retribution.

“He’s a good bloke really, it was probably just a shock to him, you shouldn’t sack or him, or anything.” A victim pleading the attacker’s case was not uncommon, Penny knew as much, but that knowledge did little to quell her growing anger with him, whoever he was.

“It’s not your fault, believe me,” she covered Stevie’s hands with her own. It might take days to find out exactly what had happened; Stevie was intent on maintaining the wall she had built between it and her. Penny picked up the telephone,

“Bob, it’s Penny.”

“Don’t tell him!” Stevie hissed.

“I’m giving Stevie a lift home... no there’s not a problem,” she squeezed the hand beneath hers, “it’s on my way, and we can have a good old natter - girls’ stuff you know.”

Avoiding the lifts seemed wise, so Penny led Stevie down the service stairwell; the basement exit was also closer to where she had parked. Their progress was slowed somewhat by Stevie’s heels, and the hour had passed by the time they arrived at the smokers’ door, through which Stevie had crept on Monday morning.

A knot of male staff was still clustered around the exit, enjoying a last cigarette before dispersing for the weekend. As the two women approached their conversation died; it was a familiar experience for the head of HR, but Stevie appeared unnerved, pressing close to Penny. When they had passed by, the group erupted into laughter of a peculiarly nasty timbre.
Most of the men were from the post-room, Penny noted.

Ms Hawker’s car was identical to Uncle Bob’s, if you ignored the litter, which evidently she did. “Do you need directions?” Stevie was still unsure of the older woman, who had acted so unpredictably throughout the week. At that moment she was kindness itself, but experience told Stevie it might swing to the other extreme without warning.

“It’s OK, I took your address from your personnel file,” she typed Stevie’s postcode into the car’s GPS, “we’ll soon have you home.” They drove in silence, interrupted only by the GPS prompts, and were soon parked outside Stevie’s building,

“I’ll come in with you for a few minutes, make sure you’re all right.” Penny was surprised by the flat’s neatness, for someone whose life was in such tumult, Stevie — or perhaps Steve — kept an exceptionally ordered home. Considering that she spent almost all of her free time at home, there was very little of Stevie to be found; even in what should have been a haven, she was hidden from sight. Penny remarked as much, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“Mum and Dad come around once or twice a week, “Stevie shrugged, “and they don’t always call first.” How could someone live in such secrecy, Penny wondered, and how terrible discovery must have been. Suddenly feeling very much the intruder, yet unwilling to leave the girl alone, she searched for a way of staying.

“Show me the kitchen, and I’ll make the coffee.”

“I’m out,” it was not however, the stark dismissal she feared, Stevie added, “there’s camomile tea, if you like.” Bustling about the kitchen together, Penny managed to coax a few smiles from her hostess, but little conversation.

The furniture in rented accommodation had not changed significantly it seemed since Penny Hawker’s college days; the sofa’s springs squeaked noisily as they sat down, and she sank lower than was perfectly comfortable. She was just about able to reach the DVD case lying open on the coffee table, and flipped it over to read the title. “I love this film,” not many eighteen year olds’ tastes ran to foreign cinema, she had expected a frat-pack comedy, or banal rom-com, not ‘Cyrano’, “I have a bit of a thing for Monsieur Depardieu.” Stevie’s giggle warmed her heart.

“It’s one of my favourites,” she went onto explain how it had been shown in French class, and she had bought her own copy because she liked it, “I don’t know why - the sword fights are cool, and some of the jokes are hysterical, but the ending is so sad.”

“But he at least had his panache,” it was a terrible in-joke, but Stevie laughed all the same. All week, Penny had watched the girl emerge from within, a truly remarkable girl, “you know you’re a lot like Cyrano — no not your nose — he had so much beauty no one knew about, because all they could see was what was on the outside.”

Stevie bit her lip, but a smile peeped through, “ah but you’re Cyrano, the letters he wrote for Christian are like the blog entries...” Penny pressed a finger to Stevie’s lips.

“The words are you Stevie, at most I’m the postman,” she chucked Stevie’s chin, “why don’t we watch the film and decide?”

When she could tear her eyes from the divine Gerard, Penny noticed that in places Stevie reacted to the dialogue slightly in advance of the subtitles, “do you speak French Stevie?”

“I have quite a bit, it was one of my ‘A’ level subjects,” she did not embellish, but returned her attention to the portable television’s tiny screen.

Penny had looked through Stevie’s CV several times, and there was no mention of the advanced examinations. A lot more kids entered higher education than they had in her day; every potential recruit now seemed to have a degree in something, and Stevie was brighter than many of them. “Why aren’t you in university Stevie?”

“I needed a job to be Stevie,” she shrugged, as if that was the obvious answer, “in college I’d have been reliant on money from Mum and Dad, they’d have wanted to know what I was spending it on.”

Penny marvelled at the logic, and at how the need to be Stevie informed every aspect of her life. For the first time she began to understand the drive - if not the reasons - to be female. An eighteen year old had succeeded where all the sensitivity courses she had attended, all the books she had read, failed. Penny wrapped an arm around Stevie’s shoulder, kissing her lightly on the temple, “and I’m glad you did, Stevie.”

Stevie snored softly, her head on Penny’s chest, where it had lain since Christian had been killed at Arras. Penny reached cautiously for the remote control; she could not bear to watch the film’s beautifully tragic conclusion, but neither did she want wake her companion. No trace of the day’s turmoil marred the sleeping girl’s serenity; there was the suggestion of a faint smile Penny fancied, and hoped that she was its inspiration. Keeping extraordinarily still, she watched Stevie’s chest gently rise and fall, until her wristwatch told her she must leave, “hey sleepy girl, I’ve got to go.”

Stevie’s eyes flickered open, “please stay, I have ‘Germinal’ too, we can watch that.”

“HR doesn’t come out too well in that one,” Penny struggled to feet, not least because it was a wrench to leave Stevie go, “I have some stuff to do, but I will come around in the morning, promise.” She planted a kiss on Stevie’s forehead, “now go to bed Missy.”

Yesterday’s Starbucks cup crunched underfoot as Penny sat in her car. She took out her mobile, and tapped in the familiar number, “Hello, Frank... good thanks... yes they are nice... she is very pretty... look, I need your help with something... great, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

---

Note: apologies for referencing one of my favourite films so heavily in this, but it really is wonderful.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“It’s still pretty dark at seven Miss Hawker,” Frank had shown her up to the CCTV control room, “but when she walks into reception, well it’s like the sun has come up.” Penny was incredibly touched by the old soldier’s fondness for Stevie, so much so, that she did not correct his mistake with her name.

“It’s just a shame not everyone feels the same, Frank,” Penny took the chair he pulled out, “I fear she has a few hard knocks ahead of her.”

“The wife said much the same this morning, Miss Hawker,” Frank switched on the bank of monitors, “but she’s made a good start. Unless you know what to look for, you’d never tell she was... you know.”

It was the most Penny had heard him say, about anything other than work, in ten years’ acquaintance; Stevie had a rare talent for sure. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

*****

Penny stifled a yawn as she switched off the ignition; it had taken longer than expected, to discover who had been in the lift with Stevie, largely because the cars were without CCTV coverage — as Phil Peel probably knew. Even with proof - of sorts - there was little she could do; it was his word against the office junior’s, but Penny had a few ideas. So had Frank, and it had taken a while to dissuade the former Royal Marine, from putting them into action. Remembering something Stevie had said the evening before, Penny took her mobile from the dashboard.

Stevie snaked an arm from under the duvet, and thumped her alarm clock. The first thing she noticed was the time — nine-thirty meant a certain ticking off from Miss Hanford — and the second, the alarm had not stopped ringing. Groggily, she rolled from bed, and padded into the living room to answer the telephone. “Wuh... Ms Hawker... all right, Penny... OK, I’m doing it now.”

The head of HR looked a lot different without her work face on, much prettier, especially in casual clothes, “mwah, mwah — what’s in the bag?”

“I’ve brought breakfast,” Penny held open the carrier, “coffee, croissants and strawberries — now get inside before all your neighbours see that nightie!” The last was spoken more loudly, not so much for Stevie’s benefit, as for the man at the next door but one, who was busy ogling the scantily clad teenager. Penny had herself, had a double take moment when the door opened - the cleavage on display was disturbingly naturalistic.

Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her babydoll nightdress bunched at her waist, the little brunette munched lustily both pastries and fruit, while guzzling coffee so strong, it was tearing off Penny’s taste buds. “Slow down or you’ll choke,” she cautioned, “and tell me what you usually do on Saturdays.”

“Well...” Stevie swallowed a strawberry whole, “Steve goes to the supermarket for groceries, most weeks, and I...” half a cup of coffee disappeared, “let him.”

“OK,” she seemed to have put the yesterday’s events behind her, the older woman noted, “the supermarket it is then.” Penny smiled, it was her chance to do something about the bare kitchen cupboards.

“Just a minute, these,” Stevie lifted her breastforms, “are glued on, you know.”

“Then we’ll not take Steve,” Penny laughed, “you really don’t have anything to worry about, believe me.” It took a few more minutes’ cajoling to convince Stevie that she would not appear to be anything other, than a young woman — with hiccups. She emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel, and headed for her bedroom.

“Penny,” Stevie popped her head around the door, “can you help me pick out something to wear, please?”

“Of course I...” life in Human Resources had presented many surprises, but none had stopped Penny Hawker dead in her tracks as surely, as Stevie Weston dressed only in the white bra and panties, she had bought.

“Last time you saw me in knickers you laughed,” an impish smile had stolen over Stevie’s face, at Penny’s reaction.

“Last time I thought you were just a naughty little boy,” Penny had almost said ‘dirty little boy’, but thought better of it; her pride, however, demanded she do something to recover, “and how can I laugh when...” she unfastened her slacks, letting them fall to her thighs, “I’m wearing the same panties.” Stevie’s expression was — as they say — ‘priceless’, but Penny gained an appreciation of how embarrassing it was, holding your trousers while your underwear was on display. Had it only been six days?

---

Note:a very short chapter today... Doctor Who's just started.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Don’t these,” Stevie pinched the denim shorts, “look slutty with tights and heels?” Any lingering doubts Penny may have had about Stevie, had been dispelled by the amount of time she had taken to select an outfit — to wear to the supermarket.

“Every woman under thirty looks slutty to me, honey,” Penny picked up her car keys, “loads of girls wore them to work last casual Friday, don’t you remember?”

Stevie shook her head, “Steve never goes in on casual Fridays; he doesn’t have a thing to wear,” she grinned sheepishly, “who wore this in then?”

“Kylie Watkins, for one — yes I know she’s a chav, don’t interrupt — and Sam Maynard she wore them too — she’s not a tart, she’s a lovely girl — c’mon Stevie, you look fine.” Stevie pushed her hands into her pockets, but followed Penny out into the street.

“Where’s your car?” Stevie looked up and down the road, but could not spot Ms Hawker’s grey BMW.

“Oh I don’t use Brenda on the weekends,” it was a little childish Penny knew, but she had named every car she had ever owned, “meet Mitzi.” She swept her arm out with a flourish, pointing to the trim, postbox-red roadster at the kerbside.

*****

Stevie was still griping about using a trolley,”a basket’s big enough for my weekly shop, honest.”

“You need to stock up on things,” Penny dropped a kilo bag of pasta into their cart, waved away Stevie’s protests and added another, “Steve’s been starving you sweetie. Do you like brown or white rice?”

“I really don’t that much cooking,” what on Earth was she going to do with all this food?

“Good to hear,” Penny lightly punched Stevie’s arm, “we don’t want you adhering to outmoded gender stereotypes,” both types of rice followed the pasta, “but you have to eat.” On they rolled through the aisles, Stevie disputing the need for every item that Penny added to the trolley.

“Go to that one there,” Stevie pointed to a checkout already groaning under, what looked like the provisions for a Waltons’ Christmas. At least she had stopped sulking about missing out the clothing section, Penny steered the heavily laden shopping cart towards the queue Stevie had indicated. With everything stacked on the conveyor, Stevie picked up a Mars bar from the counter display, and placed it at the top of the pile.

“What did I tell you about chocolate young lady? You’ll end up like me,” the stout checkout assistant puffed out her cheeks for emphasis.

“It’s OK,” Stevie made her best innocent face, “it’s for my friend — all she eats is rice and pasta.”
Penny was still laughing as they wheeled their groceries through the exit. Nobody cracked jokes at the HR chief’s expense, and yet someone at the very bottom of the corporate ladder was doing just that. Every moment Penny spent with Stevie was a joy, and strengthened her resolve to make amends for the harm she had already done.

“Hi Stevie, have you decided yet?”

“Who was that?” Penny looked around expecting a familiar face from work, but found only strangers.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Stevie opened her chocolate bar, and took a full quarter of it in one bite.

*****

Penny turned into Stevie’s road, slowing to a crawl as another car had parked in the space closest to her flat. “It’s busy in here...”

“Stop the car!” Penny looked down into the foot well where her passenger had ducked, “that’s my Mum and Dad’s car, don’t let them see me!” Penny speeded past the green Jaguar, and into the next street, where she pulled over.

“That was close,” Stevie emerged from hiding with a broad grin.

“You’re going to have to tell them soon or later, Stevie,” Penny brushed the girl’s hair from her eyes, “it’s too big a thing to keep quiet.”

“I’ve done OK so far,” Stevie fidgeted uneasily in her seat, “I just have to do another week, and everything’s back to normal.”

“You can’t go...” Penny did not finish her sentence; the car was no place to discuss it. Stevie’s insistence that she could return to her double life baffled her. She would have to pick her moment carefully; it would be difficult convincing Stevie that her future happiness, so obviously depended on living as woman. “How about we get some lunch in town, and have a look round the shops?”

“Clothes shops?”

*****

Bob Thornwell had been in all four of the town’s jewellers twice that afternoon, and was well along the road to losing patience with his — secret - bride-to-be, “it’s a bit extravagant isn’t? After all, it will only be a short engagement.”

“Nineteen years is hardly a short engagement, darling,” Belinda watched Bob wince at the irony with which she pronounced the endearment, “and you wouldn’t want everyone thinking you’re a cheapskate.” Not for the first time that day, Bob wondered if he could get to stand in a corner, in their new home; he doubted it very much.

“It’s not like you’ll be able to show it to anyone, not until we’ve sorted you out in another department,” he realised his tone had shifted into wheedling; it might get him an extra biscuit with his coffee, but he had no illusions about it working, when there was a tray of rings on the counter.

“I think I preferred the sapphire one in the last place.” Bob groaned, and turned wearily for the exit.

“Is that Uncle Bob?” Stevie was bearing up well, given how busy the shopping centre was, and cheered up considerably when she spotted other young women dressed as she was; although all were pronounced chav, tart, slapper and mutton-dressed-as-lamb.

“Where?” Penny turned a fraction too late to see Miss Hanford’s put-upon fiancé, slope away into the crowds. “Don’t look,” she nudged Stevie, “but them boys is checking out your fine, fine booty.” Her companion cringed as all teenagers do, when the aged attempt to ape their ways.

“Um maybe like they um sort of think like that you’re like a MILF or someting.” Penny permitted herself a small preen, when Stevie explained the acronym, but knew that if anyone was being letched at, it was the nymph beside her.

“Oi Stevie,” both turned involuntarily at the shout, the group of teenage boys were waving madly, “Stevie, you is a babe, man!” Chavs the lot of them, as if she would know anyone like that. Stevie slipped her hand in Penny’s and followed her into the department store.

The change in Ms Hawker’s personality was incredible; something of an eminence grise within the company, Penny had shown an altogether different side in the last twenty-four. Like a young aunt, or even an older sister, she whisked Stevie along, joking at each step. Some suspicions remained, how could they not after the events of only a few days earlier, but those memories were fading rapidly, and some were taking on a new light.

“You need to try some of these on,” Penny said, from behind a mound of hangers, “the fitting rooms are over there.”

“I can’t go in there,” Stevie hissed through the massed garments, “I usually bring them back if something doesn’t fit.” Already worried by the sheer amount of items Penny had picked out for her, the prospect of being discovered in a women’s changing area, brought her to the verge of panic.

“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” the two of them had squeezed into a cubicle, “try these on first,” Penny held up a pair of black knee-length shorts, “you can show off your legs without flashing your knickers.”

“Thanks,” the shorts she had been wearing lay in a puddle around her feet, “are these OK for the dress code?”

“If they’re not I’ll rewrite it, you are a bit of a special case, honey,” there were a few advantages to running HR. She flashed Stevie a quick grin, “just don’t turn up in the pink dress I saw in your wardrobe.”

“That was one of the first things I bought,” Stevie blushed to match it, “it’s awful isn’t it?”

“We’ve all got skeletons in our closets,” Penny held Stevie’s shoulders while she stepped out of the black shorts, “try the skirt next, I know it’s short for work, but you really should show off those smashing legs of yours. They put Sam Maynard’s to shame.”

“I really can’t accept all these, Penny,” it had taken a while for Stevie to become comfortable using the older woman’s name, but by the time they had left the cramped fitting room, they were fast friends. Friendships can, however, be too one sided and Stevie was alarmed by the amount of clothes they carried towards the checkout.

Penny smiling, fished into her bag, “don’t worry about it,” and with a flourish waved a company credit card under her companion’s nose, “you’re a legitimate HR expense. Sorry if that sounds a bit impersonal.”

“You’ll look fabulous in these, Stevie, wish I’d been in the fitting rooms” the assistant winked confidentially, “I can’t wait to see the pictures.”

“Sorry,” Stevie looked at her, trying to remember where they had met before, school perhaps, “where do I know you from?”

“Oh you don’t know me,” she dropped the receipt into the last bag, “someone on Facebook sent me the address for your blog. We’re all hoping you decide to stay a girl, no one’s going to believe I met you.”

“I’m sure she’ll mention your name in the blog, err...” Penny peered at the young woman’s name tag, “Ashley.” To their mutual amazement, the assistant began jumping up and down, squealing.

*****

“It’s just an internet thing, “Penny took the junction leading to Stevie’s street faster than she intended, and was forced to dab the brakes, “it’ll blow over quickly enough.”

“What about that fat kid with the light sabre,” Stevie chewed nervously on a lock of her hair, “I heard he committed suicide.”

“I don’t think that’s oh...” the green Jaguar was still parked outside Stevie’s flat, two figures clearly visible in its front seats, “your parents are pretty persistent aren’t they?”

“Oh yes,” Stevie crouched beneath the door, “they’ll stay there forever. What are we going to do?”

Penny shifted up a gear, “I think you’ll have to stay at mine tonight.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Daniel turned the laptop towards his companion, “this is Stevie, she’s pretty don’t you think, Rani?” The woman beside him sniffed, inclining her head as though it was too great an effort to look at the computer’s screen.

“Remarkably,” she wrinkled her nose, “for what she is, am I to be jealous of your new kothi?”

“Of course not,” Daniel laughed, “she’s just a child, but a brave one.” He spun the laptop away from her, and carried on reading Stevie’s blog. Rani, however, would not let the subject rest.

“Your country is being kinder to hijiras than India,” her voice was insistent, “here she would be an outcast, disowned by her family to live her life untouchable. In England she has a house, a job protected by the government, and does not worry about the pointing fingers.”

“I think you’ll find she worries very much about them,” Daniel snorted, it hurt to have his homeland’s liberal attitudes thrown in his face. “Hijiras have a place in your culture, a thousand years of tradition, even tolerance of a kind,” Stevie might be half a world away, but Daniel knew that her path would be littered with obstacles any hijira would be familiar with.

“A whore is still a whore, whatever the tradition,” Rani was quick to anger, but Daniel knew she was not in the full fire of her temper.

“Is a tax collector any better?” Daniel feigned an innocent tone.

“Ha, my giriya, why do you bring this thing to our bed?” Rani picked up the laptop and placed it on the floor, “now let us enjoy our Sunday morning, as we should. See how I respect your traditions?”

“Admirably, as always my...” his words were lost in her kiss.

****

Stevie used her last scrap of roti to scoop up the remaining dal on her plate, “where did you learn to cook like this?” She licked her fingers with great relish as she finished her meal, “was it in India?”

“No, Birmingham mostly,” Stevie’s mystified expression was adorable, “I went to college there — balti houses everywhere - and once I had the taste, I tried making curries at home...” Penny gave her young guest a conspiratorial wink, “which left me more money for beer.” Stevie’s giggle was even more satisfying than her delight in Penny’s cooking.

“I usually just pop something in the microwave,” Stevie carried both their plates to the sink, “I think I get that from Mum.” Penny bit her lip, it was an ideal opening for a discussion about telling her parents, but for the first time in years felt unqualified to tell someone else how to live their life. Each passing day made more obvious the fact that Steve was not her true nature; obvious to everyone except Stevie, who still clung to the notion that she could return to a semblance of her former, hidden life.

As head of HR, Penny had contacts with several excellent counsellors better qualified to help Stevie, and yet she did not want to pass responsibility on as she would with any normal case; she had long since ceased thinking of the young woman, now elbow deep in hot, soapy water, as a ‘case’. Deciding it would be best to bide her time, she brushed aside her guest’s protests that she would do the washing up, and joined her at the sink. “When we finish up here, I’ll open a bottle of wine. Which do you prefer, red or white?”

*****

“Like fine wine I only improve with age,” Bob fell back on the pillow, hands a folded under his head and a wide smile of satisfaction smeared from ear to ear.

“You can certainly keep the cork in the bottle longer than you used to,” Belinda’s acid tone was far from convincing, especially as her fingers were curled around Bob’s chest hair, “but then you had a lot of practice, at least before HR cracked down on harassment in the workplace.” She tweaked a hair from his nipple, making Bob wince.

“Water under the bridge, Bel,” Bob reached down to take her hand in his, “and you’ve not exactly been celibate either.”

“At least I can count on your not pouncing on the latest temp,” she teased, adding archly, “or can I?”

“Of course,” Bob patted her hand, “but honestly Bel if you’d had an arse like that I’d have married you twenty years ag...” the remainder of his sentence was stifled by his long suffering assistant hand, the two of them tussling playfully on the bed.

Something familiar butted against Belinda’s abdomen, “already?”

“Viagra,” Bob pulled her closer, “if we’re going to get you up the duff at my age, I’m going to need a little help.”

“You’re such an old romantic, you really are a... oh leave it darling,” Bob reached for his mobile on the nightstand, looked at the number calling, and switched off the phone. “Work?”

“Stevie’s father, probably wants a round of golf,” his hands had already found their way back around Belinda’s waist, “now where was I?”

*****

Stevie stretched out on the sofa, the hand holding a wine glass trailing over its edge, and her head resting in Penny’s lap. “I would never have thought you were a Shrek fan.”

“Guilty pleasure, I love puss in boots,” Penny put on a cod Spanish accent for the last three words, teasing another giggle from her young guest, “I hope you didn’t think I’d left it in the machine on purpose.” Stevie had in fact, thought that very thing; Princess Fiona’s relationship with her parents seemed tailor-made to prompt another lecture on telling her parents, but the subject never came up. Fearing another might begin shortly, Stevie attempted to forestall it with an observation of her own.

“You’re a lot like Shrek,” she paused to let the comment sink in, “not green and scaly or anything, it’s just that in work you project a scary personality, but underneath it all you’re really lovely. ‘Ms Hawker’ is your ‘Steve’, ‘Penny’ is your me.” Stevie was quite pleased with her insight, and the acrobatic changes it had brought to her host’s expression, but then something happened for which she was completely unprepared. Lifting the girl’s head slightly, Penny gently placed a kiss on Stevie’s lips, holding it until the little brunette’s eyelids drooped, and her mouth began to open. “What was that for?”

“Being a minx,” Penny ran a finger through the reclining girl’s hair, “and being the only person brave enough to call me an ogre to my face.” She took a large sip from her glass, and Stevie followed suit.

“You’re not though, you’re...” Stevie blushed, she did not want to sound like a schoolgirl with a stupid crush, there were questions she needed answered before she made any declaration of that kind, “why did you keep touching me this week, you were touching my bum all the time?”

“I’m sorry I did that honey,” Penny pulled a goofy face, “the first time I thought you were making fun of women, and I wanted to teach you a lesson. After that, well...” Stevie remained silent, but her expression demanded she go on, “you have a really nice bottom, and I hadn’t touched one for a long, long time.” The head of HR swallowed another mouthful of wine, “it was wrong of me I know, so unprofessional, and it won’t happen again I promise.”

“You can touch it if you like, I don’t mind honest,” Stevie beamed.

“Don’t be silly,” Penny briefly considered taking up the offer, but hurriedly put those thoughts aside, “there are plenty of people your own age for that. I’m sure some of the girls in work are ready to throw themselves at you.” Although no one had communicated the desire directly to Ms Hawker, she had seen several significant looks thrown at the new girl, and not only by the women, “or perhaps some of the boys too; I bet Daniel Barrack’s thought about touching your bottom.”

“Wouldn’t that be kind of gay,” Stevie stammered.

“Not really,” when would she let Steve go and accept who she really was, “you’re a woman, he isn’t, where’s the problem?”

“I’ve never thought of boys like that, or girls really,” Steve had been so caught up with his feminine side, he had never dared date, in case Stevie gave herself away. Alison had been the closest he had been the nearest to being a girlfriend, but they had never done as much as hold hands.

“You’ll sort it all out, sweetie,” the older woman stroked Stevie’s cheek, “this is just the beginning, so there’s no rush — anyway, let’s get you into a nightie, it’s time for bed.”

*****

Stevie stared up at the bear Penny had left on the nightstand, his name was Reginald apparently. Lying alone in the spare bedroom felt somewhat flat after such an exciting day; the more time she spent with Penny, the more she wanted to be with her. Nobody in the office would believe what incredible fun she was, the way she kept cracking terrible jokes, or letting slip minor details about herself, that gradually built up into a picture so very different from Ms Hawker. Yet there were things about her sterner personality that Stevie missed, though she would be reluctant to admit it. How could she be expected to sleep with so much confusion in her head?

After what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, Stevie swung her legs out from under the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed. She needed help to sort out everything that had happened to her these last few days, someone to talk to, who would understand what she was saying. Tentatively she crept from her room, and crossed the landing to the next door along.

Penny was already asleep, dashing any hope Stevie had of continuing their conversation. She hovered in the doorway, unsure if she should wake her, or wait until the morning. Stevie decided on the latter course, but did not return to her room. Carefully picking up her feet with every step, she made slow but steady progress to Penny's bed, and with only a moment’s reflection, slipped under the covers alongside her mentor.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“That bloody cat!” it took Penny a few moments to remember that she no longer owned a cat, and what she had taken for purring, was Stevie very softly snoring in the bed beside her. Neatly sidestepping all her position’s inherent dangers, Penny slipped back under the duvet. Once again she marvelled at how peacefully the younger woman slept, smiling over her slightly protruding bottom lip. Looking at her went some way to calming Penny’s conscience, but there was much left to do.
No one had shared Penny’s bed for years, and there was a pleasure she would not deny herself. Tentatively she brushed the back of her fingers across her bedfellow’s cheek until Stevie’s eyelids began to flutter open. “Did you argue with Reginald?” She was rewarded with a beautifully warm smile from the waking girl.

“He growled a few times,” Stevie rolled across the mattress to embrace Penny before the older woman could do anything to stop her, “you’re naked!”

“Don’t worry, we’re all girls here,” Penny kissed her on the cheek, “and I don’t think I have anything you haven’t seen before.”

“Not in real life,” Stevie demurred; she returned the kiss, “just in pictures like. It’s a bit funny really, everyone thinks I should have a sex change, but I don’t know anything about women’s bodies, except what I learnt in school.”

Penny hated giving ad hoc presentations, and would have preferred the chance to prepare a few PowerPoint slides; instead she found herself sat up in bed, legs apart, conducting a guided tour of her vagina. Fortunately Stevie did not attempt to touch the exhibit. “There’s a bit more to it than that, but do you think you’d like one?” Penny drew her knees together.

“I don’t know,” Stevie chewed a lock of her hair, “I love living as a girl, but I can always go back to being Steve; surgery seems so final.”

Penny smiled, the girl still would not leave Steve go, but she had seen a fascination in Stevie’s eyes a world away from her state of denial. “You’ve plenty of time to make that decision honey,” she stepped from the bed, turning to face her guest, “but it’ll make your knickers fit better, you’re almost falling out there.” Blushing furiously, Stevie pulled down her nightie, a sheepish smile spreading across her face as she rearranged herself.

“Doesn’t it hurt to tuck yourself away like that all day?” Penny asked.

“Sometimes, but I wouldn’t be right if I didn’t.” Stevie blushed again.

Penny bit her tongue, if Stevie could not yet see the significance of her statement, it would not help to point it out. Wrapping a dressing gown tightly around her body, Penny promised coffee, and breakfast in bed. “Switch the radio on; change the channel if you like, I keep it on the local station for traffic reports.”

Stevie was almost white when Penny returned with a tray, she had the duvet pulled up to her chin and was sucking on the end. Something had alarmed her, but what that was did not become apparent until the commercial finished, and the presenter nasal mockney drawl returned.

“Good morning, you’re listening to Gryphon FM’s Sunday morning line. This week’s hot topic in town is about a blog belonging to a local transsexual, and we’d like to hear your views. Should Stevie stay a girl, what do you think? We have a caller, Ashley you’re on line one.”

“Hello am I on?” the presenter assured she was, “Stevie came into the store I work in yesterday, and she’s beautiful. She should so be a girl.”

“And what was she buying Ashley?”

“Oh clothes, lots of clothes. Can I say hello to my mum?”

“Well she sounds like a woman to me,” the presenter laughed, “OK, we have Phil on line two, what do you think, should Stevie stay a girl?”

“He’s a bloke, I work with him and it’s just sick the way everyone’s behaving. If he tries it on with me again, I’ll kick his fu...”

“Well that’s all we want to hear from Phil. This is Dave Watney on Gryphon FM, and I’ll be back after this break.” An advert for a local tyre fitter blared from the radio, as Stevie turned to Penny, her face ashen.

“I didn’t honest,” she was close to tears, “all I did was say ‘hello’”

“Of course you didn’t,” Penny wound an arm around her shoulders, “he’s the one with problems not you.” Just how large a problem Penny had not decided yet; she had pencilled in a compulsory course of counselling for all the post room smokers, but that was before Phil’s outburst. Someone was lined up for an arse kicking, and it was not Stevie.

“Hello Edna, you’re through to the Sunday morning line.”

“Hello Dave, ignore that last caller; I work with Stevie too, and she’s an absolute angel,” Penny squeezed Stevie, sharing a smile over Mrs Green’s endorsement, “you can see me on her blog, the two of us are making coffee.”

“If you want to see that blog, the address is on our website... hello to Kyle on line two.”

“Respect Dave,” the caller’s accent was a peculiar Home Counties take on West Indian, “we saw her yesterday man, and Stevie is a babe, she is well fit. I would - know what I mean?” Stevie certainly did, and her face flushed crimson.

Sipping coffee, the two girls listened to the remaining callers, most of whom were encouraging; the exception being something of a God-botherer, who claimed it was not a suitable topic for discussion on the Sabbath.

“I think God made a mistake this time, all the evidence shows that Stevie should have been born a girl,” Dave answered, prompting a shocking display from Stevie who laughed so hard that coffee shot from her nose.

“Told you so,” Penny dabbed away at the quilt with a corner of her dressing gown, “now if you’ve finished, how about we take some photos of you in yesterday’s outfit, Miss I-look-too-slutty?”

“Are you ever wrong?” Stevie planted a very moist kiss on Penny’s cheek before she could reply.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Frank liked a short nap after Sunday dinner, it set him up for his shift, and helped his digest system recover from the assault of his wife’s cooking; not that Maureen was a bad cook — far from it — but she seemed intent on making up for all the meals he had missed during his service. Always careful of his spouse’s opinion, and all too aware of the sacrifices she had made, Frank burrowed his way through the food she piled upon his plate. The old soldier was just nodding off when she called from downstairs, “Frank, your Miss Weston has updated her page!”

Sunday 13th April 2008

What a fantastic week it’s been! Thinking about coming to work as Stevie frightened me immensely, but everyone has been so supportive, so helpful, that I’ll never get around to thanking you all enough. Thanks too to everyone who’ve been sending emails, to the ‘Stevie Say Yes’ group on Facebook, whoever started the petition on the uk.gov site to have me legally declared female if I stay being Stevie and all of you that have signed it. Thank you ever so much.

I’m afraid I still haven’t decided yet. Someone was very unpleasant to me in work this week, and I don’t know if I could bear that treatment all the time. There are still a few important people I haven’t told about me yet, who I cannot make a decision without talking to. I’m a bit of a wuss I suppose, but I’m dreading that conversation.

Thanks everybody, and take care.

“She’s a lovely girl isn’t she?” Maureen took a bite of cake, “look at her sitting in that little red sports car - gorgeous legs too — you should invite her round for tea when Colin’s home on leave.”

“Given up on grandchildren have you?” Frank shot her a wry grin.

“We’ve three other boys, dear, and none of their girlfriends will make a decent daughter-in-law.”

“You’d best ask him before matchmaking love,” finding out that his youngest son was gay had been a blow Frank never thought he would recover from, but Colin was a fine Marine, and a fine officer too, “she’d look grand on his arm though.” With an artful wink Frank stole the last piece of cake from his wife’s plate, silencing her protest with a wolfish grin.

*****

“C’mon Daisy Duke, the coast is clear,” Penny watched her young friend slip warily from Brenda’s passenger side, “now let’s get this shopping in the fridge, and we’ll call your Mum and Dad.”

“We left all my new clothes in Mitzi,” Stevie’s pout was as perfect as any teenage girl’s, but brightened considerably when Penny promised to go back for them, once the telephone call had been made. Trying not to pay too much attention to the denim clad bottom skipping towards the front door, Penny followed with the groceries bought the day before. She was uncertain that she would prove an effective substitute mother, but ensuring the young brunette eat properly was a start. Hopefully Stevie’s Mum would soon relieve her of the responsibility, a thought so tinged with unexpected regret that Penny almost collided with the girl, who had stopped dead in the open doorway.

“Who the Hell are you, and what have you done to my son?” a vein pulsed visibly at Mrs Weston’s temple; standing only a foot or so inside the door, she tried to slap Penny, who only narrowly avoided being struck by ducking. “Look at him Ted, look what this bitch has done to Steve!”

“Mum, it’s not...” Stevie’s mother was beyond placating, and continued to exhort her husband into some action. Ted Weston kept to the sofa, eyes darting from his raging wife, to the startled stranger, and the slim feminine figure that stood between them. “Dad, tell her...”

“Janet, let them come in, and shut the door, we don’t want half the town listening,” his patient tone went some way to mollifying his wife, who stepped back into the living room.

“Mr and Mrs Weston, this must be...” Stevie’s mother repeated her earlier demand, “sorry, I’m Penny Hawker, a friend of...” Penny paused, how should she refer to Stevie, ‘son’ seemed too incongruent, “a friend from work. You must be wondering what’s been happening.”

Janet was on the verge of releasing another stream of invective, when her husband’s stepped forward to take her arm. "Let the lady speak, Jan, or we’ll never get to the bottom of this.”

“Nobody has done anything to me, I’ve been like this for years,” Stevie moved protectively in front of Penny, “I was just too afraid to tell you!”

“Nonsense!” Janet Weston was working herself back into a fury, “you are normal, this perverted cow has obviously been brainwashing you. Call the police Ted, there must be a law about this sort of thing.”

“If anyone’s calling the police, I’m sure they’d be interested to know just how you got in here.” Penny placed an arm around Stevie, who was noticeably shaken by the threat, “don’t worry, there’s no law like that honey,” Penny whispered in her ear.

“We are guarantors on the lease for this flat, and as such the landlord gave us a key,” Mr Weston began slowly, “I always said you were too young to leave home Steve, perhaps if you moved back...”

“We’d make sure this sicko would never bother you again,” Stevie flinched from what her mother thought was a reassuring smile, “go take those clothes off, and we’ll take you home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Stevie’s voice was little more than a whisper, “they can’t make me can they?”

“No one can make you go anywhere sweetie,” Penny stroked the young woman’s arm, “maybe if we all sat down, and talked things over...”

“Talk things over?” Janet spat the words like a cobra, “with the woman who’s turned my son into a sissy whore, what’s to say, ‘do you have any more pansy children I can fuck’?” Penny fought to contain her own temper, she could handle the slights directed her way, but how could a parent say such things to their child? She tightened her embrace around Stevie, carefully preparing her words, but it was Stevie’s father who spoke next.

“We’d better go, I don’t think we’re achieving anything here,” he brushed past them to open the front door, “come on Jan, before you do something you’d regret.”

It had taken another ten minutes to drag Mrs Weston from the flat, which she filled with yet more bile and venom. Penny had covered Stevie’s ears to prevent her from hearing the terrible insults her mother was hurling, but she knew that some at least had hit home. When her parents had eventually left, Stevie flopped down onto the sofa, head in her hands.

“She didn’t mean those things,” Penny stroked the young woman’s back, “it was temper talking, she loves you really.”

“Mum was right,” she did not look up, “I’m a freak, and a pervert. Why am I like this? It’s not fair.” Penny watched several sobs wrack Stevie’s body, but there were no tears.

“It’s not fair honey, but it’s not your fault,” Penny patted her knee, almost overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness, “and you’re not a freak, or a pervert; you’re lovely.” Stevie almost launched herself into her friend’s arms, tears streaming down her cheeks, and words tumbling from her lips.

“Do you really mean that? Do you?” Penny made encouraging noises while Stevie wept herself out, rubbing her back, and kissing her forehead. Her tear streaked face emerged after fifteen minutes, announcing in a peculiarly detached monotone, “that’s it; I can’t go back can I? Steve’s dead.”

“I think you knew that before,” at last she had accepted the truth, but Penny wished it had come a kinder way, “but it’s not the end of the world; your Mum and Dad love you, they’ll see that soon, I promise.” Just how she could effect that reconciliation troubled her, perhaps Bob Thornwell could intervene; he was a friend of the family, if that still counted for anything.

“Where are you going?” Stevie clung to Penny’s arm.

“I’m just going to the kitchen to make us a cup of something hot, then Missy I’m drawing you a bath. A long soak will do you a power of good.” A week before there had been no one in Penny’s life who really depended on her, no one who was sorry to see her go. It had never been something she regretted, her job had always come first, but now she could not help feeling that a void had been filled, “and then you can find a nightie for me, I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Stevie opened her eyes to find Penny already awake and smiling, just as she had the morning before, but much closer. The younger woman lay in a warm embrace, her head pressed to her friend’s breast; there was something she very much wanted to say to her, but feared it might embarrass them both.

“How are you feeling honey?” Penny gently kissed the tip of the girl’s nose.

“I’m sorry for the things Mum called you.” Stevie spoke in a hoarse whisper, her voice raw from sobbing, “She didn’t mean it, she’s nice really.” Penny drew her nearer still, while softly murmuring reassurances; Stevie could not remember a time when she had felt safer, even though memories of her parents’ reaction kept flooding back.

They remained in each other’s arms until the alarm clock’s note became too persistent to ignore. After a moment’s bustling confusion Stevie ceded her guest the right to prepare breakfast, while she showered and scraped a razor over her chin - more from paranoia than necessity.

Penny pressed a scrap of kitchen towel to the source of the bleeding with one hand, while pushing a bowl of cereal across the table with the other. “I’m not that hungry, honestly.” Stevie’s words were somewhat muffled by the makeshift dressing, and dismissed peremptorily by the older woman who simply told her to tuck in while she visited the bathroom. It was only the speed of her companion’s departure that prevented Stevie from making the unforgiveable error of answering ‘yes Mum’.

*****

Ms Hawker guided Brenda to a temporary halt before the building’s main entrance, waved to the ever alert security guard, and bundled her young charge from the car. “Be nice to Frank,” she called out before Stevie could slam the door closed, “he thinks the world of you.” She waited long enough to watch Stevie skip up the steps, where Frank had left his customary position to open the door for her, a singular honour for a very junior office junior. It was yet another example of how the young woman, could shake people from their comfortable routines, simply by demonstrating her complete lack of guile; Penny only hoped that it could survive whatever lay ahead.

“He’s very handsome Frank, you must be so proud of him.” Stevie handed the photograph back to the old soldier, who positively glowed with pride.

“Oh yes Miss, our family has served in the Royals since old Boney’s days, but Colin is the first of us to receive the Queen’s commission.” Frank carefully slipped the snap back into his pocket, and ever mindful of his wife’s wishes added, “he’s home on leave in a few weeks’ time Miss, I’m sure he’d like to meet you — that is if you’d like to.”

Any lingering thoughts about what had happened the last time she had ridden in the lift, quickly gave way to a suspicion that Frank’s intentions went beyond a father’s pride; had he just tried to set her up with his son?

Dismissing such a silly notion — what interest would Colin have in her — Stevie stepped into the already lighted eighth floor corridor. Someone had beaten her into work again, but unlike the previous morning there were no Goldilocks moments, as the earlier bird was seated at her desk.

“No biscuits this morning Tall Paul?” she asked curtly, savouring his rapid changes of expression, until they had almost settled on ‘plausible denial’, when she added the coup de grace, “or was one packet enough for ruining my life?”

“I never meant for it to go so far,” the young IT worker stammered, “I only showed it to one or two of the lads, they...” Stevie placed her hand on the desk, bending forward so that her face was no more than a few inches from his.

“Why?”

“After I found your blog I sent you an email — more than one actually — but you never answered; I thought you were being stuck up, and I was angry I suppose.” Had the Systems department had to follow the company dress code, he would no doubt have been loosening his tie, but had to content himself with puffing out his cheeks.

Stevie scrupulously replied to all the emails she received, with one exception; that insight explained the search that had brought him to her blog. “You attached a photograph didn’t you?” Tall Paul nodded dumbly, unable to meet her eyes; his obvious discomfort did not prevent her from pursuing a confession, “and that photograph was not of your face was it?”

“I thought that was what you wanted, that it was why you made the blog.” He tried to shrink back in the chair, but Stevie leant further forward, maintaining the short gap between their faces.

“Did you not think I knew what a penis looked like?” Stevie struggled to prevent her temper boiling over. “Or is your erection so impressive you expected me to swoon, and invite you over for sex?”

“You looked so fit, I just thought...”

“You just thought I was a sissy bimbo desperate for a good seeing to.” Stevie straightened up, and looked down her nose at the rather pathetic young man; she had never felt so in control of any situation before. “So you thought you’d have a go in person? I should report you to HR.”

“No honestly, I want to help out with your blog, I have some ideas.” Stevie blinked in disbelief, he was almost pleading with her. Intrigued, she perched on a corner of the desk, much as Penny did, and asked him to go on. “Well, you could have video segments, a podcast even; there are loads of things I can do to help, like...”

”I’ll mention it to Ms Hawker. You’d better go; I’ve things to do before anyone else gets in.” Stevie rewarded him a smile, which she hoped was not obviously sinister and a quick flash of thigh as she stood up. “Hey, I should be thanking you; this has been the best week of my life.” She very gently caught Paul’s arm when he walked past, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, that left him stumbling towards the door. If only her parents were as easy to persuade.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to discreetly share her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Watching Stevie bustle around the office in skirt and heels, Bob struggled once more to bring an image of his ‘nephew’ to mind. On those occasions when he had a clear memory of being in Steve’s company, it was only ever something the boy had said that he could recall. One could not accuse his alter-ego of lacking presence, she was at the heart of everything that happened in the office, and instantly memorable. Whatever she did, no matter how mundane, was carried out with brio; he could not help smiling as she air kissed Penny Hawker, before ushering the head of HR into his office.

“Um, yes... what exactly happened this weekend Penny? I talked to Ted — Stevie’s father — yesterday, but he wasn’t making much sense.” Bob was a little thrown by Ms Hawker’s appearance, though it took some time to pinpoint what had changed. She had never worn her hair down, not in the decade of their acquaintance, and he could only wonder at the reason why she had decided to that day. There was no doubt that the mass of soft blond curls framing Penny’s face suited her, and it was an appreciation of just how much, that distracted him as she began a clear, concise summary of the weekend’s events.

“...and then things got out of hand. Stevie was very upset, so I stayed with her last night.” Penny brushed away a tress that had strayed into her eyes.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with her haven’t you?” Bob tried not to make it sound like an accusation, but the recollection of how she had treated Stevie on their first meeting, coloured his words. Her answer was neither denial, nor explicit confession; its subtext was however obvious.

“Stevie is the most remarkable person I have ever met; she’s bright, and she’s funny, she’s fearless, and yet she’s fragile. Have you ever met someone with an angelic snore? I have never known anyone whose friendship felt such a privilege.” Penny fussed with her hair while she spoke, brushing it from her face, or curling it around a finger.

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way Penny, but it almost sounds like you’re in love with her.” Bob braced himself for the expected rebuff, and was astounded her mild answer.

“I’m ashamed of what we’ve done to her, and why.” She obviously had more to say, and he allowed her to continue after catching her breath. “It’s too late to undo, but I’m going to make sure nobody else hurts Stevie like we have.”

“That goes without saying, here’s what I’d...” Bob outlined a number of potential approaches based on his knowledge of Stevie’s parents, to which Penny added her observations of how Stevie would react.

“Let’s bring her in now Bob; I don’t want her to think we’re going behind her back.”

“Before we do that, how quickly can you arrange a department change for Belinda?” Company policy dictated that married couples could not work closely together, therefore if he and his personal assistant were to marry, that obstacle would have to be removed. The implications of Bob’s request were not lost on the HR head, who offered her congratulations and inquired if he had a replacement lined up. His answer came as no surprise.

*****

“They’ve been in there for ages; I bet they’re talking about me.” Stevie had not told Miss Hanford everything about the weekend, and she had certainly not included the worst of her mother’s tirade. Belinda had been very nice to her, but retained a measured reserve with the office junior, which Stevie felt compelled to observe too.

“Oh I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” the older woman replied, and with a conspiratorial flourish, produced a small box from a drawer. “I know you can keep secrets, dear, so tell me what you think.”

“Is that an engagement ring? Should I start calling you Auntie Bel?”

“Not for a while yet.” Belinda snapped the box shut, and replaced it in the drawer, but added, “Mr Thornwell will need a new PA then.” Stevie assumed Belinda’s wink was meant to convey that the vacant position would be hers. Although she said nothing to contradict her senior, Stevie had little enthusiasm for the prospect of making coffee, or managing appointments, for the foreseeable future. Before the pause in their conversation could become awkward, Bob summoned Stevie into his office, over the intercom.

*****

Penny thought it had gone reasonably well. Bob had taken some of the weight from her shoulders, and Stevie appeared much happier when she learned what they had planned. If anything troubled Penny, it was his assessment of her relationship with Stevie, and his reaction to a minor incident. Stevie had stood alongside the seated Penny, her fingers twitching nervously, and she had taken the girl’s hand in hers. It was a small gesture, one she had fallen into using, whenever Stevie needed reassurance. Bob’s expression told her had marked it as significant, but men often misunderstood female relationships, and she could not allow it to distract from the business ahead.

Using the room she had brought Stevie to on Friday had been a conscious decision. It would mean nothing to the post room worker, or his section leader, however it would strengthen her resolve to see Phil Becket suitably punished. As head of HR, Penny had many measures at her disposal, yet selecting the most appropriate had not been easy.

“I’m not fucking going; it’s bloody PC gone mad.” It was exactly the reaction Penny had hoped for, and she sat back waiting for him to dig himself deeper into a hole. “It’s his word against mine.”

“Your use of the masculine pronoun Mr Becket, further underlines the importance of the training we have arranged.” Penny edged forward in her seat; it was time for the coup de grace. “Of course if you refuse this opportunity, we would have to consider your suitability for an environment in which there are members of the transgendered community.”

“Two fucking weeks...” Phil shrugged off his supervisor’s attempts to silence him, “up a sodding mountain in Wales, with a bunch of fairies?”

“It is the best course available, Mr Becket.” Penny’s thin lipped smile chilled both men into silence. “You start a week from today, we’ll arrange transportation of course, and although I cannot suspend you — there has been no official complaint — I can grant you an extra week’s leave, with pay, effective immediately.”

“C’mon Phil, you can’t ask fairer than. Thank you Ms Hawker.” Phil’s immediate superior led him from the room, but not quickly enough to prevent Penny from making one final remark.

“You should have had that black eye seen to, Mr Becket, it looks painful.” She would need to have a chat with a certain old soldier, but Penny was sure he had been discreet.

*****

“Someone has been in here today.” Stevie had halted immediately after walking into her flat. From her position a step or so behind, everything seemed to Penny exactly as they left it in the morning, but her companion pointed at the coffee table. “I never leave the television remote on that corner, someone has moved it.”

“Well nothing appears to be missing in here.” Penny said, trying very hard not sound dubious, “We left in an awful hurry this morning, perhaps you moved it without realising.” Stevie did not answer; as if driven by some premonition she strode into the bedroom and opened the closet. Two pairs of Steve’s trousers, and his working shirts were all that remained; every item of clothing that Stevie owned, and every pair of shoes had been removed. A quick search through the chest of drawers revealed that her all her underwear was missing too, the vanity table had been cleared of make-up, and the corner where she kept her computer was empty too. When they checked the bathroom, it had been stripped of every beauty item, even bars of scented soap, and the laundry hamper held only the clothes Stevie had worn during her attempt at being male.

They found the note on the kitchen counter, which Stevie confirmed was in her mother’s hand. If it lacked the previous evening’s blind fury, it more than made up for it with a banality that was almost chilling.

Dear Steve,

It was time to put an end to this nonsense, so I have taken to the rubbish tip everything that woman made you wear. Hopefully she will leave you alone now, and you can come home where you belong.

Your father and I will be happy to have you back, just don’t come here as anything other than Steve, and don’t bring HER here with you.

Lots of love,

Mum

Penny stumbled into the living room and flopped down onto the sofa. She could not understand how a parent could perform such a callous violation of their child’s life; it did not help to know that she was its direct cause. Had she arranged a fortnight’s gardening leave for Steve, it would all have blown over in no time. He would have lost face for sure, and there would always be someone who would bring it up to torment him, but his and Stevie’s lives could have gone much as they had before. Penny covered her face with her hands, and wondered what the legal position was; did being guarantor on the lease permit them to access the flat without permission, or remove property. If she involved the police, without knowing Stevie’s rights, there could be all manner of complications.

Helplessness was not a familiar emotion for Penny, and it took several moments for Stevie’s laughter to penetrate her despondency. At first she assumed it to be a hysterical reaction, and who could blame the girl, however when she looked up, her young friend seemed relatively composed,

“I can’t go back to being Steve.” Stevie waved her mother’s note, then realising that Penny could not share in the joke added, "The breastform-glue’s solvent was in the bathroom; she took away the one thing that I need to dress up as him.”
Stevie waited a few moments for the situation’s irony to sink before speaking again. When Penny finally produced a smile, Stevie knelt beside and asked, “Can you take me home please?”

“But you can’t, not like that, you’ve read the letter.”

“Not their home, silly, yours.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to share discreetly her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Stop mucking about with my knickers,” Stevie’s outburst turned every head in the aisle. Unperturbed, Penny continued arranging their shopping cart’s contents, pausing only to smile at the younger woman. Stevie appeared to be taking the latest blow in her stride, but her attempts at good humour bordered on forced, and Penny feared a crash was imminent.

“I think that’s it,” she said, straightening up, “undies, nighties, toiletries, make-up, and a few things for you to wear around the house.” Stevie’s observation that the latter would make her look like a chav, cut no ice with Penny, who offered to buy her the most orange fake tan the supermarket stocked. When this suggestion was declined, Penny directed her companion to the checkout, while she went in search of one last item.

To Stevie’s surprise the ever-present, stout cashier greeted her by name, causing the customer in front to turn, and gush about how pretty she looked ‘for a boy’. Vanessa - Stevie finally took the time to read her name tag - rolled her eyes as the woman fumbled her credit card back into her purse. “She should be so lucky to look like you,” she said, bleeping a pack of panties over the barcode scanner. Stevie, who had been squirming, thanked her - it seemed everyone in town knew who she was now.

Penny dropped two ready meals onto the conveyor, earning an accusatory look from its other end. “I thought you didn’t use the microwave,”

“Normally I don’t,” Penny affected a nonchalant air, “I prepare my meals for the week on Sundays, but I had a friend over, who just wouldn’t...” Before she could finish the sentence Stevie had rushed over and caught her in a tight hug. With the girl’s tears running onto her cheek, Penny whispered reassurances, and patted Stevie’s back. “It’s been a long day,” she said to Vanessa, who was bagging the last of their purchases for them.

*****

Bob snapped the telephone handset back into its dock, and groaned; last week’s simple plan had become increasingly Byzantine, drawing everyone deeper into its intrigue. Belinda was on hand with tea, and a measured sympathy. “What’s happened now?” she asked.

“Stevie’s parents removed all of her belongings from her flat today.” His bride-to-be’s tea was awful, and was largely responsible for his switch to coffee; he tried not to grimace as he related the story. “I spoke to Ted earlier, and he didn’t mention it, so I’m pretty sure Janet acted alone.”

“And now she’s got the result she feared most of all.” Belinda’s tea remained untouched, she much referred coffee, and only made tea when Bob visited. There was a pretty irony to Mrs Weston’s actions, but she wondered how much of it was chance — the head of HR was a practiced manipulator of emotions. “It’s worked out well for Penny; perhaps Janet has a point?”

Bob thought about telling her of that morning’s meeting, and how Penny was turning herself inside out with guilt. However, he had always respected confidences, though how long that virtue would survive his impending marriage he did not know. If any good remained to come from their original plot, Bob was sure it would be in the relationship between Penny and Stevie. “I was there darling, it wasn’t planned to work out this way, but they’re good for each other, aren’t they?”

“Just how much time have you spent imagining them together, Bob Thornwell?”

After twenty years she knew far too well how his mind worked; in the office he had everything under his control, but the Thornwells’ home life promised to be interesting.

*****

Stevie could not understand why she had to have her own room. Penny had argued that, it would appease Stevie’s mother, and two girls getting dressed in the same room would inevitably get in each other’s way. Sound as these reasons were, it still felt like a rejection, especially after spending almost all of the past few days together. She had never felt lonely in her flat - after all Steve had lived there too - but the prospect of spending the night apart from the older woman was awful.

Releasing her ponytail, Stevie sat at the dressing table and brushed out her long brown hair. Ms Hawker she understood, but Penny was still a mystery. At times she was the best friend Stevie had ever known, perhaps more than that, and yet when they were at their closest Penny pulled away - it was almost as though she was afraid.

“Are you decent?” Penny pushed open the bedroom solicitously, asking if she had time for a ‘chat before bed’. Stevie nodded, and swivelled in her chair to face her friend, who sat on the edge of the bed. Penny was trying her best to smile, glancing around at the scant possessions the girl had brought from her flat.

“I should have said this before, but I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you.” Penny held up a hand to stave off interruptions. “It was wrong to force you into coming into work as a girl. There’s something going on in the company — I can’t tell you what yet — and I used you to gain advantage from it.” With every word more colour drained from her face, and her voice began increasingly to catch. “I’ve ruined your life, and I am so sorry — for what that’s worth now — but I am going to do whatever I must to make things right for you.”

With a final apology Penny rose and left the room, leaving a bewildered Stevie to stare at her retreating back.

Propped up in bed, Penny read through Stevie’s lease once more; her landlord was in clear breach of its terms by allowing her parents access without express permission. If she so wanted Stevie was free to abandon the property without penalty; would that her other problems were as easily addressed. Penny laid the document down on the bed beside her, and remembered wistfully how pleasant it had been to have the young woman snoring in that same spot.

Apologies were not Penny’s forte, since she expended a great deal of time avoiding having to make any. Lack of practice might have excused her botched effort earlier, but despite the sincerity of her words, she had to accept that it had been made solely to salve her own conscience. Seeing Stevie clutch the small bag containing her only possessions had been its inspiration: an iPod, a handful of DVDs and a few French novels had been all she had taken away from the flat. Steve’s clothes had been left behind, a pleasing indication that she now saw no future role for him, but almost everything she treasured had been stolen by her mother and father.

Penny fought the urge to go to Stevie, whatever words she chose she doubted they would hold much comfort for the dispossessed teenager. It promised to be a long night, wholly taken up by a hunt for the appropriate things to say when morning came. She was just about to turn off the light when the door was inched opened.

“You didn’t say I had to sleep in my room.” Stevie waited in the doorway for permission to enter, shifting her weight uneasily from one foot to another. Penny said nothing, but folded back the covers, which was invitation enough for Stevie who skipped barefoot across the carpet, and flopped down onto the mattress. “It’s not your fault,” she said, scooting from the bed’s cold side to Penny’s hesitant embrace, “and this has been the best week of my life, honest.”

“Next week will be better, I promise.” Penny pulled the quilt over them, jubilant that her young charge was in high spirits, but ashamed that she had not properly conveyed how much wrong she had done.

Stevie kissed her cheek very gently. Penny, as ever, was a conundrum beyond her young comprehension; sweet, and sad, and lovely. “I do love...” The older woman halted Stevie’s confession by placing a finger over the girl’s lips.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Penny reached across the nightstand and switched off the lamp.

That ‘ourselves’ gave Stevie more than enough to ponder on as she laid her head on Penny’s shoulder — if Penny felt the same way about her, the next week truly would be even better. Still, she wanted to finish what she had started to say. Penny’s heart beat steadily beneath Stevie’s ear, as she waited for her bedfellow to drop off. When she was sure that Penny was asleep, Stevie whispered, “I love you.”

“Go to sleep,” Penny answered softly, “you’ve work in the morning, Miss Weston.”

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to share discreetly her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

Stevie arranged herself in Penny’s arms, taking great care not to disturb the sleeping blonde. With a minimum of wriggling, she brought their faces level and her bottom directly under Penny’s hand. Seven days had done nothing to diminish the pleasure she had derived from the head of HR’s first attentions to that part of her anatomy, and she was determined to revisit them. However, while pushing out her bottom, Stevie’s nose bobbed forward and brushed against Penny’s. As her companion’s eyes fluttered open, Stevie pressed her lips to the older woman’s by way of a ‘good morning’; only when the tip of Stevie’s tongue nudged its way into her mouth, did Penny break their kiss. “Don’t do that sweetie,” she pleaded.

Stevie gently bit Penny’s bottom lip, before transferring the kiss to her partner’s cheek. “Sorry,” she whispered, but unwilling to surrender the initiative, added, “have you ever been in love, Penny?” To lend the question more significance, she pressed her body even closer.

“Love is a lot like Blackpool,” Penny opined, “the lights are very beautiful, but you wouldn’t want live there.” Stevie expected that sort of cynical expression from Ms Hawker, but not from her Penny. Nevertheless, Stevie tried a sidestep of her own, and asked if Penny knew where her hand was; her reward was a blush, and a tender pat on the behind.

The alarm clock quashed any hope Stevie had of further contact. Slithering across Penny, she switched it off with a sharp smack, before flopping back onto the mattress. “Can’t we stay here for a bit longer?”

“You have an appointment first thing, remember?” Penny said, hauled off the duvet, and dispatched the teenager to her own room to get ready for work.

Tall Paul had offered to help with a video clip for Stevie’s blog, and after Ms Hawker had given the project her approval, had arranged to shoot it first thing that morning. Stevie doubted that the gangling IT worker had any directorial skills, but he was more than competent with technology, and she had worked out what to say when she was alone in her room the previous evening. Even if the video was a failure, that morning’s meeting fitted in nicely with her own plans for Tall Paul, and with those in mind she turned to her meagre wardrobe.

“Oh, I didn’t realise it was that short - are you sure you want to wear it to work?” Stevie’s ever-improving confidence impressed Penny, but she was not sure that the ‘new girl’ was ready for the constraints a short skirt imposed in an office - especially when her desk lacked a modesty panel. “Your new black shorts are very smart, why not try them?”
Stevie, however, would not budge from her teen stubbornness, but conceded that she would need to wear tights rather than stockings, if only for the sake of the senior managers’ blood pressure. Hosiery was, of course, the only thing they had forgotten to buy at the supermarket, and for want of a new pair, Penny directed her to take the pair drying in the bathroom, if her ‘big old hips’ had not irreparably stretched them.

The only other person whose clothes Stevie had worn had been her mother and that had ended when she began to buy her own. When she had worn her mum’s clothes, Stevie had always been at pains not to think about their previous occupant, but she could not help thinking, as she rolled Penny’s tights up her legs, about the previous journeys they had made. Despite her protestations to the contrary, Penny was less than a size larger that Stevie and the tights fitted quite snugly.
Although there was no one present, Stevie blushed as she straightened her hair in the mirror, after splashing a little water on her face. Casting around for anything that might drive away the thoughts making her cheeks burn, Stevie noticed that there was no condensation evident in the room. She had heard Penny showering a few minutes earlier and there was only conclusion she could draw; her own lengthy shower had deprived her host of hot water. There was no time to fret about it, since Penny was rushing her along from the other side of the door.

*****

“Can we have lunch together?” Stevie used a toe to stop the lift door closing between her and Penny.

“Sorry, honey, I have interviews all day, but I’ll pop in if I’m passing.” The head of HR allowed a warm smile to peep through her professional veneer; Stevie’s disappointment was palpable, and Penny had to fight to prevent her own from reflecting it. “Perhaps Miss Hanford, or one of your old colleagues in Accounts, can fill in.” The younger woman nodded, and dipped back into the car to kiss her friend’s cheek in parting.

Stevie had perfected her feminine walk early on, taking any opportunity her parents’ absence afforded. Moderated by the fear of it becoming such second nature, that Steve would unwittingly begin swinging his hips, it involved only a gentle swaying, and a modest reduction in stride. Her attempts therefore, to exaggerate and appear more seductive that morning, resulted in a rather ungainly wobble which she abandoned a metre or so short of her office. Instead, she chose to announce her arrival with a small cough, and struck a suggestive pose in the doorway.

Tall Paul had arrived more than an hour earlier, weighed down by practically every piece of video equipment he could find, and a nagging doubt in his abilities. His father was an accomplished amateur filmmaker, and Paul liked to think the years of parental direction inflicted upon him, gave him a modicum of knowledge. He had also spent the evening before poring over his father’s many books, but stopped short of watching any of their home movies; it was difficult to simultaneously study and cringe. Crawling around connecting cables, he was oblivious to Stevie’s approach until her coughed alert.

“Where do you want me?” she asked, while his eyes were travelling between her ankles and thighs. Still on all fours, Paul suggested she sit at her desk, but she dismissed this saying, “You’ll make me look like the Queen at Christmas.”

Several comments about her always being his queen sprang to mind, none of which the gauche technophile dared to utter, and he returned to those things he knew how to connect. When he looked up again Stevie was dangling her wonderful legs from the desk’s front, apparently unconcerned that the young man could see all the way up what there was of her skirt. After his third and most audible gulp, Stevie crossed one knee over the other, and teased her skirt’s hem down an inch or so. “Shall we start?” she asked.

Steve had made a presentation to camera at least once during each school year, but it was never something he was comfortable doing. Always wary of an incriminating slip, Steve guarded his words, and before an acute, unfailing witness, his speech dribbled out. Freed from his handicap, Stevie should have been able to speak with something approaching her everyday articulacy, but they had to endure ten minutes of corpsing before she was able to address the camera properly.

“Hi everyone, and welcome to the first entry in my video blog. I’m sorry to start with bad news; while I was at work yesterday, my parents removed all my belongings from the flat: clothes, make-up, my computer - everything. Fortunately, I had left some things in a friend’s home over the weekend, and we managed to pick up a few essentials at the supermarket, so I don’t have to walk around naked. Ooh, Paul almost passed out then. Come and say ‘hello’ Paul. No? He’s red as a beetroot, bless him.” Stevie motioned for him to stop the camera.

“Is that it?” Paul asked, still struggling with the image of a naked Stevie.

“Just a bit more, give me a minute to get ready.” Stevie sipped from the glass of water Tall Paul had brought during her last laughing fit. “OK, I think I’m ready.” She set the glass down beside her on the desk, and at his signal launched hesitantly into the second part of her prepared speech.

“This bit’s for my Mum and Dad, though I don’t know if they’ll see it, they’re not great with computers. Perhaps someone will show them. I just want to tell you both that I still love you, but you can’t get rid of me by stealing my clothes. I’ve always been here, I was simply too afraid to say. You didn’t bring me up to be a coward, and I wish you could have found out about me any other way than you did.

“What hurts is that you took my memories away from me. Every item of clothing held an association for me: the first things I bought myself; my first night in the flat; the suit from first day in work; and worst of all, the outfit I wore on the weekend.

“Everyone was upset on Sunday night; there was a lot of shouting, and a lot of name calling. That wasn’t fair Mum, she’s my best friend, and you shouldn’t have said those things. Anyway, I couldn’t stay in the flat after this, so I’ve moved in with my friend, but you know how to get hold of me. I promise to pick up the phone this time.”

“I’m so sorry, Stevie, I never thought anything like this would happen.” Paul stopped the camera, hovering between it and her. Providing comfort was not his forte; operating an IT helpline was no preparation for the position he found himself in. He was as likely to know the correct course of action, as a Samaritan presented with a defective server. After some prevarication, he offered to fetch another glass of water.

Shaking her head, Stevie pinched the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger, to trap the gathering tears. It would be much easier to dislike Paul if he was not so persistently nice.

Belinda’s introduction to the scene occurred at the instant Tall Paul’s head struck the underside of Stevie’s desk. The knot of cables he clutched explained what he had been doing under there, but the reason for his alarm was not immediately apparent. However, if the office junior hoped her bringing her knees back together would go unnoticed, she was soon disabused. Still dressed in her topcoat, Miss Hanford took the telephone from her own desk and dialled; “Hello, this is Mr Thornwell’s office. I’d like you to replace the desk you provided last week, or at least fit it with a modesty panel." She specified a lunchtime deadline, and left her extension number, all the while fixing Stevie with a deeply reproachful look. Belinda tolerated flirting, but drew a line at indecent exposure.

Her modesty regained, Stevie applied herself to sorting the documents stacked on her desk. Like many of the tasks that had been handed down to the office junior, it appeared to be make work designed to keep her occupied. The latest batch of filing seemed particularly pointless; she was sure they were stored electronically on Accounts’ central database. Without access to these’ records, however, she could not put her case to Miss Hanford, and kept her counsel.
Lunchtime loomed, and it seemed likely to be lonely, since Belinda’s frosty attitude had yet to thaw. Remembering Penny’s parting comments, she asked her superior if she could make a telephone call.

*****

“I’m so jealous of your legs - I could never wear a skirt like that.” Stacey slid her tray onto the table beside Stevie’s. As ever, the staff restaurant was all but deserted, and the two girls had their pick of tables. Taking one by the window, they eat rapidly, catching up on gossip between mouthfuls. Stevie’s elevation to the eighth floor offered a wealth of insights on many senior staff members, although she was careful not to say anything traceable back to her. Her friend, she knew, would not intentionally divulge confidences, but if recent events had taught Stevie anything, it was that the most innocuous comment could return to haunt its originator. For her part, she was happy to listen to reports on her former colleagues.

“A few of the girls are going out after work on Friday, you should come along,” Stacy said, emphasising the invitation with her fork, “Remember it’s casual Friday, so don’t glam up and put the rest of us to shame.” Given the current paucity of her wardrobe, Stevie felt she had to demur, and when pressed by her companion, explained how her parents had stolen her belongings.

“I still have three days I suppose I can buy something...” Stevie allowed her voice to trail away. A few pounds remained in her current account, but her credit cards were all in Steve’s name. No doubt, Penny would offer to help, but Stevie was already uncomfortable about how much she had imposed on her friend.

“If you weren’t such a skinny bitch I’d lend you something of mine.” Stacey laughed, her fork poised expectantly over Stevie’s plate, “Are you going to finish that?”

While waiting for the lift Stevie passed Stacy a wrinkled post-it note, on which she had scrawled half a dozen document reference numbers, and asked to have them checked on the accounting system. When asked why, her shrug was enough to convince Stacy that she was entering into a conspiracy. “Planning on sticking it to old Posner eh?” Stacy winked as she tucked the scrap of yellow paper into her own bag. Eliciting no response from Stevie, she added, “Well I hope you are, he’s started wearing deodorant and I swear it makes him smell even worse.”

*****

Bob Thornwell may have had his name on the door, but Belinda always considered the office her domain: its desks, drawers and cabinets were hers to rule, as were its inhabitants: from office junior to senior manager - she was their queen. Never once, had anyone managed to make her feel the intruder in the way that Ms Hawker, and Stevie had.

The head of HR had arrived a few minutes after lunch, made some small excuse for her presence, and perched on Stevie’s desk. The two of them had then proceeded to chat about nothing in particular, but with an intensity that excluded everything around them. Stevie beamed at the older woman with an expression that bordered on beatific, watching her speak more than listening. Penny’s attention wandered no farther, except that she touched the teenager every few seconds: a pat on the shoulder, brushing a hair from her eyes, or lightly drawing her fingers across Stevie’s cheek.

As appalling as the scene appeared to her, its intimacy touched Belinda and she gave into the desire to leave them alone. A personal assistant had many duties, but chaperone was not among hers, neither was gooseberry. An announcement seemed redundant, since they were patently oblivious to her person, so with all the dignity she could muster, Belinda sought a voluntary exile in the bathroom.

“Did you really make Paul blush?” Penny asked amused by the colour that crept into Stevie’s face too. “I told him he could cut that bit out; it didn’t work so well with what you said afterwards anyway.” Her young friend had a lot to learn about hiding her emotions, especially from the camera. Penny, however, was grateful that she had viewed the video alone; its combination of pathos and quiet defiance had left her in tears. “I’ve asked him to come along to our meeting this afternoon to show us how to upload it to your blog.”

“Oh, I thought that was our time.” Stevie had been looking forward to their four thirty appointment all day, and could not hide her disappointment.

“We’ve all evening together at home.” Penny tweaked the tip of the girl’s nose, coaxing a smile from her. Penny’s house had never been a home, she realised, until Stevie set foot in it. Everything good in the head of HR’s life seemed to be a result of Stevie’s misfortunes, and the guilt was overwhelming.

*****

“Hi Paul, is Pen... is Ms Hawker not here?” Stevie stood in the doorway clutching her bag and coat. Transfixed, Paul did his best to mumble that she had stepped out to make some telephone calls, and invited her to sit. “Are you working on my video?” Stevie said, flopping into the chair beside him, and tugging vainly at her skirt’s hem.

“I’ve finished editing it — you can see it if you like.” Technical matters were safe ground for the young man from IT, although he could only maintain a semblance of volubility by not looking at her. He turned his laptop so she could see its screen, where Stevie was making her plea to camera.

“I sound a bit squeaky,” she said, “But it’s lovely, thank you.” Gratitude came with a peck on the cheek that sent Paul’s heart racing.

“It was nothing,” he croaked, painfully aware that she had scooted her chair closer to his.

“No, you’re really clever,” Stevie insisted, and gave him an encouraging smile that sent the blood rushing through his ears. “Can you show me how to upload it now?”

“OK. It’s quite easy really, you just...” Paul’s demonstration took a few minutes, during which Stevie edged ever closer. His blood now pounded toward an altogether more embarrassing destination, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

“You really did do me a huge favour by outing me,” Stevie breathed in his ear, “I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you.” Paul felt her knee pressing against his, and saw her thigh invitingly within reach. As if reading his mind she shifted in her chair, pushing her whole leg farther forward.

Women never came onto Paul, not even when hopelessly drunk at Christmas parties, but here was a girl he could only ever have dreamed of meeting apparently throwing herself at him. Closing his eyes, he let his hand fall tentatively onto her thigh, and braced his body for the inevitable slap.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” Stevie gently gripped his wrist, and started it in a slow, stroking motion. “Why do you fancy girls like me Paul?” she asked sweetly. Caught up by the sensations of nylon, and warm flesh running beneath his fingers, it took several seconds for him to frame an answer.

“Trannies still dress like women should,” Paul said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “More feminine than real girls like, and you really know how to please a man cos you’ve got...”

“Cocks?” Stevie had no idea that she could arch an eyebrow that high, but Paul was too fixated on her thigh to notice. Her next question had his full attention however, “How do you feel about blow jobs?”

Paul’s head snapped up amazed to hear such a filthy expression emerge from his angel’s lips. Nevertheless, the offer was on the table and he felt compelled to answer before she withdrew it. “Um they’re great, wonderful, fantastic, brilliant, um yes please.”

Stevie pushed her seat back from the desk, her legs opening as far as its arm rests allowed. “Down you go then, and try not to rip my tights.”

“I thought you meant...” Paul snapped his computer closed, rising from his seat as he did so. “I’d better get back to IT,” he stammered, “Lots to do, you know, busy, busy, busy.” With the laptop placed strategically over his crotch, he hurried out of the interview room in a peculiar hobbling gait.

Penny stood outside the door quietly burning. Quite why she felt such anger was easier to explain than to admit. Forward as Stevie had been with Penny, the teenager had never acted so provocatively; while she had held back the girl’s most affectionate advances, it hurt Penny to see them directed at another. Jealousy had not troubled the head of HR for years, but she could overcome it by maintaining a professional manner.

Stevie sat doubled in the chair, her head almost between her widely spread knees. A casual observer might suppose that she was weeping, but as Penny drew nearer, she saw that Stevie was laughing. Despite a growing conviction that she had completely misread what had happened, Penny pressed ahead. Slamming the door brought the teenager’s head upright, and under Ms Hawker’s cold scrutiny, she pulled down her skirt’s hem over her panties.

“Asking a co-worker to perform oral sex is a serious disciplinary matter.” Penny had begun the sentence in her most formidable tone, but was almost giggling by its end. “You devious, manipulative little sauce, you had that all planned didn’t you? If I could I’d give you a job in HR.” She dropped into the seat Tall Paul had vacated, adding, “Why?”

“He was the one who outed me,” Stevie said, with a shrug, “and it wasn’t all planned; I thought it would take longer, but then you weren’t here...” Her voice trailed away, bemused by Penny’s expression, which merged astonishment with admiration in equal parts, and another, impenetrable emotion. “Anyway, you’re the boss of HR, so why can’t you give me a job?”

“Because if you worked for me,” Penny took Stevie’s head between her hands, “You wonderful girl, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” The kiss was unexpected, and without precedent; it was as passionate as all Penny’s previous kisses had been chaste, and left Stevie dizzied.

“Wuh?” Stevie’s tongue had been wrestled into submission, and no longer answered. Physically, as well as emotionally spent, she slumped back in her chair.

“Tell you later,” Penny said briskly, “now if you’ve finished with the computer let’s go buy you a new frock for Friday.”

*****

“How did you know about Friday?” Penny’s had wrapped an arm around Stevie’s waist, and she drew her closer to answer.

“I know everything,” Penny said affecting a mysterious air, “and I met Stacy in the lift earlier.”

“We’ve left it a bit late haven’t we?” Most of the shopping centre’s stores were closing up for the night, including the department store they were heading for.

“I phoned ahead, and shops will always stay open for celebrities.” Ashley, the assistant who they had met on their precious visit, positively gushed when Penny called, and ran to find a manager, who was very accommodating. Stevie’s name not only opened doors, apparently, it kept them from closing.

“I’ve put some things I think you’ll like in the fitting room. You are a size eight aren’t you, Stevie?” Ashley raised her voice to compete with the vacuum cleaners’ hum, and chose to ignore Penny’s muttered comment. “You know how cramped it is in there Penny, so it’s probably best if only Stevie and me go in.” Another muttered comment escaped her lips, but Penny acquiesced and leafed through the nearest sale rack, although thermal underwear — even at sale prices — was the last thing on her mind.

“I’ll be back out to model them for you.” Stevie waited for an acknowledging smile and disappeared behind the curtains. Ashley’s ‘some things’ turned out to be an understatement of the highest order, and Stevie wondered if there were any clothes left at all outside.

“Penny said you needed a smart suit for work.” Ashley said holding up a hanger, so climb out of that huge skirt you’re wearing and try these.” Stevie had only ever undressed in front of Penny, but the young assistant’s joke helped her past her shyness. “Pretty knickers,” Ashley added as her pampered customer changed.

Once out of her heels Stevie became very conscious of the difference in their heights with Ashley looming over her. To Stevie’s surprise, her downward glance revealed that the assistant was wearing flat shoes. “Five feet, eleven and a half inches,” Ashley volunteered after following the direction of her gaze.

Penny approved most of Ashley’s choices, and as each outfit made its way through the curtains she cooed over Stevie, who was obviously in her element. She might never get the chance to wear some of the new clothes, but Penny felt she had to make up the loss of the girl’s wardrobe. Part of her admitted that she was enjoying the process; like most little girls Penny had played with dolls, and never had one as pretty as Stevie.

“How about this for Friday?” Ashley held up a simple black-and-white checked dress. “It’s not too dressy, but smart enough to wear out in the evening. You’ll look smashing in it, I promise.”

“It is lovely.” Stevie pirouetted in the narrow mirror, “But look at the price, it’s much too expensive.” She continued to turn slowly, admiring her reflection - the dress was perfect.

“Penny is going to love you in that.” Ashley patted down the dress over Stevie’s slim hips. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you and Penny together?” The heavy emphasis Ashley placed on the last word brought Stevie out of her reverie, and she took a step back.

“Sort of, I don’t know, we live together, and we’ve kissed...” the memory of that afternoon’s kiss was fresh enough to make her catch her breath, “Anyway I’m not really looking for anyone right now, sorry.” Stevie hoped her rather inept attempt at diplomacy would let the young woman down easily.

“Someone’s getting a bit too big for her boobs, I was asking about Penny.” As pleased as she was to meet someone who was almost famous, Stevie’s attractive friend excited her more. Although Ashley had accepted her sexuality while still in her teens, she had never found a satisfactory partner among girls her own age; they expected a tall girl to domineer, and Ashley had no interest in that. Older lesbians she met she found rather grim, whereas Penny was attractive, assertive and obviously enjoyed younger company.

“I’m in love with her,” Stevie blurted.

“I know you are, precious.” Ashley patted the blushing girl’s cheek, and in a whisper asked, “Is she a good kisser.” Stevie did not answer - at least not verbally - her expression however spoke volumes.

*****

“You and Ashley took ages trying that last dress, what were you two up to?” Penny asked when they made it to the car. There had been no opportunity for conversation during the walk back, as both women struggled under the sheer weight of their purchases.

Stevie was still rearranging her skirt after getting in the car; she was sure footage from the overhead security camera would fast become a staff favourite. “Nothing,” she answered, “Ashley just wanted to know if we were a couple.”

“Oh well, I’m just going to have to get used to people hitting on my girlfriend.” Penny ended with a sigh of mock resignation.

“It isn’t me she fancies.” Stevie enjoyed Penny’s reaction for a few seconds, and then the full impact of what the older woman had said sank in. “You just called me your... does that mean you’re my...”

Penny slowly nodded, smiled and pressed her hand to Stevie’s cheek. “That is, if you want me.”

“Oh yes!” Stevie almost shouted, before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Minutes passed while she recovered enough composure when to add, for a mystified Penny’s benefit, “Sorry, it’s just that Mum’s gone on for years about me getting a girlfriend."

“Oh God, she’ll...“ Her mobile chimed midsentence cutting off whatever she intended to say. Flipping it open automatically, she found a short text message from her assistant.

“U CN TV NEWS?”

*****

Phil hoped his first day’s unscheduled leave would not set a pattern for the whole week. His mates were all in work, there was nothing on the television worth a damn, and the unseasonably wet April kept him from the public golf course. After a few hours of home improvement shows and Australian soaps, he tried something from his DVD collection.

‘Die Hard’ had been his favourite film for years, he had watched it countless times, but it simply made him feel old now. In the twenty first century, John McClane would face censure for innumerable health and safety breaches, and then a protracted course of counselling. Disgusted, Phil braved the rain for his local pub, with every intention of getting rat-arsed drunk.

The knot of diehard smokers clustered under the Rose and Crown’s eaves was another regrettable sign of the times. Once, cigarette smoke would have bound everyone inside in the same half-choked bonhomie, its absence, however, drove customers apart. Phil sidled along the bar to escape a particularly noxious smelling pensioner, only to meet another’s wet dog. After an hour’s solitary drinking, he found the company of a few reasonably deodorised alcoholics in the snug, and joined them to argue the toss.

Annette — whiskey and pep — introduced Stevie to their musings. Staring contentedly down her blouse, Phil took several minutes to catch up with the change in topic, at which point he duly offered his opinion. In the course of one afternoon, the small company of worthy drinkers had consigned all criminals to the gibbet, all immigrants to their home countries and the nation’s remaining youth to military service; yet on the subject of Stevie they were surprisingly laissez faire.

Stevie was not doing any harm argued Annette, a view seconded by Mary - port and lemon — who also invoked Lady Di’s eternal memory. Tim — vodka and Irn Bru — told Phil quite forcefully that he was living in the past, while Vic — anything off the top shelf — accused Phil of greater perversion for staring at his wife’s cleavage all afternoon. As the conversation grew increasingly heated, more customers joined in until Phil found his was the only dissenting voice. At the landlord’s suggestion, he left the Rose and Crown, and wandered off in search of a fast food vendor born in the United Kingdom.

Clutching a kebab so tightly that a small river of grease ran off one elbow, Phil weaved his way home, to the relatively minor disappointments of the early evening news. By the time he had taken a beer from the fridge, and tracked down the remote control, the headlines had given way to a local report. Entirely focussed on the foam spilling over from the can, he recognised the local shopping centre before registering the anchor’s, “...at the centre of an internet phenomenon.” A lengthy vox pop followed a montage of Stevie’s photographs, and the participants’ universal approval for Phil’s despised co-worker proved the final insult.

“The week has just got a damn sight longer,” he told the smoking ruins of his television.

*****

“Cheer up, it was only the regional news, and everyone was very nice.” Penny wrapped an arm around Stevie’s shoulders. With growing media attention, she wondered if the blog was getting out of hand, yet should they stop updating it that would itself cause comments. “At least if your Mum sees it, she’ll know how positively people think about you.”

“It’s not that, I just wish they would stop calling me a transsexual.” Stevie laid her head on Penny’s shoulder. “I like being me, but I don’t think I want to go that far; it’s like everyone wants me to have a sex change operation.”

Yet again Stevie had made Penny feel unqualified to comment. In her understanding, the girl seemed a textbook case of transsexualism, and the ultimate outcome of beginning that journey was reassignment surgery. Perhaps Stevie only needed more time to shake off the inhibitions her secret life had imposed, to accept what she really desired, but Penny knew that she was by no means an expert, and resolved to consult those who were. “Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to anymore,” Penny said, patting Stevie’s knee with her free hand.

“Not even you?” Stevie asked then pressed her lips to Penny’s before the older woman had any chance to answer. The kiss seemed to last forever for both of them, and yet was over all too briefly. As Penny sat back, her pulse racing, Stevie fired more questions at her, “So what changed? Why did you suddenly kiss me?”

“Hardly sudden,” was Penny’s retort, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since I found you curled up like a kitten in my bed on Sunday morning. You’ve been through so much in the last week, I thought you were vulnerable, and didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

“So you showed me your fanny instead?”

“That was when I thought you wanted one,” Penny spluttered.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“But you just said...” Penny fixed Stevie with a stare, a smile slowly creeping over her face. “I only found out about this side of you, when I heard you torturing poor Tall Paul — he deserves an apology by the way you minx — and there didn’t seem to be a good reason any more not to kiss you.”

“So what happens next?” Stevie wormed her way back into Penny’s embrace.

“The washing up.”

*****

“Oh my, don’t you look sweet in your jimjams.” Belinda clapped her hands together in an excited show of glee. Bob cut a tragic figure in blue and white striped flannel, he felt like a convalescent not someone about to jump into bed with his fiancée.

“I have a feeling that this will be the only time I’ll wear the trousers in our marriage.” Bob’s tone spoke of resignation, but his assistant had smoothly run his professional life through two decades, and he doubted she would try to change him overmuch. “They make me look like my Dad,” he added, trying not to sound petulant.

“Nonsense, get into bed you big baby.” Belinda turned back the covers. “Remember it’s my house and my rules.”
Bob thought briefly of promoting the advantages of his, much larger, home, but Belinda’s actions had revealed she was wearing a particularly diaphanous negligee. Blessing drawstrings and his Scouts honed knot tying skills, he leapt onto the bed, and reached for her.

“Not so fast mister,” Belinda said, easily slipping out of reach, “Have you sorted out my new job yet?” After a few minutes of his dissembling, she lost patience, and very shortly added, “At this rate Ms Hawker and Stevie will be married before we are.”

“You’re not still going on about that are you Bel?” Bob gratefully took the opportunity to change the subject. “I’ve told you, there’s nothing sinister in it.”

“God Bob you’re so blind sometimes; they dote on each other so much, it’s painful to watch.”

“Good for Penny, I still feel bad about her you know.”

“Of course you do you old softie.” Bob so carefully hid his tender side in work that she often had to remind herself of it. “It’s a true love match I’m sure, and good for both of them, but if you don’t sort things out soon — with Stevie’s parents too - you’ll be walking your new niece up the aisle, before walking me down it.”
Bachelorhood’s advantages came flooding back in to Bob’s mind, not that he would ever dare to voice them; instead he contented himself with a meek, “Yes dear.”

*****

“Shouldn’t we do — you know - stuff?” Stevie asked after putting down her book on the nightstand.

“We could I suppose,” Penny answered hesitantly, “What stuff do you normally do?” Stevie’s blush answered the question even before she stammered out that this would be a first opportunity. Resisting an urge to smother the teenager in kisses, Penny suggested that they waited a few days for things to settle down. “My first time was rubbish,” she added gently, “I want yours to be perfect.” Drawing Stevie closer, she planted a kiss on the girl’s forehead. “And I’ve never been anyone’s first before,” she whispered.

“OK, if you think that’s best.” Stevie tried to hide the disappointment in her voice as she nestled closer.

“I don’t want us to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” Penny continued, while trying to ignore that her hand was now resting where Stevie had placed it, on the precocious nymph’s delightful bottom. “It doesn’t do to rush these things you know. I want to make it something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

“Penny,” Stevie interrupted, her hazel eyes fixed on her new lover’s, “Can’t you just shut up and kiss...” Sometimes being pushy has its reward.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie started her blog to share discreetly her secret identity with the world, never guessing just how successful it would be.

 

“Paulie, are you awake? It’s time to get up.” Tall Paul prised his face from the keyboard, and moaned gruffly at his mother through the rope of drool he drew in his wake. A World of Warcraft veteran, he was no stranger to all nighters, but for that one evening, his sword arm had remained stilled. Who would ever have guessed a three-minute film could take so long to put together.

Nothing could seem less like work than looking at Stevie’s pictures, although choosing which to include in the clip, and which to discard was difficult. Were it not for the time constraints forced upon him by his chosen song, he would have included all the previous day’s outtakes; he was sure, however, that the success of his venture very much relied on its soundtrack. She had offered herself to the young IT worker - albeit not in the manner he had hoped for — and he had run away like a frightened child. If there were still a chance of a repeat, Paul would have to demonstrate how much Stevie meant to him.

Choosing a tee shirt was always the most difficult decision of his morning routine, and that was when he had merely to brave his colleagues’ opinion. Discarding the Superman tee as too ironic, Paul dithered between ‘I see dumb people’ and ‘Geek Orthodox’, before plumping for one emblazoned with Green Lantern’s logo. Its relative obscurity would appeal to the others in IT, yet not scream ‘nerd’ to Stevie.
Downstairs, his mother was rattling about in the kitchen, which gave him a few minutes to check YouTube before his summons to breakfast. Several users had reposted Stevie’s video blog to the site, and Tall Paul had responded to the most popular of these with his tribute video. Although only an hour had elapsed since his upload, it had in turn attracted thousands of views, comments and another five-star rating. Regret as he might his original betrayal, that single petty act had sent Stevie’s name speeding around the world; few people would ever create anything as powerful as he had, and it thrilled him.

Stevie had gone viral.

*****

Penny could not help but smile as Stevie waddled back to her own room, trying desperately to conceal her nightie’s tented front. For more than a week, the teenager had displayed no overt masculine characteristics at all, even though they had spent so much of that time in each other’s company. Since she had grown used to waking with a young woman in her arms, the appearance of a penis between them that morning proved disconcerting. Not that it was unpleasant, she felt immensely flattered, but Penny had barely reconciled herself to what was, ostensibly, her first lesbian relationship. Stevie had so many hidden facets Penny felt doomed to blunder upon each one accidentally, if she did not pay attention to everything about her. With this in mind, she took her companion’s abandoned book from the nightstand, but it offered few useful clues; text and title were both French. At least the author’s name was familiar, and provided a fitting coda for the sentence she had spun from her confusion. Penny’s girlfriend was an eighteen-year-old boy who read Proust in the original language.

“Shall I make a start on breakfast?” Stevie appeared in the doorway, her femininity regained. As always when waiting for an answer, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Awake, Stevie filled her every moment with movement, a constant bustle that carried her through the day; by contrast, she slept so peacefully Penny enjoyed simply watching her. Home life without her teenage guest had become almost unimaginable, and each day presented a fresh reason to love her.

*****

An important meeting took Bob Thornwell and his PA out of the office that morning. Their absence gave Stevie the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that she was too good to waste on making coffee, and keeping a manager’s appointment diary. A quick phone call to Stacy confirmed that the documents Stevie had asked her former colleague to check were still all held on the central accounting database, making a nonsense of filing hard copies. Data security might prompt a few objections, but she had a tame IT worker who could help with those.

“He’s already on his way up to see you.” Stevie detected a smirk in the speaker’s voice, while in the background there were kissing noises and gales of laughter. The IT department’s mirth was famously puerile, and she suspected she was the butt of the joke, but Tall Paul was a more likely victim. Remembering her own experiences the week before, Stevie suppressed a stab of sympathy for the young man who had embarrassed her. The young man however had tried to make amends, and she had exacted a petty revenge. An apology was in order, but Tall Paul's arrival disrupted her thoughts on how to word it.

“When I called for IT support I didn’t expect Green Lantern to turn up.” Stevie smiled at the young man hovering in the door, a laptop tucked under one arm, and wearing a distinctly harassed expression.

“You read comic books too?” Tall Paul had begun to recognise where his attraction to Stevie was leading, plummeted headlong past his heels.

“Are you kidding, people masking their true identities with outlandish clothes? If you ask me, super heroes are all borderline TVs and I love them.” Stevie laughed, and beckoned the young man to her desk.

After dispensing with Stevie’s questions about the accounting database, Tall Paul laid his laptop on Stevie’s desk, opening it to reveal his YouTube tribute. “I was stupid yesterday,” he said softly, “If you still want me to... um that thing you asked... I will do anything to be with you.”

“I’m so sorry Paul that was just cruel trick I played on you. Thing is, I don’t like boys that way.” Stevie gave him a wan smile, before turning to the laptop on her desk. “Now what’s this?” she asked running a finger over the touchpad, and clicking on ‘play’.

Paul had resisted the urge to load the video clip with the multitude of effects his father’s software offered. Instead, he had simply slowed the clips slightly, and applied a mild soft focus effect, so the images of Stevie laughing appeared almost dreamlike. Her laughter peeked through the soundtrack, but Brian Wilson’s plaintive lyric dominated.

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I'll make you so sure about it

God only knows what I'd be without you

“I had no idea; I thought you were just like the others.” Stevie turned to face the young man, who was blushing furiously. Taking his hand in hers she added, “I’m going to find you a girl like me, I promise.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I thought you’d like to see this.” Edna Green dropped a newspaper onto Stevie’s desk. Beneath a headline screaming ‘YOU WOULD’, was a picture taken from her blog showing Stevie stretched out on Mitzi’s bonnet in true Daisy Duke fashion. “I bet you would,” Edna said, poking Tall Paul in the ribs.

Stevie groaned. She had hoped the media’s attention had moved elsewhere now that she had dropped out of the local television news, but her photograph had found its way to page three of the Sun. She barely had time to recognise the leering tone of the accompanying article when the phone on Belinda’s desk began to ring.

*****

Bob Thornwell was at a loss. During the weeks it had taken to set up the meeting, no one had considered that the French company’s representative would not speak English. Bob and Belinda between them had enough French to book a hotel room and order breakfast; Monsieur Reynal’s assistant spoke English at a similar level. Unless Bob could find an interpreter at very short notice, he would have to waste several more weeks arranging another meeting.

If the two visitors were at all alarmed when Bob palmed his forehead, they disguised it very well; Belinda, however, cast a worried glance in his direction. Bob’s eureka moment was tempered by the knowledge that he had missed something that he should have remembered instantly. The Westons had a second home in Normandy, where Janet and Steve had spent much of each summer; both were, as he belatedly recalled, fluent French speakers. He reached for the telephone.

*****

Knee length black shorts and a sweater may have passed for smart elsewhere in the building, but on the Olympian heights of the twelfth floor, Stevie felt terribly underdressed. Not that there were many to see her, or to give directions, and it took her several minutes to find the conference room. Although her Uncle Bob had pressed her to hurry, Stevie dragged her heels, annoyed that he had called her away from something she thought important. Waiting a few minutes for their coffee will hardly kill them, she thought; she could see no other reason why an office junior had to be present. Still, it stopped her thinking about how cruel she had been to Tall Paul. If Penny had done something like that, it would crush her, even if the older woman had yet to mention love — stupid Blackpool.

Stevie followed her tentative knock through the door. Uncle Bob looked incredibly relieved to see her, more relieved than thirst could explain. “Stevie how is your French, still up to scratch?”

“It’s not bad,” she answered, wondering what on Earth that had to do with anything.

“You’re a godsend.” Bob pulled out a chair for her between him and Belinda, who sat poised with a blank shorthand pad on her knee. “There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding; Monsieur Reynal here does not speak English, do you think you can interpret?”

“I’ll give it a go.” Stevie reached across the table to shake the proffered hands, and took her seat. The teenager was unsure if she was up to the task; until then she had tackled nothing more exacting than classroom exercises, and passing the time of day with Norman villagers. Business negotiations, she feared, could carry her out of her depth very quickly. Setting her fears aside, she introduced herself in French to the two visitors, and gave her Uncle a look she hoped said, ‘I’m ready’.

Any worries Belinda had about leaving her future husband’s career in the hands of a PA young enough to be his daughter, evaporated as Stevie’s confidence grew, rattling away in French and English, translating for both parties. If she had a worry, it was that another manager might steal away Stevie. Penny Hawker would have been her prime suspect, had Belinda not been convinced that the two were already romantically involved.

Belinda was only party to the English side of the conversation, and could not know that Stevie had stumbled over several technical terms, and had to ask for an explanation. Monsieur Reynal obliged each time, and took pains to avoid using them again. She also had to ask him for the French word on a number of occasions, and at first was reassured that he did not point out her mistakes. As the conversation progressed, however she became suspicious of the speed at which he answered. After a particularly tortuous sentence of hers, which he answered without pause, she became convinced that he understood far more English than he admitted to. Of course, there was no way of proving this without potentially causing a scene, and she kept her own counsel until an opportunity arose to confide in Uncle Bob.

The meeting broke at eleven for coffee, which Stevie had to prepare, and the brief moments she had with Mr Thornwell, she lost to his thanks and encouragement. When their cups were empty discussion resumed, with Stevie once again fully occupied translating. So it continued until lunchtime, although the atmosphere became more relaxed as outstanding issues were resolved. A little before twelve, Bob reached over the table to shake Armand’s hand. Business effectively closed, the dapper Frenchman paid Stevie a compliment, which made her blush.

“What was that?” Bob asked, but Stevie fired off a question of her own at Monsieur Reynal, who in turn flushed and then began to laugh. “What was that?” Bob asked again in frustration.

“I merely remarked that Stevie here has an accent stronger than calvados, and she is even prettier in person than she is in print.” Armand Reynal grinned at his adversary. “Anything to get an edge Bob and your reputation precedes you,” he added with a stereotypically Gallic shrug, “But not your ability to find excellent staff. This young lady saw through me very quickly and yet waited until now to tell me. Such discretion is rare in someone so young, don’t you agree?”

“But what was that about her picture?”

Fabien, Reynal’s assistant, produced a copy of the newspaper with a flourish. “This was left in the cab we took from the station,” he said, in equally perfect English.

“Brave as well as beautiful,” Armand said before Bob could fire off another question, “Are you joining us for lunch my dear?”

“Oh, I’d already made plans with my friend — I’d hate to disappoint her.” Stevie looked to Bob for confirmation, but the visiting businessman excused her first.

“Then we must not detain you mademoiselle.” To Stevie’s utter amazement, he took her hand and kissed it. “Your friend’s gain will be our loss, I’m sure,” he added before releasing her hand. Armand Reynal’s gallant gesture kept the blood in Stevie’s cheeks as she continued her apologies, and all the way back to the lifts.

*****

Lunch for Steve Weston was usually a sandwich eaten hurriedly at his desk, and company of any kind a rarity. Stevie, on the other hand, now had a regular appointment with Stacy, and the two of them had somehow accumulated several other dining companions from various departments. Company was preferable to eating alone, but Stevie tired quickly of the questions fired at her from all sides. When was she on television next? How much did the newspapers pay for modelling? Was Ms Hawker a tartar outside work? Her interrogators were prepared to believe anything but the truth, and after an understanding glance from Stacy, she retreated to her office.

Other than the ever-present Edna Green, the occupants of the eighth floor were far too busy to bother Stevie. In relative peace, she completed her memo on unnecessary filing, and laid it on Bob’s desk a good fifteen minutes before he and Belinda returned from their lunch. Both breezed past the teenager, who had resumed the menial task she had abandoned when they left the office. Manager and PA shared a few minutes of banter, and then fell silent; Bob called the junior into his office.

“Belinda gave you work before we left, and yet you found time to produce this,” Bob said sternly, holding up the memo.

“It only took a few minutes, Mr Thornwell.” A bemused Stevie stood before his desk, hands at her sides, thumbs on the seams of her trousers like a guardsman. She feared an imminent trip to the corner.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my PC either,” Belinda added with a frown.

“I thought you’d be...” Stevie started, halting as the two senior staff members dissolved into a shared fit of giggles. Lunch had evidently been more than normally liquid.

“Granny Posner would have us file the contents of his waste basket, so this is golden Stevie” Bob finished his sentence with a laugh. “Sorry,” he continued, “The look on your face was priceless.”

“I’ll set up a meeting with Mr Posner,” Belinda said, stepping past Stevie and into the outer office. Bob asked her to close the door, and invited Stevie to take a seat.

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

With Uncle Bob's words of praise ringing in her ears, and his coffee cup in hand, Stevie strode down the corridor. It was a little and ladylike she knew, but Stevie did not relish the prospect of meeting her former manager while she walked to the kitchen area.

Internally she was breathing talk huge sigh of relief, when two steps from the doorway, she heard the unmistakable clatter of breaking glass. Unsure of what awaited, Stevie took those last few steps in a hurry, pulling up suddenly in the doorway.

Poor Edna knelt on the kitchen floor, coffee jug handles in hand, surrounded by shards of glass. It was a few moments before Stevie fully took in the scene.

'Edna be careful,' the teenager shouted, 'you're already bleeding!' Looking around, as if seeking whoever spoke, the older woman flashed the newcomer a smile, and then crumpled.

Taking two giant steps the young office junior reached her falling colleague in time to catch her before she landed amidst the puddle of broken glass.

Dragging the matronly Edna clear of the jagged shards, Stevie tapped her burden gently on the cheek. 'Edna wake up,' she pleaded, 'who's the first aider on this floor?'

'Stevie,' Edna moaned, 'you saved me.' Stevie demurred, and asked again who the first aider was. 'Margarette, but she's off to day.'

'Never mind,' Stevie told her, as she placed her bloody charge in a handy chair. She had seen a first aid kit in one of the drawers a few days before.

'Oh God,' Edna moaned as she looked down at her blood spattered pantyhose, and Stevie turned in time to catch her as she fainted once more.

'I'll have to take your tights off,' she told the older woman.

Some of the cuts were quite deep, and might require stitches, Stevie told the swooning Edna.

'We ought to get you a nurse's uniform,' someone said from the doorway. Turning, Stevie saw that several people had come in, yet no one offered to help.

'I've called for an ambulance,' someone said from the crowd's rear.

'You'll live,' Stevie told a rapidly whitening Edna, as she smeared anti-septic on her blushing.

*****

'You've done a good job,' the handsome paramedic told Stevie.

'It was nothing really,' she replied, while blushing deeply.

It took a few minutes for the crowd to disperse once Edna handed been wheeled away. Alone at last Stevie set the depleted kit on the counter, and wondered how she'd make coffee now.

Uncle Bob despised instant coffee, but with both percolaters broken there seemed no alternative. Then Stevie remembered how surprised she'd been, to find him drinking coffee. Whenever he visited her parents, uncle Bob always asked for tea. In fact he was quite first stickler for how he liked it.

While rooting around for the first aid kit, she'd spotted a bag as stainless steel tea set. Swilling the pot and milk jug in cold water, Stevie looked for tea bags. They weren't his favourite brand, of course, but they'd do for now.

'Three minutes,' Stevie said aloud, while staring at her wristwatch. Carefully fishing out the teabags, so as not to spill anything, she lifted the tray and set off. At least she had a good excuse for taking so long.

Mr Posner emerged from the doorway as she approached, a faint odour spanning the meters between them.

'You're burning bridges then, miss Weston,' he said in a matter of fact way. There was no real venom in his words, but it was clear that there'd be no return to accounts for her. Another nail in Steve's coffin, she thought.

'Oh God, if I weren't involved elsewhere, I'd ask you to marry me,' uncle Bob said, setting down his teacup.

'See what you've started now,' Belinda said, eyes narrowed. 'Anyway, Ms Hawker called; she wants you to come up. It sounded quite urgent.'

'But it's only four fifteen,' Stevie said, turning back to her manager, who was pouring himself another cup of tea. Sighing contentedly after a first sip, Bob motioned her away.

*****

Arriving at the interview room's closed door, Stevie wondered what she done wrong. It had been a very busy day, what with interpreting, undermining the head of Accounts, and bandaging up poor Edna, she'd probably broken any number of rules. Hopefully Ms Hawker was in a charitable mood. Chances were she wasn't. Tentatively Stevie knocked, and waited to hear a terse "come in".

Ms Hawker - it was undoubtedly Ms Hawker, not Penny - was perched on the desk's edge in a predatory manner. 'Don't dither in the doorway, miss Weston,' she said, and pointed at the carpet before her.

Stevie scuttled forward, in quick inch long steps until she was practically touching the HR head.

'Very good.' It was very softly spoken, and Stevie wasn't even sure it had been said when suddenly Ms Walker caught her head in both hands, and fiercely kissed the bewildered office junior.

If Stevie had considered herself kissed before, her judgement was severely called into question. The lips fixed on hers, seemed to have a gravitational pull all of their own.

Penny felt the teenager stiffen, and fall against her limply, breaking the kiss. 'Did you just…' She asked, letting the question trail off.

'Sorry,' Stevie said, without looking up.

'There is no need to say sorry, you beautiful girl,' Penny said softly, 'no one has ever done that for me when I'm kissing them.'

Stevie looked up into Penny's eyes, reddening like a beacon while the older woman's arms enfolded her.

'You must have really needed that,' Penny said, palming the damp fabric between Stevie's legs. 'We'd better get you home, and into dry knickers.'

*****

'Inconceivable! It's not even half past four.' Debbie stood at a window overlooking the car park, along with everybody else in Human Resources. As Ms Hawker's personal assistant she was expected to know everything her manager knew, and yet aside from a hurried goodbye, Debbie knew nothing.

'She never goes home before five, even when she had appendicitis,' someone said.

'Look then she is!'

Debbie looked where a half-dozen fingers pointed, and saw two figures walking towards the named parking spaces. From nine floors up it was difficult to identify people, but the blonde woman with the blue top on, was certainly Ms Hawker. And it wasn't a huge leap to say that the brunette walking alongside, was Stevie Weston.

'Of they holding hands?' Several people asked the same time.

'We really should have a pair of binoculars in the office.'

'God no,' said Debbie, 'people are paranoid enough already.'

Everyone stepped back from the window when them BMW pulled off. But there was still an excited hubbub, when it was noted that there manager's computer was still switched on.

Debbie, who sat closest, jostled the superior's desk, which cleared the computer's screensaver.

Discreetly, Debbie peered at the monitor, seeing only an almost blank personnel record. The only item of information filled in, was the name "Miss Stevie Weston". Which didn't explain why Penny had been staring at the screen all day.

'We'd better crack on,' Debbie said to everyone, 'you know she'll check up on us first thing.'

*****

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie bounced barefoot into the kitchen. She'd changed into a pale pink T-shirt, and denim miniskirt.

'What are you looking at?' The teenager's hands were on her hips, and her head cocked at an angle, almost challenging the older woman.

'I sometimes forget you're only…' Penny caught herself in time, and continued, 'that you're almost nineteen.' But you look even younger, she thought.

'That smells nice,' Stevie said, strolling to Penny's side, and imspecting the pans heating on the hub.

'It's just something quick.' Looping and arm around Stevie's waist, Penny asked why she'd spent such a long time in the shower.'

'I shaved,' she answered, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, 'everything.'

'There's more hair on egg, than you.' Stevie's drive to eliminate body hair bordered on the obsessive.

Fearing another lecture Stevie changed the subject, 'you really like cooking don't you?' Distracted by a pot that needed stirring, Penny could only nod. 'So, from now on if you do the cooking, I'll do all the housework.'

'And how long are you planning to stay?' Penny arched an eyebrow, while struggling to keep a straight face.

'For always,' Stevie said, staring up through her eyelashes, adding hurriedly, 'if it's OK with you, that is.'

Putting the spoon aside, Penny wrapped both arms around the little brunette. 'Like I could ever let you go,' she said, drawing Stevie closer. 'May I ask you question?' Eagerly Stevie nodded, while burrowing deeper into Penny's embrace.

'I really want to kiss you now,' Penny said, 'but if I do, are you likely to... erm... explode in your panties again?'

'Not a chance,' Stevie said with a smirk, 'I'm wearing a pair of yours.'

'Monkey!' Penny lifted the miniskirt to reveal red lace briefs. Resisting the urge to squeeze the pert little bottom, instead she asked Stevie to set the table.

'Ms Hawker would have spanked me.' Stevie's pout was precious.

*****

'So help me, I swear you're doing it on purpose, Bel!' Bob set the teacup down beside the biscuits, frowning before asking, 'should I ask Stevie to write down instructions?'

'Stevie, Stevie, Stevie, she's so bloody wonderful, isn't she?' Belinda snapped, but instantly regretted criticising the girl.

'There's no denying that,' Bob told his fiancée reflectively, 'if she's not translating, or first aiding,, she's finding unnecessary business expense.'

'But she's very young, Bob, do you think she's up to both jobs?' Belinda asked, before turning away.

'If any one can teach you how to make tea, she's the one,' Bob said gruffly, 'hey where are you going?'

'To stand in the corner,' his PA said over her shoulder, 'so you can stare at my bum, and remember who you're marrying.'

*****

After loading the dishwasher, Stevie stomped into the living room, and flopped down onto the sofa beside Penny, who was bent over her laptop.

'Are you still working?' Stevie asked in an exasperated tone, and punched her friend softly in the shoulder.

'We've got this employee,' Penny answered without looking up, 'who we know nothing about. Except the usual insane number of GCSEs.'

'Doesn't everyone have sixteen?' Stevie asked innocuously, but she could see by Penny's frown she wanted more. Carrying on in a bright voice she asked, 'what do you want to know. You are talking about me, aren't you?'

Penny mumbled something about only having eight GCSEs, before asking where Stevie had learnt first aid.

'In the Scouts,' Stevie said, 'but I did a bit more for the Duke of Ed.'

'Gold, no doubt,' Penny ticked a box on her computer, 'I bet you were head girl too.'

'Deputy head boy,' Stevie said, looking embarrassed, 'I didn't play any team sports.'

Penny put an arm around her shoulder, and told her that she didn't either. Not wanting to seem like she was interrogating the girl, Penny kissed her cheek, and gave her a squeeze, before asking about A-levels.

'Only five!' Penny started, 'I'd have thought you'd have at least ten.'

'When I got the unconditional offer from King's, I dropped all the silly subjects.' Does that sound like bragging, Stevie asked herself.

'London?' Fifteen years since Penny had taken her A-levels, but even then unconditional offers were almost unheard of.

'Cambridge,' Stevie said softly, adding a barely audible, 'and a year in Paris.'

'Seriously?' Penny stared at the younger woman, before asking, 'you gave that up to work in Accounts?'

'I wanted to be Stevie,' the girl answered. She'd been asked this very question by almost everybody Steve knew. But how could he have explained, without revealiing his darkest secret?

Meeting someone who'd given up a golden opportunity was completely beyond Penny's experience. But she could see, how much Stevie hurt to talk about it.

'So that's five A Grades then?' Penny asked as matter of factly as she could.

'Five A*s,' Stevie whispered, blushing deeply as she did so.

*****

'But I can read German and Russian much better than I can speak them,' Stevie said, after Penny had coaxed her back into the conversation. 'And I only really started Japanese a few months ago.'

'So you can understand seven languages, but you're only fluent in four?' Penny shook her head, and thought the girl is a bloody genius, and she's embarrassed by it.

But what would it to be like to be so uniquely gifted a communicator, yet have no one talk to about a hidden part of her life. What was that old song?

'She's leaving home after living alone for so many years,' Penny sang softly, almost absently.

'What was that?' Stevie asked, intrigued.

'Just an old song,' Penny replied.

'What is it with people and old songs today?' Stevie took the laptop, and brought up the Youtube page with Tall Paul's latest tribute.

'Oh God, he really loves you,' Penny said, while wiping away a tear.

'And I was so horrible to him,' Stevie sniffed. 'But I've promised to help him find a girl just like me.'

'There aren't any girls just like you,' Penny laughed, dragging Stevie closer.

'Is your hand supposed to be up my skirt?' Stevie asked sometime later.

'I'm just checking on my pair of panties,' Penny answered.

'You're being very thorough,' Stevie chuckled, as the woman's hands roamed over her.

'Would you prefer I send in Ms Hawker? Don't answer the that!' Penny laughed.

'Hold on,' she started again, 'have you really never heard "she's leaving home" by the Beatles?'

'Mum and dad like to listen to Spandau Ballet. Is that the same sort of thing?' Stevie tried to re-engage in their kiss, but Penny looked appalled.

'I don't really listen to music,' she said, almost apologetically. And admitted when Penny pressed, about contents of her iPod, it was filled with language courses, and audiobooks.

'Yay! I know something Stevie doesn't,' Penny sang, and took the laptop back.

Within minutes iTunes loaded, and Penny cued an album. 'You'll like this,' she said as "Michelle ma belle" began, and pulled Stevie to her feet.

'Let's dance,' said the personnel head, 'we've got to dance.'

Hours later, when an exhausted Stevie lay in Penny's arms, she was sure she heard her dancing partner murmur, 'God only knows, what I'd be without you.'

*****

On Her Own Petard
by Ceri

Stevie's first thoughts on waking were, where's Penny, and what's happening to my panties?

An answer to both questions could be found crouching beneath the duvet. Penny was at eye level with Stevie's crotch, and gently coaxing a red lace garment along the teenager's hips.

'Good morning, sunshine.' Penny beamed, while still paying close attention to the panties' transit.

'Aren't we waiting until Friday?' Stevie asked, unsure how she felt about her exposure.

Penny tugged at the flimsy knickers, prompting Stevie to lift her bottom to ease their passing. It seemed she didn't feel too badly about it after all.

'Ha there you are!' Penny laughed, as Stevie's penis sprang free. 'I only wanted to see him close up. You're always so secretive about him, but you have nothing to be ashamed of in this department,' she told the confused teen. And after bobbing forward briefly, straightened until they were back to eye level.

'You kissed it,' an outraged Stevie told her.

'No, I kissed you,' Penny assured her bed mate, 'just in an unorthodox position.' She had never expected her girlfriend to be such a prude.

'In that case,' Stevie said, with a resolutely set jaw, and shimmied down the bed.

When she returned a minute later, the older woman seemed flustered. 'You precocious little trollop,' she stammered, though a smile had begun to play across her face.

'I only kissed you in an unorthodox place,' said Stevie, innocently.

'You French kissed me!' Penny abandoned any effort to keep a straight face, and moved in for a kiss.

'Ew,' cried Stevie, and pushed the amorous Penny away.

'Well if you're going to be like that,' the older woman assured her, and rolled out of bed, 'we'd best just take a shower.'

'Ouch! You're not supposed to use it as a handle,' cried Stevie.

*****

'Am I still a virgin?' A bath sheet wrapped Stevie asked. Penny paused from drying her hair, to nod briefly before resuming the task.'Well shouldn't I have done the same for you?'

'No man has ever spoken those words,' Penny said gravely. Brushing aside Stevie's enquiry, she continued, 'if I get antsy I'll just sack someone, or chew on my desk for a bit.'

Carrying their breakfast into the living room, Stevie switched on the television, while Penny put away the dryer.

Almost instantly Penny could hear Brian Wilson singing, and she rushed into the room.

'I wish somebody would make a film of me like that,' the female anchor was saying.

'Perhaps if you were that pretty they might,' her male counterpart joked, earning a venomous glance from his colleague.

Penny found Stevie on the sofa, her head in her hands, and gently rocking. Without saying anything, penny moved to her side, and wrapped an arm around her naked shoulder.

'…We' re talking about the teenage transsexual who's become the latest Internet sensation.

'If you believe she's actually a boy,' interrupted the male news anchor.

'Why does everyone keep saying I'm transsexual?' Stevie muttered, 'they're just going to keep saying it until I get a vajayjay.'

'…And we welcome our reporter Liz, who some viewers may not know, was actually born a man.'

'Is she real, or an online hoax,' the mail anchor asked the newcomer, 'or as a lot of viewers' messages contend, is she simply a girl pretending to be a boy pretending to be a girl? What does your gaydar tell you, Les?'

'Never mind them,' Penny said, waving a coffee in front of the disconsolate office junior.

'I'm transgendered, not gay,' Liz was saying, 'but to a practised eye, Stevie is in fact a boy. A boy however, who has spent a loft of time perfecting her voice, and her mannerisms.'

'Is that true?' Penny asked, and was answered with a nod. 'I never thought about your voice before, you looked so much like a girl, it just seemed natural.'

'Why do you think I was so bad at my job?' Stevie's said quietly, 'I'd be up all night learning how to talk, and I'd spend the next day terrified Stevie would speak. Or worse still, smile the way I'd taught her.'

'She's done a fantastic job,' Liz was saying, 'but she'll need surgery before her journey is complete.'

'Is that true?' Penny wrapped an arm around her young girls shoulder, 'do you want surgery?'

'No!' Stevie snapped, adding after a long pause, 'well maybe boobs.'

*****

That morning, found Stevie at Mrs Green's desk. Edna's continued fainting, had prevented her discharge from hospital.

What a gonk cluttered desk, Stevie thought as she plopped down behind it. She itched to start clearing up, but had learned from Penny's reaction, such zeal was seldom appreciated. Instead, she limited herself to arranging the highlighters in rainbow order.And aside from a few phone calls, that was as busy as she'd be.

With so little to distract her, Stevie's mind was free to roam. What did those fools on the television know, and why did everyone assume she wanted a sex change? Living as a girl was fun, or it would be if everyone left her alone. Did she really need to cut her thingy off? Penny didn't seem to mind it, in fact it fascinated her.

Her bed mate was a mass of contradictions. Almost playful when she pulled Stevie's knickers down, her mood her to quickly changed when Stevie kissed her "down there".

Stevie took a moment to remember how it felt to run lips passed the tousled clump of blonde hairs. Would Penny be offended by an offer to tidy up her ladygarden? She probably would, the teenager thought.

Stevie wasn't entirely sure how Penny felt about her and unorthodox kiss. When her tongue had first touched the soft, intimate flesh, Penny had almost recoiled.

Almost, and yet had not brushed away the intruder. Which was all the encouragement Stevie needed to probe a little deeper.

Marvelling at Penny's flustered reaction, Stevie poked out her tongue to stare at its tip.

I am Tonguezilla, she told herself, able to reduce women to quivering blancmanges with a single lick.

'That's such a good look for you.'

Soubrette Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Chapter One: Paradise Lost

Miss Meanswell had finally found me gainful employment-the bitch. Still, three years on benefits in a seaside town, where there was always plenty of casual labour vacancies, was quite an achievement. Of course my criminal record helped immensely.
The only thing I was remotely qualified to do was forever barred to me and, employers found it hard to get past a conviction for stealing at work.

Turning right when I left the Jobcentre, I headed down the high street to the address Miss Meanswell had given me. Pausing briefly to admire the wonderful art deco facade of the old Empire cinema, even if Starbucks had ruined the ground floor, I puzzled over the address. I was told it was a cleaning job, but at that number was a fancy dress shop called, Soubrette.

I pushed open the door, and the jingling caused a well dressed woman behind the shop's counter to look up with a start. She appeared amazingly well groomed, in an ivory silk blouse, black satin pencil skirt, very sheer stockings and patent shoes. Neither her hair nor make up fell short of that high standard. I was hopelessly intimidated.

'I've come from the Jobcentre, about the cleaning job,' I said weakly, as she gave me a disdainful look.

'Janice, they've sent us another navvy from the Jobcentre,' she said in a loud, bored voice, presumably to someone in a room behind.

'Send her through,' said the unseen woman, and I was bustled through it before I could wonder what sort of navvy was known as 'her'. I found myself in a dimly lit room, packed with rack upon rack of clothes. ‘It’s, Mr. Parsons isn’t it? I’m afraid you’ve been sent on a wild goose chase.’

'I really need this job,' I said turning to face the source of the voice. A rather harassed looking woman was sat at her desk just inside the door, face lit by a computer monitor's glow.

'Sit down, Mr. Parsons,' she said indicating a chair, 'and let me explain why you don't want this job.' She allowed me to sit down before continuing. 'My brother and I started our company ten years ago, providing French maid kissagrams. My brother was the more successful maid so we recruited another man to take my place. Pretty soon we had half a dozen girls who were guys, tarting around the town. Now we don't have that many kissagram jobs these days, but our girls continue to work at parties as waitresses, and bar staff, dressed as French maids. So unless you like wearing women’s clothes in public and making a spectacle of yourself, this isn’t the job for you.'

I gulped. An hour before I would never dreamt of saying what I was about to, but that was before I’d been hauled over the coals by Miss Meanswell. I was faced not only with losing benefit, but possibly criminal prosecution too. I really did need this job, and secrets didn’t count for anything.

'I love wearing women's clothes,' I blurted, 'in fact I'm wearing them right now.' My heart was hammering as I made my admission, it had been such a long time since I had told anyone my secret. Janice was staring at me incredulously.

'You must really need this job, 'she said smiling, 'but are you prepared to prove what you're saying?'

Very slowly I began to unbutton my shirt revealing the lace on my bodice, continuing down to my trousers as Janice made no indication that I should stop. As my hands reached my belt I looked at her questioningly, and when she nodded I unbuckled it, opened the button so that I could fold the top of my jeans down to expose my knickers' waistband.

'It's a shame to stop there,' Janice smirked, 'can't I see the rest of them?' Grudgingly I slid my jeans down to mid thigh, my face absolutely burning with the shame of showing my pretty pink undies to a stranger.

'Are those directoire knickers? I didn't think anyone made them anymore,' Janice said.

'You can buy them, but not in my size,' I said, 'I had to make these.' Janice asked what size I was, 'I am a dress size ten, but I'm only an eight across the hips,’ I added modestly.

'Bitch,' a voice drifted in from shop.

'Are you gay, are you comfortable around gay people and other trannies?'

'I'm not gay,' I answered, 'but a lot of my friends were in university and so I'm OK really. I don't know any other trannies, 'there was a snort of laughter from the shop, 'but I can't see I'd have a problem.'

'You will certainly meet a lot of gay people at the events we work, and you'll definitely be spending time with the other girls, so it's pretty essential that you get on. Most of the girls however have day jobs, while as our first full time go to or not, your work would mostly be in the shop to start with.'

'Do you have any fetishes?'Janice asked me, which seemed like a silly question considering, but I guessed she meant rubber and stuff.

'I like wearing vintage clothes, from the twenties and thirties, 'I answered, 'They're so glamorous and a little risqué.' My interest went a little deeper than that, but I wasn't going to get into details just yet.

'Bingo!' That voice from the other room was getting louder.

'When was the last time you went out dressed? 'Janice asked, and I started to feel more at ease, even though my jeans were still around my thighs.

'Out of the house? Not since university I'm afraid, but I'm willing to give it a go if I get the job.' I was actually starting to believe it, then she completely threw me by asking about my criminal record. 'It was just a misunderstanding,' I stammered, 'I was working in the local museum as a junior curator, my first job after leaving university, and I took one of the exhibits home to study for a few days. Unfortunately it was missed, and I wound up in court. I didn't go to prison or anything...' half dressed as I was I felt I was about to burst into flames.

'That's pretty much what Miss Meanswell told me,' Janice said softly, 'I'm still tempted to offer you a job. It would be very handy to have someone who can sew - our girls and customers are always tearing the costumes - but you certainly have the figure for a maid's uniform. Can you start on Monday?'
I nodded excitedly, struggling with a simple thank you, for a job I hadn't known I wanted. Maybe it wasn't just Miss Meanswell's threats, perhaps I was feeling guilty about my three idle years, or even that there was just something about wearing a maid's uniform.

'Just be here for eight thirty with your favourite wig and make-up. One thing you will need is black panties, nothing too fancy or too brief - in our uniforms your bottom is in the public domain, and there's always someone pinching it, or tying to pull your knickers down. Now pull up your trousers, and run along home.' Janice grinned, as she led me back into the shop past the disdainful assistant. 'By the way,' my new boss caught in my shoulder, 'have you met my brother, Isabel?'

Soubrette Chapter 2 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

After a brief detour (pun intended), to Marks and Spencer, I headed home still a little astonished at what I had got myself into.

Once through the front door, I threw a new pack of knickers onto the settee, and made for the kitchen to prepare a quick evening meal. By my standards it had been a hectic day, and I needed to get out of myself.

One salad later, I added a bra to my pink ensemble, wriggled into my stays, and slipped on a pair of nylons. The last were an anachronism I know, but my silk stockings were almost too precious to wear. Then the hard decisions began.

Bearing in mind what Janice had said about Monday morning, I picked out my best black bob, and sat at my dressing table to paint my face.

Warpaint on, I struck a pose before the mirror and told myself that I could pass for a Vargas girl, or at least as well as any 21st century 28 year old man can. Then it was time to raid the closet, where I picked out a day dress and shoes, which if not vintage, certainly looked the part.

With a slight swish, I retired to go too and much to my living room, where I cursed myself for not remembering to warm up the wireless when I got home. Batting the new pack of knickers aside, I arranged myself on the settee and stared out over the bay. I was after all, about to join the workforce, and would have to learn how to relax properly.

Needless to say, I was just at the point of slipping from torpor to nirvana when there was a knock at my door. I suspected one of my superannuated neighbours needed something, and was surprised therefore to find someone far younger on the threshold.

I recognised Kirsty from the Jobcentre, but had only seen her in office drab before. Now she was dressed in a short sheepskin jacket over a pink and black chintz tunic, with black leggings and Uggs. More noticeably, she wore her hair loose instead of tied back, and had on a little more make up.

'Good evening Kirsty,' I said, adding, 'good evening Mr. Blum, are you off dancing again?' for the benefit of a neighbour who had appeared at his door across the corridor.

'Not this evening, Verity dear, unless you'd like to come with me,' he answered, as my young visitor turned to look at him and then back at me.

Surprise seemed to have overwhelmed her, and she switched between the two of us several times, before directing a 'wow' at me.

'Would you like to come in?' I asked her, trying not to smile too much at her reaction.

She followed me in without a word, simply turning her head as if to take in everything. It's not an uncommon reaction for first time visitors to my flat.

'It's nice to see you, if a little unexpected,' I said,'you don't usually make house calls. What brings you here?' I regretted leaving the pack of panties on the settee, as I asked her take a seat. If Kirsty noticed them at all she didn't show it.

'Your new boss called this afternoon to say you'd taken the job,'she said, eyes still wandering around the room,'and Isobel said, you'd gone to buy new panties.' Kirsty finally looked down at the M & S bag beside her and smiled. 'I thought you're might need some help...' Her voice trailed away slightly, and looking me up and down, she added,'but it seems you're doing pretty well on your own.'

'It's not my first time in a frock,' I said, easing myself down so the bag of briefs and lay between us, 'what do you think?'

'You look amazing, Verity. That is your name isn't it?' Kirsty asked, 'If I didn't know you as Nick I'd have never guessed you are a man.' She leaned a little closer to examine my makeup, shook her head, and murmured, 'amazing.'

Now I'm as susceptible to flattery as most, but remembering my duties as a hostess, I asked my visitor if she'd care for tea. In truth, I was glad of the opportunity of escaping to the kitchen. Kirsty was the first female under sixty to grace my flat since... well since I'd moved in, and she was really quite pretty.

Having collected myself somewhat, I carried a tray back into the living room, were Kirsty was examining a few of my treasures.

'I can't believe this room,' she said, straightening up, much to my regret, 'everything is old, but it looks so new.'

'That's what a fine arts degree and two years post-grad training in restoration can do,' I said, setting the tea things down on my coffee table, 'getting bakelite to shine is nothing really.'

'I'm a little disappointed, 'Kirsty said, looking at her teacup, 'I'd expected Clarice Cliff.'

'Even the fakes are expensive these days, 'I replied, 'this is Charlotte Read, far more stylish don't you know. Have you tried the cake?'

'Oh god,' Kirsty said through a hail of crumbs, 'this is so good. Don't tell me you bake as well.'

'I can't take the credit ,' I smiled, 'Mrs.Rose next door is the building's baker.' Kirsty looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

'Does she know about Verity too?' She asked, remembering this time place a hand to intercept any crumbs.

'Oh yes, everyone does.' How could I explain it to her?

'And they're OK about it?' Kirsty sounded incredulous.' if my Gran lived next door to a transvestite-that's what you are, right-she would have a heart attack.'

'That is what I am,' I reached forward and refreshed my cup, 'I just think my neighbours accept a it as a very English eccentricity. Even Mr. Blum, and he's German.'

'That is so amazing, 'Kirsty said, 'I just want to hug you, and ask you a million questions. Does that make me sound like a silly girl?'

'I'm still not sure why you are here,' I said slowly, 'it's Friday night, and I would have thought someone of your age would be out of the town tonight.' As you may have gathered, I wasn't that used to talking to young women.

Thankfully, this wasn't the wrong thing to say, or at least Kirsty didn't jump up and run for the door. Instead she sat back, and gave me another of those thoughtful looks.

'With you getting a job, I thought I might not see in the office again,' she started quietly, 'to be honest, I've had a bit of a crush on you for ages.' It was my turn to look incredulous.

'No one has crushes on me.' Light as my dress was, I suddenly felt flushed under my girdle. A little lost for words too.

'You are such a romantic figure,' she said through her blushes, 'an artist who made one mistake and has to keep paying for it again and again, yet still doesn't compromise.' Time to step away from the Mills and Boon novels, I thought that she seemed so sincere, and suddenly so young, I was at a loss for words.

'I suppose now that you have seen me like this, the crush is over. And I'm not really an artist.' It was turning into a very out-of-the-blue sort of a day.

'I think you're a brilliant artist,' Kirsty replied instantly, 'you've built a fantastic installation, and made yourself its living, breathing heart.' She was herself a little breathless by the time she finished speaking. I imagined I could add 'Guardian reader' to Kirsty's list of vices.

Although I didn't believe her, my ego was in danger of going up a cup size. My flat was no installation, it was just a manifestation of a peculiar type of OCD, although tastefully put together.

We sat silently for a few minutes, staring up to sea, and stealing occasional glances at each other. Kirsty eventually broke in with, 'Do you like girls?' I had been asked that already that day, and knew my answer- I nodded. 'Good,' she said, and took my hand in hers.

We sat there for hours, talking softly, taking tea, and listening to gramophone records, until the sun had dwindled to a red stain on the horizon. She did in fact have been a million questions, which I did my best to answer (even showing my underwear to a woman for the second time that day), but I didn't get a hug until Kirsty was ready to leave.

'Does that work?' she asked, pointing at my shiny black bakelite telephone. We swapped numbers (and no, I didn't have a mobile), made a few false starts but eventually reached my front door.

'Sorry I have to say,' Kirsty caught my upper arm, 'your new panties are very boring- I mean, full briefs, really?'

'I've been told,' I started apologetically, 'in my new job my bum will be permanently on display. The last things I will need are interesting knickers to draw even more attention.' She laughed, and wrapped both arms around me.

'You are so sweet, Verity.' Kirsty kissed me, full on the lips, and kissed me again, 'for Nick.' With that she was through the door, before I knew what was happening. I should have walked her to the lift, but I was too busy using my back to stop the building spinning.

Soubrette Chapter 3 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Chapter Three: the Patricia Bateman experience

It was just another Monday morning I told myself, and no different from any other. Which was true, as long as I forgot that it was my first working day for three years, and I would be in women’s clothes throughout? It wasn’t as if I hadn’t a job before, and I was certainly no stranger to cross-dressing, but I’d never combined them. It would be an interesting day.

I rolled out of bed a few minutes before my alarm sounded. I hadn’t had a sleepless night, just a restless one, and as I swung my bare legs out from under the blankets I felt a little groggy; that, I had a simple cure for. Tiptoeing across the parquet floor to my wash stand, I emptied the jug of water I had filled the night before, into the basin and splashed several handfuls onto my face. Now it really felt like 5 A.M.

Wrapping my robe around me, I shuffled to the kitchen, where I prepared a light breakfast. While my favourite tea steeped, I toasted two rounds of bread on the gas ring, filled a tumbler with orange juice, and arranged everything on a tray to my satisfaction. This I carried into the living room, and set it on the coffee table. It was a suitably continental breakfast for a French maid.

Feeling somewhat louche, I allowed my robe to fall open as I sat, revealing my chemise, though not immodestly. If I kept this job I thought I should look out for some French crockery to use in the mornings, and then immediately stopped myself. Given my tendency to live out roles too deeply, in a week or two I’d be swigging absinthe and puffing Gitanes. I consoled myself with the thought, soon it will be warmer weather, when I could breakfast on the balcony, and that should be continental enough.

I let myself linger over the pot of tea for a few minutes, regretting that its slow warming valves meant I couldn’t have on the wireless. I looked speculatively at the rack of seventy eights, but changing discs every few minutes would be too distracting.

The first traffic sounds rose from the streets below as I busied myself in the kitchen, drying the dishes and replacing them in cupboards. That duty done, I sashayed back to the bedroom, let my robe fall and stepped out of my chemise. Dressed only in my brassiere and knickers, I padded to the bathroom.

One thing transgender stories always omit, the one thing most transvestites share, is the very first step of our transformation. I filled the wash basin with hot water, splashed some on my face, and began working up a rich lather. The jewel in my art deco bathroom‘s crown sat between the taps- my beautiful Ever Ready Streamline razor. Like many a beauty, she is treacherous, so I carefully steered her around my face until my skin was soft and smooth. Returning to my bedroom almost reeking of French lavender, I didn’t feel particularly manly-of course, being in knickers and bra didn’t help.

The first new pair of black panties that waited where I had left them the night before. As did black nylons and a bra I’d also picked out. I’d agonised over the latter for some time. I didn’t have many black bras, and as I imagined my uniform would be quite low cut, I dug out an old Wonderbra that I’d had for years. It wasn’t Verity‘s usual style, being more than half a century too modern, but I guessed cleavage was of the utmost. After arranging breastforms in its cups I reached for my high waisted girdle.

That was truly vintage, although I couldn’t swear it was pre war. It hooked at the side, but beating all fingers and thumbs, I turned it around so that I could better see the hooks. I was a very sorry excuse for a woman at times. At few more minutes found my stockings attached, and my seams straight.

More dressed than undressed, I sat at my vanity table and began making up. Verity had a particular way with her cosmetics, and I didn’t want to stray too far from it. I made my lips a little fuller, arched my brows more daringly, and tried to look at little more bashful.

Decisions about what to wear followed from my undies, and too had been made the night before. A dark blue, cotton day dress wouldn’t allow my black underwear to show through, and shoes with a low heel would be just the thing for the walk two work. I’d been wearing the black bob all weekend, so I stuck with it, which only left jewellery. Not wanting to appear ostentatious, I restricted myself two a single pendant, one ring, clip-on earrings and a small, silver watch.

Dandling my shoes in the fingers of one hand, I returned to the living room. With a flick of my wrist I checked my watch against the mantel clock, both of which read six thirty. It was maybe a twenty minute walk to the high street, which meant I had plenty of time to pick up everyone’s newspaper, as I did every morning. Nothing in the world could be more mundane except that this would be Verity’s first time. This would be an adventure.

Although the weather was dry, I slipped on my grey three quarter raincoat, as much for protection from curious eyes as any remaining night chill. I took my doorkey from its hook, slipped it into a pocket, and let myself out.

As I’d expected the corridor was empty, and I walked unhurriedly, though very aware of my heels’ clicking with each step. Our lift was as ancient as many of the residents, and complained almost as much. Therefore I chose the stairs, not wanting to wake up anyone.

Freshly shaven the night before, my legs smarted as I stepped out onto the street into the chill morning air. However, even that dwindled as I walked to the newsagents.

Roger and Maureen opened their shop while it was still dark, and light still spilled weakly from its windows when I approached. Both were busily working as I pushed on the door, its tinkling bell making me start, even though I expected it.

Maureen’s head popped up from beneath the counter with a cheery, ’Good morning,’ narrowly avoiding her husband, who was restocking the cigarette display.

‘Morning,’ I said, softly, ’I’ve come to collect Packney House’s papers. Are they ready?’ Friends say my voice changes when I’m dressed (some even see if say it changes with my hair colour), but I can never hear it. I hoped this morning they were right, and I could avoid explanations.

‘Oh, but Nick usually picks them up.’ Maureen narrowed her eyes at me, and then smiled.’ It's Verity isn’t it? We thought we’d never meet you. Look, Rog it's Verity.’ Her husband turned his hands full of Benson & Hedges.

‘The famous, Verity Parsons,’ he said,’ to what do we owe the honour?’

‘You will see me every morning now,’ I said, blushing slightly,’ I’m starting a new job, so I’ll be picking up the papers before work every day.’

‘Good for you, love!’ Maureen said,’ Give me a few minutes, and I’ll get them ready for you.’

I found being a papergirl no more onerous than being a paperboy; except, carrying newspapers under my arm was more difficult with breastforms competing for some of the same space. Thank heavens, I thought, Nick will collect the Sundays.

Whistling jauntily in the stairwell, I stopped off at each floor to push papers through letter boxes. The building was waking up. Radio’s played, and politicians preached on news programmes. On the second floor the Brownlows bickered lustily; who would have thought they had anything left to argue about after fifty years of marriage.

On our floor, I was delivering the Rose’s Daily Mail (shudder), when I heared a door open behind me. I turned to see an unshaven Mr.Blum running a hand through his shock of white hair.

‘You’re up early, Verity dear,’ he said, using his free hand to scratch at the bristles on his chin.

‘I start work today, don’t you remember,’ I said, handing him his Guardian.

‘You didn’t mention that Verity would be working, when you told us.’ He tucked the Guardian under one arm, and said ruefully, ‘I’m going to miss my morning chats with Nick, you know.’

‘I am too,’ I said, ‘but we will still have the weekends, and I’ll try to make time in the mornings from now on.’

Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 7:45. Though it took only 20 minutes for Nick to walk to Soubrette, in heels, trying to walk femininely, it would take me at little longer. ‘I’m sorry, Mr.Blum, but I’ll have to shoot, I’ll see you this evening.’

Soubrette Chapter 4 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

By the time I neared the high street the roads had grown quite busy, and the pavements bustled with other pedestrians on their way to work. Yet I didn’t feel part of the crowd.

It didn’t help that I was intensely aware of my underclothes. With every step I took I felt my stockings tug at my girdle, and my nyloned feet felt lost within my shoes.

Ostensibly I was dressed as a woman, but I do not think one woman in a thousand would have dressed quite like I had. For a moment I imagined every woman around me, walking along girdled; an army of calves clad in fully fashioned hosiery.

There was also a sense of anticlimax. On one hand, I was more than glad that I appeared to be passing as female, but part of me wished that those around me would recognise what a good job I was doing of not looking like a man.

More than anything my thoughts kept returning to Kirsty. In my experience girls didn’t turn up at your door to confess their attraction; especially those whose smile felt like an underwire for my soul. That she should find me cross-dressed, living in a museum, and insist that it made no difference, seemed doubly improbable.

My preoccupation almost carried me past Soubrette without noticing. Only a glimpse of the Jobcentre in the distance brought me to a halt.

The shutters were rolled up to waist height and the lights turned on. I ducked under them, but found the door locked. Someone was moving around inside so I tapped lightly on the glass.

Janice appeared, held up her watch and mouthed, ‘we’re closed’. I knocked again and did my best to mime ‘it’s me’ until she warily unlocked the shop.

‘Can I help you, Miss?’ Janice asked.

‘It’s me, Janice,’ I said, ‘you interviewed me on Friday. You said to come at eight thirty, remember?’

‘Mr. Parsons?’ Janice asked.

‘Verity,’ I said, extending my hand.

‘You’re early,’ Janice said, ‘that’s a good sign.’ I glanced at my watch; it was only eight fifteen, so much for walking femininely.

‘I doubt we’ll see Isabel much before ten,’ Janice said, leading me through the shop and into the back room, ‘I’ll show you where to hang your coat, the ladies‘, and where we make the tea; milk and no sugar please.’

‘I found the pattern in a 1938 copy of “Woman’s Weekly”,’ I said, twirling gently to lift the skirt a little.

‘It’s lovely,’ Janice said, ‘now pop it off, and I’ll find you a uniform. What bust are you?’

’34B,’ I replied, and she disappeared off into the racks of costumes.

‘a small should fit you,’ she said, returning five minutes later with a uniform in one hand, and what looked like a cloud of lace looped around her arm.

‘You’ve got no hips,’ Janice said, and as I was shivering in my undies, I was in no mood to argue. ‘Three petticoats should fix that. Slip into these first, while I unwrap the dress.’

I kicked off my shoes and tentatively began sliding the layered net hoops over my head and down my body. I felt like a mermaid emerging from a wave of lace.

‘These take a little getting used to,’ said Janice, fussing with the petticoats, ‘now lift up your arms.’ The dress was a near perfect fit, but the skirt resting on that mass of net, failed to reach even my stocking tops. I suddenly felt quite exposed, and a tiny bit thrilled.’

‘What shoe size are you, sweetie?’

‘I take a five,’ I replied.

‘Hold on, I’ll find you a spare pair of Felicity’s.’ Janice said, patted my bottom and disappeared into the racks again.

She returned holding a pair with impossibly high heels. My disbelief must have shown on my face as Janice said, ‘they’re only five inch heels. Don’t you think you can take five inches?’

‘I think I can walk in them, but don’t ask me to run,’ I said, ignoring the double entendre.

‘Maids don’t run, honey, except from a spanking,’ Janice laughed, ‘we’d better put on your cap and apron before you get into them though.’

Janice ushered me back to the shop, and stood me in front of at full length mirror.

”Hmm,” she said, standing behind me. “I’m not sure about the hair; it’s very “Cabaret”, but a bit too tomboyish. Tomorrow wear something longer and a little lighter.’

While she stepped outside to open the shutters, I stared at my mirror image. The dress wasn’t bad, a black satin mini with short sleeves. White lace edged the hem, sleeves and the neckline; plunging as I had imagined.

Of course, I looked absurd though kind of sexy in a cheesy pin up way, but mostly felt silly. Turning round at few times, I looked at myself from various angles. The petticoats kept my knickers covered, but only if I stood very straight; the slightest bend forward revealed why panties to the world. Still, it’s only a bit of fun, I thought, after all who’d see me in Soubrette. As it turned out quite a lot of people)

‘Monday’s our busiest day, so don’t expect Isabel in any time soon.’ Janice was flipping the sign from “closed” to “open”, when she jerked open the door. ‘Hello, what are you doing in so early?’

‘who‘s that?’ Isabel asked, stepping into the shop. Janice introduced me as “the new girl, Verity”. ‘What a shame,’ sniffed Isabel, ‘I was so looking forward to working with Nicholas Parsons.’ It was an old joke, and one I’d long tired of. The man hadn’t been on television for decades, and yet everyone still remembered his name.

‘Be nice,’ said Janice to her brother, before disappearing into the back room.

‘First things first,’ Isabel said, advancing towards me. She pushed her hands up inside my petticoats and lifted them several inches higher on my body. Glancing at the mirror, I could see that they no longer protected my panties, which were in plain sight.

Isabel was on her knees at my feet, taking something from her handbag, and tying it around my ankles.

‘A maid’s first lesson,’ Isobel said, as she stood, ‘is to take very small steps. Go ahead dear, try walking.’ Very cautiously I moved one foot in front of the other, and felt it arrested after only three or four inches. Worse still, the petticoats prevented my seeing my feet.

Isabel then threw her car keys on the floor in front of me, and told me pick them up. I started to bend at the knees when she stopped me, saying, ‘no!’

‘Let me show you how to bend like a maid,’ she said, while slipping both hands under my petticoats, and grasping my body through my panties. ‘You bend at the hips, sweetie,’ Isobel said, ‘so that everybody gets the chance to look at your pretty, pantied arse. Go ahead and try it.’

Very slowly I followed her instructions, feeling when petticoats ride up, and cooler air on my bottom. Cooler that is, where Isabel’s hands were not pressed against my panties.

‘I can’t teach you how to curtsy properly when your ankles are tied, so we’ll try a little dip. Keep your knees together, take hold of the hem of your skirt, and bend your knees a few inches.’ Isobel said, both hands still buried in my petticoats and clutching me tightly.

‘Good girl, Verity,’ she cooed, as I successfully completed my first dip, ‘now do it again.’

‘Your final maid skill, sweet Verity,’ Isabel purred, ‘is to speak with a French accent.’ That didn’t sound at all unreasonable except as Isabel spoke, her right hand snaked into the V of my crotch. Instinctively I tensed, pressing my thighs tightly together.

‘Naughty girl,’ Isabel said, smacking my bottom with her left hand, as the right continued to try parting my legs. ‘Do my hands make you feel uncomfortable, little one?’

‘I’m sorry, but they do, Isabel,’ I said, trying to speak levelly, despite the revulsion I felt at being clutched by a man in so intimate an area.

‘Ask me nicely in a French accent, and I’ll let you go.’

‘Pleez stop touching my panteez, Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I simpered, trying my best to bat my eyelids as I spoke.

‘Very good, Verity we’ll make it maid of you yet,’ Isabel smiled, condescendingly, ‘now kiss me, and say thank you.’

‘Merci Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I said, bobbing forward to plant a kiss on her cheek.

‘No you stupid girl,’ Isabel cried, ‘on my lips.’

‘Oh for god’s sake Isabel,’ Janice snapped angrily from the doorway, ‘leave the poor girl alone.’

‘She has to learn,’ Isobel said, ‘what’ll she be like when she has to snog a birthday boy?’

‘It won’t happen,’ Janice said, in a resigned tone, ‘you insist on doing all the kissagram, you tart.’

‘Why don’t you make the tea, Verity,’ she said.

Customers streamed steadily through the door all morning, and Isabel had me greet everyone in my faux French. Most dropped off costumes they’d hired for the weekend. Isabel showed me how to inspect the garments for damage, describing with relish the type of stains to expect.

Whenever Janice wasn’t watching, she continued to touch me under my skirt, stroking my bottom, and attempting to place her hand between my legs.

When the shop was quieter she had me try walking with my hobbled feet, and bending to display my derriere. Shortly before lunch, while I was practicing the latter, the door opened and she hissed at me, ‘stay where you are.’

‘Isabel darling,’ a very camp male voice exclaimed, ‘I’ve opened a seam on my uniform, and you know I’m no hand with a needle. Oh my, who is that?’ I had a good view of nothing except the carpet, but I knew that he was standing directly behind me.

‘Nice view isn’t it?’ Isobel said, ‘that’s our latest recruit, Verity. ’

‘It looks like a black tulip amid a bed of lilies,’ he said.

He gave my bottom a tap saying, ‘why don’t you stand up dear, and say hello.’

‘Verity, meet Patience - a sister maid.’ Isobel rolled her eyes, ‘Verity, swears she’s straight, but I think it’s virginity'

‘Bon jour Mademoiselle,’ I managed, before Patience wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me close.

‘You are gorgeous, Verity,’ he enthused, and then, kissing my cheek added quietly, ‘don’t let Isabel get to you, she’s a bitch.’

I ate my packed lunch with Janice in the back room, and we chatted while Isabel watched the shop. Janice was a bit of an enigma, she didn’t reveal anything about herself, but she did share some choice comments about Isabel. They were obviously close but there seemed little love lost between them.

‘I’m sorry about Isabel,’ Janice said confidentially, ‘she tries it on with all the girls. It’s a game to her. The other maids simply play along until she gets bored.

When I returned to the counter a few minutes later, Isabel almost immediately moved beside me, slipping a hand under my petticoats. Feeling ashamed, and hating Isabel for what I was about to do, I smiled at her.

‘Merci Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I said still smiling, but screaming inside.

‘Are you going to be a good girl?’ Isabel asked, as her other hand found the v of my crotch once more. I could not answer, simply letting my thighs part at her touch. ‘Good girl,’ Isabel said softly, as her fingers explored me.

‘Oui Mademoiselle,’ I murmured, trying to ignore what was happening.

‘Do you have a kiss for me?’ Isabel whispered in my ear. I nodded, resigned to feeling her lips on mine.

‘I don’t kiss tramps like you,’ she spat, and released me, moving to the other end of the counter.

Only a few customers came into the shop during the afternoon. Even without Isabel’s prompting I met everyone with a curtsy, and a French greeting. At times it almost felt like I was having fun, and without a predatory Isabel hounding my every step, it was.

‘Grab your coat and bag,’ Janice said, a few minutes before five, ‘I’ll give you a lift home, but be quick, or Isabel won’t stop moaning about being left to lock up.’

Soubrette Chapter 5 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Janice brought the car to a rest outside Packney House. ‘I had an ulterior motive for driving you home,’ she said, switching the engine off, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said, unfastening my seat belt. Life had been so much easier the week before when I hadn’t had to worry about other‘s motives.

‘We’re often asked for a French maid to clean house.’ Janice began unbuckling her seat belt, while she spoke, ‘and our girls aren’t that good at housework, even if they were available during the day.’

‘Times are as you know getting harder, and I’m looking for alternative income.’ Janice took my hand.

‘That’s very interesting,’ I said, somewhat baffled, ‘but what does that have to do with driving me home?’

‘As a fulltime employee you will be available during the day,’ Janice said, ‘and from what I’ve seen you certainly have the temperament, as well as the looks for the work. All I really need to know is how well you keep your own house.’

Miss Meanswell wasn’t lying then, was my first thought, there was a cleaning job at Soubrette. She might have mentioned the company dress code though.

I gave my answer careful consideration, ‘you will probably find my flat a little weird.’

‘I’ll have to teach you how to get out of cars in a short skirt,’ Janice said, as we boarded the lift. Imagining the sight I must have presented to passers-by, I could do nothing but blush.

‘I’m surprised you can afford to live here,’ Janice ventured, to cover my silence. ‘My friend’s gran lives here, and she says the flats are huge.’

‘I was bequeathed mine by an aunt,’ I replied.

‘That’s an amazing legacy.’

‘My cousins didn’t think so,’ I answered quietly, trying not to relive the bitter arguments.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t sell,’ Janice said, ‘it must be worth a fortune.’

‘I think that’s why Great Aunt Fen chose me. She knew her children would sell it.’ Although my aunt had passed four years before, I still grieved for her. ‘By the time I moved in, the place was stripped of everything my cousins thought of value.’

We met Mr. Blum in the corridor, and he was effusive in his welcome. ‘My word, Verity,’ he laughed, ‘every night you bring home a different beautiful girl.’ When I introduced Janice as my employer, he made a very courteous apology, and asked me to visit later.

Janice gasped when I showed her into my living room. ‘It’s just like a film set,’ she said, looking around her, ‘”Downton Abbey” can’t beat this.’

‘I think Aunt Fen would have liked it,’ I said, quietly, ‘of some these things were hers.’

‘Is it all like this?’ Janice asked, still trying to take everything in.

‘The kitchen was refitted during the eighties, and I’m still working on the bathroom, but I think you’ll like my sewing room.’ I didn’t often get the opportunity to be tour guide in my own museum, and I loved showing off my world.

Janice touched a hand to the dress tacked on my dummy, and asked if I was making it for myself.

‘It’s a sun dress, to wear on the balcony,’ I explained, ‘I make most of my own clothes.’

‘I wish I’d had an aunt like her. Was this hers too?’ Janice pointed to the old Singer sitting on its treadle stand by the window.

‘Aunt Fen was a couture seamstress, and she used it,’ I said, adding, ‘she taught me everything.’

‘Would you sit at it, for a photograph?’ Janice asked, pulling her mobile from a pocket. ‘For our website.’

Before I sat Janice fussed around with my uniform, telling me not to worry when I expressed concern about the state of my makeup.

‘Well, I don’t think I have to worry about your housekeeping skills,’ she smiled. I was just about to ask her more about the cleaning work, when the phone rang in the living room. Janice shooed me away with the gesture, and I rushed to answer it.

‘Verity, have you eaten yet?’ Kristy’s voice sang from the big Bakelite receiver.

‘How do you know I’m Verity tonight?’ I asked, wondering if she could already detect a change in my voice when dressed.

‘Verity is an art deco girl, in an art deco world’ Kirsty said, ‘and she answers the phone by saying the number.’

‘And are you an art deco millionaire?’ She laughed, and I was glad she got the reference. ‘I’m showing one of my bosses around my flat at present, I haven’t had a bite to eat yet.’

‘I have to drop mum off at evening classes, but I can bring a takeaway round in half an hour if you like. ’

‘That sounds great,’ I said, ‘now I have to make sure my boss isn’t in my knicker-drawer.’

Janice was still standing beside the window in my sewing room, talking on her mobile. While I was on the threshold, I heard her say, ‘a very suitable girl.’ Not wanting to eavesdrop any further, I stepped back into the corridor while she was talking. However, as I moved into the room again, her phone rang, and I overheard a brief conversation.

‘Digby you got the picture... my new maid... isn’t she just... we’ll talk about her later.’

Janice had me pose for more photographs in the living room, artfully staged to include period features. I was intrigued by the website (I hadn’t bothered to check if there was one), and how I would appear on it. Simple vanity perhaps, but the conditions of my employment at Soubrette seemed to change hourly.

‘I think that’s enough to be going on with,’ Janice said, sliding her mobile into a pocket. ‘You’ve been marvellous Verity, and you handled Isabel very well, even though it must have cost you dearly.’

I was tempted to point out Isabel handled me, but thought better of it. ‘Thank you Janice, I’ve had a lot of fun today.’ Apart from the incessant fondling it was true.

‘Verity you’re a star,’ Janice hugged me, adding a kiss on the cheek and, ‘bring in your sewing kit tomorrow.’

In the minutes remaining before Kirsty arrived, I contemplated changing my clothes. It would have been easy to throw on another dress, and take off the borrowed shoes which were really starting to hurt. However, I was perversely proud of my working clothes, and wanted her to see me in them.

The knock at the door prompted a sudden panic. What if it were one of my neighbours or even worse, what if Kirsty laughed. I knew I looked preposterous, would it be so bad if she thought that too?

Putting my courage to the sticking place, I unlatched the door, and in my best faux French asked the slightly bemused Kirsty, ‘Bon soir Mademoiselle, ’ow may I ‘elp you?’

‘I’m here to visit the lady of the house,’ Kirsty said, without missing a beat, ‘is she in perchance?’

‘Mais oui Mademoiselle, pleez kerm zees way.’ I curtsied, and led her inside with mincing steps.

‘O. K. I get the accent,’ Kirsty laughed, ‘but why are you taking such small steps?’

After explaining my day’s training, I demonstrated how a maid should bend over, my piece the resistance.

‘Dear Deirdre, I met a wonderful, gentle, quiet man, but have found out she’s a raving lunatic. Kirsty wrote on an imaginary notepad. ‘Should I tell him that I love him, or feed her pizza until she’s a dress size bigger than me?’

‘Nobody can eat that much pizza,’ I quipped.

By the time the lid went back on the pizza box, I’d learned about her weekend with a friend from university, and a day in Miss Meanswell‘s crusade against the long-term unemployed. In my turn I told her about my first day at Soubrette, sketching over some of the things that happened with Isabel. There were things I wanted to talk about, but Kirsty demanded a guided tour like I’d given Janice.

Unlike Janice, Kirsty seemed far more interested in my bedroom than my sewing room. I might have been flattered had not her first question been, ‘can I see you clothes?’

Nick’s clothes were pressed into a spare 6 inches at the end of the closet. A few shirts, pair of jeans, some sweaters, and I the terrible suit I wore for interviews. Verity’s, by contrast, filled almost all of the remaining space.

‘Did you make all of these?’ Kirsty picked out an evening gown I made solely to try sewing against bias. ‘This is stunning.’

‘I made most of them,’ I confessed, ‘but a few I found in charity shops and car boot sales.’

‘You have got to take me shopping or make me a dress,’ Kirsty cried, holding my evening gown against her. ‘Have you been to the Rialto since its restoration?’

I had walked past the refurbished old cinema many times; it was a fine art deco building but had never been inside. ‘I keep meaning to,’ I said, ‘but the films don’t appeal to me.’

‘They’ve started a “Roaring Twenties Night” on Thursdays, we could go dressed in Twenties clothes,’ Kirsty said, ‘and I never thought I’d say this to a fella, we’re both the same size. It would be fantastic.’

‘Two girls at the cinema on a date?’ I almost laughed, ‘I haven’t been on many dates recently though, and never as Verity...’

Kirsty put an arm around me and said, ‘come on it’ll be fun, we can be art deco lesbians.’

‘That’s so Berlin,’ I laughed, ‘O. K.’

‘Why do you have a single bed?’ Kirsty asked, sitting on the coverlet

‘It was my bed when I stayed with Aunt Fen,’ I explained, ‘my cousins removed the double bed from this room before I moved back.’

‘It seems so lonely,’ Kirsty said, patting the bed beside her, ‘why don’t you tell me what upset you today. You obviously missed something out.’

I sat next to her, almost touching but not quite. Haltingly I related my experiences with Isabel, even her attempts to feel between my legs.

‘Isabel may have a point’, Kirsty wrapped an arm around my shoulder, ‘you’ll need to learn how to deal with people reacting to the slutty way you’re dressed.’

I must not have looked convinced because she carried on, ‘in some ways you acted like you were defending your masculinity, while Isabel was probably reacting to your innately feminine personality.’

‘My what?’ I protested.

‘It’s what attracted me to Nick in the first place, Kirsty said softly, ‘and I don’t mean that you are effeminate. Just quiet, gentle and caring.’

She pulled me closer, her cheek almost against mine. ’ women aren’t so hung up about displaying affection. Isabel was being true to her nature, and you weren’t.’

‘But what about touching me between my legs?’

‘Seeing how neatly you’re tucked in “down there”, Isabel was probably checking that you’re not actually a girl.’ Kirsty smiled broadly, ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question all evening.’

‘Oh sorry, I’m not used to short dresses,’ I said, tugging at the hem of my uniform.’

‘Hey stop it, how many times does a girl get to look up her boyfriend’s skirt?’ Kirsty asked, feigning outrage.

‘Boyfriend?’

‘The situation‘s vacant you know,’ she kissed me quite fiercely on the lips.

‘Just one question,’ she said, ‘why do you have an easel in your bedroom?’

I could have pointed out that the light was better, but I went with, ‘because I can’t afford a video camera.’

Kirsty pushed me back on the bed, and the next words she said were, ‘good girl.’

Soubrette Chapter 6 Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

As a working girl I realised I would no longer be able to follow the same leisurely morning routine that I had when unemployed. The time I spent on my own ablutions could not be reduced without having an impact on my appearance. Therefore, to make time up I prepared my morning tea in a two cup, hotel-ware pot. Although appropriate to my period, its functional silver-plated design lacked the charm of my Charlotte Rhead service, and I was disinclined to linger over breakfast.

Dressing was also less involved. I would go to work in the same uniform I had worn home the evening before. A second pair of new panties from the pack of seven I had bought, was the only change in my underwear.

Remembering Janice’s critique of my hair, I substituted a shoulder-length brunette wig. I have to admit it gave me a more obviously feminine appearance, if at odds with my desire to follow antique fashion.

Of course, nothing goes entirely to plan; my borrowed shoes’ 5 inch heels cost me a few valuable minutes. Luckily Maureen at the newsagents, one of the back for me by having the papers ready by the time I arrived. Also noticing my difficulties the day before, she had them in a paperboy’s bag, which I could carry more easily.

All of which meant, I found 15 minutes to take coffee with Mr. Blum. I had visited him the evening before, but not having had the chance to catch up on the day’s events, and still somewhat dazed by Kirsty‘s behaviour, our conversation was rather one sided.

Kirsty dominated my thoughts on the way to work. Not only was I now her appointed boyfriend, but to prove my true gender, she had removed my panties with what can only be called rapacity.

Her interpretation of Isabel’s actions, however, was more troubling still. The more I thought about them, the more I believed I owed my employer a heartfelt apology. I only hoped that I had not irreparably damaged my relationship with Isabel.

At work I found Janice alone, and so set about tying my ankles with the long shoelace Isabel had used, and lifting my petticoats to reveal the approved amount of panties. Then as my employer directed I’m ran the vacuum cleaner over the shop’s carpets.

Isabel arrived shortly before nine, by which time I had moved on to dusting. She looked particularly glamorous, in a claret top, calf length black pencil skirt, and towering heels.

I set my duster aside to look admiringly at her, whatever my feelings about the events of the previous day, there was no denying she looked stunning. ‘Bon jour Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I said, my mouth instantly dry.

Isabel turned as if suddenly seeing me, she slowly looked me up and down, saying, ‘tres bien, ma petite Verity.’

‘Mademoiselle Isabel,’ I blurted out, ‘I am sorry for the way I behaved yesterday. It was unforgivable.’ I hoped she would not mind that I had forgotten my French accent.

Isabel closed the short distance between us, and softly touched my cheek with the backs of her fingers. ‘The fault was all mine, honey,’ she said, stroking my face, ‘I took you too far and too fast. If you would like to try again I will take into account your inexperience.’

‘Merci Mademoiselle,’ I cried, leaning close to kiss her on the lips.

Isabel opened her handbag and produced a pair of fishnet stockings. ‘These are traditional for French maids dear; let me put them on you.’

At Isabel’s request I brought the spare chair from Janice’s desk into the shop, and sat upon it. She then removed my shoes, unfastened or six of my suspenders, and rolled down my fully-fashioned stockings. All of which was done in a deliberate, sensual manner.

‘Am I making you uncomfortable, little one?’ Isabel asked, and when I shook my head she reversed the process, rolling a fishnet stocking up each of my legs.

When she had finished fastening my suspenders, she traced the seams with her finger, and led me to the shop’s full-length mirror so that I could admire her handiwork.

While standing at the mirror I realised that Isabel had a hand beneath my petticoats, and was gently stroking my bottom. I smiled to show her my appreciation. Unlike the previous day, her movements were very slow, and not threatening.

Isabel remarked how much more relaxed I was, and I told her about my conversation with Kirsty. ‘Perhaps we could try holding a kiss for a little longer,’ Isabel suggested, ‘a minute maybe, and if you’re counting the seconds in your head is well take your mind off what you’re doing.’

She turned me so that we were facing each other. While she continued to stroke my bottom, Isabel moved her other hand to the small of my back, and placed one of mine on her behind. ‘See if you can trace my panty line, Kirsty will be so proud of you,’ she said, bringing her lips to mine.

I cannot honestly claim to have overcome my inhibitions about kissing a man, even one so immaculately presenting as a woman. Instead I concentrated on the most important points in my universe.

Isabel’s lips although closed moved against mine, and the hand on my bottom kept up its slow movement. I searched in vain it seemed for Isabel’s pantie-line, until I met its waistband; she was wearing a thong, and I traced its string until I realised where it was leading. In my head I kept up the constantly changing seconds count, and my only anchor was her hand in the small of my back.

I felt a pinch on my bottom, and heard Isabel ask if I had lost count. ‘I was Mississippi counting,’ I said.

‘Kirsty’s got an eyes closed kisser.’ Isabel laughed, ‘so what did you think?’

‘You have very soft lips,’ I said, blushing myself to silence.

‘If you two have finished I’d like my seamstress back.’ Janice was laying costumes on the counter, each of which she informed me was in need of repair.

Soubrette Chapter 7 Nick was happy playing the system, unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

Chapter Seven

Isabel promised to make tea as I retrieved my sewing kit, and she was as good as her word setting the cup down where I could reach it while I sewed.

Most of the repairs were relatively minor tears, or simply stitching come undone. A few more significant jobs I would have to take home, and one or two were beyond my capabilities to fix. The latter I set aside as they would provide a useful source of fabric for patches. Some of the garments had obviously been repaired before, but the quality of work was so shoddy I unpicked the stitching and did them over.

Isabel and I chatted as I worked except when there were customers, to whom she told outrageous lies to explain my tied ankles. All of which made me blush furiously, but I made no complaints, as she accompanied all of them with a theatrical wink.

Shortly before eleven o’clock Janice told us there was a lady coming to the shop, who could be very important for the future of Soubrette. She specifically instructed Isabel not to tell her that I was a sissy expelled from borstal for corrupting guards, or a novice nun excommunicated by Pope when my sexual depravity was discovered. This was a pity as I’d enjoyed the customers’ reaction to the latter, especially when Isabel told them I had subsequently been thrown out of the seminary as insufficiently depraved. I had even added my own suggestive leer to the last retelling of this tale.

Mrs. Armstrong arrived promptly at twelve, carrying the Town Hall clock’s chimes with her through the door. She was a woman of middling years, striking where she had once been beautiful, and immaculately dressed in a tailored navy blue suit that needed no designer's label to prove its quality.

Janice, who had been waiting on the shop's door bell, sprang around the counter and stood in a welcoming posture. Meanwhile Isabel helped me set aside the pirate costume I was working on. She looked deadly serious, and I couldn't resist wiggling my finger through the torn gusset. She stifled a giggle, and her arm snaked around my waist. 'Behave yourself,' Isabel hissed, squeezing me as I stood.

'Of course, the uniform will not do,' Mrs Armstrong said, casting and appraising eye from shoes to wig. 'How long will it take you to source a replacement?'

Janice looked flummoxed, so I quickly volunteered, 'I could probably make one in a couple of days if I had fabric.'

'Your stitching looks very good,' Mrs Armstrong said, lifting one of my completed repairs from the counter. 'I preferred the shorter hair shown on the website,' she said, turning my face by the chin. 'Very pretty,' she added absently, 'of course you'll need more practical shoes than those.' Mrs Armstrong wasn't wrong, only Isabel's arm around my waist kept me standing upright.

'Calm down, I can feel your heart racing,' Isabel whispered in my ear.

'Sorry,' I quietly replied, unconsciously pressing closer to her.

'You are scrumptious when you're nervous,' Isabel answered, tickling me gently until I giggled.

'Sank yoo, Madamoiselle Isabel,' I said in my shaky French accent, and kissed her on the cheek.

'The grown-ups aren't paying us any attention.' Isobel had both arms around my waist, pulling me closer. Over her shoulder I could see Janice and Mrs Armstrong had moved to the doorway. With a sense of relief, I left my forehead fall on Isabel's shoulder. 'Kiss me properly,' Isabel whispered in my ear.

Still giggling softly, I raised my head far enough to find her lips. 'Good girl,' Isabel whispered, 'I'll tell you when to stop.' Inevitably her hands had moved from my waist to my bottom. Isabel was at least consistent.

My eyes sprang open when the doorbell rang again - damn, I was an eyes closed kisser. Mrs Armstrong had left, and Janice was bearing down on Isabel and I. 'Break it up, you two,' she said briskly, 'we've got shopping to do.'

'Now?' I said weakly, only half aware that I was still in Isabel's arms.

'Yes now, Missy!'

'But it's lunchtime,' I protested, 'and I'm dressed as a stripper.'

'You will be okay,' Isobel said, unwinding her arms from my body.

'Where are we going?' I asked, already heading for the door after Janice. And forgetting about my tied ankles.

'Easy, Tiger!' Fortunately, Isabel was only inches away, catching me easily. 'Hug?' Isabel asked, and I gratefully wrapped my arms around her. 'I knew we'd be friends,' were her only words as she drew me close.

'First of all, let's get you a pair of sensible shoes.' Janice was a leading me along a pavement filled with lunch time shoppers. Seemingly completely oblivious to these stares we were getting.

'There's Budget Shoe over there,' I almost shouted, eager to leave the busy street.

'I'm not sending you to Mrs Armstrong in cheap shoes,' Janice barked, yanking me along towards a more expensive shop for farther down the street.

'It's all right she only dresses like this for work,' Janice told the bemused assistant as we entered, 'do you have a black court shoe with a 1 inch heel, in a 5?'

'We certainly do, if you'll just take a seat.'

Easing myself onto the chair he'd indicated, I had a good look at the other customers. It seemed only right, as they were all taking a good look at me.

'Size 5 wasn't it?' The assistant had reappeared under an armful of boxes. I nodded my assent as he settled at my feet, and began removing my right shoe.

This level of service was completely new to me, and I didn't know if I should look at him or not. As a compromise I sneaked looks at him while pretending to gaze into the distance. There's only so much information you can gather about someone you're fairly sure is staring at your panties. And my feet tickled, as he fitted one pair of shoes, and then another. He was the young, and according to his name badge answered to 'Mark'.

'How does that feel?'

'All right I suppose,' I said, tentatively putting my weight onto my right foot. It was certainly comfortable, a square toed style in high-quality black leather.

'I'm surprised the narrow fitting is comfortable, men usually…' Mark left his sentence unfinished, but continued to look at my legs.

'We'll take them,' Janice said, tearing his attention from my calves.

'I can't believe that we spent so much on wonder her shoes,' I said as Janice dragged me out onto the pavement.

'Mrs Armstrong will pick up the bill,' Janice said over her shoulder. 'Will Fabric Land have what we need?'

'It should have, but…'. I knew that the shop would have everything, it was where I bought all my sewing supplies. Nick was well known there, and I really didn't want the staff to see me in my working clothes. However, Janice ignored my reticence, dragging me across the road and through the door.

'There's some lightweight black gabardine over here,' I said, pulling Janice to the back of the shop. 'It's very hard wearing, just the thing for a maid's uniform.'

Janice looked uncomprehendingly at me saying, 'it's all Greek to me, but we need enough for two uniforms… Oh and aprons too.'

'There should be white calico in the next aisle,' I said, drawing the bolt of fabric from the rack. My aunt first introduced me to the shop, one summer when I stayed there for the holidays. The atmosphere was so familiar, I could feel myself relaxing by the second. Then someone laid a hand on my shoulder.

'It's Verity Parsons isn't it?' Turning, I found myself almost face to face with Mrs George, the owner.

'How did you know?' I stammered.

'Your aunt always spoke of her pretty niece, but we never thought we'd get to see her.' Mrs George smiled warmly, and beckoned over the assistant at the till. 'You'll never guess who is here,' she called out.

'But Nick has been coming here every week, and you've never said anything.' My cheeks were blazing.

'Your aunt, lovely woman that she was, told us you'd be embarrassed, and never to mention it to you.' By now Mrs George was hugging me, and clapping my back.

'Julie's going to be sick,' laughed the newly arrived assistant. Seeing my look of bewilderment she added, 'she's had a crush on Nick for ages, and didn't believe that you were gay.'

'I'm not,' I said, but my denial was lost in the hubbub.

'We need enough of this to make two maid's uniforms,' Janice shouted, and pointed at the roll of fabric.

'Proper ones, for cleaning in,' I said, struggling to escape Mrs George's bear hug.

'I hope you didn't make this one, it's very shoddy,' she joked.

'And slutty,' added the assistant, 'I can see your knickers.'

'Everyone can,' I admitted, 'but the new uniform will be kneelength, without any frills.' I looked and Janice for confirmation, which he gave with a nod.

And the checkout Janice paid for everything, leaving me to pack away everything, with Mrs George's able assistance.

'Your aunt was very proud of you,' she said, 'she would always bring in things her niece had sewn to show us. She was a lovely woman.'

Choking back, tears I followed Janice back to Soubrette. I still missed Aunt Fenn, and couldn't help wondering what she'd think about my current job. It was a long way from art restoration, but at least I was sewing.

'What has she done to you?' Isabel threw her arms around me, giving Janice a poisonous look.

'Nothing,' I sniffed, 'it's just…'. I mumbled the rest of my sentence into Isabel's shoulder, while she gently stroked my back.

'Don't cry, kitten,' she said soothingly, 'why don't you sit down, and tell me all about it.'

'Sank yoo, Madamoiselle Isabel,' I murmured, turning to kiss her on the lips, my eyes already closed.

To my horror, my lips met an open mouth. Don't panic, I told myself, she'll probably close her lips as we kiss. I kept repeating this in my head right up until the tip of Isabel's tongue met my lips.

Anything but acquiescence that this point would seem like a rebuttal, I thought. And we'd been getting along so well. Damning my own eyes, I felt Isabel's tongue glide into my mouth.

Isabel instantly drew me closer, my body pressed against hers, while I decided what to do. Keeping my tongue out of the way seemed like a good plan. Or at least it would have, if Isabel's hadn't been so freely exploring my mouth.

The kiss seemed to go on interminably, until Isabel broke it off. 'Well that was unexpected,' she said, coyly, her arms still around my waist.

'It wasn't planned,' I blurted out.

'Of course it wasn't.' Isobel pressed her for forehead against mine, and murmured, 'the best kisses never are.'

My answer was just a series of an unintelligible noises as I pulled myself three from Isabel's embrace. The majority of my blood supply, I was sure resided in my face, as I grappled with what had happened. I didn't really enjoy it, did I?

Sorry for the long wait, and apologies for the shocking formatting :)

Isabel's offer of the lift home was neither surprising nor strictly speaking an offer. All afternoon she had been shooting me sidelong glances, and missed no opportunity to brush against me. She waited until the end of the day, when I was changing out of my uniform.

Deciding the world had seen enough of me in fishnets for one day, I was refastening nylons to my suspenders, when she simply stood in front of me, and announced, 'I'm running you home tonight.'

Of course I tried to demur, but she was adamant, and so at five thirty, I trooped after her with a sense of dread. I imagined Isabel pouncing upon me, as soon as we left the shop. I couldn't blame her, after our "passionate" exchange.

Isabel's car was almost an embodiment of her sense of style; a metallic green BMW, its paintwork shining, and looking like it had just driven off the forecourt, despite being five years old. She watched with obvious anxiety as I laid my bags on the back seat, and stood with pursed lips as I attempted to sit in the front. I managed to evade criticism by not flashing my knickers with the first time that day.

My attempts at small talk met only stony silence, until we joined the main road, when Isabel's hand slipped from the gearstick to my knee.

'What?' An exasperated Isabel said. Without taking her eyes from the traffic ahead, she added, 'Isn't this what you expected to happen?'

It was exactly what I expected, and I mumbled some words to that effect, before placing my hand over hers. 'You are a strange girl, Verity,' she said. Which may have been true, but I was relieved that Isabel's hand wasn't sliding up my thigh.

'Well this is it.' I was beginning to feel like a tour guide every time I invited anyone into my flat. However, the look of amazement on a visitor's face never grew old.

'It's like following Alice through the looking glass,' Isobel said, looking around in wonder.

'We'd best put the shopping in my sewing room; it's down here,' I said, leading the way along the corridor, pausing only to shut an opened door. 'That's my bedroom, nothing to see there,' I mumbled.

Isabel gasped from the doorway, and pointed at my mannequin. 'I want a sundress just like that, she said, running her hands over the fabric, ‘please make me one.'

'I made that from an off-cut,' I said, grabbing a measuring tape, 'so I won't be able to match the pattern, but I noticed some lovely…' My words trailed off when I remembered I was to make the maid uniforms first.

'Measure me anyway,' Isabel said, stretching her arms out to her sides. She remained perfectly still as I wrapped the tape around her bust, and waist, but when I moved to Isabel's hips, she told me, 'if you tell anyone else that number, I will have to kill you.'

'It makes a change for me to be touching your bum,' I joked. Isabel laughed, but her face grew suddenly serious.

'Why are you so afraid of me?' She asked, laying a hand on my shoulder.

'I'm not afraid,' I lied.

'When you're around me, you shake like a leaf,' Isabel said, tipping up my chin with one finger.

'You were pretty horrible to me yesterday.'

'I was just annoyed with you,' she said, folding her arms lightly around me. 'You are so effortlessly angelic, I spent all day fighting the urge to cuddle you.'

'You don't cuddle people's panties,' I sniffed.

'It's something you have to learn to ignore,' Isabel smiled, 'and you even seemed to enjoy it today.'

'I suppose I just overreacted,' I said, laying my head against Isabel's chest.

'I'd better get on,' she said, giving my waist a squeeze, 'I can't keep you from your sewing. Janice would kill me.'

'You don't have to go right away,' I said, trying to make up for the baby I could now see I'd been,'I have to cook dinner, I can easily make enough for two.'

'You seen how wide my hips are,' Isabel said, leading me back to my front door, 'I daren't eat anything else today.'

'It doesn't have to be…' I caught myself, before I started to sound really desperate. 'Should we kiss goodbye?' Isabel smiled, and nodded, while I braced myself for the kiss I'd expected earlier.

She put an arm around my shoulder, drawing me a little closer, and planted a quick peck on my cheek. It was all so anticlimactic, and yet bells seemed to be ringing.

'You should probably answer the telephone,' Isabel said, and was out through the door before I could even turn around.

I was rather unused receiving phone calls, but it took me a few moments to realise it was Kirsty speaking.

'Everyone was talking in work today, about a stripper running down the High Street this lunchtime.'

'I wasn't running,' I said defensively.

'If it's any consolation, everyone said you have fantastic legs,' she said, before collapsing into giggles. 'But why were you on the High Street?'

'It's a long story,' I said, 'and I think I've messed up things with Isabel.'

'I'm coming over,' Kirsty said decisively, 'should I bring anything?'

'I'm just about to start dinner,' and over Kirsty's protestations, I added, 'please let me cook for you.'

'You cook too?' She shouted, 'you're having my babies!'

I was draining the pasta when Kirsty arrived, and had to explain I wasn't hugging because I been chopping chillis.

'Is there no end to your talents?' Kirsty asked, while rolling her eyes, 'I bet you're rubbish in bed, to compensate… I'm joking, where's the food'

'So you ended up French kissing Isabel,' Kirsty laughed out loud, sending a piece of orecchiette across the kitchen.

'My tongue was strictly neutral.' I managed to get out my defence almost straightfaced.

'It doesn't sound like she had any complaints.' When Kirsty put it like that, I have to see the funny side, but her face turned serious quite quickly. 'You've brought work home with you? You are on minimum wage, Perhaps I should have a word. '

'It's something I like doing,' I said, although Kirsty was shaking her head. 'That reminds me, I need to measure your hips,' which made Kirsty sputter.

'I was only joking about having my babies,' she said through a barrage of broccoli, 'well, half joking anyway.'

Ignoring the last part of her sentence, I tried to explain myself. 'I thought it would be fun on Thursday, if we both wore my dresses, it's just that they are cut to my figure,' I said, 'and I have boyishly slim hips.'

'That's because you are a slim boy,' Kirsty laughed, 'I'm game if you are.'

We moved to my bedroom, and "flung open the closet doors" as Kirsty put it. The choice was simple enough, it had to be a black dress, which would look devastating with her blonde hair. Or it would have been simple, if I didn't have a love of making little black dresses. It was, therefore, about half an hour before Kirsty shucked off her trousers, for me to run my take around her hips.

'This has to be the most elaborate plot by a man to get a girl down to her panties, ever,' she laughed, but while I'm here…'

'I have to make a start on the maid uniforms,' I said, apologetically.

'Perhaps Isabel really is the girl for you,' Kirsty said, pulling on her trousers.

Chapter Nine

Breakfasting on my balcony, looking over the still silent streets and empty sands, I knew that today would be too warm for an overcoat.

Fortunately my uniform, along with the hated fishnet stockings, was hanging in the shop's storeroom, which meant that I had nothing to hide beneath an overcoat.

I was almost giddy as I closed the front door, after double checking that I'd remembered to stuff the push-up bra into my bag, along with lunch.

When I arrived, Soubrette was half shuttered, and someone was moving around, with the shop's lights still turned off.

'Someone's full of the choice of spring!'To my surprise, I found the early bird was Isabel, who was fiddling around with nothing in particular, and seemed eager to chat. 'That's a posh frock for a Wednesday,' she said, picking at the fabric.

'This old thing?' I twirled to lift the dress's skirts. 'Too early for sleeveless?'

'Just how many wolf whistles did you get?' Isabel asked.

'Only two… Until I got to the new building site,' I joked, kissing her lightly on the cheek, as I turned away. 'Where's Janice?'

'She's picking something up at Digby's.'

Digby's I knew was the name of a pokey little Internet cafe at the north end of the promenade, and its proprietor. From Isabel's gossip I also knew that Digby was romantically involved with Janice.

'That's not a very vintage bra,' said Isabel, who had followed me into the storeroom.

'The trouble with vintage bras,' I said, stepping out of my dress, 'is that they are rubbish. A neighbour bought me this for Christmas.'

'Your girdle seems authentic, though you really don't need it,' Isabel said, 'let me help you change stockings.'

After much wriggling to get the seams straight, Isabel disappeared back into the shop. She returned a few minutes later, with a red and black lace garter, which she rolled languorously over the fishnet stocking on my left thigh.

Once I was installed in my petticoats and abbreviated dress, Isabel opened the shutters wide. To let the world know, in her words, we were open for business. Dressed as a slutty maid, I already felt so.

Wednesday mornings are not particularly hectic in fancy dress shops. I stood behind the counter chatting with Isabel, as she idly stroked me through my panties. While I, for my part, tried not to let on how much I enjoyed it.

Janice bustled in at nine thirty carrying two boxes, one of which she dropped on the counter in front of me. Noting my quizzical look she said simply, 'new shoes.'

'That's right,' Isabel said, 'Felicity will need her shoes back tonight.'

'I can't wear these,' I protested, after I'd opened box.

'Of course you can, you said exactly the same thing about this shoes you're wearing,' Janice said, 'just pop them on.'

Isabel was already moving a chair for me to sit. And with growing apprehension, I sat with the shoebox on my lap. There was a one inch platform under the toes, and the stiletto heel was a soaring seven inches high.

'I bought them from that new shop,' Janice said, 'across the road from Ann Summers.'

'I bought my new boots there,' Isabel said.

'The thigh length ones?'

'I'm going to break my bloody neck in these,' I shouted, but neither seemed able to hear me.

'Of course you won't,' Isabel said, squatting by my feet, 'I'm even untying your ankles.'

'Why does Felicity need her shoes back?' I asked, tottering along the counter.

'See, you've already got the hang of it,' Isabel almost managed to sound convinced. 'We're doing an event tonight. You'll get to meet all your sister maids when they come in to get changed.'

'It's a shame you'll be sewing tonight,' Janice said. 'How is it going, by the way?'

Janice spent the rest of the morning folding sheets of A4 paper, which I guessed had been in the other box. Isabel and I were left to man the shop, which was as I've said, fairly quiet apart from a steady stream of young men looking for gangster costumes.

'Now try walking to the inflatable bananas and back,' Isabel suggested, propelling me forward with a tap on my bottom. 'Wonderful, but don't hold your arms out like a tightrope walker.'

I'd had the shoes for an hour, and could walk five or 6 feet without falling over - on a level surface. The ridiculous heels did a better job of hobbling me, than tying my ankles together. Was this why Janice had bought them?

At eleven thirty, when even Isabel had tired of ordering the about, Janice reappeared. Clutching a sheaf of the folded papers, she had me stand still.

'We made quite an impression on the public yesterday,' Janice told me, 'and I think if you handed out these flyers it could bring in a lot of new business.'

'Where?' I asked, aghast at the prospect of returning to the High Street, especially in my new shoes.

'Just on the pavement outside the shop,' Janice stuffed the flyers into my hand.

'But these shoes,' I pleaded.

'If you find yourself falling,' Janice reassured me, 'just hold on to the lamppost.'

'How long will I have to stay out there?'

'Only until the lunchtime traffic peters out,' Janice said, 'about one thirty.'

'Can I have a hug please,' I asked Isabel, who was trying not to laugh behind her hand.

Hugged, and kissed very tenderly on the forehead, I was thrust through the door, with the promise of plenty more leaflets, if I ran out.

Almost immediately I became aware of a sea breeze, playing on the bare skin above my stocking tops. Momentarily distracted, I stumbled over a crack in the pavement, and only just righted myself, by hanging on to the lamp post. Looking back at the door, I glimpsed Janice and Isabel snickering.

Luckily there were no other witnesses nearby, or far away for that matter. Just what lunchtime traffic Janice had imagined, I did not know, but braced myself for the encounters that would surely follow.

My first passersby were inevitably, two policeman. Nervously I pressed leaflets upon them, and even attempted a little curtsy. They walked off laughing, and shaking their heads.

Ten minutes later a group of workmen approached, I guessed from the nearby building site. All seemed preoccupied with their own jokes to notice me, but my heels could not be ignored for long.

'Oy, love,' jeered the youngest, his yellow vest flapping, 'you don't want to stand outside that shop, people will think you're a bloke.'

In Nick's gruffest voice, which was just a gruff enough, I shouted back, 'what do you think is at the top of the stockings you're ogling?'

It wasn't the wisest choice I've made, but honest ribaldry seemed a safe policy. The young workman showed a quick flash of anger, but had a harder job dealing with his workmates' ribbing.

As the time grew closer to noon, the pavement became busier, and the pedestrians faster moving. Some stopped to take a leaflet, and others asked questions, with flattering incredulity. There were even those, who returned with friends.

I stepped inside several times for more leaflets, a sandwich nibble, and brief sits down; my toes had quickly become numb in those benighted shoes.

When my stint outside was over, I rejoined Isabel behind the counter, barefoot and feeling liberated. Isabel promptly insisted that my ankles be tied again, to ensure there would be no giant leaps for maid kind.

'Do you ever wish,' I asked Isabel, as she tied the knots, 'that we were sort of normal?'

'If normal doesn't have space for us,' she smiled, looking up from the laces, 'then there isn't much chance for normality.' Any hopes I had of this friendly answer, might indicate a softening of Isabel's treatment of me, were dashed when she had me then over the counter, and administered six sharp slaps on my bottom.

'Sank yoo, madamoiselle Isabel,' I said, straightening up, 'I weel not forget mon accent Francais again.' Spanking hadn't been mentioned before, but as Isabel explained, it would help me remember. Still gingerly prodding my inflamed behind, I returned to my post, and tried not to eavesdrop as Isabel took a call on her mobile.

'Why yes it was her,' Isabel said, turning her back, 'did you see her?' It was obvious that I was the subject of the conversation, but to whom was Isabel speaking?

'A little bit of bleating beforehand about her new shoes,' she laughed, 'yet I think she was enjoying it, by the end.'

'Are you talking about me?' I asked, and Isabel turned to give me a withering stare.

'Yes you're right, she is often unworldly, and at times a bit dense.'

'I am not,' I protested.

'Yes that's her, and I'm afraid she'll be getting another spanking if she isn't quiet.' Unconsciously my hands moved to my bottom, which was burning almost as much as my ears. 'Only six, but her bum will still you red this evening.'

'Who are you talking to?'

'Yes she is very pretty,' Isabel smiled at me, 'and very affectionate once you get past the reserve.' I was at a loss for words, and came very close to stamping my foot. 'No she didn't,' Isabel gave me a quizzical look, 'well I'll be sure where she gets the message.'

'Who were you talking to about me?'

'Who gets a young woman down to her panties,' Isabel said gravely, 'and begs off to work?'

'You were talking to Kirsty?' I asked, puzzled why she should call Isabel, and a little uneasy about what was said. I'd been talked about like a little child.

'Yes I was talking to your girlfriend,' Isabel grinned, and she gave me a message for you, in three parts, one, she's taking her mum for a meal this evening; two, who in this day and age doesn't have a mobile phone; and…'

Isabel stepped forward, catching me in a tight embrace, that would have knocked the breath from me, had her lips not formed a perfect seal over mine.

'From Kirsty,' she said, releasing her grip on me.

'I suppose I am a bit unworldly, at times,' I said, steadying myself on the counter's edge.

'Oh, and another six, for eavesdropping.'

Janice bustled back into the shop a little after five. 'I've been to every charity shop in town,' she said, 'and not one has any fedoras.' We'd had another five customers since lunchtime, who wanted gangster costume, so Janice had taken it upon herself to find more.

'The average age in this town is eighty-five,' Isabel said, 'everyone's probably waiting for them to come back into fashion.'

'Judging by this week, they already have.' Janice shook her head wearily, 'no sign of any of the girls yet?'

'It's still early,' Isabel said, 'but how, I'd best get home to change.'

'All my girls are good girls,' Janice said, as another maid disappeared into the back room, 'there's Joy, Grace, Prudence, Felicity (whose shoes you've been wearing), and who are we waiting for?'

'Patience, who else?' The newly emerging maid said.

'I've been wearing your shoes, I hope you don't mind,' I told Felicity, who was leaning against the other side of the counter.

'Those old things? I haven't worn anything that low for ages,' I'd been tricked into wearing the new shoes, with their towering heels. Maybe I was unworldly.

'You caused quite a stir outside the shop today,' Felicity continued, 'everyone in town seems to be talking about the Soubrette girl.'

'It was just standing there,' I said modestly, 'anyone could have done it.'

'Not me,' said Felicity, leaning confidentially over the counter, 'when I walked in and saw you, I thought "nobody else is getting a tip tonight". '

'So what's your deal?' Grace asked, joining Felicity, 'girls, guys, farm animals?'

'urm I'm bicurious, I suppose,' I mumbled. A week ago I'd have known what to answer, but now everything was a bit of jumble. 'I can't help wondering how it would be with someone else like me. A tgirl I mean, not a drag queen.'

'ooh get her,' said Grace and Felicity, holding imaginary handbags to their chests. Before I had the chance to wedge my other foot in my mouth, Isabel's entrance saved my blushes.

We all more pretty much the same maid's uniform, and the shop resembled a Degas ballet study with maids, but care had been lavished upon Isabel's'.

The conservative clothes she wore during the day, only hinted at the figure beneath. The combination of a deep bust, wasp waist and long legs, were all emphasised by her uniform. I may still have been ambivalent about broadening my horizons, but seeing Isabel this way, made me positively bi-nosy.

Janice closed the shop at five thirty, allowing me a few minutes to change into my street clothes, while she loaded maids into a minibus. By the time I got the pavement, everyone had been jammed in, and was ready to go. I had been looking forward to spending the night alone with my sewing, but now I wished that I was going on with them.

Chapter 10

I've never enjoyed modelling, especially my own creations. My runway was Soubrette's shop floor, between the customers' changing room, and the rack of fun inflatables. For an audience I had Janice snapping away with her mobile phone, and Isabel pulling faces in order to make me laugh.

'I don't think Mrs Armstrong will be interested in that view,' I said, when directed to bend over the shop's counter.

'It's a fine view,' Isabel quipped, 'or would be if you weren't wearing such a boring uniform.'

That morning, for the first time since joining Soubrette, I had felt dressed for an ordinary job. Certainly, the kneelength black dress, with its white cuffs and apron, was formal but not outlandishly. In seamed black nylons, and low heeled shoes I felt businesslike, and smart. My only regret was leaving the stiff black fabric unlined, which I would rectify in more the second uniform.

'Well that's all of them sent,' Janice said, setting her phone aside, 'we'll have to wait on Mrs Armstrong approval.'

'Is it time for Verity to put on her shop uniform?' Isabel asked, adding with a sneer, 'and those lovely new shoes.'

'Are you going to help,' I asked Isabel, 'or just watch?' On the final word I attempted a saucy wink, although I had little experience of winking, saucy or otherwise.

Last night's glamorous French maid, had been much on my mind. As I worked on my uniform, I couldn't help but remember the swell of her breasts, and the impossibly long legs. I thought I was tightly "tucked", but Isabel gave no indication of her true gender. All smoke and mirrors I knew, tricks of the trade I employed myself. But Isabel's deceit was flawless, and my attention drifted back constantly to what the beneath. Specifically, my need to see it.

'That's your ankles done,' Isabel said, slowly standing, her hands running up my legs. 'Not too tight?'

Actually I could see no reason for the binding, the heels restricted my steps to inches. But it was difficult to contradict Isabel, when I could feel her hand sliding across my bottom, to between my legs.

'Sank yoo, Madamoiselle Isabel,' I replied, smiling warmly at the other assistant, and pushing my bottom back against her hand. Isabel's eyes widened slightly at my willing compliance. I could tell that she wanted to say something, but Janice interrupted. Sagging somewhat, I took the telephone from her.

'I'm impressed by your work, Parsons.' Although we had met only briefly, Mrs Armstrong's voice was unmistakable. Her compliment, delivered in an imperious tone, seemed sincere, albeit less than friendly.

'Thank you, ma'am,' I said slowly, in what I hoped was a respectful manner. Mrs Armstrong talked with the confidence of an earlier age. I could only reply like the timorous hireling, I knew I was expected to be.

'Several of the photographs,' she said slowly, 'Show flashes of white lace, at the collar and hem. These were not included in my request.'

'I'm sorry ma'am, that was my slip,' I stammered, 'the uniform's fabric is quite rough against the skin. I'll add a lining to the next one.'

'Wouldn't a lining make the uniform too heavy to work in?' She had a point, and I mumbled my assent.

'I have no problem with you wearing a slip,' she continued, 'it adds a touch of femininity, don't you think?' Again, I could only mumble agreement, and gratefully handed back the phone. Was it my imagination, all was Mrs Armstrong treating me like a simpleton? Was that the role I would be expected to play?

I was still puzzling over this, when Isabel's arm snaked around my waist, and began drawing me closer.

'I don't like the idea of you working alone all day,' she fussed.

'Don't worry, I'm a big girl now,' I said, dragging her hand away from my waist back to my bottom.

'What's got into you?' Isabel fixed me with a thin lipped glare.

'Nothing,' I said defiantly, 'but I'm hoping you will.' Once more I tried my saucy wink, again to little effect.

'You don't play the trollop very well,' Isabel said, and slapped me hard on the back of my legs.

'I know you want to bonk me,' I said, blinking away the tears. To my amazement, Isabel laughed good-naturedly.

'Nobody has bonked anyone since the 1980s,' she said, tightening her grip on my waist. 'I bet nobody has touched you below the belly button since then either.'

'I had dates when I was in college,' I protested, 'and when I saw you last night in your uniform, I knew that I…'

'You've been living like a nun for years,' Isabel said, through a smile, 'performing good works, and going to bed early. So when you see me at my slutty is, it was like a bomb going off in your panties.'

'So you don't want to…' I mumbled, completely deflated.

'Who wouldn't?' Isabel squeezed my own bottom, 'but I wouldn't step on Kirsty's toes.'

I had never felt more stupid, than I did at that moment. Would Isabel tell Kirsty what I'd said and done? However, before i'd had any chance for self recrimination, Janice bustled back into the shop, and said, 'it's time to be a streetwalker again.'

Chapter 10b

Life on the streets was hard, and Janice had to practically push me through the door, where a cold sea breeze waited to ruffle my petticoats. Goosebumps even rose where my thighs were bare. Unlike the day before, there were already people milling about awaiting my appearance.

'Are you really a man?' Everyone asked that question, and some were quite insistent.

'I really am,' I said, handing out leaflets, while trying to ignore prodding hands and pinches.

A woman asked if we had the uniforms in stock, as her husband had been quite animated about the scantily clad maid on the High Street.

'We don't usually sell them, but you might ask inside,' I replied, keeping to myself the opinion that a leggy boy in preposterous heels, had drawn his interest, rather than the uniform. A few days before, the notion would have scandalised me, yet now I could laugh it off. What was happening to me?

Lost in thought I barely noticed Kirsty breeze past. 'Back in a mo,' she called, as the shop's door was closing behind her.

'Yes they are fishnets,' I answered one gawper absently, as I peered through the door's glass.

'Ow!' I cried out as someone snapped my garter. Janice was right I thought, my underwear was in the public domain. Was that what Isabel was now telling my girlfriend about, or my clumsy pass. Whatever was said, it was the source of great hilarity. .

'Yes it's true I'm a man,' I answered in resigned tones, while I still peered into the shop. Kirsty and Isabel were hugging as they continued to laugh..

'Right you,' Kirsty said, while bursting through the doorway. In a heartbeat I was caught in my girlfriend's embrace, and passionately kissing.

'Was that a flash?' Kirsty asked as I came up for air, adding, 'why am I asking you, when you always close your eyes.

Still sputtering I hung loosely in Kirsty's arms enjoying the sensation of being held. Had there been a flash? As far as I knew, there had been several million.

There wasn't time to answer anyway, Kirsty turned like a whirlwind and was off down the street. The words "getting my hair done" hung in the air in her wake, but I was already fending off impertinent questions about what I did with my willie. Were people so unimaginative? Most men had to have tried it at some point, with further instructions necessary?

When foot traffic dwindled, Janice allowed me back into the shop. With a huge sigh of relief I closed the door behind me, and nerved myself to confront Isabel.

Whatever was said in the shop, Isabel didn't seem at all perturbed. As always, the impeccably presented older assistant was glacially calm. It was almost as though I were not there, until she beckoned me to her side, and silently began straightening my petticoats. Which of course, entailed lifting them clear of my knickers.

'What did you talk to Kirsty about?' I asked as she fussed around under my skirt.

'Oh it was nothing,' Isabel said while her palm lingered on my bottom. 'We just decided to share you.' And as if underlining her words, she patted me there.

'Share me?' I gasped, incredulously.

'Don't be such a drama queen,' Isabel groaned. 'It'll take the two of us to look after you.

'Look after me?' My voice jumped a couple of octaves with each question. Why were they discussing me as though I were a burdensome child.

'You're lovely…' Isabel wrapped an arm around my shoulders. 'But you're so naive, so willing to please, and so bloody enthusiastic about it.'

'You say that like it were a bad thing,' I said fiercely.

'We just want to stop you being taken advantage of,' Isabel said, 'to stand up for yourself once in a while.'

'So you're my girlfriend now too?'

'Of course not, I babysit you in work, and Kirsty gets to do all the girlfriendy things with you.'

'So you don't want to have sex with the me?' I wasn't sure why that annoyed me, but it rankled. Vanity perhaps, but it seemed important.

'Of course I do, lovely.' Isabel lifted my chin, and very gently pressed her soft lips to mine. My eyes closed, as I settled into Isabel's arms, breathing very slowly. But there were no flashes.

'You've very realistic breastforms,' I murmured, nestling against her.

'They are breasts, silly.' Isabel slipped my hand into her blouse, guiding my fingers to her bra.

'I'll introduce you to my surgeon,' she said, letting my hand rest there. 'Breasts would really suit you, though I think a larger cup size would be better.'

'Oh I don't know…' I wavered, my hand still cupping her breast.

'That's not a "no",' Isabel laughed, and cuddled me closer. 'Perhaps Janice will pay for them.'

I didn't think it was a serious offer, and hadn't even thought about surgery before then. Still, they would make life easier, my clothes would fit better, I wouldn't need to wear a bra to bed… Though I started to list the drawbacks almost immediately too. Perhaps breasts just weren't from me.

I was still mulling it over , when a customer walked into the shop, and approached the counter.

'Don't mind us,' Isabel said, and squeezed me. 'How may I help you?'

She was also in search of a maid's uniform, and explained I'd made her husband quite frisky (her word not mine)

'Ann Summers sells them,' I said, 'though we do have fishnet stockings, that might float his boat.'

'Aren't you a clever poppet?' Isabel drew me closer. Kissing me deeply, and letting her hand roam quite visibly and in my skirt. .

'I love it when you're embarrassed,' Isabel said when the customer had left with an harrumph. 'You're blush is almost incandescent,' she laughed, 'you are the best little pet my sister has ever given me.'

'I don't suppose you could run up a few cheap uniforms, could you?' Janice asked, emerging from her office.

'Leave the poor girl alone,' Isabel said sharply, 'it's bad enough you're sending her to that woman's house tomorrow; even if she is made of money.'

'I'll be okay,' I said, but Isabel wasn't to be reassured.

'There you go again,' she answered crossly, but wrapped a protective arm around me.

We had half a dozen housewives after that, all seeking to and a little spice to their marriages.

'I made my own uniform,' I told the last one, 'but it's meant to be a lot harder wearing when I do jobs outside the shop.'

'I'm sure you ges a lot of hard usage,' she replied, and I nodded my agreement.

'She's not talking about housework, sweetie' Isabel hissed in a stage whisper.

'Oh.' Even my toes were blushing.

'You do housework as a French maid?'

'It's a premium service,' Janice said, reappearing to press a leaflet into her hands.

'You make it sound like prostitution,' Isabel grumbled.

'The prices make it sound like that too,' the customer replied, before bidding us a good afternoon.

I picked up the discarded leaflet, and looked at what was printed upon it. Although I'd been handing them out for two days, I'd never bothered to read one.

'£25 per hour!'

'For a minimum booking of four hours,' Janice said, 'that's why everything has to go well with Mrs Armstrong tomorrow.'

'If she asks you for extras, then for God's sake run,' Isabel said, hugging me.It was a lot of money, and I was more worried that my cleaning would be up to scratch. Saying so made Isabel laugh and squeeze me at the same time.

'Every time I come in here you're having a ball.' We hadn't noticed Kirsty coming into the shop as the last customer departed.

'Your hair,' was all I managed to say. Since lunchtime Kirsty's beautiful blonde locks had been shorn into quite a severe bob.

'You like it?' Kirsty asked, 'it's just like your wig, but blonde obviously.'

'It's lovely,' I said, 'and it'll be just the thing for our night out.'

'It's gone four,' Janice said, looking her watch. 'Why don't you call it a day, Verity?'

'She's not going home to make those bloody dresses,' Isabel snapped.

'But Verity will need to change back into her new uniform before going home,' Janice said evenly, not rising to her Isabel's challenge. 'Just wait there, Kirsty and I'll get you the address to drop her off in the morning.'

'I'm not sure I will need dropping off,' I bristled, 'I'm not a child.'

'Ssssh it means I'll be staying the night,' Kirsty whispered in my ear.

'And you wonder why we are looking after you,' Isabel added.

author's note - sorry it's a bit clunky, but I wanted to post something fun :) Going through a pretty bad flare at present, but I've managed to stay out of hospital so far(not least because I didn't want to explain my undies and jammies).

Soubrette
Nick was happy playing the system,unemployed and unemployable but it had to end some time.

'Why aren't you enormous?' Turning my back on the young blonde woman in my bedroom helped. I could almost forget that apart from French knickers, and a pair of lace top hold ups, she was
entirely naked.

'You know you weren't going to finish those chips,' Kirsty protested. 'And why can't I wear a bra?'

Without offering an answer I asked Kirsty to lift her arms, and dropped the bias cut dress over her shoulders.

'I made this just to see if I could,' I said, arranging the black silk around her shapely figure. Patting the fabric against Kirsty's flat stomach, I tried to explain, 'I don't have the body for a dress like this.'

'But why can't I wear a bra?' Kirsty continued to ask, until I turned her profile to the chevalier mirror.

'Because it's backless, darling,' I said, running my hand along Kirsty's bare skin, from her nape, to the small of her back. 'And you really don't need a bra anyway, your boobs are perfect.'

'Aw,' she wrapped her arms around my waist, and kissed me. 'But this frock shows everything, I look practically naked.'

'I know,' I sniggered, not at all sympathetically, as I'd been on the High Street all week, dressed like a stripper.

'I brought something for us to wear,' Kirsty's said brightly, pulling a small bottle from her bag. 'This is art deco isn't it?'

'Chanel number five most definitely is,' I answered. 'Did you buy it just for tonight?'

'Nah I found it in mum's bedroom,' Kirsty said from between air quotes, 'but we'd better not go overboard.'

'We are going to smell so posh,' I said, 'now help me on with my dress.'

'But it's such a boring frock,' Kirsty said, buttoning it at the back for me.

'It's what flappers wore,' I explained, smoothing the fabric down to just past my knees. 'Just the thing for a girl with no curves.'

'That may be, my flat chested, friend,' Kirsty drawled, twirling in front of the mirror, 'but my dress is getting you fucked tonight.'

'That's not very ladylike,' I chided primly.

'I'm not planning on being a lady,' a smirking Kirsty said, and gave my bottom a resounding slap.

*****

'I can't get my head around a living room without a television." Kirsty settled herself gingerly on my settee, carefully arranging her dress's rustling skirts.

With a couple of hours to kill before the taxi arrived I was at a loss to entertain my guest.

'It'll take a while for the wireless to warm up,' I said, 'but we could listen to records.'

'I wasn't complaining; your life is just so different.' Kirsty's eyes followed me as I crossed the room to the gramophone, and placed several platters on the changer.

Aunt Fenn said you could always tell a lot about a person from the answer. 'How do you like your martinis? I asked.

'I don't think I've ever had one,' Kirsty replied, looking around to the sideboard, where I was already pulling out ingredients.

'That's a well-stocked cocktail cabinet for someone on benefits,' Kirsty said, arrives roving over the bottles within.

'It's mostly gifts from neighbors, or their families at least,' I said defensively.

'Hold on, we got you an interview at a cocktail bar last month,' she said through pursed lips.

'The manager asked me to make an appletini,' I moaned, as though that were defence enough.

'I like those' Kirsty beamed at me.

'And I still don't know what's in one,' I said, and quickly darted off to the kitchen for ice, trailing apologies.

When I returned, Kirsty had moved to the gramophone player. 'It's like being in the past,' she said wonderingly, 'I half expect to hear air-raid sirens.'

'I make mine a little wetter than modern martinis,' I said, advancing with our drinks, 'three parts gin to one part vermouth.'

'I haven't the foggiest what you're talking about,' Kirsty said, with a shake of her head, and took a sip of her cocktail. 'Blimey that's strong.'

'On a clear day you can see France from here,' I said, motioning my glass toward the window, 'if you favour the Churchillian rule…'

Kirsty's method of telling me I was talking too much was very direct, and equally pleasant.

'Do you dance?' Kirsty asked as she broke our kiss. Being habitually dumbstruck in her presence, I nodded, as her arms encircled me.

'You're leading,' I said down for, as she began guiding me around the furniture.

'In university we thought ballroom dancing would be a good way to meet men,' she said with a shrug, 'but the classes were almost exclusively female, and I always seemed to end up leading. Problem?'

'I've never learnt to lead,' I said, 'but you've probably already guessed that.'

'You're very good,' she said, as we rounded the coffee table. 'Where did you learn to dance?' Kirsty asked, her cheek brushing my own.

'You know, the neighbors showed me a few things,' one I said in our cloud of Chanel, while we danced on.

'I'm in heaven,' Kirsty whispered dreamily, 'I'm dancing with Verity, and being serenaded by Nick.'

'Sorry…' I started, but was apparently talking too much again.

*****

A knock at my front door brought us both back to the surface.

'Can we ignore it?' Kirsty asked softly, before my eyes had opened.

'I'm surprised that it's taken them this long,' I said with a shake of my head, and dragged us both to the door. Kirsty didn't seem inclined to let go of my waist, and was still clutching me tightly as I opened the door.

'Drinking alone, Verity, tut tut. ' Mr. Blum and Mrs. Rose crowded the doorway, the latter with cake tin in hand.

'We didn't know you had company, dear,' said Mrs. Rose, pushing past us. 'I thought you might like some of this Dundee cake.'

'We were just getting ready for a night out,' I said, closing the door behind my visitors.

'Mmm cake,' drooled Kirsty, who was still clinging to me, although her attention was wandering to the fruitcake.

'But mainly dancing,' I added, 'may I get you something? It's a gin and it for you Mrs. Rose?'

'Are you and Nick courting?' The elderly woman asked Kirsty, who'd frozen like a rabbit in headlights. 'Or is Verity your special friend? We are very open minded around here, dear.'

'I um like them both,' stammered Kirsty.

'Good for you, they needed to meet someone.' The older woman clapped my girlfriend on the shoulder, and continued, not as confidentially as she supposed, 'you appear to have forgotten to put on your bra.' Kirsty flushed, and mumbled something in reply.

'It's the fashion, Vera,' I said forcing myself between the two, while I handed Mrs. Rose her drink.

'Al Bowly is a little before even my time,' Mr. Blum said from the gramophone, and chuckled. 'Shall I put it back on?' Taking my assent as a given, he dropped the needle onto the shellac, and with remarkable agility stepped over to my other neighbour asking, 'shall we?' Mr. Blum might have been in his eighties, but he was still a smooth operator.

'You're quiet,' I said softly, as Kirsty wound her arm around the too.

'They're acting like you're just an ordinary person,' she whispered in my ear.

'They're my friends,' I said softly. ' I really am the girl next door in this building.'

'It'll take some getting used to,' Kirsty said softly.

'I'm sure putting your hand on my bottom will have really helped,' I said, nibbling her ear.

*****

'They were kissing,' Kirsty hissed as we stepped onto the pavement.

'Mr. Blum and Vera have been carrying on for years,' I said, quickly catching the waiting cabbie’s eye.

'Doesn't her husband know?'

'Of course,' I admitted 'just as Vera knows I place bets for the old fella when he's got a red hot tip.'

'Has everyone got a secret in that building?'

'Almost certainly,' I said sliding into the taxi's back seat.

'Budge up!' Kirsty climbed in beside me, and told the cabbie our destination. After an exchange of glances, she took my hand in hers, and kissed me on my cheek.

'Worried?' Kirsty asked.

'A little,' I answered. I'd been out in the evening in college, and stood half naked on the High Street this week, so this wasn't a leap into the dark for me. Still, part of me expected villagers with pitchforks.

'It's like the Saint Valentine's day massacre down there tonight,' the cabbie said from over his shoulder.

'My nipples are poking through,' Kirsty hissed, and placed an arm protectively across her chest.

Cruising down the Promenade, to the cab rank opposite the cinema, the pavement was awash with fedoras, the occasional violin case, and attendant molls wearing far too little. 'Relax,' I told Kirsty, 'you're practically wearing a bourka.'

We skipped across the road hand in hand, dodging the slow-moving traffic idling past the crowd.

'See, nothing to worry about,' I said breezily, squeezing her hand. Then the whistling started.

'We should have booked an earlier cab,' Kirsty said in a flat voice, straightened her back, and almost began to strut along the line of cinemagoers. Damn, my girlfriend was wearing the hell out of that dress.

'Hey where have you been? We saved you a spot.' Where exactly we were being hailed from was hard to tell, but Kirsty dragged me to the sole group in the line that didn't look like they called the windy city home.

'Do we know you?' Kirsty asked a boy in cricket whites.

'Not really,' he confessed, 'but we had to know where you got that dress.'

'My boyfriend made it for me,' Kirsty said quietly.

'How about you?' I was asked by a tweedy young woman on his left.

'I'm her boyfriend,' I said, looking left and right to see if anyone else in the line over heard.

We'd fallen in with a group of theatre students who'd availed themselves of the costume department, and spent their evening criticising everyone else for their unimaginative showing. The sole exception was a thin boy in plus-fours who was at pains to point out he is that deed architecture, but gave a hand with the scenery.

Naturally everyone curious about Kirsty's and my own occupations. Kirsty simply said that she was a civil servant, and refused to be drawn further. In a similar spirit I confessed to being a domestic servant, which everyone refused to believe when I sewed so brilliantly.

'Not any old servant mind,' Kirsty said excitedly, 'Verity's the soubrette girl.'

'The French maid on the High Street?' Terry, the architecture student asked, his mind truly boggled.

'It's just a job,' I tried to say as everyone rushed to ask me questions. 'It's just standing there,' I said with a shrug.

'So brave,' said the tweedy girl, 'can we see your legs?'

Fortunately, the line started moving forward, before I was asked to lift my hem. Instead I concentrated on frowning at Kirsty. Why did she have to spill the beans like that?

'Sorry, darling,' she said, as the line briefly bunched and brought us closer together. 'I'm just so proud of you,' Kirsty gushed, kissed my cheek and went on, 'you're my greatest professional achievement.'

Was that a backhanded compliment, I wondered as we entered the cinema's foyer.

There were gasps all round at the decor, a restoration I'd have been proud to call my own. Speaking as someone spends much of my time in the nineteen thirties, it really was a remarkable job.

Everything shone, from the gilt motifs on the marble columns, to the rich dark woods used everywhere. I may just have peed a little.

'It's wonderful,' I told Kirsty as we queued for our tickets.

'Last time I was here,' she said smiling, 'it smelled of wet tramp.'

Undaunted I allowed the crowd to carry me into the auditorium, and let Kirsty pull me down into a seat amid our new thespian friends.

'You know the girl who lives in my flat,' I said to Kirsty in awed tones, 'this is where she comes to dream.'

'Where do you live,' Terry who'd attached himself to us asked.

'Packney House,' I answered absently as I drank in my surroundings, and was hushed by Kirsty.

'Ladies and gentlemen we have a small problem with our projector and there will be a short delay.' Disappointingly the announcement was not made in a clipped nineteen thirties accent, but I was sure there'd be a suggestion box somewhere.

'In the meantime the house orchestra hopes you will enjoy a selection of popular dance melodies.'

'It doesn't sound like any dance music I’ve heard,' grumbled someone in the row behind us.

'It's the song you sang to me earlier,' Kirsty's said.

'It's Gershwin,' I answered, softly singing the first line again, 'the very thought of you…'

'Did women dance together then? Kirsty asked excitedly.

'Well they were rather short of chaps in the Twenties, because…' I started, but found myself being simultaneously kissed and pulled to my feet.

'There's what looks like a dancefloor by the first row of seats,' Kirsty said as we threaded our way along the aisle.

'No one else is dancing,' I said, between apologies.

'Art deco lesbians remember,' Kirsty said through a grin, and paused long enough to kiss me again.

Without further complaint I allowed myself to be tugged along the remaining seats, and onto the long stairway leading to the front of the cinema. Just how long I appreciated when the first tune ended, and the orchestra struck up something more strident.

'Do you know how to Tango?' Kirsty asked, as momentum carried us out onto the floor. When I nodded, she continued, 'who taught you that? Mr. Blum?'

'Fred and Ginger,' I laughed, and pressed my body to hers.

Gingerly, I disentangled myself from Kirsty, who’d wrapped her body around mine, as we slept. As I began slipping from that warm embrace, the pre-dawn chill of my bedroom, I instantly regretted the necessity of getting up. No one had ever shared my bed in Packney House, ending a dry spell that had started in my second year of university. Still, Janice had said Mrs. Armstrong’s good opinion was vital to the business’s future. I just hoped that Isabel’s fears weren’t realised.

‘Don’t make me go to school today,’ Kirsty murmured, while I picked my way through the discarded underwear that littered my bedroom floor. At least she’d allowed me to hang up our dresses before throwing me on the bed.

‘Shh,’ I whispered, and rearranged the bedding around Kirsty’s sleeping form. My naked little angel seemed a world away from the profane hellion who’d demanded satisfaction a few scant hours ago. ‘I’ll wake you in a little while, Miss,’ I said, and bending low placed a kiss on Kirsty’s lips.

Straightening, I took my robe from its hook behind the door, and wrapped it around my shoulders. My bedroom was always cold at this hour, more so when I was nearly naked.

The race to get undressed, had strewn my stockings and girdle around the room. My knickers I knew were on my city, where Kirsty had removed them. Which left me in my bra alone, its cups flatly vacant. I didn’t remember my bed mate removing my breast forms, but a memory of Kirsty’s activities in the small hours, surely pointed to their fate. Is there such a thing as a jaw sprain, I asked myself.

What little of my make-up remained, I splashed off in the bathroom before shaving, and a brief wash down. I never usually went to bed in make-up, but my guest didn’t seem to think it at all important, and I was in no position to object.

Putting off breakfast until I’d woken my house guest, I swallowed down a scalding cup of Camp coffee, bitter enough to make me bare my teeth. My aunt had had a bottle in the pantry, older than use by dates, which I’d replaced for the sake of my tooth enamel. It wasn’t among my favourite things, but it certainly shook off any sleep.

Kirsty was soundly asleep as I returned to the bedroom, even though first light had begun to leak around my bedroom curtains.

As quietly as I could, I hunted around the bed for my breast forms, and slipped them into a modern crossover bra. Next I stepped into an elasticated open girdle, and sat at my dressing table to pull on a pair of black nylons.

Praying that my knicker drawer wouldn’t squeak as I opened it, I picked out a small white gaff. Ordinarily, tucking my “business” between my legs, when wearing briefs was secure enough. But with the slightly looser, home-made directoire knickers I next selected, and just supposing Mrs. Armstrong really wanted me to clean, I could exert myself with little danger of falling out. If her intentions were more sinister, as Isabel believed, an extra layer of gusset security would be reassuring.

Standing in the pale morning light, I checked to see if Kirsty was awake, but she seemed oblivious to everything. Suitably reassured, I pulled a white full slip over my head, followed by the scratchy black maid’s uniform.

Believing my new employer wouldn’t be impressed by an immodest impression, I applied more restrained cosmetics, than I’d worn in the shop. In Soubrette I could be relatively tartier, but in a stranger’s home I reasoned looking like a good girl, would be safer. I wanted to lock professional, but the correct sort of professional.

After a quick spritz of lily of the valley, to mask any lingering trace of Chanel, I set my black bob in place. Quite smart, I thought, admiring myself in the Chevalier mirror.

Leaving the white lace edged apron for now, I left my flat for the first time that morning.

Collecting my neighbours’ morning newspapers had come so mundane, I practically skipped down the stairs. Barely giving any thought to my clothes, I made small talk with the newsagents as though Verity had done this in Nick’s place for years, not a mere week.

Everyone seemed to be awake this morning, and awaiting my arrival as I stopped at every floor. There wasn’t anything too surprising about this, Lord knows my neighbours were early risers. But every door opened before I could push a newspaper through the letterbox, and each was received by a smiling pensioner. That was unnerving.

Mr. Blum stood similarly in his doorway, and invited me in for a coffee klatch, as he called our morning meetings. Flipping up the silver fob watch pinned to my breast, I saw that I had time for a gossip, and allowed myself to be guided into his kitchen.

‘That’s a pretty watch,’ he said, pouring a cup of proper coffee, ‘is it new?’

I’ve waited a few moments to answer, relishing a beverage instantly superior to the chicory concoction I’d earlier imbibed.

‘I’ve had it for months,’ I said, flicking the watch idly. ‘It was tarnished nearly black when I found it in a car boot. I don’t think the vendor would have let me have it for 50p had he seen the hallmark - 1910!’

‘A bargain!’ Mr. Blum always appreciated a good deal. ‘And it still works?’

‘First-time I wound it,’ I said, nodding vigourously. But I could see he had something on his mind.

‘Your new girl,’ he said, swilling the dregs of his coffee around the cup, ‘she’s quite enthusiastic, from what I heard last night.’ Had he heard us? Across the corridor?

‘Sorry, we fell out of bed,’ I sputtered, blushing fit to burst.

‘Come now, Verity,’ Mr. Blum said, levelling a jovial punch to my upper arm, ‘I know an appreciative young woman when I hear one.’

‘You heard?’ Kirsty had seemed a little louder than my previous partners, but I’d put that down to fading memory. ‘You think anyone else heard us?’

‘Indubitably,’ Mr. Blum said, his accent sounding uncommonly thick.

‘I’d best get back,’ I said hurriedly, ‘I left Kirsty sleeping.’

‘Good for you.’ My chuckling neighbour punched my arm again as I stood up.

Had Kirsty really been that loud? She’d been fairly vocal throughout, but there had been times when my ears were covered. I didn’t relish swapping a girl next door reputation for that of a lothario.

*

‘Wake up, miss,’ I said, gently shaking Kirsty’s shoulder.Her sleeping smile was almost beatific, and it seemed a shame to wake the young woman. However, I liked to think that I had contributed to her contented smile, which remained as her eyes blinked awake.

‘Come back to bed,’ Kirsty said huskily, and drew back the covers by way of an invitation. Tempting as that offer was, I pointed out that we both needed to go to work. ‘When did you grow a work ethic?’ Kirsty groaned.

‘I’ve drawn you a bath, Miss,’ I said, ‘and I don’t want to let Janice down.’
‘Well, if you must,’ Kirsty groaned, throwing back the sheets, ‘but let’s see how good a maid you are.’

‘Aren’t we like Hansel and Gretel walking hand in hand to the wicked witch’s house?’ Kirsty asked, adding, ‘except instead of a chocolate house, there’s an old lady’s sex dungeon.’
‘She probably just wants me to Hoover and stuff ,’ I answered, swinging our hands between us. The thought had passed my mind, and what I’d do if Mrs Armstrong propositioned me. Isabel was always touching me, and that didn’t bother me anymore.

‘See that’s why you need looking after, Verity,’ Kirsty said, and stopped dead half way along the driveway, ‘God alone knows what she has planned for you. Posh people are notoriously kinky, no wonder you’re so quiet this morning.’

‘Actually, I’ve been asking myself why you laughed at me last night before went to bed.’ It may seem a small thing, for someone who stood daily on the High Street, dressed as a stripper. But it hurt when Kirsty laughed at me.

‘When you asked if we should have a drink before going to bed,’ I said, even then, wondering if I were being stupid.

‘And you said “Cocoa or Ovaltine”,’ Kirsty said, turning me to face her, and already stifling a laugh.

‘You’re doing it again.’

‘Silly,’ she said, wrapping her arms around me, ‘sometimes I think you’re joking with me, but you’re so caught up in your own little world, what you’ve said is perfectly logical.’

‘You don’t think I’m stupid then?’ Though to be honest, Kirsty’s embrace had driven most of my concerns away.

‘It’s one of the things I love about you,’ Kirsty said, softly in my ear, and I simply melted in her arms. ‘Never mind that,’ she said, patting my bottom, ‘there’s a face at the window, we’d best get on.

*

Kirsty rang the doorbell with a single confident push, and the bell chimed faintly inside. The house was certainly well sound proofed, and my mind could not help but stray to what Mrs Armstrong didn’t want the world to hear. Fortunately, the door opened before that line of thought could evolve into panic.

‘Good morning, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said from the doorway, still wrapped in her dressing gown.

Kirsty stepped forward, her hand extended, and offered similar sentiments. ‘My name is…’

‘Well don’t you look smart in your new uniform,’ my new client said warmly, and motioned me in, with a sweeping arm.

‘I’ll be back at lunch time to pick her up.’ Kirsty obviously was not used to being treated in such an offhand manner, and I rather enjoyed her reaction.

‘Your sister?’ Mrs Armstrong asked, as the door closed.

‘My girlfriend, ma’am,’ I answered, while reflecting on our night’s activities, and belatedly praying that my smirk went undetected.

‘Ah yes, you’re not homosexual,’ Mrs Armstrong said distantly. ‘Is she really so protective of you?’

‘She thinks you intend to imprison me in a dungeon, ma’am,’ I stammered.

‘A sex dungeon?’ Mrs Armstrong arched an eyebrow, smiling patiently at my obvious discomfort.

‘Something like that, ma’am,’ I admitted in a strained voice, which made my new employer laugh heartily. Mrs Armstrong really was quite attractive when she smiled, when her eyes lit up like that. Dangerous thoughts for someone suffering imminent torture.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Parsons, but we’ll start by getting me dressed,’ Mrs Armstrong laughed, and with a pat on my bottom, directed me to the stairs. Going up, I hasten to add.

‘You’ve a lovely home, ma’am,’ I said eager to put a little small talk between us and sex dungeons.

‘Of course it’s too large for me now,’ she said, pushing me upwards, ‘but there’s plenty of housework for a diligent maid.’

‘Is it just you, ma’am?’ Perhaps she really did want someone to clean up, with no smutty stuff. I’d have the last laugh on Isabel.

‘Just me,’ she said, shucking off the dressing gown, as we entered what was obviously her bedroom.

‘Do you want me to make up the bed, ma’am?’ I asked, my eyes studiously averted the middle aged woman wearing only a bra and panties.

‘God no, I want you to help me get dressed,’ she said, opening a closet door. ‘I think there’s a pair of black leggings on the other side of the bed.’

‘I’ve got them, ma’am,’ I said, standing uneasily behind her, ‘but may I suggest an adjustment to your bra first, ma’am?’

‘You’re an expert?’ Mrs Armstrong asked good naturedly.

‘I did this for loads of girls in college; you’re bulging a little at the sides,’ I said, slipping my fingers under her bra’s band, and deftly refastening hooks and eyes.

‘And they just let you?’ Mrs Armstrong asked in disbelief.

‘In my experience, ma’am,’ I said from over her shoulder, ‘dressmakers are as trusted as hairdressers, in these matters.’

‘And you’re not homosexual?’

‘Nope, ma’am,’ I said, shortening each bra-strap by a quarter of an inch, ‘but you’ll find this a much better fit.’

‘You do know you’re cupping my breasts, Parsons?’ Thankfully, her amusement matched my mortification, and I let my hands fall away as quickly as I couldn’t manage.

‘And how did they make you feel?’ Mrs Armstrong asked, turning to face me.

‘Jealous, ma’am,’ I answered quietly. Isabel had only put the idea in my head the day before, but it had quickly become almost a conviction. Mrs Armstrong shook her head, gave me a sad smile, and plopped herself down on the bed’s edge. For a moment I stared dumbly at her, before picking up the leggings again.

‘You seem quite comfortable kneeling for your mistress,’ Mrs Armstrong said almost fondly, as I began smoothing the leggings up her calves.

‘Isabel says I’m a natural submissive, ma’am,’ I said, concentrating solely on the job in hand, ‘but I just like helping people.’ Mrs Armstrong gave me a quizzical look, and stood allowing me to complete my task.

I blushed quite deeply as I smoothed the waistband over her hips, and bottom. Which seemed to amuse the woman I was serving. ‘Definitely not homosexual,’ she said, barely under her breath.

*

When dressed in a striped blue and white tunic, for a day at home, my mistress (as she called herself) instructed me to clean the bath room, make up the bed, and gather any clothes lying around, while she put on her face. After which I was to find her in the kitchen, for my next assignment.

*

I was still picking up items of my mistress’s clothing, when I heard an insistent tinkling summon me downstairs.

‘Ah, Parsons,’ my employer said Lang quickly, ‘you’ll find laundry goes in the small room next to this. After starting that I’ll require a pot of tea in the conservatory.’

Struggling to keep an armload of gathered clothing in hand, I scuttled into the next room. And was confronted by a washing machine with an array of controls, far in excess of my own at home. If only there was a mangle, I moaned before beginning to separate whites from fast coloureds. In theory, it was just another wash day, but I was really worried about Mrs Armstrong’s clothes. Or should I say, my mistress’s. Why did that sound so kinky?

*

‘I’ve started the first load, ma’am,’ I said softly, laying a tray of tea things on a table alongside my employer. ‘Should I pour for you, ma’am?’

‘If you’d be so kind,’ Mrs Armstrong said, brushing the back of my hand.

‘Is that your favourite book, ma’am,’ I asked, pouring a small amount of milk into the cup.

‘One of them,’ she said, opening the battered paperback out, so that I could read its covers. ‘Though I must say, I feel like Miss Havisham, summoning you this morning.’

‘You’re far from being covered in cobwebs, ma’am,’ I demurred, but added, ‘am I then Pip?’

‘Pippa perhaps,’ she said, lifting the teacup to her lips. Had I been too familiar I wondered, and simply stood there, waiting to be dismissed.

‘Which song are you trying not to sing this morning?’ She asked, looking up into my eyes.

‘None, ma’am,’ I answered, shifting my weight uneasily from foot to foot.

‘Nonsense, girl!’ Mrs Armstrong tugged at my sleeve, and continued staring into my eyes.

‘The Lambeth Walk, ma’am.’ I grinned sheepishly.

‘Your girlfriend’s influence no doubt,’ she said, grinning in turn.

‘It had been my first time in about ten years, ma’am,’ I stammered.

‘Good for you,’ my new mistress congratulated me, and patted my bottom gently, ‘now off you pop, and clean the mess I’ve made in the kitchen.’

*

My employer seemed to have a singular talent for mess making, more so in the kitchen, than elsewhere I earlier cleaned. Then again, that was now my occupation, as a dutiful servant.
No matter how I told myself that, it still felt off. That sort of thing, I’d down one have to talk over with Kirsty. Like my problems with Isabel, she always knew what the answers were. In the meantime, I busied myself, ever vigilant for my mistress’s summons.

‘You’re very good at this,’ Mrs Armstrong said, as I carried yet another pot of tea into the conservatory.

‘It’s nothing really, ma’am,’ I said, moving the discarded paperback aside, before laying down the tray.

‘It’s a rare skill these days,’ my mistress said, ‘to serve another without question, to sublimate your own desires to fulfil someone else’s. I couldn’t do that.’

‘It’s no big thing, ma’am,’ I said, preparing for dismissal. Instead Mrs Armstrong patted the seat beside her, and entreated me to sit beside her.

‘Have a look at this,’ she said, moving a thick leather bound volume, from her lap to mine.

Somewhat puzzled, I turned the cover, and realised it was a photograph album, and the first image, was that of a French maid.

‘My husband,’ Mrs Armstrong confined, and urged me to turn the page, to another photo of the same maid. I failed miserably to keep my suspicions from my face, and began to sputter, as dawned on me what she wanted.

‘Calm down, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said, touching my shoulder. ‘Henry was a powerful man, yet there was an alter ego named “Fifi”, who lived to serve my wishes. Abjectly.’

‘I can try, ma’am,’ I said, as I tried to absorb what she’d said about her husband.

‘There was nothing sexual between Fifi and I,’ she explained, ‘throughout our marriage, she lived to pamper me.’

‘I think that I can do that,’ I said, letting a feeling of relief wash over me.

‘I was probably a bit spoiled, and I miss her terribly,’ Mrs Armstrong said sadly, ‘Henry wasn’t that old when he died, and the retirement we’d planned had only just begun.’

‘So you don’t want…’ I let my voice trail away, and as I laid my hand over hers.

‘You won’t have to shag this old boiler,’ Mrs Armstrong cackled, ‘but I’m quite demanding. So you’ll not have a free ride.’

‘I like Fifi’s uniforms,’ I said, turning the pages.

‘We had them made in London, and they cost a bloody fortune.’ Mrs Armstrong gripped my wrist, and confided, ‘but yours are better made than any of them.’

‘Do you still have them?’ I asked, already planning what I could do with that surfeit of black silk.

‘I buried Fifi in one, but burned the others,’ she said, very quietly. ‘I never thought I’d find another male maid, sorry.’

‘Not a worry, ma’am,’ I said, patting the older woman’s knee , ‘but I’d have loved to wear all that lace.’ Mrs Armstrong seemed to have something to add, but there was a persistent ringing at the front door.

‘Should I get that, ma’am?’ I asked, half rising. At my mistress’s nod, I stepped lively to answer, flipping my watch to check the time.

‘I thought you’d be manacled by now,’ Kirsty said, as I swung the door open.

‘Who should I say is calling, Miss?’ I asked primly, as Kirsty stepped over the threshold and caught me in a tight embrace.

*

Kirsty’s second encounter with Mrs Armstrong, was to an extent warmer than the first. But she bridled somewhat at the older woman’s description of herself, as my mistress.

‘Calm down, child,’ my employer said, with a certain hauteur I knew would set Kirsty’s teeth on edge, though I did not know if that was Mrs Armstrong’s intention. ‘There is no sexual connotation,’ she continued, ‘Parsons is my servant, and I her de facto mistress. Will you take some tea?’

When I scuttled back from the kitchen with an extra teacup , both were sitting icily in the conservatory.

‘Your cup , Miss,’ I said, as I laid my burden on the small cane table, letting my fingers trail lightly over her hand. ‘Should I pour, Miss,’ I asked.

‘You’ve had a wasted journey I’m afraid,’ my mistress said, ‘Parsons’ performance has been impeccable, and I’ve engaged her services for rest of the day.’

‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less,’ Kirsty said, between sips, ‘she is always a very good girl.’ Once again, women were discussing me like a small child, and while I should have objected, my cheeks were flushed with the praise.

‘I’ve also arranged for her services each Wednesday,’ Mrs Armstrong added.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I said, bobbing where I stood behind Kirsty. It may seem a little strange, but I really did feel grateful. Was it just a uniform making me feel that way?

*
A few minutes later, Kirsty excused herself, and I was directed to show the visitor to the door, where she drew me close.

‘All you really okay with acting this way?’ Kirsty asked, under her breath.

‘Yes, Miss,’ I said brightly, ‘at least there isn’t a sex dungeon.’

‘Have you seen all the property?’

‘Not all of it,’ I whispered, ‘I’ll tell you more when mistress brings me home.’

‘Oh you,’ my girlfriend laughed, and crushed my lips under hers.

*

Lunch was an unexpected treat, a simple salad eaten with Mrs Armstrong. ‘Call me Olivia,’ she said, and told me I’d know when I was to be Parsons again.

‘You know the definition of “soubrette” isn’t just a ladies maid,’ balancing a salad leaf on fork, ‘she can be a confidante, a companion.”

‘I barely knew the word at all last week, ma… Olivia,’ I said, feeling dreadfully gauche.

‘Tell me about those college girls who sought your bra expertise.’ Olivia asked confidentially.

‘It took a couple of terms for girls to find out that I could sew,’ I said, between mouthfuls, ‘it was a good way to meet girls, for a while.’

‘You sound like quite the rake,’ Olivia laughed.

‘I had my moments, I said, managing to grin and blush at the same time.

‘And they did mind you swanning around as Verity?’

‘Oh I was Nick and Nicky in uni,’ I laughed, ‘and they only found out about Nicky towards the end of the first year.’ ‘

‘What happened then?’ Olivia asked, suddenly seeming very intent.

‘Nothing really, everyone just seemed to accept I wore dresses.’ It was all a bit of an anti-climax, as I remembered. For years, cross-dressing had been my most shameful secret, and now it was out in the open, nobody gave a damn.

Olivia laid the fork on her empty plate, asking only, ‘you had no problems?’

‘Not until I fell in love with my flatmate,’ I said ruefully, adding quickly, ‘who was an actual girl.’

‘Unrequited of course?’ Olivia was stacking our empty plates, which felt strange to me.

‘Please let me do that, ma’am,’ I said, lifting the crockery from table, and carrying it towards the sink. It was a maid’s place to lift and carry, and I wasn’t about to allow it to be usurped.

‘We have a dishwasher you know,’ my employer told my retreating back.

‘It’s only a couple of Plates, ma’am’ I said, quickly running the taps. It was a misplaced pride in my abilities, that I rushed before my mistress could countermand my efforts. On the other hand, it may have sprung from my reluctance to admit I didn’t know how to operate it.

‘Maids,’ Mrs Armstrong said, with redesigned grin, but she was not about to finish our conversation. ‘I gather you didn’t ride into the sunset.’

I rather wished I hadn’t said anything about Vicky, it was a difficult time for me, and I tried not to think about it.

‘We became best friends, ma’am,’ I said, splashing about in the soapy water, ‘or at least, part of me did.’

‘Wasn’t that part Verity?’ Snatching a glance over my shoulder, I could see the older woman stare intently at my ankles.

‘Not back then, ma’am,’ I said, lifting a plate out of the water, ‘Nicky was the non-vintage version of me in those days.’

‘Just a normal girl then?’ Olivia cocked her head to one side, and gave me a speculative smile.

‘We were like sisters, ma’am.’ It took all of my resolve to concentrate on retrieving flatware, and not to simply clam up. ‘For most of my final year in uni, I lived as a young woman. Where Vicky went, I went too.’

‘I bet the young you was a heartbreaker,’ Olivia laughed.

‘The blokes had a competition running, ma’am,’ I said while emptying the washing up bowl. ‘Everybody thought I would eventually go the whole way, but I didn’t.’

‘We’d have called you a prick teaser in my day.’ Olivia sat back, and was obviously enjoying my discomfort.

‘They got a good night kiss on the cheek, and sometimes a cuddle.’ I knew I sounded defensive, but I was more worried about the blush spreading out from my cheeks.

‘There wasn’t anyone who romanced you farther?’ The old woman’s face almost shone with curiosity, setting forward on the edge of the seat, encouraging me to share what I’d never told anyone before.

‘My dissertation supervisor, a postgrad student, took me out a a few times,’ I said haltingly, ‘he treated me like a normal girl, and we French kissed a few times.’

‘And?’ It was a simple question, that I felt compelled to answer.

‘One night in the cinema, he put his hand up my dress…’ Suddenly my mouth was incredibly dry, but I couldn’t keep myself from continuing. ‘His fingers,’ I said, scuttling forward to whisper in my mistress’s ear.

‘He said, if I hadn’t liked it I wouldn’t have…’ The last part of that sentence too, could only be delivered into Mrs Armstrong’s ear.

‘From my recollections of male anatomy,’ she said, while my face sagged on her shoulder, ‘most men react that way, if those buttons are pushed.’

‘He did that a few times, ma’am,’ I sniffed, ‘but I never did the things to him he wanted.’

‘Buck up, Parsons,’ Mrs Armstrong said in a brisk manner, yet not entirely and sympathetically. Perhaps it was my imagination, but her hand seemed to linger a few moments in the small of my back.

‘Sorry, ma’am, of course,’ I said, still sniffing lightly, ‘should I fold the laundry now, and iron it, ma’am?’

*

‘Good Lord, Parsons, are you ironing my knickers?’ Mrs Armstrong’s tone was accusative, but my mistress (as I now thought of her), looked rather amused by my efforts.

‘It’s to make them lie flat in the draw, ma’am,’ I said, trying not to notice the pair of briefs on the ironing board, was far briefer than the others I’d ironed. For special occasions, I fought.

‘Only a male maid,’ she chuckled.

Ironing underwear isn’t that odd, I thought, but then again how many men were dressed as maids in our town right now? On reflection, our town wasn’t a fair sample; there could be dozens. I thought it safer to ask where I should place them, took my directions and trooped upstairs.

When I returned to ground level, Mrs Armstrong’s little handbell called me into the living room.

‘Sit with me, and chat a little more,’ she said, and patted the cushion beside her.

‘Of course, Mistress,’ I said, noting the pleasure that title seemed to bring her, and settle myself down, taking care to leave a respectable distance between us.

‘You don’t sound local, Verity, what brought you to town?’

‘My great aunt lived here, Olivia,’ I started, unsure if using her given name was being too familiar.

‘We are not maid and mistress now, please continue.’

‘My family started coming here on holidays when I was very young,’ I said, and wondering what she would think of people who didn’t go abroad.

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Five, my parents, two older, and me.’ Should I have included the latter, wasn’t it redundant?

‘Sounds quite a crush, in a small flat,’ Olivia said, smiling perhaps at my discomfort.

‘Aunt Fenn had a place in Packney House, there was plenty of room,’ I said, remembering fondly those summer holidays, ‘mum and dad in the spare room with the twins, and I had the living room couch.’

‘It sounds like you were Cinders back then too,’ Olivia chuckled.

‘Everyone else went to the beach, but I stayed with my aunt, and she taught me how to sew. They didn’t miss me much really.’ Aunt Fenn was still missed though, I never felt completely at home with the rest of my family.

‘Even when we graduated to foreign trips, I preferred to spend holidays on the coast.’

Mrs Armstrong was quiet for a a few minutes, as though my words were important, and not mere maid babbling. ‘Is that when Verity appeared?’

‘Oh no, that didn’t happen until I was in my teens,’ I said slowly, why did she want to know? ‘Aunt Fenn knew I liked to dress up, my whole family knew that. But she was the only person to encourage me.’

‘You made your own clothes?’ Olivia asked, ‘did you ever wear them out?’

‘No, it was our secret,’ I said, smiling at the memory. ‘But the neighbours soon cottoned on, and I ended up giving little fashion shows.’

‘You must have looked darling,’ Olivia said, brushing my cheek with the back of her fingers, ‘and then?’

‘When I went to university, the coast was closer than my parents. So I came here at least once a month, and the whole summer.’

‘It sounds idyllic,’ Olivia said, ‘but how did you end up living here?’

‘About two years into my postgrad work,’ I had to stop for a second, ‘aunt Fenn passed away, and she left her entire estate to me.’

‘Were there any other family members who might have expected to receive something?

‘She has two children, and they tied me up in court for months. It was all Jarndyce versus Jarndyce, and eat up almost all my savings.’

‘You weren’t tempted to sell?’

‘My family thought I should,’ I said, trying to contain my bile ‘but they’d not been near for years. I figured I’d been left the property, because aunt Fenn didn’t want it sold.’

‘You know, for a submissive, you’ve stood up to a lot of people.’ I’m not very good at judging others, but I seemed to a note of respect in Olivia’s voice. Of course, I may have read that totally wrong.

‘I’m probably rubbish at being submissive too.’ In all probability I had talked my way out of a career as a maid. And just when I had started enjoying myself.

‘

Mr Blum arrived from Germany in 1939?’ Olivia, my mistress, wanted to know everything about me, to the smallest detail.

‘He was part of the last kindertransport, from Berlin,’ I said gravely.

‘And he has no family?’

‘He married an English woman,’ I replied, a little unsure about discussing my friends, ‘but no one from his German family survived the war.’ Despite myself, my voice caught on the last few words.

Olivia stretched an arm around my shoulder, and took my teacup from my lap. ‘Can I show you something?’

‘Please, ma’am, there must be so much work for me to do,’ I objected limply. But my mistress, why did I think of her in that way, pulled me gently to my feet.

‘You’ve finished the ironing,’ she said, leading me back to the utility room, ‘or should I crumple extra knickers for you?’

There wasn’t much I could say to that, and I followed her to a door adjacent.

‘What do you think?’ Olivia asked, revealing a small room, its walls painted a soft duck-egg blue. Apart from two coat hooks on the far wall, the room was empty.

‘It was to be the Fifi’s room,’ she said, softly, ‘and I thought it perfect for you, as you are perfect for what I’d planned.’

‘But…’

‘What I’d planned before you told me about your home, and how much it means to you,’ Olivia continued, ‘yet I would still like you to work the odd evening, and perhaps stay over when you’re too work the following day.’

‘I’d have to think about it,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘I have responsibilities at home.’ Was this a sex dungeon waiting to be furnished?

‘Of course, Verity,’ Olivia said, ‘but you’d be working directly for me, and I pay you for your time.’

Honestly, pay didn’t mean that much to me, but who would collect my neighbours’ newspapers, and a hundred other errands I did for them. Olivia was very nice, but did she really need my help? I was still pondering about what I’d answer, when we heard the telephone ring in the kitchen.

‘I’ll get that,’ Olivia said, dashing off, and leaving me alone in the corridor. Standing before the open door, my imagination began to run wild, populating the room with all manner of torture contraptions. Or at least those, my limited experience could conjure, and I only eavesdropped inadvertently.

‘Do I have your lucky knickers?’ Olivia asked the phone, ‘if you left them here, Parsons has probably ironed them.’ Anticipating the question to follow, I stepped into the vacant kitchen doorway.

‘Is that the crimson G string, ma’am?’

‘Yes I know it’s a thong,’ my mistress told the telephone, ‘that’s just Parsons, she lives in the 1930s, she’s art deco Amish.’

‘I put them with…’

‘Yes i’ve found a maid,’ she told the telephone, and after a brief pause added, ‘you never once ironed my knickers.’

‘Shall I get them?’ I asked, and when I received a nod, disappeared upstairs, hearing only a snippet of the continuing conversation.

‘She’s very sweet, but not a replacement for you, darling.’

*

‘Now you know my secret, Mrs Armstrong said, a devilish smile playing over her lips, ‘can I trust your discretion?’

‘Of course, ma’am,’ I answered, my head slightly bowed, and my eyes on the carpet. ‘What should I do next, ma’am?’

‘It’s almost five,’ Olivia said, looking briefly at her wristwatch, ‘it’s time to get you home to your other mistress.’

‘Kirsty isn’t my…’ I began, but Olivia’s smiled and waved me quiet.

‘She spent most of last night sitting on your face,’ mistress Olivia said, smiling. Why did I have to tell her that, Kirsty wouldn’t like that. No man can serve two masters, could a maid fare better with multiple mistresses?

*

‘Isn’t that Kirsty sitting on your building’s steps?’ Olivia said, as she brought her car to a rest on my street.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, wondering what my girlfriend was doing there, sitting on me suitcase, with a newspaper open on her lap. Without really noticing what I did, I unclipped my seatbelt, and stepped on to the pavement.

‘Oh Verity,’ Kirsty wailed, and thrust a copy of our local evening paper at me.

‘It’s not so bad,’ I said, looking at the picture on the front page, ‘it’s mostly me kissing someone with blonde hair… I’m even named in the caption.’

‘Turn to page seven,’ Kirsty sounded despondent, i’d never seen her so distressed. And then I saw a photograph of us dancing at the Rialto. It was probably just the angle, but the most noticeable thing in the picture, was Kirsty’s hand gripping my bottom.

‘It’s a nice photo,’ Olivia said, from over my shoulder. I’d never even noticed that she had followed me out of the car.

‘Still, it’s only me that’s mentioned by name,’ I said softly, wrapping an arm around the girl.

‘But I told mum I was going with my new friend Verity,’ Kirsty sniffed, and we had a huge fight about me being a lesbian.’

Briefly I locked eyes with Mrs Armstrong, before lifting Kirsty to her feet. ‘Why didn’t you wait inside?’

‘Because they all heard us having sex last night,’ Kirsty said, through a mist of tears.

‘Perhaps it’s best we all go inside,’ Olivia said, briskly. ‘Parsons, carry her case for her.’ Meekly I retrieved the bank, while my mistress consoled my err… Mistress.

*

‘Were you really that loud?’ Olivia asked, as I fumbled for my door key.

‘We were rather, ma’am,’ I said, opening my flat’s front door.

‘Oh God,’ groaned Kirsty.

‘That was one of your favourites,’ I said, struggling not to laugh.

‘That’s enough of that,’ Olivia said, while delivering a sharp slap to my bottom. I had to blink away several tears, before leading them to my settee.

‘Would you like to take tea, ma’am,’ I asked, more respectfully than I had before. Maybe Isabel was right, it was the only way I could learn lessons.

‘You don’t have to call me “ma’am” here,’ Olivia chided, setting Kirsty down before looking around. ‘This place is amazing,’

‘Thanks ma…’

‘Tea now, Parsons, chop chop.’ How was I supposed to not treat Olivia as my mistress, if she continued to treat me as her servant? Getting the tea was probably a good first step.

*

‘Ovaltine or cocoa. Both women were laughing as I returned with a tea tray.

‘It’s not that funny,’ I said, as I laid down the tea things.

‘Aren’t you joining us, Verity?’ Kirsty asked, her eyes leading mine to the two teacups I had set on the coffee table.

‘Sorry,’ I sputtered, turning on my heel, and rushing to the kitchen for a third. Once again, laughter reigned in my living room.

‘Sit here, darling,’ Kirsty said, patting the cushion between her and Olivia. It was starting to feel like I was being shared again, but I was happy to be close to my girlfriend.

‘It’s simple really,’ Olivia said, between sips, ‘you drop Verity off Tuesday evening, and pick her up after dinner the following evening.’

‘And she is just to be a maid?’ Kirsty asked, dubiously.

‘To serve dinner in the evening, and to be my maid in the morning,’ Olivia said, reaching to pat the back of my hand.

‘Verity gave me a wonderful bath this morning,’ Kirsty said, dreamily, before coming back to the point, ‘I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with her doing that for anyone else.’ I had a few choice memories of that bath myself, and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be doing that for Mrs Armstrong. Shouldn’t I be getting a say?

‘Verity will see me naked, but I bathe myself,’ Olivia said, ‘isn’t having your own maid to hamper you just wonderful?’ Kirsty agreed, and gently ruffled my wig with a free hand.

‘I’d like to ask something, if I’m allowed,’ I asked, a little tremulously, and waited for both women to nod. ‘It’s just that Fifi had such lovely uniforms, and I wondered if I could add lace to mine.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ Olivia said, ‘if your other mistress doesn’t mind.’

‘That’s me,’ Kirsty beamed, and kissed me deeply. ‘I don’t mind what you do to your uniform, darling, as long you are in it.’

‘Now how about that tour?’ Olivia asked.

*

‘I can’t believe you two had sex in a bed that narrow!’

‘I fell off the bed a few times,’ Kirsty said, blushing.

‘Off me,’ I said, failing to fend off a nudge that became a tickle.

‘Well Verity needs a bed for her new room,’ Olivia said, ignoring our horseplay, ‘why don’t we swap this for one of my doubles?’

I hummed and ahhed a little, it had my bed since my teens, but I could see how excited the offer made Kirsty. So I reluctantly agreed.

Olivia didn’t stay much longer, begging off another engagement, which I offered to help her get ready for.

‘You would,’ Kirsty said, playfully biting my ear.

‘Maids,’ Olivia said, rolling her eyes, before addressing me directly, ‘tell Kirsty about Nicky tonight.’

*

‘We were talking about you in the office today,’ Kirsty said, while I prepared dinner.

‘Is my sluttiness still the hot topic?’ I asked absently, concentrating on the salad I prepared.

‘Helen from adult services was in, and asked how Nick was doing.’

‘Did you tell her I’d been sold to a sex dungeon?’

‘Of course not,’ Kirsty said, pinching a piece of cucumber from my salad bowl. ‘I wouldn’t sully the reputation of Packney House’s saintly unpaid social worker.’

‘Really,’ I said, taking the pan of pasta off the stove.

‘They worship him, but Verity is like an urban legend.’ That least piqued my attention, and I looked inquisitively at my pilfering girlfriend.

‘Everyone here sings her praises, but she’s not on the electoral roll. In fact there is no record of anyone of that name, and half the Department believe she is a ghost, and are scouring parish records to find out who she was.’ Kirsty finished soberly.

‘That will change now been i’ve been in the paper,’ I said, carrying the plates into the living room.

‘Who’s Nicky?’ Kirsty asked, after wolfing down our sparse meal, and I retold the story I had given Olivia.

Still chasing the last forkful around my plate, I wasn’t prepared for Kirsty’s reaction.

‘You were raped!’ Kirsty cried, into my ear, while crushing me with hugs.

‘It’s not like I was forced,’ I said, softly, ‘and I let him do it to me a few times.’

‘And I told you to ignore Isabel groping you,’ Kirsty said, renewing her attempts at squeezing me.

‘I quite like that now, and it’s more like stroking her pet.’

‘I’m so giving you a bath tonight,’ said Kirsty, untying my apron.

‘But why are you taking off your clothes now?’ I asked, when she had removed everything down to my gaff.

‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t want to splash her working clothes.’

author's note: sorry if it's a bit clunky but I rushed to finish