Continues the story begun in Should Have Stayed In Bed by Kristina L.S. (a challenge from the original author)
copyright © 2008, 2011 Kaleigh Way — All Rights Reserved
"You sure picked a hell of day to come out!"
"Come out!?" I squeaked, my eyes big as saucers.
When Gillian dismissed us from the meeting, she gave me a smile that both reassured and terrified me. I felt that I'd done pretty well at staying invisible for most of the meeting; I didn't want to call attention to myself while I was wearing Rita's clothes. And Gillian had granted me a raise, right there, in front of everyone! Which *must* mean that she wasn't planning to fire me, at least any time soon.
But that smile of hers — how did she manage to do it? I'm sure the client didn't notice; it was quite a nice smile, actually. However, I could see the hidden message there: We're going to have a little talk, you and I. I swallowed hard, and lowered my eyes as I stood and stepped away from the table.
Cathy and Dianne left the room first. Paul and I reached the door at almost the same time and he, with an unnecessarily large gesture, said, "Ladies first, Belinda." He managed to wink as I walked past, and I hurried away, because I foresaw a bottom-pinch in the offing.
I wasn't the only one trotting off quickly. We all did. There was an unspoken rule that whenever a client was in the office, everyone had to keep busy — or least look busy. Dianne gave me a little smile as I passed her desk, but it was something like a bell clanging a wild-weather warning: we all had to keep our heads down.
For once, I was happy about it: for the next fifteen minutes (maybe even half an hour?), while Gillian was busy with Roger and his two offsiders, I had a respite from teasing.
I decided to use that little window to get myself back to normal. "Normal" meaning back in my own clothes. I wanted to be Bill, not Belinda, before I had to talk to Gillian. It was bad enough that I'd done the meeting dressed as I was; I didn't want to serve as a living reminder.
After a quick call to the cleaners, I dashed nervously over to Dianne's desk. "Dianne, I'm going for a quick trip to the cleaners. My clothes are ready."
"Why the hurry?" Dianne asked, with a mischievous grin. "Can't you pick them up on the way home?"
"I don't want to talk to Gillian dressed like this," I told her, blushing.
"But you're ready to walk to the cleaners? Dressed like that?" she asked, eyebrows raised, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Hmm. Is our Billy getting daring, or do you want to show off your new look?"
"No," I said, glancing at the clock, "I'm in a hurry to get my own clothes back, and I don't see that I have any choice. You can't go now, can you?"
"No," she replied, "of course not. I have to be here when Gillian finishes with Roger."
"Okay, then," I said. "I'm off."
"Billy," she said, catching my arm, "and seriously now, you might want to get that suit cleaned before giving it back to Rita. She was kind enough to lend you two changes of clothes today, and this one fresh from the cleaners. I don't think she'll wear it until it's cleaned again."
"Oh, right," I said, seeing her point. "But how can I manage it? I can't possibly change at the cleaners, can I?" I cringed at the mental picture of myself fumbling my way out of a woman's suit and into a man's, in a back room filled with coat hangers, cardboard, and clear plastic wrap.
Dianne suppressed a giggle. "Don't panic, Billy! I don't think you need do anything as drastic as that!" She studied my face. "You really would have done, wouldn't you?"
"No," I lied, but her smile told me I hadn't fooled her. "So what *can* I do?"
"Borrow Rita's track suit again, and carry her clothes in a bag. That way, they won't risk getting drenched on the way." She raised her eyebrow so I wouldn't miss the reference to my soaking earlier.
"What about the shoes?"
"You could see whether Carole has a pair of trainers?"
"Oh, I wish I'd stayed in bed!" I groaned.
Dianne gave my hand a pat. "Then you would have missed getting your raise, wouldn't you?"
I brightened a bit at that.
"And we would have missed seeing the new you!" she chuckled.
I nearly ran to Carole's desk. She did have a pair of trainers, and was glad to get her flats back. Rita was doubtful at first when I asked to borrow her track suit again, but when I explained that I wanted to have her suit cleaned, she handed it over with a smile.
From the sound of things in the conference room, Gillian and Roger wouldn't be finishing soon, so I ducked into the men's room to change clothes for the third time that morning. Oddly enough, the pink and gray outfit didn't seem quite as girly as before. At least, I thought so until I saw myself in the mirror. After folding Rita's suit and blouse carefully, I tucked them into a white trash bag, which I clutched to my chest, and crept from the men's room like a fugitive.
Luckily, there was no one near the elevator. And — still lucky! — the elevator came quickly. Best of all, when the doors opened, there was no one inside! I was blessing my lucky stars as I watched the doors closing, and I was just about to declare Clean getaway! when a large hand slipped into the two-inch gap. The doors stopped, changed direction, and opened wide to reveal Roger Donaldson and his two colleagues.
I gulped and gaped. "Mr. Donaldson!" I gasped.
"Mr. Donaldson?" he echoed. "Call me Roger, Belinda! Mr. Donaldson's my father." He chuckled, and looked me up and down. "You're a quick-change artist, aren't you? Going for a run?"
"Uh, yes," I said, lamely grasping at the lie. "Some errands and a run."
He nodded, and gestured at the bag. "Taking out the trash?"
"No, no," I said, a little too anxiously. "I'm taking some clothes to the cleaners."
"Is it far?" he asked. "We'd be happy to give you a ride."
"Oh, no," I said. "Thanks anyway, but it's in the opposite direction." Idiot! I cursed myself mentally. Why not say something stupid, while you're at it? I had no idea which direction they were going, so how could I know what was opposite? Mortified, I wished once again that I'd stayed in bed this morning.
Mr. Donaldson — I mean, Roger — laughed as if I'd said the funniest thing. "Oh, the opposite direction!" he repeated. "Why didn't you say so? You know, today we happen to be going in the opposite direction, aren't we?" He turned to one of his companions, who was also laughing, for confirmation.
"Oh, yes, definitely. Today we're only driving in the opposite direction."
"There you have it, Bel," Roger said, rubbing his hands happily. "You've got to come with us. There's nothing to be done."
When the elevator doors opened, he took my hand, placed it on his arm, and led me to his car. I sat in the back seat with Roger, and gave directions.
"Are you sure there are clothes in that bag?" he asked me in a friendly tone.
"Of course," I replied. "What else could it be?"
"Gold, I'd say, from the way you're clutching it."
"Oh!" I said, realizing that I had a death grip on the sack. "Well, my wallet's inside too," I added lamely.
He nodded, and we pulled up in front of the cleaners.
"Thanks for the ride, Mr — ah, Roger," I said. Then, to his colleagues I added, "And thanks to you, too!"
"Glad we could give you a lift, Bel," Roger smiled. "See you tonight! And don't be so nervous. I don't bite."
One of the men in the front laughed in friendly contradiction.
I'd been to this shop once before, when I'd picked up something for Gillian, but of course the man behind the counter didn't recognize me. Which was probably a good thing. I fumbled the trash bag open and fished out my wallet, which was — I thought — suitably manly, a simple black wallet. I pulled out the ticket Dianne had given me, and noticed that "Dianne" was written in the NAME space. Pushing the ticket across the counter, I said, "I want to pick this up, and drop these off for Rita. And I'd like to pay in advance."
The cleaner looked at the first ticket and at Rita's clothes, and asked me, "So which one are you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Which one are you? Are you Rita or Dianne?" he smiled in a way that made me distinctly uncomfortable.
"Neither," I replied.
"And you don't want to tell me," he stated. He seemed to be amused.
"Can I please pick up my clothes?" I asked.
He looked at the slip. "This is a man's suit and shirt, so they can't be yours. Are they for your boss or for your boyfriend?"
I fixed him with my best we are not amused face, but he didn't seem to mind. He reached back, grabbed the suit and shirt, gave them a glance, and hung them on a hook near the cash register. Returning his gaze to me, he said, "Your boyfriend has very good taste."
"Thanks," I said. It *is* a nice suit, after all. Then I realized he was talking about me. I got very red and flustered. "Uh, thanks," I muttered, as I grabbed the clothes and turned to go.
"Not so fast, my dear," he laughed. "You haven't paid yet, and you need the ticket for Rita."
I got back without further incident. I even managed to pass Sasha's without being seen. AND, by now it was 12:15, so everyone would be lunching. The office — at least the path between the elevator and the bathroom — should be clear.
Thinking I'd done well, I was actually smiling when the elevator doors opened on my floor. Imagine my shock and disappointment when I stepped out and came face to face with Gillian!
She regarded me the way a school principal looks at a troublesome student. She toyed with her right earring and tapped her left foot. Her eyes took me in, head to foot and back again. "Just the person I was looking for!" she said, drily. "You and I need to talk, NOW."
I gulped. "Gillian, could I just change clothes first? I'll only be a sec."
"Again? Oh, no, my fine girl! You've had enough costume changes for one day! In fact, let me take this for you." She snapped the suit and shirt from my hand, took me by the arm, and led me bodily into her office, where she shut the door and hung my clothes on the back of her door. Then she strode behind her desk and sat down.
I was still standing by the door. It wasn't that I didn't know why I was there or what I was supposed to do. That wasn't it at all. What I wanted to do was to make a stand: I wanted to insist that I change my clothes before we had our chat. But I never had a chance.
"For God's sake, Bill, sit down!" Gillian cried, so I sat. She shook her head. "Billy, what am I going to do with you?"
I wasn't sure how to respond, so I said nothing.
"You sure picked a hell of day to come out!"
"Come out!?" I squeaked, my eyes big as saucers.
She cocked her head and frowned. "You're not coming out? Bill, please don't tell me this was all a prank! Did Dianne put you up to it?"
"A prank!?" I squeaked, my voice even higher than before.
Gillian took a deep breath. I was a little afraid she was about to explode. "Bill, if you keep repeating what I say, we're not going to get anywhere. And believe it or not, I *do* want to get out of here and have my lunch! So take a breath, put your feet on the floor, and tell me WHAT THE HELL happened today!"
I gave the most condensed version possible of the morning's events, watching Gillian's face the whole time. Her expression didn't change.
When I finished, I said, "Oh, and thank you for the raise."
That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. It set her off like nothing else I'd said.
"The raise!? Thank you for the raise!? Is this how you thank me? By dressing up like one of the girls? Oh, my lord, do you have any idea what you've done? Listen to me, Bill: I'm giving you a raise, but I'm not giving you a promotion. I can't. And do you know why I can't?
"You're a good copywriter. You came through for us on this project, and I expect to see more good things from you in future. But I can't promote you. You're not supervisor material. If you'd told me that *you* had decided to dress up today and call yourself Belinda, it would have thrown me, but I would have to recognized the guts, the daring, the conviction it would take to carry it off.
"Instead, I find that you allowed the women lead you. You let Rita and Dianne turn you into their dress-up doll... not once, but twice! Let me ask you something: why didn't you go back home and change? Dianne saw you get soaked, she would have had to understand."
"I, uh, didn't want to be late...," I stammered.
"You would have had time," she prompted.
"I only have the one suit," I admitted, shamefaced.
"Ah," she said. "Well, that's no crime. But still, did you bother to ask one single man in the place if he had something you could wear?"
"No," I admitted. "But neither of them are my size." My size? I echoed mentally. That's girl talk. Still, it was better than saying They're all bigger than me.
"You could have asked them anyway," she insisted. "You never know. You might have said something to me. I might have had an idea that would have left your masculinity intact.
"Another thing: you had a hard time engaging our client. You barely looked in him the eye once. You're lucky that he loved your slogan, because if he'd been on the fence, you wouldn't have been able to push him over. Sometimes you have sell an idea to a client. We're lucky with Roger: he understands. More often, you get clients who think they know your job, who come to us with the stupidest ideas, and we have to help them fall in love with something better. Can you do that? Could you do that?
"If I'm going to promote you, I have to know that you can engage and lead our clients. And if you're going to supervise, you can't be so accommodating! How can you take your co-workers in hand if you're going to let them literally take the pants off you?
"I'm not saying that you'll never be a leader. I think you that you can be a leader, if you'll only step up and take responsibility. If you learn to be responsible, to make your own decisions, to stand up for them, and convince others to see things your way and get behind you, you can do it. The public speaking part... that's something you can learn, as well. There are some courses you could take, in fact."
"Okay," I said. I could see the justice of her remarks.
"Will you work on those things?" she asked. "Can you commit yourself to doing that?"
"Yes, I can," I agreed. "I will."
"Good," she said.
I decided to start being firm and decisive right then and there. So I made a decision: there was no way I was going to dress as a girl tonight. Maybe that's what Gillian was getting at all along? She wanted me to stand up for myself; in a figurative sense to put my pants back on. "Gillian?" I said, in what I hoped was a strong, self-assured tone, "I've decided that I'm going to wear my suit at the dinner tonight and explain to Roger Donaldson who I really am." I stood up and reached for my clothes.
"No, you're not," she said. "Forget it. And leave that where it is! I want to be sure you don't show up in it."
"But you just said—"
"Listen to me, Bill: we *just* signed the deal with Donaldson. He's happy with the slogan, with the campaign, and with the team. It's the worst possible time to change anything. We've got everything set. The client's on board. I'm not going to change the team."
"But we won't be changing the team!" I protested.
"From the client's point of view, we will," she stated flatly. "He likes Bel. Will he like Bill? We don't know. Besides, Roger might take it badly. He might think we were having a laugh at his expense. You never know how someone will react.
"I've seen it before: you have a lovely client, everything is going well. You make one, tiny, inconsequential change, and suddenly you've lost them. They start to change things... they're suddenly hard to work with... it's a bad, bad idea. We aren't changing anything."
"Then I won't go to the dinner," I said, putting my foot down. Had she noticed how decisive I'd become?
She scoffed. "Yes, you will come to the dinner, Belinda! You'll be there, with bells on!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Gillian told me I have to go to dinner tonight as Belinda."
Paul, to his credit, struggled manfully to not laugh. "She can't do that. She can't ask you to do that."
When I was fourteen, the Olympics came to Sydney. My parents volunteered to help with the games. Somewhere along the way my father was given an official Team Australia rugby top, and most of the team signed it. Of course it became one of his prized possessions.
One day I took the blessed thing to school to show it off, and one of the boys in class tried to take it from me. As we struggled, a teacher intervened and confiscated the shirt. All through English class it sat there in plain view on his desk, and I was stewing. My father had no idea I'd borrowed it, and he'd be livid when he found out. I didn't know how I'd even begin to explain. Although I was sure that somehow my father would get his shirt back in the end, I was offended by the injustice of the situation: after all, it wasn't MY fault that moron wanted to steal it.
And so, in spite of my usual timidity, as soon as the teacher left the room to change classes, I walked boldly from my place at the back of the room, directly to his desk, and took the jersey back. I stuffed it in my bag, and that was the end of the story.
Why do I tell you that little anecdote? Because that's where I was again, sitting at my desk, stewing. My clothes were hanging in Gillian's office, and Gillian had gone to lunch. The same sense of wounded justice, of a great wrong done — and none of it my fault — was overwhelming. I wanted nothing more than to walk into her office, claim my suit and shirt, and change back to the way I was meant to be, the way I was dressed for work this morning. To put on my own damn clothes.
But — a moderately big but— Gillian wouldn't forget, or pretend to forget, the way my old teacher had. She'd been quite clear that Bel was expected at dinner tonight, and Lord knows what would happen if Bel wasn't there.
The office was still empty. Everyone was still at lunch. I was hungry, but I couldn't eat. Once more I wished that I'd stayed in bed this morning! Someone else could have delivered my slogan. Someone else could have gotten my raise, for that matter! I wouldn't have cared. Um, well, I would, but...
I was so lost in my inner misery that I didn't see Paul until he stood right in front of my desk.
"You look awfully blue for someone who did so well this morning," he said. "I was going to tease you about your outfit again, but you look so downcast, I can't bear to."
I smiled ruefully in response.
"Congrats on the raise, in any case."
I grunted a wordless thanks in response, so he asked me, "Why are you so glum?"
I sighed and lifted my head. "Gillian told me I have to go to dinner tonight as Belinda."
Paul, to his credit, struggled manfully to not laugh. I watched the contortions on his face, until finally he managed to say, "She can't do that. She can't ask you to do that."
"Well, she did," I said.
He stood in silence for a moment, so I asked him, "What would you do, Paul?"
"In the first place, I would have gone home to change," he replied. "But if she asked me to wear a dress, I'd tell her to stuff it."
I nodded. Not bloody likely. I mean, I couldn't see myself telling Gillian to stuff it. Not to mention the idea of Paul in a dress...
He said, "Listen, Bill. I want to apologize for that crack this morning about powder blue being your color."
I shrugged. "It's okay," I replied.
"Now that I've seen this outfit again," he continued, "I have to admit that pink really does it for you. Blue might match your eyes, but pink... yes, it's more subtle." Nodding at his own sense of style and inherent wisdom, he went off to his desk.
As if on cue, Dianne and Cathy entered the office. Dianne's sunny smile turned to a puzzled, half-amused frown when she caught sight of me, moping at my desk.
"Bill, what happened? Don't tell me they lost your clothes! Oh, that would be the living end, wouldn't it!" Her eyes took on a mischievous twinkle, and Cathy couldn't hide her smile.
"No," I said. "They're not lost, but they may as well be. Gillian took my suit and shirt, and someone else nicked my shoes."
When I explained how Gillian had taken my clothes, Dianne scoffed. "She can't possibly mean that, Bill! She's just having you on. You might not believe this, but even our Gillian has a sense of humor. She's probably getting her own back after the shock you gave her this morning."
You mean the shock you gave her, I thought to myself. If Dianne hadn't said anything, I would have told Roger my real name. He might have thought I was a bit fruity, but at least he would have known that I'm a man.
Cathy added, "She's right, Billy. There's no way she can ask you to do that."
"When she's back from lunch, we'll straighten it out," Dianne promised. "In the meantime, what's this about your shoes?"
"I'd put them in the window to dry, and now they've disappeared," I told her. My one good pair! Another bit of Dianne's advice gone wrong.
Gillian entered, crossing the office quickly, as she usually did after lunch. As she passed our little group, she said, "Dianne, come to my office."
Dianne mouthed the missing word please at Gillian's back. Before she turned to follow, she told me, "Talk to Carole about the shoes."
Cathy disappeared to her own desk, leaving me to puzzle out what Dianne could possibly mean. Talk to Carole about shoes? What — was I supposed to borrow yet another pair?
At the same time, I knew Dianne well enough to see that she wasn't joking, so I got up and walked to the reception area. Maybe Carole would have a clue.
"Hi, Billy," she said, "enjoying your new look?"
"No, not really," I replied.
She dimmed her smile by a few notches and in a more sympathetic tone, asked, "What can I do to help?"
"Dianne told me to talk to you about shoes," I said. Then it came to me. "My shoes disappeared from the men's room. I'd put them in the window to dry, and now they're gone."
"I'll call building maintenance," Carole told me. "One of the cleaning crew probably found them and took them to lost and found."
"Oh, thanks, Carole!" I gushed, "That's the first good news I've heard all day!"
"Oh?" she said in mock surprise. "So your raise was bad news, was it?"
"Oh, I, uh—" I stammered, completely flummoxed. "I don't know," I said stupidly.
She smiled. "Don't worry, Bill. The minute I have news about your shoes (hey, that rhymes!) I'll give you a ring."
It's funny how the slightest thing can buoy you up or throw you down. Right now, Carole's idea that my shoes were simply in lost and found had me nearly walking on air, and I wasn't ready for the dark look on Dianne's face as she returned to her desk.
"Where've you been?" she demanded with a frown.
"Talking to Carole about my shoes," I replied.
"You and your clothes," she huffed as she stood up. "Come with me now, and you, too, Cathy." She led the two of us into the lunchroom, and sat down at the little table.
"Right," she announced. "Sit down, you two. Gillian has given me the task of sorting out 'Belinda' for the dinner tonight."
My jaw fell open, and Cathy gawked in disbelief. "You're joking!" she said.
"No, I'm not, and I'd like to get through this quickly. We've got a lot to think about, and Gillian's not throwing any money our way. So it's beg, borrow, or cadge." She clicked her pen loudly and began scribbling on a pad to get the pen started. She looked angry enough to spit.
I was speechless. For Gillian to say it was one thing, but now to have to plan it out, and go through with it... was simply outrageous!
"For the dress," Dianne began, "I have this black silk thing that I can't wear. It's too tight on top." She wrote the word DRESS and put a tick mark in front of it. "Next, Belinda will need her hair and nails done. Cath, don't you have that friend who's a cosmetology student?"
Cathy didn't respond; she was still in shock, staring open-mouthed at Dianne.
"I imagine the answer is still 'yes' — we'll have to give her a call and see if she can come to my place tonight—"
"No," Cathy said.
Dianne ignored it. She wrote HAIR, NAILS, SHOES in column under DRESS. "I know that Carole's got about a dozen shoes under her desk. One of us has to go and see whether she's got a suitable pair in black—"
"No," Cathy repeated. "I'm going to talk to Gillian. This is just plain wrong." And with that, she left the room.
Dianne didn't look up. I'd never seen her angry before, but now she gripped her pen like a dagger pointing down, and stabbed her notepad, leaving a deep blue dent.
"Quiet people," she said. She looked at me, her jaw working as if she was trying to break something hard with her teeth. "Quiet people always get me in trouble. People like you.
"If only you had an ounce of initiative... if only you could think on your feet... if only you didn't have that cute doe-in-the-headlights look... I wouldn't have jumped in. I wouldn't have said anything. But I knew that you'd just mumble and stammer..." She shook her head.
She went on talking, but I only half-listened. The whole business had taken on an unreal quality to me. It was as if I'd had my quota of weirdness for the day, and couldn't take on any more. Now that Dianne and Cathy were upset, I was calm. Surely it would resolve itself before the end of the day. I'd put my suit on, go to the dinner, Roger would have a laugh — he was a good sort, after all — and we'd get on with our business.
Cathy stuck her head in the door. "Gillian wants to see the team in the meeting room. Now."
Gillian didn't waste any time. As soon as everyone was seated, she got right to it: "Right. You all know that I asked Belinda to come to the dinner tonight, and I understand that no one is happy with that. I'm going to give you all the chance to speak your minds, but first I'm going to tell you mine.
"First of all, no one asked me about Bill's difficulty this morning. I would have told Roger that Bill got drenched, and I'm pretty sure — Roger being the good sort that he is — that it actually would have helped the presentation... made him more sympathetic." She stopped a moment to make a point: "That wouldn't work with most clients, by the way. Don't *ever* aim to be pitied.
"Second, I was blindsided, and that simply can not happen. This is a business in which every detail is important, and we can't have surprises at the last minute. I need to know.
"Third, I don't want to change the team — it's never a good idea. *I* understand that Bel is Bill. *You* understand it. But will Roger? He might take it badly. He could think we've played him for a fool, and that we don't take his business seriously. Clients, even the best of clients, don't like change, and they *hate* being patronized.
"My last point is that I'm not asking Bill to have a sex-swap, or to change his way of life. I'm just asking that he dress in a somewhat feminine way when Roger's around. Once the campaign is launched, Belinda will disappear.
"That's my side of things. Let's hear yours."
Dianne spoke first. "You know mine. I'm against it. It's partly my fault, and I'm willing to go to bat with Roger. I'll explain things and patch it up. If I can't make it work, make him like Bill as much as he likes Bel, you can let me go."
Gillian smiled slightly and said, "Don't be so dramatic, Dianne. You know I wouldn't do that. Cath?"
"I think it's wrong to make Bill do it, that's all. It should be for Bill to say, whether he'd come as Bel or no. He should be able to bow out and work behind the scenes. We can make up a story for Roger: family issues or something like that. Bill could keep out of the way whenever Roger came around."
Gillian nodded, and from the expression on her face, I got the feeling that that was where she wanted to go: she was going to let me bow out. She'd left us to stew to teach us — me — a lesson. She never meant me to go through with it!
For now she had to keep up the facade, then she'd go off and "have a think," after which she'd let us (mainly me!) off the hook.
"Paul?" Gillian prompted.
"I don't like it. You shouldn't have asked Bill to do it. It's not a fair request or a real choice. He might say yes because he'd believe his job and his raise are in jeopardy, even if they aren't. And sure, it was a silly prank, but it's done. We have to move on."
"And what does 'moving on' mean, Paul?" Gillian asked, eyebrow raised.
He shrugged and spread his hands. "That's another question. If we agree that Bill will remain as Bill, then we can talk about how to handle the client."
Carole popped her head in. "I've got Roger Donaldson on line one. Will you take it?"
Gillian picked up the handset and punched the button. "Hello, Roger, this is Gillian. What can I do for you?
"Right: the limo pickups. I'll talk to my team, find out where they'll be, and email you the list... Right. Five, ten minutes.
"What? Oh, you did?" Her eyes fell on me, and I turned scarlet. "Yes, I'm sure she appreciated it... Oh, yes, that's our Bel!" At her use of that name, Paul, Cathy, and Dianne visibly lit up and shifted in their chairs. I sat still as a stone. If we'd all been listening before, now our ears were straining overtime.
"Oh, yes?" Gillian chuckled politely. "No, no, it isn't you; she's just that shy... With everyone... No. She's a good copywriter. A very good copywriter." She laughed again. "Yes, I'm glad you feel that way... Yes, me too... Oh, I don't know, you might be opening a Pandora's box, there! ... Alright, then, Roger. I'll see you tonight... No, I've never been! I've heard it's one of the best restaurants in the world... Oh, did you?
"Good, Roger... yes, I'll get that list to you, posthaste. Cheers!"
After Gillian hung up, the silence in the room was palpable. Gillian fixed her eyes on me, and drummed the table with the fingertips of her right hand. I wasn't sure whether she wanted me to speak, and no one else was speaking, so I looked at her and looked at the table and wrung my hands white.
At last Gillian spoke. "Look at you," she said. "Sitting there, as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."
I gave her an uncertain look. I've never understood that expression, but I wasn't about to ask her what it meant.
The atmosphere in the room was electric. Dianne was sitting to my left, and though I didn't dare look at her, I could feel the full load of her curiosity ready to burst out of her.
Then Gillian let it fall: "Exactly when were you going to tell me about your little car ride with Roger Donaldson?"
Dianne let out a long, rising "Whaaat!?"
Paul's jaw dropped. He started blinking and couldn't stop.
Cathy goldfished.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "Now, I guess?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Chockies and flowers?" Dianne echoed. "Do you mean—"
Gillian twisted her mouth to the side in a slightly crooked smile. "I'm afraid that Roger might be falling for our Bel."
"This is the second time today that I've been blindsided," Gillian said. "Let me be perfectly clear: if any of you have contact with a client, I need to know about it."
I swallowed hard. "It wasn't anything," I said lamely. "He gave me a ride to the cleaners. I tried to refuse."
"Mmm," Gillian said. "Yes, Roger mentioned it... Did you really tell him that you were going in the opposite direction?"
"Yes."
"Before you knew which way he was driving?"
Paul couldn't help it: he burst out laughing, but quickly got a grip and stifled it. I didn't answer.
Gillian said, "Tell me what happened. Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out. We've got to figure how we're going to handle this — how we're going to sort things out."
Dianne cut in, "Excuse me, Gil, but when you say 'sort things out', do you mean—"
"I mean that we need to put a lid on this Bel business. We need to cut it off before Roger starts sending chockies and flowers."
"Chockies and flowers?" Dianne echoed. "Do you mean—"
Gillian twisted her mouth to the side in a slightly crooked smile. "I'm afraid that Roger might be falling for our Bel."
"No!" I said. "He can't! Isn't he married? Was he wearing a ring?"
"He didn't have a ring," Paul said, "but not all men wear one."
"It doesn't make any difference," Gillian pointed out. "Bill, start talking."
"Can I tell you privately?" I asked.
Dianne gave a snort that said not a chance! and Paul gave a look that said I'm not going anywhere!
I started with my call to the cleaners, and finished with Roger's telling me that he didn't bite.
"He told you that he doesn't bite?" Gillian asked, as if that was significant.
"No... yes," I said. "He said he doesn't bite."
Dianne drew a long breath and said, "Oh, dear me!" with an amused smirk.
"I'm glad you're enjoying this," Gillian said to her. Dianne's smirk quickly disappeared as she rolled her lips inward even as her eyes gave her thoughts away.
"I don't understand," I said. "How does this change anything?"
"I think," Cathy put in, "that Roger sees Bel's shyness as a challenge."
"Right," Gillian agreed.
Paul looked at the table. "It can be a turn-on," he said, with the air of an expert, nodding gently.
I felt my heart racing. In a panic, I said, "I could cut my hair!" as if that would somehow solve it.
No one laughed. Silence fell on our little group. At last Gillian spoke. "This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to Roger's office right now, and I'm going to tell him face to face what's happened. Bill, you'll probably have to skip the dinner tonight, to spare Roger his blushes.
"And — worst case — if we lose the account, I'll have to rescind your raise."
She left the room, but the four of us remained.
"Pity Roger's not gay," Paul commented. "He's not bad looking, if you like that solid, country gentleman type."
"Why can't a dishy client ever fall for me?" Cath complained.
"Yes, our Bel has all the luck," Dianne teased.
I shook my head. "If only I'd stayed in bed today, none of this would have happened. I'm such a idiot! And to be taken for a girl — twice!"
"It could be worse," Dianne said, giving me a playful poke. "At least you were taken for a *pretty* girl!"
Gillian stuck her head in the door. "Bill, why don't you come with me? I doubt that you'll be getting any work done this afternoon." She gave a meaningful look to the others. "I might want to produce you as evidence."
I stood up and followed her to the elevator. We rode down in silence and climbed into her silver C300. After I'd buckled myself in and Gillian began driving north, I suddenly realized that I was still wearing Rita's track suit!
"Gillian," I said, "I only just realized how I'm dressed! Can we go back so I can change?"
She glanced at me with the trace of a smile. "I don't think it matters," she said. "I doubt that you'll see Roger, in any case. And seeing you like this helps me understand the mistake he made. I'm still trying to think of what to say... how to put it." She smiled. "You're a copywriter: see if you can come up with something."
Unfortunately, I drew a blank. So I told Gillian, "I really appreciate your doing this. I understand what it costs you... what it might cost the business."
"Yes," she said, keeping her eyes on the road. "This is what happens when you're in charge: you have to take responsibility, step into the muck, and give your best. Shoulder to the wheel, set the mix, make the bloody decisions!" She sighed as her little burst of clichés and homilies petered out.
She took a left turn and told me, "I think we can save this. I have to believe we can."
"What are you going to tell him?" I asked.
"The truth," she replied. "As briefly as possible." She pressed her lips together. "I'm trying to find something in it that could possibly make him laugh."
"Maybe we just tell him the whole story... there is the part where my coffee was saved," I offered. Gillian nodded. "And how my shoes disappeared." Gillian shrugged. "And when Paul said I was a powder-blue person."
I went on, wracking my brain for anything that could be the slightest bit funny in what happened that morning. Gillian simply listened. She chuckled when I mentioned Rita's blouse "flapping" the other way, and the tassels on my shoes.
Then she said, "I doubt I'll say all of that... or maybe any of it, but it's always good to have more cards in hand than you really need to play."
Then I understood something: Gillian had been giving me tips all day long about how to be a boss; about what it meant to be in charge. She was trying to help me understand what I needed to do if I wanted a promotion. I had to be responsible, "step into the muck," and give my best. Make a decision even if it was hard and might cost me in some way.
"How much farther is Roger's office?" I asked.
"Another fifteen minutes," she replied.
I bit my lower lip. "Gillian, you said something about understanding the mistake Roger made. Do I really look like a girl?"
Her face relaxed, and she gave me her first genuine smile of the day. "I hate to undermine your male ego," she said, "but when I first interviewed you, I thought you were the girl candidate."
"Oh," I said in a small voice.
"There are still times now, when I'm walking through the office, and my first thought is there's that girl again!"
"Oh," I repeated, sinking into the seat.
Her smile twitched slightly. "Don't worry, Bill. A lot of women like pretty boys like you."
"Uh, thanks," I said. "But that wasn't why I was asking. I was thinking... you were talking about stepping into the muck, and all that..."
"Oh, dear," she said. She saw where I was going.
I cleared my throat. "So, I decided —" See, Gillian? I CAN be decisive! "— I decided that I'll go to the dinner as Bel. That way, everything can simply go forward. And I can, um, I can dress in a more feminine... I mean, a feminine way until the ad campaign is over, in case Roger stops by."
Gillian didn't say anything. She simply lifted her eyes, took a good look in the rear-view, and pulled a U-turn across a unbroken white line.
"Right!" Dianne said, as we gathered in the meeting room. "We've got it sorted, I think. For the hair, she's got an appointment at Mag's in twenty. For the dress, I've got a nice black silk number with long sleeves. It's too tight in the top, so I can't wear it, but it'll do for our Bel.
"Shoes: Carole had a pair of black pumps under her desk that'll work quite nicely and she's volunteered to do Bel's face and nails."
Cath picked up at that point, "I'll walk Bel down to Mag's right now, and on the way back we can pick up stockings and make-up." Her eyes ran over my face in a clinical way. "It should be easy. His coloring's like Carole's."
"Then save some time and ask Carole what she uses," Gillian told her. "You two ought to bounce, right now."
As Cath and I stood, Gillian said jokingly to Paul, "Sorry you couldn't contribute, Paul. It's not really your area."
Paul gave a small smirk and said, "But I *can* contribute, and I shall. There's something quite obvious you've all forgotten."
Dianne's eyebrow went up. "What?"
"Breasts."
I froze.
"Well," Dianne quipped, "I guess we could cut a tennis ball in two." I blushed as the others laughed. "Seriously though, Bel can't go from flat to full-chested in a day."
"No, but she should have something," he countered, "so I looked around the internet a bit, and then I made these." He picked up a carrier bag from the floor, and from it produced two small plastic bags filled with a milky substance.
Gillian and Dianne each picked up one. "Ooh! What's in it?" Dianne asked.
"Goo. It's made of borax and glue. It's thick enough to jiggle and to feel like the real thing."
Gillian dropped the one she was holding on the table. "I don't think anyone's going to be feeling Bel's breasts."
"No," Paul said, smiling, "it's just a small thing — two small things — to help the illusion along."
"Darn!" Dianne said, as she continued to play with the sack of goo. "Now she'll need a bra! I'll see if I've got one small enough!"
I expected to things to take longer at the salon, but we were in and out in twenty minutes. But in those twenty minutes, I was transformed!
A girl named Tara with striking makeup, short black hair and a ring through her eyebrow, stood behind me, playing with my hair, looking at my face in the mirror. "D'ya know what I think?" she exclaimed. "I can't get it out of my head now — I've got to do it! Hang on!" she said, and ran off toward the front of the shop.
She returned a moment later. "Here it is!" she exclaimed. "Have you seen this?" and she held the latest issue of Australian Vogue against her chest, displaying a striking blue-eyed blonde to Cath and me.
"Well, what?" I asked, not getting it.
"Can you do that?" Cath asked, eyes wide.
"With Bel's fine hair and baby blues, I think I can get pretty close," she said.
"Who's that girl?" I asked.
"Our own Abbey Lee," Tara replied. To my blank look, she added, "Abbey Lee Kershaw, top model? I admit, this isn't her usual look."
"And do *I* look like that?" I asked, naive as you like, at once astonished, dismayed, and pleased.
Tara opened her eyes wide and held her mouth in an oh! for a moment before replying. "Oh, yes, love! In fact, when you walked in, I thought you were her! Really! You look just like her — IN YOUR DREAMS!" Then she set to cackling and Cath broke up in laughter.
My face was a fine shade of red when Tara stepped up behind me and smiled at my face in the mirror. "Not to worry, Bel. You're lovely in your very own way!" She suppressed a smirk and said, "But I'm going to make you beautiful now — you're going to fall in love with yourself when you see it!"
Tara pursed her lips and thought a moment as she turned my head this way and that. "How do you feel about colour, Bel?"
"I like colour," I replied, not sure what she meant.
"No," Cath interjected. "We don't have time. She means colouring your hair, Bel."
"Oh," I said, feeling stupid. "No, then."
"Suit yourself," Tara commented, and set to spraying and snipping and pinning up pieces of my hair.
"Don't cut the length," I said. Tara snorted in reply, as if I'd said something funny.
Since my hair was limp and wet, it was hard to tell what she was doing, although it was alarming to see how much hair was falling around me. At last, armed with a brush in one hand and a hairdrier in the other, she said, "Pay close attention, Bel, 'cause this is what you'll have to do each day!"
I watched as closely as possible, as she twirled the round brush in and under and around, doing my best to fix it in my mind. The problem was, it seemed like the wrong way to go about it and I was pretty sure I'd stuff it up if I tried and end up in a tangle, but in the end I had, for the first time in my life, a look.
"It's amazing," I said, awed at the transformation.
"It's beautiful," Cath said.
"It's too bad you wouldn't let me do the colour," Tara commented, "that would have really capped it." After a few more oohs and ahhs from other clients and stylists, I was finally allowed out of the chair.
"You might pick up that copy of Vogue on the way home," Tara told me, "so you know what you're aiming at." The twinkle in her eye told me she was thinking of my earlier gaff.
When we left the salon, two men collided and a moment later a third nearly walked into a lightpost.
"Ach!" Cathy muttered. "Flat as a rail, and still you're causing accidents! I guess men go for the skinny girls, I don't know!" She grabbed my arm and steered me into a chemists. "Let's duck in here a moment, Bel. We've still got our shopping list."
We quickly gathered the cosmetics on the list Carole gave us, along with two pair of stockings.
"Oh," Cath asked suddenly, "do you have a hairdrier?" and added one to our pile, along with a brush.
After I paid, as we walked to the door, I commented, "There goes my raise for the next three weeks!"
"Oh, poor you!" Cathy countered, "what do you think we girls have to do?" Then she gave me a look and clicked her tongue. "That's another thing, isn't it."
"What?"
"Your ears! You need earrings, but your ears aren't pierced." She frowned. "And we're running out of time. We've got to get back."
We did a quick stop at the newsagent next door for a copy of Vogue, as Tara suggested.
Dianne was waiting for us at Carole's reception desk.
"Well, look at you!" Carole exclaimed.
Dianne's eyebrow nearly rode straight off her head. "Yes, look at you! You're lovely, Bel! You'd be the belle of the ball, wouldn't you."
Wouldn't I? I silently echoed. What's she on about?
"So lovely, but all for naught."
"Why?" I asked.
"Oh, love, it's a pity, but Roger's found out you're a boy."
"What!?" Cath cried.
My mouth fell open. I swallowed hard, and looked from Dianne's sympathetic pout to Carole's doe-eyed frown.
After stammering a bit, I finally managed to say, "Then what will I do with this hair!?"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
Dianne looked at me appraisingly. "She's right, Bel. It's you, and yet it's a whole new you."
"You're still winding me up, aren't you?" I said.
"Well, yes, but it *is* lovely."
"How did he find out?" Cath asked, breathless.
"What did he say?" I asked. "Is he angry? What did Gillian say? Did we lose the account?"
Dianne's eyebrow went up even as the corners of her lips went down. She glanced at Carole expectantly. Carole's eyes grew large as teacups, then she exclaimed, "Oh! Yes! Right!"
I was puzzled. Dianne gave Carole a nudge, and Carole began, "See, Gillian said that... I mean, not Gillian. Roger. Right: Roger called and he asked for..." She stopped, and looking lost, glanced at Dianne for guidance, then rolled her eyes with a grimace.
"Oh, you silly cow!" Dianne said. "I knew you'd bollocks it!"
"Sorry!" Carole told her, and then pleading, said, "I couldn't remember!"
Cathy twigged. "It's all a joke then, isn't it?"
"It's obvious now, isn't it? Blondes!" Then, touching my arm, she added, "Not you, dear!" Somehow I wasn't reassured.
Carole covered her mouth, giggling. "Yes, sorry. And, oh, Bel: your hair looks really lovely."
Dianne shook her head in mock disgust at Carole, then looked at me appraisingly. "She's right, Bel. It's you, and yet it's a whole new you."
"You're still winding me up, aren't you?" I said.
"Well, yes, but it *is* lovely."
"And here's the inspiration," Cathy told them, pulling out the copy of Vogue with a great flourish.
"Look at that, will you!" Carole exclaimed.
"You're moving by leaps and bounds, Bel," Dianne commented with a smirk. "First you've conquered Roger Donaldson, and now the world of fashion. Perhaps we ought to send a copy of that picture to Roger before the dinner. Prime the pump, so to speak."
"Don't you dare!" I warned her, though I knew there was little I could do to stop her if she really meant to do it... Not that I really believed she would, I think.
"Don't worry, Bel," she laughed. "I don't think you need a leg up there, girl. You're in like Flynn already!"
"Did you get all the things on my list?" Carole asked. "I can do Bel's makeup and nails, if you like. The two of you will have quite enough to do already."
"Carole, you're a godsend," Dianne said. "I'm sorry I called you a silly cow earlier. It was quite uncalled for. True though." That last mumbled with a big smirk as Carole slapped her arm in retaliation while trying not to smile.
"I'm off home, then," Cathy said. "Unless I'm needed?"
"No," Dianne replied. "Off you go. We've got it all sorted. Right then, let's go, you two."
At Dianne's I took a quick shower, being ever so careful not to get my hair wet.
Dianne was waiting at the bathroom door. "About time!" she said. "I've laid out some things for you on the bed. Once you've put them on, Carole can get to work. Have you ever put on stockings?"
When I blushed, her eyebrow rose. "Oh, it's like that, is it?"
"No, I... really," I said, and heard Carole giggle in the next room.
"Shouldn't we give a quick try to the dress?" Carole asked. "If it doesn't fit, we're sunk, aren't we?"
"Right, right!" Dianne agreed, and bustled me into her bedroom. She dove into her closet, arms raised, shoving clothes back and forth until at last...
"Here it is!" she cried. "Slip it on as you are, just to try."
She stood there, expectantly.
"Could I have a bit of privacy?" I asked.
She considered a moment, then said, "All right. But be quick about it."
She went out, closing the door behind her. The moment my towel hit the floor, she began opening it again, calling, "Are you ready yet?"
"No!" I shouted.
"Just teasing!" she called.
"Well, shut the door then, teasing!"
I lay the dress on the bed and looked at it. "Do I put it on over my head?"
"No, dear, you step into it."
I stepped in and slid it up my body.
"Need help with the zip?" Dianne called.
"No... maybe. Er... yes!"
Dianne stepped into the room, followed by Carole. "Ooh," Carole said. "Vintage, is it?"
"Yes. It's lovely, isn't it? I couldn't wear it, though. My boobs didn't fit, but I think it'll do for our Bel."
"So you never wore it?" Carole asked.
"No," Dianne replied. "You can see, it is a bit much."
"A bit much?" I repeated. "So am I going to look a bit much?"
"No, on you it's fine. Let's see how it works with your boobies." She fished the breasts Paul had made out of the carrier bag and slipped them into the front of the dress.
"Will you look at that?" Carole exclaimed. "Bel, it's you! With the stockings, shoes, and makeup, you'll— oh! Earrings, Dianne! She hasn't got earrings!"
Dianne frowned. "We'll sort that out later, if at all. I've got to get into the shower. Bel, out of the dress, and into the things on the bed. Then let Carole do her magic."
After hacking at my cuticles and filing the living crap out of my nails, Carole painted them a deep red. "I think we can do without your toenails this time, unless you think someone will be seeing your naked feet," she teased.
I blushed, and she smiled. "I have to say, Bill, you're being an awfully good sport about this whole thing."
"I don't see that I have much choice," I said. "Once I got out of bed this morning, everything's gone against me."
"Has it?" she said. "You won a new client for the firm, got your raise, and it seems as though Gillian's taken you under her wing."
"Has she?" I asked.
She clicked her tongue affirmatively, and finished painting my left thumbnail. "Now don't move your hands, whatever you do! I don't want to start over."
We were sitting at Dianne's kitchen table, and the dress was hanging in the doorway. As Carole arranged her... my cosmetics on the table, I looked the dress over. I really didn't like it. It looked old-timey to me. Vintage meant "old." It was black, dark silk with a dull shine. The skirt had ruffley bits hanging down in shades of gray. When I'd tried the dress on, I could see why Dianne didn't wear it. The top was tight, almost constrictive, and there was black lace on the shoulders that just looked stupid to me.
"Carole?"
"Yes?"
"Tell me the truth. Will I look stupid in that dress?"
"No," she said. "It's lovely on you. You'll be smashing."
"Dianne said it was too much, though."
"Too much for her, yes, but you can pull it off. You have that... oh, dear. Can I tell you? You have that pretty... oh, Billy, sometimes you're almost angelic. You know? If you could see yourself! You have the look of the innocent waif. I'm afraid you can wear a lot of things that really wouldn't suit Dianne. Or me, for that matter, even though our coloring's so close. So don't worry about the dress."
I confess I did enjoy having Carole do my makeup. It would have looked a strange scene, I'm sure: me, sitting in Diane's kitchen chair, wearing a black bra and panties and black thigh-high stockings, covered (for modesty's sake) in one of Diane's black slips. "You'll take that off before putting the dress on," she'd told me. "That dress doesn't need a slip."
Carole worked silently and quickly, and every now and again I'd feel the gentle puff of air against my cheek as she exhaled. I very nearly said, "I wish you could do this for me every day," but managed to bite my tongue in time.
"Do you think you could do this yourself?" Carole asked, as if reading my mind.
"Dunno," I replied. "I guess I could learn if I had to."
"I was just thinking," she said. "If Roger comes for another meeting and you need to dress up, it would be handy if you could take care of yourself."
"I guess I could learn," I repeated.
Dianne walked in quietly as Carole was brushing my entire face with a big, soft brush. "Just a little powder," she said. "Ties it all together, softens it, cuts the shine."
"Oh, I thought shiny was good," I said.
"Oh, no, dear!"
Behind Carole, I heard the sound of Dianne tipping a bottle of liquid. "What's that?" Carole asked.
"Peroxide," Dianne said. "I'm just cleaning the hooks and needle. Are you nearly done there?"
"Yes," said Carole, stepping back.
I expected a comment or a compliment from Dianne when I opened my eyes. Instead, I saw her intently inspecting my ears while she clutched a cotton swab in one hand, and something I couldn't see in the other.
"What do you mean, 'needle'?" I asked.
Dianne's mouth twitched. "I have a great big needle here, full of girly hormones, Bel. Tomorrow you're going to wake up with a lovely pair of breasts, you'll see!"
"No!" I cried, "You can't!"
Dianne took a step back and regarded me with curiosity. "As if I would! As if I could! Where do you think I'd get hormones from, and do you honestly think I'd do such a thing to you?"
I didn't want to answer.
"I'm just going to pierce your ears so I can hang some earrings on that silly head of yours." She opened her right hand and showed me an open safety pin.
"All right, Billy, hold very still. It's been a while since I've done this, but I'm sure it's like riding a bicycle." She squeezed my earlobe experimentally, then swabbed it with peroxide.
"Oh, you're not going to—" was all I managed to say before Dianne poked me with the pin and pushed an earring into my left ear.
"Right. Holding still, Billy, holding very still..." and she repeated the process on the right.
"Well done!" she declared, straightening up. "Now on with the dress! The car will be here any moment."
I asked for a little privacy, but my request fell on deaf ears. The two of them lifted the slip off over my head, carefully avoiding all the work done on my hair and face. Then they helped me step into the dress. Dianne zipped it up, adjusted it with a tug here and there, and said, "Bel, you're beautiful! Roger will throw himself at your feet!"
"Um, yes, well, that reminds me," I said, "I'm going to sit at the far end of the table from Roger."
"If you can," Dianne replied, with a mischievous smile. "He's the host. I expect he'll be seating us where he'd like us to be."
I had just opened my mouth to speak, when a car horn sounded outside.
"What wonderful timing!" Carole declared. "Your chariot awaits! I'll come out with you and console myself with something on the telly. I'll want a full report tomorrow!"
© 2008 by Kaleigh Way
"Oh, so there is a Mrs. Donaldson?" I said without thinking.
"Bel's been asking that question all day," Dianne teased.
Carole ran down to tell the others that we were coming, but mainly to see what Gillian and Cathy were wearing. Dianne locked up and quickly clip-clopped down the stairs and out. I followed a little more slowly. I'd never worn heels before, but I think I did pretty well. Thank goodness for handrails, though!
When I got outside, a long, shiny, black limo was waiting. For sure, Roger Donaldson was doing very well for himself! To be able to toss out so much coin for what was really a small celebration... well. It must be nice! I didn't exactly count my pennies, but I was no Roger Donaldson.
Carole and the driver were standing near the limo. She was waiting to see us off; he was waiting to hand me in. Cathy and Dianne were sitting inside, facing Gillian, who sat alone in the back seat. She had her hand on the seat next to her, and I realized that she was saving it for me!
That heady moment was broken by Dianne, who bawled out, "Bel! Move yer blooming arse!" Gillian shot her a look, but then bit her lip.
"I'm coming as fast as I can," I protested. "The walkway's really steep here, going down to the car."
"It isn't a minefield, Bel," Gillian said. "Just put one foot in front of the other and you'll be fine, my girl."
"You have to be patient with our Bel," Dianne told the driver. "She grew up in the Bush and she's not used to wearing shoes, let alone heels."
I was about to protest when my left foot set to wobbling. I tried to steady it, but a dip in the ground or a bump or something threw me off balance. I found myself leaning dangerously backward and threw my arms out to keep from falling. The driver extended his arm, and I clutched it gratefully.
He handed me inside, and I dropped into the seat, losing a shoe in the process.
"Aside from that last bit," I said, as the driver handed me my shoe, "I think I did rather well."
"Oh my lord!" Gillian groaned. "It's a lucky thing we won't be doing any walking, Bel!"
I frowned and asked, "Am I really that bad?"
"No," Dianne replied, "You're much worse."
"Just don't move around any more than you have to," Gillian said.
"And don't look at your feet when you walk," Cath offered.
"And don't make a face like you're sucking something through a straw," Dianne said, pursing her lips and making a pop-eyed expression.
"I did not look like that," I scoffed.
Dianne chuckled.
"Anyway, it takes a lot of concentration," I said.
"Just relax," Gillian said.
"And stay behind us," Dianne laughed.
Cathy's eyes roved all round the limo's rich interior. "So fancy," she commented. "Exy, isn't it?"
Dianne agreed, and affecting a silly "posh" accent added, "Oh, I say, we are grand, aren't we?"
A light went on in my head, and I replied, "Oh, no more buttered scones for me, mater. I'm off to play the grand piano!" Then, after a pause (since no one else said it), "Pardon me while I fly my aeroplane."
The car fell into complete silence.
"What in the world are you going on about?" Gillian demanded.
"Monty Python," I said. "I thought we were doing Monty Python."
The driver let out a guffaw, which he quickly stifled. At least one person got it.
I tried to explain. "When Dianne said, we are grand—" but Gillian cut me off, waving her hand impatiently.
"I hope you're not planning to go off like that at dinner," she cautioned me.
"Might be a good idea," Dianne said, smiling. "It could clear the stardust out of Roger's eyes, leastways as far as Bel's concerned."
"It could put him off all of us entirely," Gillian countered.
"You never know, he might lap it up," Cathy opined. "Boys do go for strange things."
"Yes, they do, don't they?" Dianne said, giving me a pointed, mischievous look.
Gillian's eyes scanned Dianne up and down. "And what are you hoping to catch in that dress?" she asked.
"A cold!" I supplied. I could tell by the way the driver shifted around that he thought it was funny, but Gillian regarded me in surprise.
"Bel! What's gotten into you? What happened to our shy wallflower?"
"I don't know," I replied with a shrug. But I realized she was right: from the moment I stepped into the the car I felt positively giddy.
"It's probably nerves," Cathy said. "All the pent-up tension finally released."
"The blood's drained from her head," Dianne joked. "Let's hope that Roger likes cute, skinny airheads."
I shook my head and ignored the teasing.
"What were you saying about my dress?" Dianne asked, returning to Gillian's earlier question. "Don't you think it's appropriate?"
"Just barely," Gillian replied.
"I think it's fine," Cathy said, just as I was saying, "I think it's great!"
In fact, it was a lovely dress: a kind of steely blue, all the fabric gathered into vertical ribs, so the dress had lots of texture. It made you want to touch it. And the fact that it was strapless and ended above her knees certainly told all and sundry that here was a party girl, ready to... well, ready to party! You had to wonder how the dress, and the girl inside it, would look while dancing.
"It's quite classy, in fact," I added, and Dianne smiled in appreciation, but didn't look convinced.
"A couple hours as a girl, and you're already a fashion expert?" Gillian muttered, but somehow her jibe didn't affect my mood.
Cathy wore a beige dress with a big black bow at her waist, in front. I would have liked it better without the bow, but then it would have been distressingly plain. She topped it off with a matching short jacket.
Gillian wore a golden brown silk dress that flowed to her ankles, and a dark brown embroidered silk jacket. I knew they were silk because she told me and had me feel the material. The general effect was of a dragon lady: it was immediately clear that she was the boss; she was in charge of us all.
As we looked each other over and complimented one another's dresses, Gillian nudged Cathy, who began to giggle. I understood it somehow had to do with me, so I asked what the joke was.
"It's not a joke, Bel," Cathy laughed.
"Let me put it this way, Bel," Gillian told me, with a little smile. "You need to be careful not to leave your front door open. Someone might think you're inviting them in."
"Huh?" I said, and then got it. I brought my knees together.
"Here's a little sign for you," Gillian said, as she lifted a loose fist, palm down. She raised her first two knuckles, so they looked like a pair of legs, sitting. "If you don't get it, I'll go like this," she opened and closed the knuckles of the first and second finger, so it looked like the seated person was opening and closing her legs.
"I get it," I said, embarrassed.
"Hopefully I won't need to remind you," she said in a dry tone.
"Oh!" I said, remembering suddenly, and wanting to change the subject, "There's something I can't figure out. How is it that Roger has a reservation for tonight? I was told that Tetsuya's books months in advance."
"I don't know," said Gillian with a shrug. "Probably he knows someone. But don't ask. It's poor form."
"I wouldn't," I replied.
When we arrived in front of the restaurant on Kent Street, Dianne wrapped herself in her deep black shawl and clutched her purse. I copied her by wrapping myself in my shawl, which was also black, but of a rougher weave, and colored with spots of red and blue.
"Don't you have a purse, Bel?" Cathy asked.
"No," Dianne replied for me. "I didn't have anything that suited, and he wouldn't know what to do with it anyway."
"She," Gillian corrected in a firm undertone. "She. We can't slip up there, people. Pay attention, and keep your heads. Especially if you drink." She paused a moment, when something occurred to her. "Oh, and by the way, have fun tonight, but don't overdo. We have a possible new client and we need to brainstorm tomorrow AM. I'll need your wits sharp."
Dianne twisted her mouth in disappointment, but wisely said nothing.
"It's an online dating service," Gillian added quietly. "Radio, print ads, SEO, the works."
The driver gave us each a hand out of the car, which was nice, and we stood before the huge gated entrance to Tetsuya's. "Remember, ladies," Gillian said, still in an undertone, "Tetsuya's is one of the best restaurants in the world. This little celebration is going to cost our Roger more than two thousand dollars, so don't take it for granted and don't turn up your nose at anything."
"Is this the restaurant?" Cathy asked. The driver had left us on the sidewalk outside a security gate. Inside we could see a rather elegant, somewhat imposing building. "It looks like a foreign embassy."
"Yes, this is it," Gillian replied, and as she walked to the gate, it swung open. We followed her up the short driveway.
"I think I'm getting the hang of these heels," I confided to Dianne.
She watched me for a moment and said, "You look as though you're climbing a mountain, Bel. Relax."
"I *am* relaxed!"
"Your head is sticking out in front of you and your bum is sticking out behind. Look, this is you." She stuck her butt out and pushed her head forward, so she looked like a pigeon. Then she pursed her lips and bent her head to look at her feet.
"I do NOT walk like that!"
"Head up, chin back, pull in your bum, let your shoulders drop. Forget what's on your feet... okay, that's a little better. Take smaller steps, that's the ticket."
Gillian shook her head and once more I wished I'd stayed in bed this morning.
The men were waiting inside, smiling, and greeted us with many compliments. Roger took Gillian's arm, Paul took mine, and Roger's nameless associates escorted Cathy and Dianne. We sat at a long table, covered in spotless white cloth, and the service began with crisp sourdough rolls and butter with truffles in it.
In all, it was a ten-course meal, one dish after another, with no rush and no delay. It was absolutely the most extraordinary dining experience I've ever had. Even though the servings were what you might call small, each was so intensely flavored, it made me feel I'd never tasted my food before, but only eaten it.
At one point, Roger said something about favorite movies, and Dianne piped up, "Bel was telling us earlier how much she liked The Full Monty, weren't you, Bel?" Gillian gave Dianne a dangerous look and a stern warning look to me. Don't talk too much, I told myself.
Roger laughed, "Oh yes, that's film where the blokes take their clothes off, isn't it?"
I blushed and said, "No, not The Full Monty. I was talking about Monty Python."
"Oh, that," Roger replied. "They're a bit too contrived for my taste. Benny Hill was more my speed. But I could give 'em another go. Who knows?" He shrugged and sipped his wine.
The table was silent for a moment, then Roger sniffed and said, "Oh, my wife rather likes the slogan, the campaign. She was quite enthusiastic, in fact."
"Oh, so there is a Mrs. Donaldson?" I said without thinking.
"Bel's been asking that question all day," Dianne teased.
Roger chuckled, and entering the spirit of Dianne's tease said, "Bel, my dear, it pains me to say this, but one should never mix business with pleasure."
Then he smiled a bit grimly and continued, "And though I probably shouldn't say this, the missus and I are on the outs. Have been for some time." He fell silent for a few moments. "In fact, tonight would have been our wedding anniversary... or it is... but it's not... in fact, this was going to be a celebration of that, but..." Then, collecting himself, he signalled the servers to fill up our already-full glasses. "Let's toast to what's ahead. Forward, onward, upward, new friends, new adventures, new business partners." At that last, he looked to Gillian and clinked glasses.
The food continued to be remarkable. Seafood and poultry and meat dishes... my favorites were a medallion of trout covered in caviar, a twice-cooked spatchcock, and some seared veal with wasabi. And the wines were incredible. I've never had such flawless, perfect wine ever.
The dinner was so much fun, and Roger such a wonderful host, that I rather forgot that I was all tarted up and wearing a dress and calling myself Bel.
Until Roger turned to me and said, "Now that you know all about me, tell me something about you, Bel: why hasn't some strapping young fellow snatched you up?"
I blushed and said I didn't know, then muttered something about not having met the right person.
Roger replied, "Don't lose heart, girl. The right man is out there, right now."
One of Roger's men quipped, "And till he finds you, the wrong man will have to do!"
There was general laughter and other comments, and someone repeated the old cliche of "plenty of fish in the sea."
"You mean there's plenty of fishermen," I replied. "And a girl's got to ask herself, Why aren't they catching you?"
Roger laughed and applauded. He turned to Gillian and said, "You've got a slogan-making machine there, that's what you have."
Gillian smiled at him, turned to me and said, "Yes, isn't she? Well, my slogan-making machine, I need to use the ladies. Come with me, Bel. Excuse us for a moment, Roger."
As we rose to go, Roger's man asked Dianne, "Aren't you two going as well?"
"No," Dianne replied, "We're the second shift."
In the ladies, Gillian gave me a short lecture about "giving away work product" and "tossing gems away as if they were candies."
"It's a good slogan," Gillian said, "and I'm telling you now that we'll pitch it to our client, but if someone overhears and repeats it, or worse, uses it as their own, it's totally lost to us. And inspiration isn't always so easy to find."
"Okay," I told her. "I'll watch it."
After dinner, we went down the road to a club where we danced. My feet began to hurt desperately, and I had a few more drinks than I intended, so I was happy and relieved when Roger called for the limos and we all said our good nights.
"You did well, Bel," Gillian told me in the safety of the car. "So did we all. I think we're at the start of a solid relationship with Roger. Cheers."
The driver dropped me first, and as I stood in the street outside my place, I felt drunk with joy and victory and vindication. Not only had I created the centerpiece of Roger's campaign, I'd done the same for our new client, the dating service, a day before it was needed. Add to that victory, my raise. Add to that, the change in how Gillian was treating me. I was definitely on the way up.
I stood there for a few moments, enjoying — loving! — the cool night air, when it hit me: here I was, dressed to the nines as a woman, without a penny in my pocket or the keys to my apartment. What was I going to do?
Oh, lord. I really wished I stayed in bed this morning!
Well, not entirely, but crap! What am I going to do now?
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way
My brain was still not firing on all cylinders, and if I closed my eyes I'd feel the room start to spin, but even so I began to form a plan. I could tell Carl that I was Bill's twin sister, and ask if I could stay the night.
The limo's red tail lights disappeared in the distance. It did no good, but what the hell — I ran into the road, waved my arms and shouted, "Hey! HEY! HEY!" and then more softly, "hey," but of course no one heard.
No one in the limo, anyway.
Right. There I stood — in the road outside my apartment building. No keys, no money, no car, no phone. Alone, at night, and dressed like a girl. Dressed rather well... downright fetching, but still, dressed as a girl.
This day had been a real rollercoaster. I'd shot from despair to elation and back again; I'd find a way out and got boxed in; and now, after what was unarguably the biggest achievement of my professional life so far, I was stuck outside in the dark in a dress.
What else could possibly go wrong? Could this day, that I wished I'd stayed in bed and missed, hold any more surprises for me?
Behind me, a car approached. Even without turning I could hear its engine and see the light from its headlamps. I took a few steps back, well out of its way, and stood there listlessly. I screwed up my brain and tried to recall: did anyone have a spare key to my place? Anyone? Neighbour? Friend? Had I hidden one in the shrubbery? No no, no and no. No one had a key. Well, Dianne had mine, sitting on her dresser, and of course the landlord would have, but he didn't live nearby.
And I didn't fancy waking him in the night, dressed as I was.
I blame the alcohol for what happened next. You have to understand that though I wasn't rotten with drink, I'd drank my share. And what with the stress of the day and all, my brain was not going full throttle, to say the least.
As the car came closer, it sped up a bit and lit the road in front of me. I stood there like a twit and stared a strange patch of road. Why was it smoother and shinier than the rest? Then came the rushing sound of tires on wet pavement and...
"No!" I shrieked as a wave of water lifted into the air and smacked me hard from head to foot. Coughing and spitting, I stepped backward. The disgusting taste of roadway was all over my tongue and the smell of it was hard upon me. I flapped my arms helplessly and backed away. My sodden hair covered my face, and my soaked dress clung to me like a shroud. The cold, dirty, clammy water penetrated to my skin.
"Oh!" I cried, "Was there ever such a day! What ever else can go wrong?"
Right on cue, as I took another half-step backward, my heel hit the curb and down I went, bum-first in a patch of mud: fresh today, just for me. "Bloody hell!" I yelped.
I don't think I was exactly crying, but I must have been making a bit of a row because soon I heard footsteps and a voice that I knew rather well.
"Miss, you all right there? Do you need some help?"
"Ack," I replied, looking up in dismay through my bedraggled locks. Carl was standing there, barefoot, in jeans and a t-shirt. "I'm just sopping wet!" I cried. "This has been the worst day of my life!" I tried to work up the saliva to spit again, but failed there, too. The dry puh! puh! sounds I made did nothing to get the awful taste from my mouth. I sniffled, but only just a bit. "Honestly, I wish I'd just stayed in bed today and missed it all!"
"Don't say that!" he replied in a gentle voice. "Nothing's as bad as all that. Let's get you out of there. Looks like you landed square in the mud, sorry to say."
He held out a hand, but I wanted to save something of my dignity by getting to my feet myself. But when I put a hand down, I got a soft handful of mud. Looking at my dirty palm, and Carl's clean feet, I nearly lost it.
"Here you go," Carl offered. "Take my hand."
I gave him my clean hand and he pulled me to my feet. I shivered and looked down at the muddy mess I'd made of myself.
"This is actually a nice dress," I told him. "Not that you can tell."
"I can see that it must've looked lovely," Carl replied. "Can I help you get somewhere? Do you have a place nearby to go?"
"No," I said. "I don't have my key."
"Right. No purse," he observed. "Somebody nicked it? I can ring up a John Darme for you."
"No," I replied.
"Ah, mislaid then." He hesitated a moment, then said, "Is there anyone you'd like to phone? Someone who can come and get you? Someone with an extra key?"
I thought for a moment, but I didn't know Dianne's number, or Gillian's — or anyone else from work for that matter. So I shook my head no.
"I live right here," he said, gesturing to his open door, "You're welcome to come in and dry off and see if we can sort you out."
I sighed. The absolute last thing I wanted was for Carl to see me this way. He hadn't recognized me yet, but once he did, I felt I'd lose the very last shred of masculinity that remained in my life. I know he didn't see me as a macho man. I know he probably wondered whether I was gay. But if he saw me in a dress, with makeup and nails and a fake pair of breasts, for sure he'd never see me as a man like him, never again.
Not that he ever had, but...
... but what the hell. What else could I do? Where else could I go? How else could I spend the night? I'd catch my death outside, drenched like this, and I'd look crap tomorrow, when I'd have to make my way to work. I groaned quietly at the thought.
"Miss?" Carl prompted.
"Okay," I sighed, and clumped in my sodden pumps up the walk and into Carl's apartment. There I stood, dripping helplessly in the entry, and looked around.
His apartment was fairly clean, if spartan, and not decorated, excepting a framed sailing poster on the wall behind the couch.
"Go on inside," he coaxed.
"I don't want to drip on everything."
"No worries," he said. "A little water won't hurt anything." He hesitated, then said, "If you don't mind my saying so, you might want to get out of those clothes and have yourself a scrub in the shower. That wasn't the cleanest puddle, if you get my meaning."
"I do," I said. "It tastes like feet and old tires." And smells like it, too, I thought, sniffing and sniffling.
He pointed me to the bath and fetched a clean towel and robe. The moment I was alone, I stripped off everything and dropped it to the floor. There were bits of mud, little twigs, and dead leaves over everything, including my hair, face, arms, and legs.
I got my "breasts" dirty when I took them out, so I brought them in shower with me to rinse them off.
The hot water felt great, and after I was clean I let the shower play over my face and fill my mouth, washing out (as much as possible) the awful taste of the roadway. When I was done and shut the water off, Carl knocked softly on the door. "I don't mean anything by it, but you'll see I've put a set of pajamas in there," he said. "They're dry and I think they'll fit you."
"Okay, thanks," I called. I noticed he'd also carried off my wet clothes, and dried the floor where they'd lay.
Surprisingly, the pajamas did fit me. They consisted of a pale green tank top and matching shorts. Inevitably, the tiny polka dots and lace trim made it clear that these were women's clothes. He'd also give me a set of clean, dry underwear, so I put them on, and slipped my "breasts" inside the bra.
I covered it all with the robe, wrapped my hair in the towel, stepped into the slippers he provided, and opened the bathroom door. There was nothing for it: I had to tell him everything.
... or did I?
My brain was still not firing on all cylinders, and if I closed my eyes I'd feel the room start to spin, but even so I began to form a plan. I could tell Carl that I was Bill's twin sister, and ask if I could stay the night.
It was a stupid plan, for sure, but — as I told myself — it was stupid enough to actually work.
"All right there?" Carl asked. "I put on some water, in case you'd like a cuppa. There isn't much in the way of food, unless you fancy Vegemite on toast."
"Thanks, but I had a big dinner," I said. "I may not eat again for weeks. But I would like a cup of tea, thanks."
He looked into my face. "You know," he said, "You look awfully familiar, now that I can properly see you. Do we know each other?"
"Yes — well, no," I said. "Do you know my brother Bill? He lives upstairs."
"Ahhh," Carl replied thoughtfully, and turned away to fetch the tea. "Bill's younger sister, then? He's mentioned you, yes, and your name is..."
"Bel... Belinda," I replied.
"Belle Linda," Carl said, as if it were two words. "And are there any more of you?"
"Excuse me?" I didn't understand.
"Any more brothers or sisters?"
"No," I said, "just me and Bill."
"Good thing, that," he said, as he poured. "Bill, Belle... next comes Ball, Bull, and Bowl. Not the best names for children."
"No," I agreed, but I was a little puzzled by his tone.
"Or adults," he added, with a twinkle in his eye. Then as if suddenly remembering, he said, "Would you like a hairbrush? My old girlfriend bought one and never used it." He ran off to fetch it, explaining that Cheryl had left "half a wardrobe" behind when they broke up.
He watched me over the top of his teacup as I took the towel from my head and ran the brush through my hair. Right off I hit a snarl, and as I tugged at the brush, Carl asked, "We running tomorrow?"
"Naw," I replied, "I think I better sleep in." Then I froze.
A grin spread across Carl's face. "Can you tell me something, Belle: is Bill the only child?" he asked, "Or is it you?"
"Ohhh," I said, putting the brush in my lap and dropping my eyes. "I'm sorry, Carl. This isn't what it looks like."
"Oh, I was sure of that," he said. "But, just so I know, what does it look like?"
He was sarcastic, yes, but not mean, and he was smiling.
"Um, I don't know," I replied.
"It looks like you're having me on. Or, it looks like you're dressed as a girl. Or... it could be both!"
"I'm not trying to wind you up," I said. "I really and truly got stuck."
"Fair enough," he said. "Now, I just got to ask you, and no offense: you're not an escort or a prostitute, or some kind of perv, are you?"
"No, no!" I said. "This is just for work!"
"For work?" he repeated, puzzled. "I thought you worked for an ad agency."
"I do! It's just..." and then I told him the story, the whole story, from start to finish. He laughed at some parts, but got angry at others. He had some choice words for Gillian in particular, but Dianne as well.
"I know that kind of girl," he said of Dianne. "Anything for a laugh, as long as it's your expense. I'd like to set her straight, I would." My protests that she was a good person, and that she got as good as gave, fell on deaf ears.
But of Gillian, he said, "That woman's wrong from beginning to end. That's abuse of power, mate. She can't tell you, or ask you, or even suggest that you do what you did. Your friend Paul is right: you didn't think you had a choice."
Then of Roger: "It's a good thing you and he didn't go on drinking, right? Otherwise he would had a bone to pick with you." He found this inordinately funny and repeated it several times later.
When I was done with my story, I asked Carl what he would have done if he'd been in my place. "What would *I* have done?" he repeated. "In the first place, I wouldn't have gotten splashed. I think I pay a little more attention to my surroundings than you do, Billy boy.
"But... had I been splashed, I would have dashed out for a pair of khakis and a clean white shirt. In fact, why didn't you do that, Bill?"
I sat in silence for a moment thinking, and finally had to admit that it never occurred to me. "But I didn't have the money," I added.
"You could have borrowed it."
I searched for another defense, but couldn't find one. I shrugged. "I didn't think of it."
"And there hangs a tale!" Carl concluded.
With that, he gave me a blanket and told me I could sleep on the couch.
In the morning he produced more clothes from Cheryl's leavings: a dark brown dress and a pair of brown pumps.
"Don't you have any of your own clothes — men's clothes — you can lend me?" I asked.
He looked at me in disbelief. "You're joking! You'd be swimming in 'em, mate! You'd look like an orphan. Besides, you can sort out your true identity there at work, can't you." Then he laughed. "Whatever that may be."
I managed to make my hair look halfway decent, but nothing like what Tara had done, and I didn't dare fool with Cheryl's old makeup. After all, I only needed to get to the office, where my own clothes were waiting.
When Carl dropped me off in front of Sasha's, I actually felt good. I was hopeful, in fact. Today was the start of the new campaign: I already had a leg up there, and today I could put Bel back in the box. It had been fun at times, but it had been scary and humiliating as well.
"What, no kiss goodbye?" Carl joked, and I found myself blushing.
Luckily Sasha's was empty — a brief lull in the morning rush — so her loud greeting fell on my ears alone. "Beeleee! Look at you, girl! What have you done to yourself? You're so beautiful!"
"It's a long story, Sasha."
"Is this the new you?" she asked me. "I love it! You look so good!"
"Oh, no," I said, "This is just... a long story."
She looked disappointed for a moment, then she brightened up and said, "Well, you come and tell me this long story and I will buy you lunch. Okay? Is it a deal?"
Then she whipped me up one of her Columbian cappuccinos, and I ran to the door...
... and almost (but didn't!), almost spilled my coffee all over that man, that flamboyant, gay club-goer. His eyes opened wide at his narrow escape, and then they opened even wider when he recognized me.
I wanted to push past him, but he was standing in the opening, blocking the only way out.
"Whoa!" he said in a breathless tone. "I had no idea you swung that way, blondie. You have to come to the clubs with me, girl! You have no idea what you've got going on."
"Uh," I replied, "um, can I get past you?"
"I don't know if I should let you go," he replied, with a flicker of a smile.
"I have to get to work," I told him. He had to be teasing,right? I'm sure he was only teasing.
"Please?" I said.
[- the end -]
© 2011 by Kaleigh Way