Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Circumstances force Dave to take up a humiliating new career, but it turns out to suit him better than he expected.

Prologue

“I’m not a maid, I’m a cleaning lady,” I insisted.

My wife laughed. “What the hell’s the difference?”

“A maid is a servant. She has to do everything her mistress says. She’s servile, submissive, at her employer’s beck and call. A cleaning lady is a freelance contractor. She’s a professional, engaged to provide specific services for a predetermined number of billable hours – just like a lawyer! She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to.”

It struck me that this was a ridiculous conversation for a man to be having with his wife. And it didn’t help that I was dressed from head to toe as a maid.

Chapter 1 – Two French Maids

Sally and I met at university, through amateur dramatics. I was president of the club in my third year and had had enough success to dream of a career as an actor. At medium height, and with fairly bland features, I could turn my hand to most roles – young or old, leading man or character. This was especially good for revue-style shows and we were planning to take our summer end of term production to the Edinburgh Fringe that year.

The committee was struggling with the logistics though. Fortunately our leading lady brought in one of her flatmates to help out. Sally was a natural organiser. She sorted out the venue, the accommodation, the transport for the actors, crew, props, costumes, the lot. She happily spent all the club’s funds but left us thesps with nothing to worry about except getting the show right.

My other concern that summer – my parents reckoned it should have been my only concern – was my final exams. I was – am – a computer scientist. Information Technology was my other great love and had been my life for more than a decade. The exams were painless for me; what would be more of a challenge was the dissertation. This would make the difference between a strong Upper-Second and a rip-roaring First, and I was keen to do something original. Eventually inspiration struck: an app for trading digital currencies. Who knows – if the acting proved to be a dead end, maybe an IT career in banking would beckon?

Between working flat-out on my dissertation project and sweating to get our Fringe production into shape, I somehow failed to notice that Sally Jenkins, our marvellously competent Tour Manager, was a bit of all right – quite a bit of all right. By the time I realised that this girl was beautiful and sexy and brainy and funny, she had more or less given up on me noticing her and had convinced herself that would be no loss.

The first time I asked her out was in Edinburgh in the week before we opened. She laughed in my face. The second time was when we were part of a small group on a walking tour of the city. She turned to me and asked why.

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to go out with me?”

“Well, I… er…”

“That’s what I thought.”

I realised I would have to think it through if there was going to be a third time.

* * *

I thought about it for what seemed like ages. Did I really need the hassle? I wasn’t an accomplished ladies’ man by any means, but no one I’d asked out before had ever refused outright, or put me on the spot like that. Why on earth did she think I wanted to go out with her? Because she was gorgeous, and because I fancied her rotten, and… And I began to see what she was on about.

“Because I think you and I would really hit it off,” I announced the next time I saw her. “We like the same things; we have the same sense of humour; and we complement each other. Strengths and weaknesses, you know? Well, I don’t actually know your weaknesses, of course, but I’d be very interested to try and find out…”

She interrupted me. “Well, OK then. Dinner after the show tomorrow night, I think; just the two of us; somewhere nice, but not posh. I’ll make the arrangements, ‘cause you’re rubbish at that, as we know. Come and find me when you’ve changed out of your last costume.”

And she walked off, leaving me with a perplexed feeling that has lasted to this day.

* * *

The show was a moderate success, and just about broke even. We all enjoyed ourselves, even got a couple of mildly enthusiastic reviews, but we didn’t set the world of show business alight. Still it was a once in a lifetime experience. For me, easily the most important thing that came out of it was my relationship with Sally. She made all the running, of course; she had the organisational skills and she knew what she wanted. I had no such sense of direction and just found myself going along for the ride.

The first couple of months felt like an extended job interview. Anyway at some point I realised I couldn’t imagine life without her, and perhaps foolishly said so.

“Yeah,” she said without looking up from her book. “You’ll do, I suppose.”

By now I understood that for her that was the equivalent of “I’m head over heels in love and will stay with you forever” from anybody else.

So what was next? We had both graduated before Edinburgh. Sally got a decent 2:1 in Maths, I scraped my First in Computer Science. We had a number of job applications in but we had both applied for the fast-track graduate entry scheme at the same bank, and had both been accepted. The only snag was that it was a Spanish bank and we would have to spend at least two years in Madrid. OK, not a problem, we thought. We can learn a new language; travel broadens the mind, etc, etc. It’s not too far from home, and the money was pretty good for new graduates. Sally would be joining the Investment Banking branch, and I would be in Major Project Support, part of the IT department.

The bank provided accommodation for its new recruits from overseas, and we were able to get a spacious and quite luxurious flat within walking distance of Head Office. We realised that this would have been impossible in London on our starting salaries. We were very lucky, and we knew it, and we settled down to make the most of our opportunity.

The bank provided Spanish language lessons during working hours, and we both learned quickly. I had never rated myself as much of a linguist at school – I took French and German to GCSE level – but it’s completely different when you live there. The incentive to learn is stronger and there are plenty of opportunities to practise. We very much enjoyed our evenings with a Spanish family, the Ortegas, who lived next door to us, and they helped us improve our accents. They were originally from peasant farmer stock, and still spent lots of time with their relatives in the country, but Juan and Consuela had been the first in their families to go to university, and now were middle-class professionals. They had a pretty fifteen-year-old daughter, Maria, who kept throwing herself at me, much to Sally’s amusement and her parents’ disapproval.

The two years passed quickly and we were easily persuaded to sign on for two more. We were married in the summer of our third year there and things looked great. We loved Spain, but we were already thinking about returning home when the decision was taken out of our hands. Sally’s father died suddenly. Her mother was a strong character and determined not to be a burden on her only child, but when tackling probate her solicitor made a very nasty discovery. Henry had invested very badly; so badly that he’d used up their entire pension fund and left Carol in debt and virtually penniless.

We soon realised that she wouldn’t be able to cope alone, and that she’d need us to rally round. I was fine with that; Carol was the best mother-in-law a man could wish for. She was just like an older version of her amazing daughter. So we requested an early return to the UK. The Bank was sympathetic. They were happy with our work and we were both promised equivalent jobs at their London headquarters.

It was clear that Carol would have to sell the family home to pay off her debts, and we wanted her to move in with us. It didn’t make sense for the three of us to own two houses, and what she had left would help with the deposit on a big enough place, albeit in a less expensive area. She was just able to afford to keep her little car, a five-year-old Ford Fiesta.

We settled on Pinner, a suburb north of London, forty minutes from the City by the Metropolitan Line. The main reason was that my older sister, Anna, and Phil, her stockbroker husband, lived there, and there was a suitable smaller house for sale in their street. I wasn’t at all sure we could afford it, but Sally was determined. We weren’t in a chain, having no property to sell, which enabled us to beat the price down a little, but we would still need a massive mortgage. Fortunately we got a special package as bank employees, so it was just about manageable.

I had other misgivings. My relationship with my sister hadn’t always been cordial. We had given each other a hard time when we were kids. I’d been the typical ‘pesky little brother’ and she, as the older sibling was always sure she knew better than me – and that had never changed. I wasn’t sure I really wanted her as a neighbour. But Sally told me I was being unreasonable; we were both grown-ups now.

As we would still be in Madrid until almost time to move, Anna and Phil checked the place out for us. They confirmed it was in good condition and wouldn’t need anything expensive doing to it. So we were able to do most of the transaction from Spain by e-mails, online banking, and so on. In the end it all went quite smoothly. We also leased a new BMW 320i for ourselves.

When we finally returned from Madrid Carol had already moved into our new house. It had four bedrooms, two with en suites, and she had taken the smaller of those. We would set out the third bedroom as a guest room, and I would fill the smallest room with my computers and other kit.

Carol had done an amazing job in getting the house ready for us. We had all the appliances – fridge-freezer, washing machine, tumble-dryer, dishwasher – from her old house. The kitchen was immaculate with built-in oven, hob and microwave.

Sally had to start work at the London head office more or less immediately, but I had another week before I had to turn up, so I worked with Carol to finish moving in. We got on very well together. We did a top to bottom spring-clean, and she taught me a lot about house-keeping and cooking. She also tutored me in the finer points of laundry. Before that I knew to separate whites from coloureds but that was about it. Now I knew to identify delicates and what to do with them, although I wasn’t sure how Sally would feel about her husband hand-washing her lingerie. Still, I wouldn’t tell her if Carol didn’t.

Carol and I were sitting over a leisurely lunch at the end of my last free week.

“I knew Sally was going to marry you as soon as I met you,” she said, smiling. “You’re a perfect match. She’s well-organised and terribly bossy, but she’s not always right. You’re easy-going, so she usually gets her way, but you’re stubborn when it matters, so you won’t let her make any serious mistakes. Perfect combination!”

I laughed, but I knew she had us pegged.

“Now, come on,” she said briskly. “I’ve never met a man who had the first idea about ironing. I’m determined my son-in-law will be the first.”

I saw where Sally got her bossiness from. Later that day I reached the conclusion that ironing was the only house-keeping chore I really disliked.

We celebrated the return to England, and new jobs, with our first home-cooked dinner party in our new house. We invited Anna and Phil. (Carol did most of the cooking, but I helped.) Anna was warm and friendly for once, and she and Sally bonded strongly, sharing their experiences of my weaknesses and idiosyncrasies.

* * *

Life was great. And of course that was when it all started to go pear-shaped. It was a combination of things, some unavoidable, some culpable.

We received the first blow when Sally reported to London headquarters for her first day. We knew that the bank had barely weathered the global financial crisis of 2008, but we thought it was over that now and was soaring to new heights of profitability. All the motivating internal newsletters said so. It now seemed that they had been economical with the truth. More ‘restructuring’ was going to be necessary to control costs. Sally’s job with the London Investment Banking team was one of the casualties. It was nothing personal – just the usual ‘last in, first out’ policy when redundancies were necessary. Not that they were going to make her redundant – they wanted to avoid even that fairly minor expense – so until the Investment Banking arm recovered, they were offering her a job as a humble teller in the closest High Street branch to our new home that had a vacancy. The salary would be barely half of what she had been promised.

This was pretty close to ‘constructive dismissal’. We considered taking them to an Industrial Tribunal, but that would have been costly; it would take months; and she wouldn’t be earning at all during that time. It would also blight both our career prospects with our current employer and probably across the banking industry. She resolved to lump it but look actively for a better job.

We briefly considered returning to Madrid but that ship had sailed too. Her old position had been filled. We were going to have to find the money for our humongous mortgage payments from a greatly reduced joint monthly income. Carol immediately volunteered to find a job, but she hadn’t worked for most of her married life and there were few openings for a widow approaching sixty with no qualifications.

So we urgently needed to find a way of increasing our income, which motivated me to pursue an idea I’d been nursing for a while – my degree dissertation to design an app for trading digital currencies. These were proliferating, as were digital currency brokers, but the concepts were too difficult for the average punter to get their mind around. As a result the market wasn’t taking off as quickly as it could. There was huge potential for growth. I envisaged an app which could take in your financial status, make recommendations for buying or selling digital currency, connect to your bank, and make the appropriate trades, monitoring when it was optimal to cash in an investment. It would be quite a complex program, and the security issues would be challenging, but I had already done most of the analysis and research work for my degree dissertation. Coding up a mobile app would be relatively simple.

So I got on with it both at home and at work in any available downtime, strongly incentivised by our shrinking savings, and the worried looks on my wife’s and mother-in-law’s faces. It took all my evenings and weekends for three months, but the finished product was nearly everything I’d hoped for. There was one area where I was sure I could improve the decision-making, reducing the inherent risk still further, but I couldn’t seem to crack the algorithm.

Nevertheless the app tracked the rise and fall of each of the digital currencies and of the market as a whole very well. It was quite good at buying when the price was low and selling at the right moment. I used it to invest a little money of our own, and it nearly doubled in a week, but such trades were inherently risky and we couldn’t afford to speculate on a grander scale.

I contacted Danny, an old friend from college who was rising rapidly through the ranks of Atkinson Stern, a national firm of investment bankers and financial advisers. He persuaded his boss to offer the app through their website, in return for a royalty. The firm’s name was well-respected, so I was hopeful. I didn’t want to sell the rights – and they didn’t want to buy them, at least at first – but the advert was prominent on their home page and it generated quite a bit of interest, which they liked as it brought more traffic to their site. Clicking on the link redirected the potential customer to my home secure server from which the app could be downloaded – but the majority of the processing was done on my server.

I charged a small fee for each investment made and a percentage of any profits taken. My client base expanded rapidly and within a couple of months I was generating a very tidy income. My brother-in-law, Phil, helped me to set up J & J Services, a trading company with Sally, Carol and me as directors, to take full advantage of corporation tax breaks and to minimise our personal risk. (I saw the J & J as ‘Jackson and Jackson’. Sally preferred to think of it as ‘Jackson and Jenkins’.)

I kept tinkering with the program to try and crack the risk algorithm, with no success, but our troubles seemed to be over for now. We put money aside to cover our tax bill for the year and had enough left over to pay off some of our mortgage and lighten the load of our monthly interest payments. Carol even decided to use her dividend revenue to go on an extended trip to Australia to visit her brother and his family. She had always wanted to go but Henry had refused, presumably because it would have exposed his precarious financial situation.

* * *

Now we were back in England we joined Pinner Players, a local amateur dramatics society. They were in the middle of rehearsing a production at the time, and I had missed the opportunity to audition, but Sally was quickly recruited to help with costumes and make-up. We also began to renew our old university friendships, particularly with the am-dram club people, a surprising number of whom had settled in the south east. We decided to throw a reunion party – fancy dress, of course. Well, it was a reunion of play-actors.

We raided the society’s collection of costumes. It was quite an extensive collection but I didn’t see anything that took my fancy. When Sally volunteered to pick something out for me, I accepted eagerly and rushed off to play squash. I knew she had my measurements.

With both of us in full-time employment, and me always working on upgrades to my money-spinning software, organising the party absorbed most of our remaining spare time. So I didn’t give my costume any further thought. The next thing I knew about it was the Friday night before when Sally approached me with a razor, a pack of spare blades, and a can of shaving foam.

“OK, Fifi sweetie, let’s go to the bathroom and get your legs shaved.”

“Huh? Who’s Fifi?” I said. “And what’s that about shaving my legs?”

“Oh, didn’t I say?” she said, innocently. “We’re going to the party as French maids!”

“Like hell! Where did you get that stupid idea?”

“Well I found two matching uniforms in the club’s wardrobe, one in your size and one in mine. It was too good an opportunity to miss. And you didn’t much like anything else they had, so why not?”

“I’ll look stupid!”

“Trust me, you won’t. I’ve seen your legs in a skirt, remember, at the Edinburgh review. Anyway, it’s quite appropriate.”

“How do you work that out?”

“Well, it’s our party. We’ll be doing all the serving – food, drinks, and so on. We’ll be working as maids most of the time, so we might as well dress that way!”

This was such abstruse logic I couldn’t think of a sensible response.

“Anyway there’ll be lots of people from Pinner Players there,” she rushed on. “They’re thinking of doing an all-male Anthony and Cleopatra next year, just like it would have been in Shakespeare’s day. This is your chance to show them how good you would be in the leading role,” she concluded, triumphantly.

Cleopatra would be quite a challenge for a male actor, I supposed. Didn’t the great Mark Rylance do it a few years ago – to rave reviews?

“But why do we have to shave my legs? Can’t I just wear thick black tights?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake stop whinging!”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bathroom.

“I’ll look weird on the squash court…”

But she wasn’t listening.

* * *

It turned out she had been quite thorough in her preparations for my performance as Fifi the maid at the party, and mostly without spending any money. She even managed to find a cheap pair of foam breast forms amongst the Actors’ props collection.

“OK,” she began, “we have a lot to do, and I don’t want you kicking up a fuss, so first I want to show you what we’re up against.”

I was already stripped down to my underpants, my newly-bare legs tingling from the after-effects of her extremely thorough shaving. She dropped the maid’s dress uniform over my head. I threaded my arms through the sleeves and she spun me round to look at myself in the wardrobe mirror.

“That’s awful!” I said. “I thought you said this dress was in my size?”

“It is – well it’s in the size you would be if you were a woman.” She grabbed the loose material around my chest. “You need boobs,” she said, “and lots of padding here,” she added, yanking at the back of the skirt. “So now that you appreciate the problem, let’s get on with the solution.”

She went over to her chest of drawers and took out what looked like a huge pile of very feminine underthings.

“How much did you spend on that lot?” I asked, outraged.

“Not a penny,” she said, smugly. “They’re Mum’s. They should fit you perfectly.”

“I can’t wear her stuff!”

“Why on earth not?”

I struggled. “Well, not without her permission…”

“She knows all about it. I Skyped her in Oz. She said we could borrow anything we liked, as long as I sent her lots of pictures.” She picked up a roll of cotton wool. “Now, let’s get you into your lingerie, Fifi dear, and pad you out to make you a voluptuous French maid.”

The next hour started off excruciatingly embarrassing, but I had wanted to be an actor, so I tried to think of it as just another costume fitting for a part. First Sally approached me with a fierce-looking nylon contrivance.

“This is a panty-girdle,” she said kneeling down and holding it out for me to step into. “You’ll need something to give you the right shape, but you’d find it really hot and uncomfortable to wear panties with a girdle over them…”

I started to step into the strange garment.

“You need to take your own underpants off first, idiot!” she said.

Between us we worked it up over my legs. It was tight round my waist but there was plenty of space around my thighs, hips and buttocks.

“This isn’t so bad,” I said,

“Don’t be silly, we haven’t started yet. It’s riding up, of course, as I thought it would. We’ll put your stockings on next. They’ll keep the girdle at full stretch. Then we can pad you out.”

Sally showed me how to put the black fishnet stockings on without laddering them, and how to attach the garters. She took several photos on her smartphone.

“You do have really good legs, Fifi, you little sexpot.”

Then she began to force cotton wool into all the empty space in the girdle. My nether regions began to take on marked feminine curves – pronounced, extensive feminine curves! Her agile fingers pushed the padding all around my posterior, including my wedding tackle. It was arousing, to say the least, but between the tight girdle and the cotton wool padding there was nowhere for my budding erection to… er, bud.

Eventually she sat back on her haunches, exhausted. She took more photos.

“That’s pretty good,” she said. “I mean, if you look closely you can see it’s padding rather than moving flesh, but it’s great for a party costume. We’ll do your bra next.”

This turned out to be a long-line bra, and it felt like wearing a harness. She slipped the foam breast forms in and stepped back to examine the effect. I now stuck out dramatically in front. My huge breasts imposed themselves into view, however I turned and gyrated.

More photos.

“I’ve added more padding to the outer sides of the bra so it’s forcing a crease in your chest down the middle just like real cleavage. It looks quite realistic, which is a good thing as the dress is fairly low-cut. Your boobs won’t move right, of course. The foam is too light – real breasts are heavy, especially at your size.”

“Oh? What size am I?”

“You’re a 42 double-D. You’re quite a big girl, Fifi dear.” I gulped. “I’m going to have to add still more padding,” she continued. “If I can get it under and around the forms without spoiling your cleavage, that should work. You’re going to have to watch your posture though. A girl with breasts as large and heavy as yours would have to lean back slightly when standing up, or she could topple forwards. The cotton wool is much lighter and won’t do that.”

When she had finished and pronounced herself satisfied, she took some more photos. Meanwhile I felt like an Egyptian mummy – no, like I’d been wrapped in two plaster casts round my chest and bum. But I had to admit: Fifi now had a striking figure. We slipped the French maid dress on again, and this time it was tight all over my new proportions.

“Tell you what,” Sally said, taking another photo with a mischievous look in her eye, “why don’t we go out for dinner? I’ll get you one of Mum’s smart dresses and do your make-up and wig. It’ll be great fun! You can practise your posture, voice, female mannerisms, and so on. Then you’ll be perfect tomorrow night.”

I thought about it. It would be fun, and maybe I would be a little less inhibited at the party. I wondered if I could fool anyone into thinking I was a real woman?

“Well, OK, but not to a restaurant anywhere near here!”

But she was already heading for Carol’s bedroom, returning shortly with a beautiful two-tone Royal blue cocktail dress.

“You’re a couple of inches taller than Mum, of course, but that just means that a dress that is below-the-knee on her is a little higher on you – and a little sexier!”

She threw me another pair of nylons.

“You’d better change into these. We’ve only got one pair of black stockings in your size, and fishnets won’t go with this dress. Hurry up, I’ve got you a blonde wig and I want to try some make-up styles to go with it. And we should do your nails…”

“Aren’t you getting a little carried away?”

“I certainly am! But I’m having fun. Aren’t you?”

Well, yes, I was.

“Oui, Madame,” I said in my best Fifi voice. “C’est tres amusant!”

* * *

I never usually suffer from stage fright, but that evening I learned what it was like for the first time. Sally booked a restaurant about ten miles away, where there was little chance of seeing anyone we knew. She found an old handbag and purse of her mother’s and they more or less matched my dress, so I put my money and credit cards in the purse. She added my make-up and some tissues. She told me I wouldn’t need my driving licence which was for her husband, Dave, and I could hardly pretend to be him, looking like I did. Fine! That made her the ‘designated driver’ and I could drink as much as I liked.

I was quite confident about my appearance, although Sally was right that the padding was bulky and stiff and didn’t move like it was part of me. Still surely no one would be looking at me closely or for long enough to notice anything amiss?

Also I realised ruefully that my make-up, dress and slightly masculine features made me look a lot older than Sally, more like her mother than her girlfriend. In fact once, when I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I thought I saw Carol. I mentioned this to Sally and she giggled and started calling me ‘Mummy’. I played along.

“Elbows off the table, dear,” I said.

“Yes, Mummy.”

“And don’t talk with your mouth full, dear.”

“Sorry, Mummy,” Sally said, with her mouth full.

Needless to say, she took lots of photos for the real Carol during the evening.

I was terrified of moving or sitting or speaking in a masculine manner and giving myself away. Sally was uncharacteristically supportive, quietly pointing out my mistakes whenever I did anything unfeminine and suggesting how to correct them. I learned to sit with my knees together, and my legs crossed in the women’s way.

I had to take smaller steps, though my tight skirt helped there. When walking I had to remember to put one foot in front of the other with my arms bent at the elbow, and my wrists hanging loosely. That all made sense as the feminine posture helped with my balance, given the unfamiliar weight of my bosom and buttocks. Also I was wearing a pair of Carol’s sandals. My toes stuck out over the front and the heels were just high enough to cause me to wobble if I wasn’t careful.

Sally told me to smile more, and she had to remind me to freshen my lipstick several times. Also going to the Ladies with her was scary. But I wasn’t caught out, as far as I could tell, and at the end of the evening I reckoned I could add ‘convincing female impersonation’ to my actor’s bag of tricks. I would definitely try out for Cleopatra if I got the chance.

At bedtime I stripped off all of Carol’s clothes but Sally insisted I wear one of her mother’s nighties in bed ‘to stay in character’. For some reason she was a sexual hurricane that night, roughly taking top position and riding me raw. Not being an especially skilled lover, I sometimes struggled to give her even one orgasm, but now she was firmly in charge. She kept me ‘on the verge’ for ages while she came three times. When she eventually let me come, I went off like Krakatoa.

“So does this mean you’re a lesbian now?” I said, panting, as we cooled down afterwards.

“Don’t be silly! How could I be, with what we’ve just done? It’s just that I find dressing you up as a girl is driving me wild!” She paused. “I wonder what that makes me?”

I had no answer to that. I couldn’t remember a better night of lovemaking. Even if I had to dress up like this, it was definitely worth it.

* * *

Of course next morning she had me dress en femme again, in fresh ladies’ underwear from Carol’s room. I was allowed to wear a floral top with spaghetti shoulder straps and a pair of bright magenta Capri pants. All padded out again, my bum definitely looked big in them, though the bulky padding was even more obvious.

We tried another wig – a long auburn one – for variety, and I stayed that way all through Saturday while we prepared for the party. I was getting used to moving like a woman.

We had ordered most of the food and booze online and it was delivered early in the morning. But needless to say, there were plenty of things we had forgotten, so we had to go to the supermarket after lunch.

We also went to a ‘nearly new’ shop to look for a pair of sensible black shoes for Fifi to wear that evening. We got lucky. I have quite small feet for a man, but Carol’s sandals really weren’t very comfortable, and I was dreading standing up all evening.

So at about four o’clock we began to get dressed for the party: one final change of (Carol’s) underwear; the usual padding; more photographs of Fifi in her lingerie; the blonde wig again, but in a demure updo with curly bangs; make-up; and finally the full French maid uniform, cap and apron.

I stood looking at myself in the mirror, gobsmacked, but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t like what I saw.

“Boy, it’s a good thing I’m secure in my masculinity!” I said.

Sally came over to stand beside me. I was about three inches taller, and her hair was dark, but otherwise we could have been sisters.

“Come on, you’re an actor,” she said. “You love to dress up.”

“Not like this,” I said. “This isn’t like putting on a doublet and hose and spouting Shakespeare. This is extreme. I think I’m being very brave, appearing in public like this, in front of our family and friends.”

“Yep, you’re my brave little soldier all right, in your frilly bra and panties.”

“They’re not mine, they’re your mother’s,” I began, “and they’re not frilly…”

She grabbed me and kissed me passionately, bending me over backwards like Rhett Butler kissing Scarlett O’Hara. I realised I might miss being Fifi after this.

* * *

The party was a great success. Since most of the guests were involved in amateur theatricals to some extent, the costumes were impressive and imaginative. Sally and I greeted everyone with trays of sparkling wine and pretended just to be waitresses. Several guests were asking each other where their hosts were, causing great amusement to us and to those who had already twigged.

Anna and Phil came as Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Typically they had splashed out on expensive hired costumes of course. Phil had the grace to look a little embarrassed but Anna happily ‘queened it’ over everyone, especially me, whom she had recognised instantly.

“You call this a martini, girl?” she thundered, on tasting the drink I had made for her. “It’s like cat’s piss! I’ve got a good mind to pull your knickers down and tan your hide!”

Anna tended to drink a little too much at parties, so I had deliberately watered her drink down with a little soda and a lot of ice.

“Pardonnez-moi, madame,” I improvised, “mais je n’ai jamais goûté l’urine du chat, donc je serais incapable de faire une telle boisson.”

Probably not great French, but it was the best I could do, and a sight better than Anna could manage, I knew. Phil was laughing his head off. He had a much better command of the language because his job took him to Paris regularly.

“Non, non, mademoiselle,” he explained to me quite seriously. “Madame ne veut pas l’urine du chat. Elle veut un martini.”

“Ah bon, monsieur,” I replied cheerily, as though light had just dawned. I curtsied. “Je comprends. Je cherche.”

“Well if you two idiots think I’m going to stand here listening to you making fun of me in Foreign, you’ve another think coming!” Anna said haughtily and stormed off.

I went to make her a (slightly) stronger martini as a peace offering.

I loved my maid uniform but I did feel a little vulnerable in it. As the midnight hour approached, and people got drunker, the fun turned decidedly ribald. I twice felt hands going up my skirt; one hand belonged to a female Smurf, the other to a male Zorro. At one point an extremely drunk man dressed as King Arthur pulled me down into his lap on our sitting room sofa. I squealed involuntarily, completely off balance in my heels, and wondered how I could maintain my dignity while avoiding being raped.

At that point Anna appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my arm. Hauling me off King Arthur’s lap and onto my feet, she said gruffly, “Come here, Fifi love, you haven’t danced with me yet.”

As we slow danced to Nights in White Satin, King Arthur watched us in disgust and left shortly afterwards.

“Thanks, sis, you saved my bacon, or at least my honour,” I said into Anna’s ear as we revolved.

“Now you know what we women have to put up with,” she said, smiling.

Ha! Any man overstepping the mark with my dragon of a sister would regret his foolishness very quickly. His testicles would probably regret it even more. I didn’t say that, though.

“You make a very good French maid, sweetie,” she continued. “Have you thought of taking it up professionally?”

That was my big sister all over, teasing me mercilessly one moment, protecting me like a tigress the next. I didn’t discover till later that Sally had told everyone that her husband was away on business, and that Fifi was a real maid hired to help with the catering. No wonder everyone kept trying to grope me and telling me to fetch them food and drink.

* * *

The party started to wind down at about half-past one in the morning. Well none of us were students anymore. Several people stayed over in sleeping bags, on camp beds, mattresses, the sitting room rug, etc. Selfishly we didn’t give up our bedroom to our guests, hoping for a repeat of the previous night’s passion, but we were both exhausted and too pissed, and fell asleep fully dressed in our maids’ uniforms, as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

Fifi’s last appearance was at the massive tidy-up on Sunday morning. My make-up was smeared, my wig and cap askew, my apron covered in stains – food and worse – and my stockings laddered. I went round the house amongst supine guests, picking up glasses, beer cans, plastic cutlery and paper plates.

“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.”

“Levez les pieds, s’il vous plait, madame. Je veux… er, hooverer.”

Some people still hadn’t realised Sally and I weren’t the maids.

Sally took her last photos of her husband, the French maid, for her mother. Finally with her borrowed underwear in the wash and her uniform cleaned and returned to the Pinner Players wardrobe, Fifi retired. It had been a great weekend. We’d seen lots of old friends and made new ones. We looked forward to the next working week.

At which point the second shoe dropped…

Chapter 2 - My Sister's Cleaner

Dave loses his high-paying job, which might mean they lose their home. Then his sister, Anna, comes up with a possible solution.

Chapter 3 – Maria’s First Job

Dave, now Maria, begins earning his pay as a cleaning lady. It turns out not to be as bad as he expected.

Chapter 4 – My Transformation

Can the professionals make Dave more convincing as Maria?

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 5 – Learning New Skills

If Dave is to become Maria full-time, he has a lot to learn.

So, in gown and flip-flops, my new feminine flesh jiggling disconcertingly, I wobbled along behind Vera down the corridor to the hairdressing salon. As she had predicted, I couldn’t seem to stop my new butt swinging from side to side.

At the salon Vera introduced me to Sharon and left me with her. She led me to a chair that looked like something from a dentist’s surgery. I soon found out it could be raised or lowered, swivelled or tilted, and there was a dangerous-looking apparatus beside it that looked a little like a dentist’s drill.

I sat down at Sharon’s invitation and found out for the first time what it felt like to sit on big, round feminine buttocks. They were like high cushions. I was afraid I was going to fall off my own backside.

“Before we start, when did you last use shampoo on your hair?” asked Sharon.

“Thursday night, I think. Why?”

“We recommend you wash your hair between twenty-four and forty-eight hours before we dye it. That allows the natural oils to develop, and then the dye binds to your hair better. Thursday night would be…” She paused to work it out. “…about thirty-six hours. So that’s fine. Did you use conditioner?”

“I’ve never used conditioner,” I said. “I’m a guy… underneath all this, I mean.”

She laughed. “That’s good too. Conditioner removes the natural oils.”

Sharon was a chatty lady who went on to describe what was coming next.

“We’ve got you down for hair extensions,” she said, “because the average young Spanish woman would probably have hair down to the middle of her back. Now there are many different types of extensions. Some are purely decorative, like for a fun night out; others won’t work for hair of the length we have in mind for you. It may also depend on how long you’d like them to last. The instructions I’ve been given are: to last indefinitely with minimum maintenance. Does that sound right?”

I nodded glumly. ‘Indefinitely’ sounded very depressing, but I certainly didn’t want to spend my spare time messing with my hair.

“OK,” she continued, “so going up through quality and price: there’s the instant option – clip-ins, but that obviously won’t work for you. Then there are tape-in extensions; they have a line of adhesive along the top of the strip which sticks to the roots of your own hair. Tape-ins are quite good, but you can tell they’re artificial if you look closely and you know what you’re looking for. Also they only last around a month.

“Next up is micro-rings or micro-beads. These are small clusters of hair extensions which are clamped onto strands of your own hair with a tiny bead or metal ring near the roots. They last for around three months, depending on how fast your hair grows out. The upside of micro-rings is that you don’t need to use glue or heat when you apply them. The downside is that the ring can damage your hair over time, especially if gets hot when you have your hair done.

“Another method is a weave, which is good for thick, coarse hair types. I would braid your own hair tightly and then sew the extension weft to the braid. It needs checking with your stylist every few weeks to make sure the braids are still intact; they may need tightening up. I can do that for you when you come in for waxing and other maintenance.

“Finally, there are pre-bonded hair extensions. The extension hair is bonded in advance rather than using loose hair during a fitting. Pre-bonded extensions are fitted using a heat gun, which melts a small keratin bond to a section of your own hair. The infusion of keratin helps to protect the natural hair it is applied to. It’s usually good for four to six months.”

She paused to let it all sink in. “So what do you think?”

“I’m totally blinded by your science,” I sighed. “What would you recommend?”

“Well, I think clip-ins and tape-ins are probably out. All the others are possible. The pre-bonded extensions last the longest and require the least maintenance, but if you need to remove the extensions, you need acetone to break down the bonds. Of course you can always just get a crew cut. Also you need to avoid excessive heat, though ordinary washing in lukewarm water will be fine.”

“OK, I’m happy to go with that then. How long will it take?”

“Probably about an hour, but then we still have to dye it black and style it. You’ll be here for a while yet, but we can do other things while we’re waiting for it to dry.”

* * *

Sharon put a plastic cape around my neck and helped me get comfortable on the dentist’s chair. After that I don’t really remember much of the next hour. What I had mistaken for a drill was in fact a ‘fusion heating iron’ for melting the keratin bonds and applying the extensions. After five minutes of this treatment I was finding it hard to stay awake. I was still half-cut from Vera’s whisky. Sharon talked incessantly but softly while pressing loops of hair to my head. I dozed off in a fog of alcohol and warmth and chatter.

I was dreaming sweet dreams of Sally and I taking each other’s bras and panties off when Sharon shook me gently awake.

“All finished, love. Now I have to move you over to the sink for your tint.”

I tried to get to my feet. My head ached and my mouth was dry. All the changes struck me together. I was heavier, with new wobbly flesh in unexpected places, and there was so much hair! It fell in my eyes, down my back, and down my front to my breasts. I saw myself in the salon mirror. I couldn’t see my face for hair – and it was several different shades of brown. It looked weird. I staggered. I was desperate for the toilet.

“Careful, pet!” said Sharon. “Oh, did Vera fill you full of booze for your waxing? I keep telling her not to overdo it. Let me get you some water.”

I drank three cups, which helped and Sharon led me to the Ladies. Well there wasn’t much point in trying to go to the Gents now. I entered a stall and worked my panties down to my ankles. I sat down and again had the sensation of sitting on a pile of cushions. I tried to make sure my faux vagina was pointed generally downwards before relaxing the familiar muscles. The wee caught me by surprise. It came out quickly in a spray, fortunately most of it in the right direction. I grabbed some toilet roll and wiped up the surplus on my legs and the toilet seat. At least I knew where to aim to do better next time.

I pulled my panties back up, fastened my gown, and went to wash my hands. I couldn’t help but react at the sight of the unfamiliar freak in the mirror. Why on earth was I doing this? Was there really no other way to raise the money for the mortgage payments? Couldn’t I sell my blood? Or a kidney?

When I’d got myself back under control and returned to the salon, Sharon showed me to an ordinary hairdresser’s chair in front of a sink and a mirror. She swivelled the chair around, tilted it, and pumped the pedal to get me to the right height so that my neck rested comfortably on a smooth recess in the side of the basin.

“First I need to cover your face and neck with grease, especially around your hairline. The dye will stain if any of it runs off your hair onto your skin. With a layer of grease on you, any overspill dye will just wipe off.”

She rubbed something that looked and smelt like Vaseline all over my forehead, neck, and where my sideburns would have been if Vera hadn’t ripped them out. Then she put on a pair of latex surgical gloves and picked up a small basin which she filled with thick black liquid from a jug.

“I’m going to apply the dye using a toothbrush and a small sponge,” she said. “I find it’s the best way to make sure that it’s applied evenly and that I don’t miss any strands. This will take a while. You might want to close your eyes. The fumes from the dye are harmless but they might make your eyes water a little.”

I was happy to do that. I could feel Sharon colouring sections of my hair from the roots out, although I couldn’t tell the difference between my own hair and the extensions. I think I must have fallen asleep again, because when she announced she had finished, nearly an hour had passed.

“You dozed off again, Maria,” she smiled. “I finished twenty minutes ago, and now it’s time to rinse.”

I quite enjoyed the next stage. She washed my hair in clear, lukewarm water, gently massaging my scalp to make sure there was no surplus dye anywhere. She rubbed my face all over with wet wipes to remove the grease. Then she turned me round.

I saw a mass of long, unkempt, jet-black hair, with my dark brown face peeping out, as though from behind two curtains. How on earth was I going to manage all that hair? I noticed she had also dyed my eyebrows.

“OK, a couple of maintenance hints,” Sharon said. “You need to get your wife – or is that your ‘mistress’…?”

She chuckled. I glowered.

“…to dab dark tint on your roots with cotton wool about once a week. I’ll give you some of the dye I used. She’ll probably know what to do. Secondly, don’t try to shampoo your hair for at least twenty-four hours, and the longer you can leave it the better. And don’t use a shampoo that contains sulphates. They swell the shafts of your hair and leech the colour out. Now I need to trim your hair and style it. The extensions are theoretically the same length, but they never seem to come out exactly even.”

She attacked my new mop of hair with comb and scissors, slipping in hair grips to hold it in place. After about fifteen minutes of this I began to look human, rather than like something from Planet of the Apes. My hair was still very wet though, so she put me under the dryer.

“I’ll call Charlotte to do your lip fillers next,” Sharon shouted over the noise of the dryer. “Here’s a magazine to look at while you’re waiting.”

She handed me a copy of Woman. I didn’t know if she was joking, or if that was all they had. I suppose it would be sensible to get used to such reading material. Perhaps I should try and find some Barbara Cartland novels in Spanish.

* * *

Charlotte, the nurse, bustled in about ten minutes later. She introduced herself and explained what would be happening and what I could expect.

“I’m going to give you a local anaesthetic inside your mouth to numb both lips. Because of the way the nerves in your face are formed, the bottom lip is easier to numb, so I’m afraid the top one will hurt a little more.”

She used a small Botox needle to give me four injections, one in each corner of my mouth. The first one stung a little, but it wasn’t too bad. As the anaesthetic went in, I felt a cooling sensation wash over my chin and cheeks. It was a little like drinking cold water straight from the fridge. A numbness crept over my mouth very soon after that.

I have to admit that Charlotte really knew her business. She quickly moved on to the fillers themselves before I had time to think about what was happening, or how much it would hurt. Those injections stung a little more, but they were only uncomfortable, and nothing like as bad as the waxing I had already endured.

My lips felt numb now and from what I could see in the salon mirror they looked quite big. Charlotte assured me this was mostly due to the swelling and that would go down within a couple of days.

“You might get a little bleeding,” she said. “Also the filler can cause a reaction and then bruising, but it’s usually not a big deal. A little ice can help with the swelling, but you can’t do anything about the bruising. You just have to wait till it clears up. You can cover it with a dark lipstick. Your lips will probably be a little sore for twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” she added, “and there may be some residual swelling for a week or so, but after that you should have lovely, kissable lips!”

“And how long will it last?” I mumbled, struggling now to form intelligible sounds.

“Eight to twelve months,” she said, obviously well-practised at interpreting the mutterings of clients with swollen lips.

“What?” I screeched. “That’s twice as long as I wanted.”

“Oh sorry, dear,” she said. “I’m just doing what it says on your treatment sheet. We can reverse it after about a month, you know. Dangerous before that.”

* * *

After Charlotte left I tried to read my Woman, but my throbbing lips rather spoilt my concentration. Anyway Sharon was soon back.

“OK, let’s get you out from under there. You should be dry by now.”

She lifted the plastic hood and hefted my hair in her hands.

“I’ll just comb it through and get rid of any snags. My instructions are to keep it simple because as a poor immigrant girl, you can’t afford expensive hairdos, and you’ll need to be able to look after your hair yourself. If I do more to it, it’ll be obvious you’ve had a professional styling. But you do need to know how to keep it under control, and out of your face while you’re working.”

She reached for a booklet with colour photographs of girls with a variety of simple hairstyles. Well she claimed they were simple.

“Ideally you should be able to do any of these in five minutes,” she continued. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through two or three, and you can take this with you. It has detailed instructions for all of them.” She winked. “Every girl likes to choose her style for herself,” she said.

“First, the easiest of all, the old-stand-by, the low ponytail. We’ll probably send you away with this one today. It’s perfect for long, same-length strands, as of course yours are with your new extensions. You can change it to a regular high ponytail quite easily.”

She was twisting the length of my hair round as she spoke.

“It’s possible to keep it tidy like this all day with no artificial aids, but you’ll probably find it easier to use a scrunchie, or even just a rubber band. Also, you have so much hair now that you may want to keep your bangs out of the way with a couple of hair grips. OK, next...”

She untied the ponytail and removed the grips.

“For this one, you make a centre parting, twist the locks that are hanging down at the front away from your face, and pin them at the side. You can use grips or bobby pins.”

That looked quite easy, but it didn’t feel as secure as the ponytail.

Sharon removed the grips again and hair fell forward all over my face.

“For this next one, just twist the front of your hair – the bangs – into a knot and secure it with an elastic band or grips.”

That felt a little safer, but harder to do.

“If all you want is to get your hair out of the way, you can just sweep the hair at the front to the side, and clip it with a bobby pin or two. This one’s very easy, but your hair may be a little too long for it.”

That became obvious when the sheer weight of the hair popped the hair grips out. She had more success with a bobby pin, but it just looked shaggy.

“OK, maybe not,” she admitted.

“Some days you can’t be bothered, so you just brush the front of your hair and your bangs back and pin it all in place. You can get extra volume by a little back-combing.”

That didn’t feel like a hairstyle at all, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t stay in place for very long. Sharon hurried on to the next.

This one took her a little longer, so heaven knows how long it would take me.

“This is a French Twist,” she said as she finished. “It takes a bit more effort – and skill – but it’s good for long hair like yours, if you really need to keep it out of the way. The booklet shows you how to do a braid. It’s actually easier than it looks, but I suppose most girls learn to braid their hair when they’re little. You should try it sometime though. It’ll look good on you.”

Actually, it did. Perhaps I would try it when I had a little time. If little girls could do it, so could I!

“OK, you might find this one a bit of a challenge. It’s called a Braided Pompadour. You might want to try it for a night out.” She chuckled. “I’m sure your wife would love to help you with this.”

The hell she would. Not Sally’s scene at all. I didn’t think Maria would ever sport a ‘Braided Pompadour’.

“Finally, you might just find it easier to use a headband some days,” Sharon said. “It’s especially good for girls with thick bangs – like you. Just put on an elastic headband, leaving some hair loose in front, then roll back the loose hair and tuck it under the band to hold it in place.

I thanked her for the instructions and the booklet and privately resolved to keep my hair in a ‘high ponytail’ for as long as I had to be Maria.

“Right then,” Sharon said, brightly, “are you ready for me to do your facial prosthetics and make-up now?”

“Ready,” I muttered, semi-intelligibly, “if not actually prepared… owww!”

“Oh, are your lips hurting?” she said sympathetically. “No lipstick today then. They look red enough already.”

She wheeled over a trolley full of paints and pastes. Prominent on the top shelf were some strange-looking, flesh-coloured pieces, presumably of the same material my boobs and bum were made from. She picked up one of them and started smearing adhesive on it.

“It only takes a minute or so for the glue to set,” she said, as she pressed the thing down on top of my nose, “but I need to keep holding it in place. Try to breathe through your mouth.”

She let go and then dabbed around my newly-enhanced nose with a wet wipe.

“I need to make sure there’s no overflow of adhesive,” she explained. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t get any up your nostrils. Believe me, getting glue off your nose hairs would be no fun at all, but we don’t want any around the join either.” Apparently satisfied, she reached for a stick of make-up. “This is just to cover the edge between the prosthetic and your face.”

“I assume that’s the same ‘permanent’ make-up Vera used on my cleavage?” I said, painfully.

“Yep,” she said, and sat back to examine her handiwork, “and that nose is part of you now. It makes quite a difference.”

She moved away to let me see myself in the mirror. At first I was horrified. I saw a monstrous new conk that seemed to dominate my face, but after a few moments’ adjustment I realised it wasn’t that bad. It was noticeably bigger than my own nose, yes, but it wasn’t all out of proportion. It suggested a change of racial type. With the long black hair, I was starting to look more Mediterranean, less Anglo-Saxon – exactly as we wanted, and what Ingrid had promised. But now it was the colour of my eyes that caught the attention. They were too pale blue for a Hispanic girl.

Sharon turned her attention to two smaller pieces.

“These will make your cheeks a little plumper.”

I saw they were mirror-images of each other. She painted each of them with adhesive and stuck them on my cheeks. Before I had a thin face on a fat body; now they were beginning to match.

Sharon was painting adhesive onto a longer strip of fleshy plastic, which at first sight looked a little like a skinny banana.

“This piece is designed to make your chin rounder, more feminine, and a little… er…”

“Fatter?”

“…plumper,” she said, “to fit with your overall figure. This will have to be removed when you come in for your next waxing, because of course your beard will continue to grow underneath it even with the anti-androgen cream Vera gave you. It will probably get a little itchy.”

She held the thing in place for a minute, then repeated her activities with the wet wipes and the make-up. When she eventually let me see myself, I was truly impressed. My face was completely different now. I was all plump little Maria. Dave Jackson was nowhere to be seen.

“Make-up next,” said Sharon. “I’ll explain everything I’m doing as I go, because you’ll need to be able to reproduce it for yourself. I’m only going to do a basic daytime make-up. I suggest if you want a heavier, evening look, your wife can help. I’ll give you a full set of cosmetics for your colouring.

“First, I’m going to dye your eyelashes the same dark colour as your hair. You probably won’t need any mascara on them then. They’re quite long for a man anyway, and you’re not trying to be a fashion model, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” I confirmed, “and please keep the make-up to a minimum generally. I don’t want to attract attention – least of all male attention.”

That was the most I had said since my lip filler injections, and it was painful.

“Ah you say that now,” she grinned, “but just wait till you’ve been a woman for a while…”

In the end, I convinced her just to use some foundation to conceal my coarse male skin, and a little eyeshadow. She gave me some lipstick that she was confident was the right shade for Maria, but by mutual agreement we didn’t apply any to my sore, swollen lips. When she’d finished she swung me back round to look at the finished product.

“OK, what do you think, Maria?”

I took off the plastic hairdresser’s cape. In the mirror was an unmistakably feminine figure in a pink woman’s dressing gown, under which, I knew, I was wearing only a pink bra and knickers. (Why this obsession with pink, I wondered. Was this a psychological ploy to get me accustomed to my new gender?)

I grunted approval and tried to smile. It was the best I could do with my swollen lips. But my disguise was completely convincing. I could see no masculine indicators at all. There were no remaining obstacles to taking up my new career as a Spanish immigrant cleaning lady.

Yippee.

* * *

Sharon took me back to Ingrid’s office. I was sobering up now. My butt-swinging wiggle felt completely natural, even though I was wearing flip-flops. No doubt it would be even sexier if I ever wore heels. I couldn’t help wondering what Sally would think when she saw me.

“Ah there she is,” said Ingrid, “and what a transformation!”

I thanked her and Sharon with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

“My pleasure,” said Sharon, with a warm smile. “Do drop by and see me next time you’re here.”

To my surprise she quickly kissed me on the cheek and left. As a newly-minted girl I supposed I’d have to get used to kissing hello and goodbye.

“I have your contact lenses here,” Ingrid continued. “Have you ever worn contacts before?”

“Yes, I needed them for a play I was in once,” I said. “I was playing a vampire so they were bright red. They took a bit of getting used to.”

“Well these aren’t corrective at all, so they shouldn’t change your vision, but they’ll darken your eyes to match your skin and hair colours. They’re soft, so you should find them quite comfortable. You can wear them throughout the day, but take them out at night and store them in this fluid to clean and disinfect them.”

She gave me a plastic bottle and a little case with two tiny round basins.

“Also once a week you need to soak them overnight in enzymatic fluid to get rid of the protein deposits. You dissolve one of these tablets in ordinary saline solution. The instructions are in the leaflet.”

She gave me a packet of what looked like aspirins and another plastic bottle.

“They’re monthlies, so I’m giving you a pack of six.”

I slipped them in and was a little surprised that they didn’t seem to change my vision at all; not even to make everything seem darker. I looked in Ingrid’s cupboard mirror. The lenses were the final piece of the jigsaw. Everything about me now said: Hispanic.

“I’ve called your wife, and she’ll be back to collect you very soon. You’ve just got time to get dressed.”

She indicated the suitcase Sally had brought which was on a table in the corner of the office. I opened it up. I wasn’t surprised to see that my loving wife had packed a white, floral dress for me. There were also nude tights, a red cardigan, and Sally’s old handbag. What was missing were shoes.

Ingrid saw my concern and quickly understood the problem.

“I think we can help with shoes, Maria. What are you? A man’s size eight?” I nodded. She had a good eye. “You get dressed. I’ll go and find something for you.”

So I found myself putting on a dress again, struggling to do up the zip behind my back. Are all women double-jointed, for Pete’s sake? Memories of Fifi’s maid uniform surfaced. I had to admit it: I had actually missed this. I particularly loved the feeling of nylon on my waxed legs. I’ve always been hooked on dressing up, I suppose, but this was special. There was no chance of being recognised as a man now, let alone as Dave Jackson.

Ingrid came back with several shoe boxes.

“I’ve got some flats for you and some low heels, both wide-fitting,” she said. “Sit down and you can try them on. You can have one of each with our compliments, as you’ve been such a great customer.”

I thanked her but that worried me a little. Just how much had we spent today?

All of the shoes Ingrid brought fitted fairly well. I picked out an especially comfortable pair of black flats and a pair of white heels to match my dress.

“You should wear the heels home,” she said, “for practice.”

I put them back on and checked myself out in the mirror.

“The original owner of those clothes was an older lady, wasn’t she?” Ingrid said. “I think you need to get some outfits more suited to a twenty-something. I can’t imagine a younger woman wearing a dress like that, except maybe ironically.”

I had to agree, but of course we had no spare money for an age-appropriate wardrobe for Maria.

I examined myself more closely in the mirror. I twirled, seeing my skirt whirl outwards. I caught Ingrid watching me with a sardonic smile on her face. I stopped immediately, embarrassed.

I was now playing the part of Maria full time, and I couldn’t take my costume off.

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 6 – Sally’s New Girlfriend

What will Sally make of the plump little Spanish cleaning lady who used to be her husband?

Sally came back into Ingrid’s office and whooped with delight when she saw me.

“It’s fantastic!” she said. “You don’t look like… him at all. You look just like a grown-up version of… the other Maria!”

“But I’m so fat!” I moaned.

“You’re not fat. You’re exactly the same size as my mother, and she’s not fat. She’s in great shape…” she stopped abruptly.

“…for her age, you were going to say,” I finished. “But I’m supposed to be in my twenties, not my fifties.”

“Well the clothes don’t help,” Sally admitted. “We need to get you some more suitable things.”

“That’s what I said,” put in Ingrid.

“Do I need to remind you that we don’t have any spare money to spend on clothes?” I said to Sally. “Especially ones we’ll never need again after the Tribunal?”

I saw Ingrid raise an eyebrow at that word but she said nothing.

“Oh, nonsense,” said Sally. “We can probably get all we need for thirty quid from one of the charity shops.”

Ingrid cleared her throat.

“Can I assume that we’ve done all we can for today?” she asked. “Only it’s after five o’clock…”

“Oh yes, sorry,” Sally said, “and thanks for doing such a great job with… Maria. We’ll get out of your way now.”

“There’s just this,” Ingrid said, handing Sally an envelope. “Our final invoice….?”

Why didn’t she give it to me? I was the client, after all. She clearly recognised Sally as the boss.

“Oh yes, thank you. I’ll pass it on to Maria’s sister. She’s paying, as you know.”

“That’s fine, thank you,” Ingrid said. “Our account details are in there, if she wishes to pay by bank transfer again.”

“Come along now, Maria,” said Sally, “and remember: Spanish only from now on.”

“Si, Señora,” I said, with a sigh.

Sally led the way to where she had parked the car. I was a little apprehensive about going outside but the grounds of the Transformations manor house were deserted.

“Fat, fat, fat,” I grumbled as I waddled and wiggled my way to the car. “I’ve never been fat.”

“Spanish, Maria,” said Sally, shortly. “And you’re not fat. You’re plump and sexy and voluptuous and… just wait till I get you home!”

* * *

But the first thing I did when we got home was press a pack of frozen peas on my lips. That helped. The throbbing seemed to abate a little. I flopped down on the sofa in the lounge and watched the six o’clock news. While the peas were melting and my lips were recovering, Sally started making phone calls. After about half an hour she came bouncing back in triumph.

“You’re booked up for the next three weeks!” she announced proudly.

I looked at her aghast.

“Well as soon as I saw you at Transformations, I knew you were going to get away with it, so we’ll just repeat what you did for Dorothy. I’ll drop you off and go round the house with the client, translating what she says, and you can make notes. Then you spend the day cleaning, and I’ll pick you up at about five-thirty. It’ll be four or five days each week.” She laughed excitedly. “We should just make the mortgage payments, especially if you go back to each client for a couple of hours each week…”

I still hadn’t said anything. I think I was in shock. A new unwanted career as a cleaning lady was opening up before me.

“Well, aren’t you pleased?”

“Er, yes, dear,” I said. “Gracias.”

“De nada,” she said. “Stand up!”

I complied, still a little wobbly with my sore lips and skin, and my new jiggly figure and long hair. I stood still as Sally walked around me, examining every detail of my transformation.

“It’s positively uncanny!” she marvelled. “I can’t see any giveaways at all. Even your Adam’s apple is concealed by that double chin! How on earth do they do it?”

The ice was helping a little, so it didn’t hurt as much to speak, and I gave her a short version of my day. She started fingering my hair.

“These extensions are brilliant,” she said. “They look completely natural. I can’t tell which is your own hair and which is fake.”

“It’s all real. It’s just that I grew some of it, and someone else grew the rest. Also, it’s all attached, so please stop pulling.”

“Well it’s a great dye job,” she said. “No one could tell. Now I want to see what’s underneath it all!”

She started undressing me. She had pulled my cardigan off and unzipped my dress before I could protest. I was soon standing there in just my pink bra, panties and tights, feeling thoroughly mortified at my wife seeing me in that state.

“Wow!” she squealed. “What a body!”

“Don’t… please… this is really embarrassing…”

“Why? It’s just a costume for a part; I’ve seen you in sillier outfits than that; and you look fantastic! Come on, get ‘em off, gorgeous!”

She twirled me round and unhooked my bra. I immediately felt the weight of my massive boobs descending and pulling on the sore, newly-waxed skin of my chest.

“Wow! They’re really realistic, aren’t they? And look at those lovely rolls of fat round your tummy!”

She slapped the top of the prosthetic and the said ‘rolls of fat’ wobbled embarrassingly, but – as she said – realistically.

“Knickers down, sweetie!” she said, grabbing the sides of my panties and pulling them down to my ankles. I had to step out of them or risk falling over.

“What does it all feel like?”

“It doesn’t feel like anything,” I wailed. “It’s not me!”

“I’m an actor playing a part,” I told myself. “There’s no need to be embarrassed. I’m an actor playing a part.”

But it wasn’t working. I had never been more humiliated in my life, standing there, a naked fat girl, in front of my wife. I found myself crossing my legs to conceal my faux vagina and folding my arms to cover my breasts, even though it wasn’t really me I was trying to hide. Sally laughed her head off.

“Come on, let’s get upstairs, sexy!” she said, happily.

She grabbed my hand and started pulling me towards the bedroom. Then she stopped suddenly.

“Hey, where’s your thingie? Below your spare tyre, you’re totally flat… down there.”

“It’s the prosthetic. It gives me a completely female shape and conceals my genitals.”

“It’s not glued on, is it?” she asked, clearly concerned. “It’s not permanent, like your boobs and hair?

“No, but it’s a bit of a bugger to get on and off.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage. Come on, Maria, your mistress needs you.”

She resumed dragging me upstairs. My breasts swung painfully from side to side.

“I’m not your maid,” I said, firmly.

“Whatever,” she said. “Just go with the flow, sweetie. I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

And it was. We just had to avoid any kissing, as my lips were still too sore.

I couldn’t see how she could find Maria in the nude sexy. But it was like that time when I was Fifi. Even she didn’t know what was getting her so worked up. She said it was something to do with the knowledge of who – and what – was under the disguise.

She had me wear one of Carol’s nighties and we went to bed for a protracted period of foreplay. She seemed to love kneading the artificial flab of my generous boobs and buttocks. I couldn’t see how this could lead anywhere, given the constraints my equipment was currently under, but I went along for the ride. By a combination of boob-sucking, fingering and licking, I was able to help Sally to a satisfactory orgasm. As she lay there panting, she declared it was now time for my treat.

As expected, it was a struggle getting my ‘abdominal prosthesis’ off. It took both of us working together. In the end we managed by unrolling it like a sock (or a condom) with the result that it ended up inside out. Extracting my penis from its tube, and allowing my testicles to descend once again after their confinement in their body cavity, were unique experiences too.

Still, one can get used to anything if the reward is sufficient. Sally took full charge, managing our lovemaking from above, impaling herself on my freed and engorged member, her exquisite breasts massaging my face, then pressing down on my plump fake ones. I couldn’t remember a more exciting climax.

“How was it for you?” she asked breathlessly afterwards.

“Great!” I said.

“All great?” she insisted.

“Well… it was a game of two halves,” I admitted, not wanting to say more.

“Come on; out with it!”

“This may all look sexy,” I said, “but I can’t actually feel anything through these prosthetics. Obviously I was very happy to… um… do what you wanted, but…”

“What?”

“It was hard work and I didn’t get anything out of it till we took my artificial bum off. If you were hoping for a mutually satisfactory lesbian experience, it wasn’t like that for me. I can’t actually feel you kneading my tits or false buttocks.”

“No, I understand,” she sighed. “I was just curious. I’m not really that keen on lesbian lovemaking and if you’re not getting anything out of it, it’s no good for me either. We’ll just have to keep taking that thing off every night. I did enjoy being on top though. How was that?”

“Oh that was great,” I said. “You’re quite the little athlete in the upper position, aren’t you?”

She laughed. “Hey, I just had a great idea!” she said.

“Do tell,” I said, sceptically.

“Implants! You could have D cup breast implants. You’d definitely feel it then.”

“Let’s call that Plan B, shall we? Or maybe D.”

Afterwards I put on a negligée and we went downstairs for a late dinner and a bottle of wine. I felt a little strange, being a plump woman with 42D breasts above the waist and a slim man below. Sally also seemed to find the combination disconcerting and insisted I keep my nightie and negligée properly wrapped around me to conceal any evidence of the male half of my anatomy.

“Mum said you can have all her old underwear. She’s bought herself lots of new stuff in Oz, but we’ll have to get you some panties in Dave’s size to match your nighties,” she said.

“We’re supposed to be saving our money,” I protested, though the idea of wearing sexy knickers as half-Dave gave me a little thrill.

It was still early evening and I dreaded anyone dropping round and seeing me in this state, but the only likely visitors were Anna and Phil and they were away for the weekend. They had promised to drop by on Sunday night to see Maria, the finished product.

* * *

I woke up the next morning to find Sally playing with my boobs. I only realised what she was doing when she started massaging them with such vigour that they began pulling on my chest underneath.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said, flicking a bogus nipple. “Your boobies are amazing! They feel just like the real thing.”

“Not from my side, they don’t,” I sighed. “I still can’t feel anything.”

* * *

Since it now seemed that Carol had taken up semi-permanent residence in Australia, Maria took over her room. I didn’t sleep there, of course. Nothing had changed between man and wife (except that, if anything, Sally was even more sexually voracious), but we needed somewhere to keep my clothes and cosmetics. It was also easier for me to wash in Carol’s en suite, and do my make-up and hair at her dressing-table, rather than compete with my wife for hers.

Sally insisted I spent Sunday ‘practising being Maria’. So first we had to put my feminine lower half back on. The prosthesis was lying in a corner of our bedroom where it had been carelessly discarded the night before. It looked like a flesh-coloured flotation device, or maybe a rubber girdle for a fat woman.

I took it into Maria’s bathroom to wash it while it was still inside out. Then I hung it up to dry while I took a shower – my first with boobs. Ingrid had said that I could wash all my prosthetics as though they were real flesh. Hot water and soap wouldn’t affect them, she claimed, and I put that to the test.

I borrowed Sally’s shower cap as I really didn’t want to get all my new hair wet, as Sharon had advised.

After my shower, with a towel wrapped round me in the women’s manner covering my breasts, I studied my face in the bathroom mirror. My lips had stopped hurting, though they were still swollen, and of course they were much thicker now with the filler. I hardly recognised myself. I saw a stranger, a female stranger. The face, chin and neck prostheses made my face rounder, more feminine.

While waiting for my bottom half to dry I went out to the bedroom to put my contact lenses in and try to do something with my hair. I’d showed Sally the booklet of ‘simple hairstyles’ that Sharon had given me. I called her and she was keen to help.

First she wanted me to learn how to braid my hair. She liked the French Twist but also showed me how to put my hair in plaits and persuaded me to keep them for the rest of the day. She said they made me look younger. I thought they would clash with Carol’s rather middle-aged clothes, but Sally just took that as an excuse for us to go out and look for some younger styles. Eventually she grudgingly accepted that we shouldn’t be wasting money on new clothes for Maria, but she insisted on dragging me out to the local shopping centre anyway.

“You need to learn how to window-shop,” she said, “and try things on even when you have no intention of buying anything – like I’ve had to do a lot recently,” she added bitterly. “Also you need your ears pierced.”

“What? I don’t want my ears pierced!”

“Oh hush. Most women your age have pierced ears and I’ve got lots of earrings I can lend you.”

So followed another extended session with the two of us getting me into my fake bum, hips and thighs. I found a pair of Carol’s granny knickers which were stiff and held my rolls of fat in tightly. They were much more comfortable than the fancy pink panties Sally had picked out for me to wear the day before.

Then we had to choose my outfit for the day. Sally insisted on another dress so that she could continue my education in feminine mannerisms, gestures and gait.

I put on a slip and looked through Carol’s wardrobe for something that wasn’t too middle-aged. I eventually found a multi-coloured shirt dress that I quite liked. It was predominantly yellow and black and more importantly it covered my upper arms and came down to below my knees. Sally also insisted I spend the day in the heels that Ingrid had given me.

Finally, we set off for the shops, Sally driving. I sat rigid in the passenger seat trying to arrange the seat belt comfortably around or between my boobs. I was feeling apprehensive, to say the least. This wasn’t like playing a part on stage. I would be performing in front of hundreds of people with no script. This would be improvisation, but with none of the other actors aware they were in the production.

I was worried I would attract unwelcome attention. This wasn’t like the previous time I had been out in public as Fifi, or Sally’s mother as I later became. Then we had been in a dimly lit restaurant ten miles away from home territory. At our local shopping centre, on a Sunday morning, we could easily bump into people we knew.

“Remember you don’t speak English,” Sally reminded me, unnecessarily. “Just smile shyly whenever we meet someone and let me do all the talking.”

“No problem. You usually do all the talking anyway.”

She snorted. “Spanish, Maria,” she said, sternly.

As we made our way from the car park onto the first-floor shopping level, I was aware people – especially men – were looking at us. I hoped it was because Sally was so attractive, but inside I knew that Maria was sufficiently exotic as to attract attention herself. I was plump but shapely; I had dark skin, like a particularly rich sun tan, and long black hair. There weren’t many women like me in Pinner on a Sunday morning.

“I really wish you hadn’t given me plaits,” I muttered to my wife. “I look silly.”

“In Spanish,” she hissed.

“Let’s go to the Ladies’,” I said in Spanish, “and let my hair down.”

“No! Hair as long as yours flying loose would attract even more attention. This is a good lesson for you. You need to learn to ignore all the admiring glances. Be haughty. Think Kate Moss on the catwalk.”

Our first port of call was a mid-range jeweller’s.

“They charge £5 for ear piercing,” Sally said, reading a notice over by the earring display. “Or it’s free if you buy a pair for more than that.”

Sally chose a pair of gold hoop earrings for £2.99. The saleslady confirmed she would pierce my ears and put the hoops in, all for £5. She seemed bored and clearly didn’t want to spend her Sunday morning fitting naff earrings to a fat immigrant girl.

“You should leave the earrings in until your ears are completely healed,” she said loudly, in the mistaken belief that talking louder would penetrate the language barrier.

I looked at Sally for enlightenment, and she translated the girls’ instructions into Spanish for me.

“For several days after the piercing,” the girl continued, “you need to clean your ears and put ear cleaning solution, rubbing alcohol, or antiseptic ointment on them.”

Sally continued to translate, and confirmed we had both alcohol and Savlon at home. So now Maria had to face the world in big hoop earrings, plaits, and a middle-aged woman’s summer dress. I fervently hoped that no one we met would know the real me, and on Monday I would be back in my plain slacks and a cleaner’s smock.

We spent the rest of the morning looking round the shops and admiring clothes that we might have bought for Maria if we’d had any spare money. In a Marks and Spencer fitting room I even found myself stripped to my underwear and trying on more age-appropriate dresses. It wasn’t altogether horrible. In fact, it was quite fun.

“That looks lovely on you, Maria,” Sally said with a grin as I posed in a pink minidress.

She was joking of course. I looked terrible, like someone had tried to squeeze too much sausage meat into too small a casing.

“Do you have to keep calling me Maria when we’re alone together?” I said in Spanish.

“Well… yes. You may be an actor, but I’m not, remember. What if I were to call you Dave when I’m going round a house with a client? Then where would we be?”

We eventually stopped for a coffee and to rest our feet – well, my feet, which were starting to ache from the unfamiliar heels – and that was where we finally met someone we knew. It was a neighbour from two doors down, Mrs Willoughby – I didn’t know her first name – who was leading her sullen teenage daughter out of the coffee shop as we were going in. She had clearly seen us and came over to say hello. And because she was wondering who I was, of course. Sally made the introductions.

“And this is Maria,” she said.

I smiled and muttered, “Hola,” in my Maria voice.

“Her family were our neighbours when we lived in Madrid,” Sally continued. “She’s staying with us for a while…”

“Oh, to improve her English?” the Willoughby woman suggested.

“Er, yes that’s right,” said Sally. She lowered her voice. “She hardly speaks a word yet, and she’s very shy.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, while the daughter looked bored, and I tried to act friendly and polite while pretending not to understand a word of the conversation. Eventually we parted and Sally and I were able to join the queue for coffee. I had only met the Willoughbys a couple of times as Dave, but clearly neither of them recognised me. Success!

“We hadn’t thought of that,” Sally said in Spanish, as we waited to be served. “Everyone will assume you’re over here to learn English, so you’ll need to improve gradually. Eventually you’ll have to be able to talk to the clients you clean for. We’d better work on your voice.”

I agreed. “But it takes time to learn a new language, doesn’t it?” I said. “And this whole farce is only going on for a few months – till the Tribunal. Then Maria can disappear forever. It’ll be OK.”

I got more looks from the other customers while we drank our coffee, but when they heard us speaking Spanish, people seemed to lose interest. I was able to convince myself that the attention I was attracting was because of my exotic appearance, rather than because I was being recognised as a cross-dresser.

On the way back to the car I got my first wolf-whistle from a couple of workmen. I blushed with… embarrassment? Pleasure? Whatever. They were whistling at Sally, of course.

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 7 – A Born Cleaning Lady

A new career beckons for Maria, the hard-working cleaning lady and laundry maid.

As promised, Anna and Phil came round at about eight o’clock to see how Maria had turned out. I answered the door and took some pleasure in seeing their open mouths and gasps of astonishment. I loved performing, and being admired for my acting talents.

“Por favor, pase, Señor y Señora,” I said in character, holding the door wide open.

They came past me, eyes fixed on my face and curves.

“It’s unbelievable,” Anna said. “You’ll pass easily. You make a brilliant Spanish peasant girl!”

“Gracias, Señora.”

I managed a little curtsey.

“I must admit, I never thought they could make you look this good,” said Phil, as I led the way into the sitting room.

They greeted Sally and took their seats. She poured some wine for us all.

“I really thought you’d have to give up this whole idea,” Phil continued. “What’s it like under all that… stuff?”

“Surprisingly comfortable, actually,” I said, reverting to English and my Dave persona. “It’s quite heavy, but that’s OK, ‘cause that makes me move right; I mean, as a woman who’s this shape would have to move. I didn’t expect to be so fat, but they said it was necessary to conceal my male figure – broad shoulders, thick waist, and so on. I notice your eyes are drawn to my bust, by the way.”

Phil harrumphed and blushed.

I handed out the wine. As I moved, Anna was eyeing me up, appraising my silhouette.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” she said. “And they’re quite right. You’re plump, but your figure is entirely feminine – classic hourglass, even.”

Phil was nodding vigorously. I wondered if he had a thing for the fuller-figured female. Bad news for Anna if he did. She was stick-thin – like her brother before he became her sister.

“So how much do we owe you for the Transformations invoice?” Sally asked, ever practical.

“Oh don’t worry about that for the moment,” Anna smiled. “Let’s just see if Maria’s earning power is everything we hoped for. Then we can discuss you paying us back.”

She smiled sweetly, but I have never trusted that smile of my sister’s. Still, it was a very pleasant evening – the last day of my enforced holiday. Tomorrow it would be back to work – and how.

* * *

On Monday morning I shaved carefully around my facial prosthetics, although I couldn’t actually see any growth, then applied a little make-up. I put on my stiff shapewear and dressed in another pair of Carol’s slacks and a floral blouse. Sally helped me twist my long hair up into a bun, and with a headscarf keeping it out of my eyes, and my cleaner’s smock to protect my clothes, I was the perfect image of a hard-working charlady.

My first client was a Mrs Woodford, who lived about half a mile away in a slightly more upmarket area. She insisted we call her Joyce, until Sally reminded her that I didn’t speak English and would probably just call her Señora. She didn’t seem put out by that.

Sally described how we had managed with Dorothy. Joyce should lead us around the house explaining what she wanted in each room; Sally would translate her instructions into Spanish; and I would take notes. Joyce was happy with that. She had clearly spoken to Dorothy at length and understood the process.

The house was much bigger than any of the three I had cleaned before. It had two large reception rooms, a study, and six bedrooms on three floors. It was at least half as big again as Dorothy’s.

The Woodfords had four children from seven to sixteen, two older girls and two younger boys. The girls, Joyce explained, had been press-ganged into helping their mother keep the place clean since the demise of Pinner Maids.

Joyce worked part-time for an Estate Agent. She did a lot of work on her computer in the study but would also come and go throughout the day to conduct viewings. The irregular hours of her job enabled her to manage her big family, but were also the reason why she needed help with housekeeping. Her husband, Peter, was something in the city. He caught the 7.15 train into London in the mornings and was rarely back before seven in the evening, so it was unlikely I would ever meet him.

I could tell Joyce was seriously stressed and I was beginning to understand why: a big house to run, four children, an absentee husband, and a job of her own to hold down. I was amazed she was functional at all.

At first glance it seemed that the three ladies’ efforts focused on hygiene rather than tidiness. Clothes, magazines and other clutter were strewn all over the children’s bedrooms so, as at Anna and Phil’s place, vacuuming would have to be deferred till after I had tidied up. However the kitchen and bathrooms had been kept quite clean. They would need a top to bottom spring-clean, but at least the girls’ efforts meant that the whole house wasn’t a disease death trap.

I suggested to Sally in Spanish that she ask Joyce whether she wanted me to organise the family laundry too. I pointed at the sheets on the bed in the room we were currently in. Joyce confirmed that she would like that, and that I should also assume that any clothes lying around on the floor were dirty. She asked me to be careful with the girls’ underthings, but by now I was becoming familiar with the principles of washing delicates. I realised I would probably need to wash each family member’s clothes separately to avoid mixing them up. If I needed to do whites and coloureds separately too, that could mean as many as twelve washes – three washes a day! And a hell of a lot of ironing. So now I wasn’t just a cleaning lady; I was officially a washerwoman and laundry maid too. Great!

I told Sally that with the washing I might not be able to finish everything in a single week. She looked worried and reminded me that I was booked to move on to another client next Monday. She turned back to Joyce and explained our concerns.

“I quite understand,” she said kindly. “I know it’s a big job. I suppose I could wait till the following week for Maria to finish…” Then she had a bright idea. “…or if she was willing to carry on into the weekend, I’d be happy to pay double rate?”

Seeing money was no object for Joyce, Sally quickly accepted that generous offer on my behalf. There went my weekend.

She went on to talk about payment and gave Joyce the bank account details of our trading company, explaining that she had set up Maria as an employee under European Union employment law to minimise the tax burden for both of us. I had no idea whether this gobbledygook actually meant anything, but Joyce nodded wisely and said that was fine with her, as she did all of her banking online.

“Oh, by the way, Lucy – she’s my eldest – is studying A Level Spanish,” she said. “I’m sure she’d love to practise with Maria.”

It was a good thing I’d been rehearsing my Maria voice.

* * *

I made steady progress through the week. I developed a routine: put in a load of washing; clean a room (working from the top of the house downwards); take the washing out and put it in the tumble-dryer or hang it outside if the weather was fine; put another load in; clean another room; and repeat. I got a great deal of satisfaction at seeing a sparkling clean bedroom or a tidy pile of ironing, and I got a warm glow from putting neatly folded clothes away in their owner’s chest of drawers. It had never occurred to me before taking up this new life that such simple tasks would afford so much satisfaction.

I stopped cleaning when the kids came home from school. Then I set up the ironing board in the kitchen and Lucy and I conversed in Spanish while I did the ironing. She was very keen, despite it having been her mother’s idea. We concentrated on her vocabulary and use of idiom. As for most people taught a foreign language in school, her usage was grammatically correct – mostly – but no one in Spain ever actually spoke like that. We talked about the country; what it’s like to live there; and a little history and geography of places Maria could be expected to know. No politics – sixteen-year-old schoolgirls aren’t interested in politics, and we twenty-something laundry maids don’t know anything about it anyway.

I had to tell her quite a lot about myself – that is, my fictional Maria-self. I leaned heavily on what I knew about the real Maria and her family, the Ortegas. I just hoped I would remember everything I made up and wouldn’t contradict myself. Lucy was sharp. She was a pretty, friendly girl, and the only one of the children who ever looked at me. When I finished the ironing, she helped me put the clothes away in the appropriate wardrobes and dressers, both of us still chattering away happily in Spanish.

On the Wednesday her Spanish homework was to write an essay on how technology was changing modern life. She begged me to help but I had to be careful here. Dave was an expert on digital transformation, financial information systems, social media, artificial intelligence, the cyber threat – you name it – but Maria wouldn’t know about any of that. I could only help her with the language; anything more could raise suspicion. Lucy’s understanding of IT was basic and she made some glaring errors in the content, which I couldn’t correct, but her teacher probably wouldn’t know any better.

By the end of the week we had become firm friends. To my relief she never seemed to doubt that I was anything other than what my appearance suggested. I grew steadily more confident in my performance.

When Sally came to collect me at half-past five each day, I was worn out. With the extra forty pounds I was carrying, my whole body felt like lead. All I was good for when we got home was stripping off, showering, eating a quick ready meal or a takeaway, and dozing in front of the TV with a glass of wine. Some nights I didn’t even take off my false bottom, so we just cuddled in bed, rather than enjoying the rampant passion of the previous weekend. I promised to make it up to Sally when I was better rested.

* * *

One evening that week, I sat at the dressing table in Maria’s room in my bra and panties, checking my make-up. Still no detectable beard growth. I stared at my strange new self in the mirror and marvelled at how quickly this had become routine. I was used to putting on and removing make-up occasionally of course, from my years on stage, but it still surprised me how easily I had adjusted to the lingerie, the big boobs, the padded butt, and my unrecognisable, feminine face.

I removed the pins from my bun and watched my long black hair fall down over my ears, onto my neck, and down my back.

For the first time, and to my astonishment, I realised that I was actually enjoying being Maria. Was it because of the work? Maybe – I hated dirt and untidiness and had always taken pleasure in clearing up and cleaning. Sally often joked that my obsession with cleanliness was the main reason she married me, as she hated housework herself.

Or was it the continual acting, immersing myself in a part, very nearly 24-7? I was sure that was a big part of it. I was never going to be a professional actor now, but this was a great substitute – the opportunity to fool people and make them think I was somebody else – even a working-class immigrant girl – so different from my real self, the married male IT professional and owner of a nice house in a prosperous area.

Or was it simply being a member of the opposite sex, I mused, as I preened in my bra and knickers, in front of the mirror. Maybe it was the new experience of being female, to be admired, pursued, seduced, rather than the male of the species, admirer, pursuer, seducer? That line of thinking was beginning to make me uncomfortable. I knew I was entirely heterosexual, so actually wanting to spend time as a female would make me… what? A transvestite, certainly. Perverted? Maybe.

I threw off my lingerie and went into the family bathroom. I reached for a shower cap. I would need to discuss some of this with Sally. I needed to know what she thought.

Not tonight, though. Too tired. Every muscle ached.

* * *

“I could come and help you on Saturday,” Sally offered.

“That’s a kind offer,” I said, “but a bad idea.”

“What? Why?”

“Firstly, you’re not a working-class cleaning lady; you’re a middle-class professional.”

She looked at me sceptically, clearly about to interrupt. I held up a hand to stop her.

“No, I know – you and I aren’t class-conscious like that, but a lot of the people around here are. It’s a wealthy area. If any of our neighbours found out you were cleaning houses, and getting paid for it, we’d both be stone dead, socially. And my sister would never speak to me again.”

She raised an eyebrow. I grinned.

“OK, so it wouldn’t be all bad. But my point is, this is a temporary situation. Sally and Dave have to live here when our financial problems are over and after Maria has gone.”

“OK, I accept that,” she said. “You implied there’s another reason?”

“Well, secondly, I’m getting double rates,” I continued, “and the longer I work, the more we make. This could stretch over the whole weekend. We don’t want to cut that short. If you’re desperate to contribute, you can do the shopping, cooking and cleaning at home.”

Predictably, her face fell.

* * *

By the end of my week at the Woodfords there was only the ground floor left. I had completed the laundry, washed all the upstairs windows, and thoroughly cleaned all six bedrooms, three bathrooms, two landings and the staircases. I was feeling pretty proud of myself. I made a really good cleaning lady!

On Friday evening, when Sally came to collect me, Joyce declared herself delighted and was very grateful that I had agreed to finish over the weekend. Through Sally the interpreter we made arrangements for Saturday. She promised to keep the family out of the way as much as possible. She also demanded that they all tidy up downstairs, and threatened that any books, magazines, letters, videos or games left lying around anywhere would be in the bin by Monday.

Sally dropped me off in the morning a little later than usual and I started on the kitchen as soon as the family finished breakfast. After that, Joyce and Peter spent most of their time ferrying their kids to and from ballet lessons, football and hockey, and squeezing grocery shopping in between.

I began by clearing out all the cupboards. I checked all the saucepans, bowls, crockery and cutlery and ran those that looked grubby through the dishwasher – three loads in all. I isolated all the bottles and jars of sauces and preserves that were long past their ‘Use By’ dates for disposal, with Joyce’s permission. Then I scrubbed out all the cupboards and replaced their cleaned contents. Finally I swept and mopped the kitchen floor. I stood back to assess my morning’s work, and felt a now familiar pride in my achievements.

I was left undisturbed until about half-past twelve when the family returned en masse through the back door. Joyce just managed to stop the boys in the utility room before they trampled my clean kitchen floor in their muddy football boots.

I helped Joyce and Lucy prepare the family lunch, Lucy acting as interpreter. I also helped carry the food into the dining room but by mutual agreement I ate alone in the kitchen – as befits a servant, I mused ruefully. Though to be fair the conversation would have been a little stilted if I’d joined them, I being a stranger and unable – they thought – to speak English. I picked up a copy of Marie Claire – either Joyce’s or Lucy’s, I assumed – intending to read it as I ate. Just in time I realised I could only look at the pictures as Maria couldn’t read the articles.

After lunch, while I was clearing up and loading the dishwasher yet again, Joyce inspected the kitchen. She was clearly delighted. She could only tell me so in English of course, which I had to pretend not to understand, but her smiles and ‘thumbs up’ signs were enough for me to show that I realised she was pleased. I smiled; muttered ‘Gracias, Señora’; and even bobbed a sort of half-curtsey. Joyce seemed especially happy with that.

So far I hadn’t had much to do with the master of the house but at about half-past one, while I was hand washing the china and glassware that Joyce didn’t want to risk in the dishwasher, Peter came by and tried to engage me in conversation.

Lucy had told me that his Spanish was pretty much limited to “Una cerveza, por favor,” but he had clearly spent a little time with an English-Spanish dictionary, or maybe Google Translate. As he spoke, he kept glancing down to a scrap of paper in his hand. His accent was atrocious but I got the gist.

“Gracias por todo tu arduo trabajo, Maria,” he began. “Has hecho un excelente trabajo!”

Well I was glad he appreciated that I had been working hard all week and that I had done a good job.

“Muchas gracias, señor,” I said softly, hoping this conversation wouldn’t go on for long. My hopes were quickly dashed.

“¿Por qué una chica tan guapa como tú trabaja como limpiadora?” he went on.

Well for the money of course! Why did he think ‘a beautiful girl like me’ was working as a cleaner?

Wait… beautiful girl? Me? Is he kidding? Oh God, is he trying to chat me up? Another high-flying banker, who thinks he’s God’s gift! Mind you, Sally and I were – had been – high-flying bankers…

Before I could answer, I heard Lucy’s voice from the doorway.

“Leave the poor girl alone, Dad, for heaven’s sake!” she said, angrily. “We want her to come back next week!”

Peter had the grace to blush and left hurriedly, calling, “Come on, boys! Time to go – before the pool gets too crowded.”

Lucy turned to me apologetically, saying in her halting Spanish, “Sorry about that, Maria. He didn’t mean any harm. He’s just… being a man, you know?”

This little girl was wise beyond her years. I assured her that I understood, and that no harm was done, and that I wouldn’t say anything to her mother. Well how could I? We didn’t speak each other’s languages. I returned to tidying up.

* * *

When everyone had gone off to their various afternoon activities, I moved on to the utility room, where I had to clean around the washing machine, tumble-dryer and freezer. I couldn’t move any of them, of course, so it was mostly dusting, removing cobwebs and scrubbing the floor clean of muddy bootprints and more. There was a shower in the utility room too, much used, and that clearly hadn’t had a really good clean in a long time. It took a lot of Joyce’s scouring powder and my elbow grease but it eventually came up gleaming white.

It was now after half-past three. I would just have time to do the downstairs bathroom. That would leave dusting and vacuuming the rest of the downstairs for Sunday.

At about half-past four, I stopped and stretched. I was aching all over, but maybe I didn’t feel as sore as I had on the first couple of days? Perhaps I was adjusting to being forty pounds fatter?

I checked my thin ladies’ watch, tight around my thick male wrist, hopefully concealed by the frilly sleeve of my top. I stopped for the day and took off my headscarf, which was getting sweaty and uncomfortable. I took out my hair grips and my long black locks fell around my shoulders and down my back. I took a scrunchie from the pocket of my smock and gathered them into a ponytail.

I was putting my cleaning materials away and getting ready to leave when Joyce came back with the girls. They had all been to the hairdresser. I told Lucy in Spanish how beautiful they all looked and she passed it on to her mother and sister.

Claire, the younger sister, said she thought my hair looked lovely too. I tried to look blank until Lucy translated.

“Muchas gracias, pequeña señorita,” I said, smiling.

At that moment the doorbell rang. Sally was there to collect me. Greetings were exchanged, and Joyce sang my praises for the wonderful job I was doing. I tried not to look embarrassed as theoretically I didn’t understand her.

I told Sally in Spanish what was left to do for Sunday. She passed that on to Joyce, and we left, promising to return at half-past nine in the morning.

“We really must do something about Maria learning English,” she said in the car on the way home. “Your girl voice is quite convincing enough, and it’s not realistic that you should be over here for months and not pick up any of the language. As Mrs Willoughby said, most European girls come to England to improve their English.”

She was right. Besides it was only a matter of time before I gave myself away.

“I’m not going to evening classes,” I said. “We can’t afford to waste the money.”

“I’ll drop in at the library during my lunch hour on Monday,” she said, “and pick up some books. At least that will give you an idea of how a foreigner goes about learning English; what rate of progress is reasonable; and so on.”

* * *

When we got home I saw that Sally had made an effort. The fridge and kitchen cupboards had been replenished and the surfaces in every room were tidy. I thanked her and suggested perhaps we might go out for a meal – at a reasonably priced restaurant, of course. Having been working hard all week neither of us felt like cooking.

So Saturday night became date night, except that Sally was going out with her live-in cleaning lady, rather than her husband. After showering off the day’s charlady perspiration I put on clean underwear, a pink bra and panties and a matching half-slip, and tights. Sally lay on the bed watching me with a silly grin and saucer-like eyes.

I raided Carol’s wardrobe again for a nice dress and chose a lacy, off the shoulder, black and white number, with a black silk belt. It fell to just above the knee.

“I don’t remember seeing your mother wearing this,” I said. “Do you think it’s too short?”

“It looks great on you,” Sally said. “Of course, it would be longer on Mum, as she’s shorter than you.”

“What about the shoulders? Do you think I should be covering up more?”

“It’s fine. Your boobs are easily big enough and that chin and neck prosthesis covers up everything there that might be a giveaway. But it might be a good idea to wear a shawl or a cardigan. It’s cool out tonight.”

This was the first time we had gone out together in the evening, so remembering Vera’s instructions, I shaved again. There was some visible five o’clock shadow but it was nothing like as bad as I would have expected, so the anti-androgen cream was obviously working. I hadn’t noticed any diminution of libido, but Sally had been so passionate on those nights when we had had the energy to remove my false butt, that lack of sex drive on my part was hardly a problem. Nor was getting and maintaining an erection.

Sally helped me put my hair in an updo and lent me some earrings. Then she supervised my efforts at doing an evening make-up. I had qualms about all this getting dolled up, but she firmly squashed them.

“You’re a young woman now, Maria,” she said. Noticing my wince, she quickly continued, “If you don’t make the best of yourself, you’ll only attract attention for the wrong reasons.”

I sighed and picked up a blush brush.

We decided to return to the distant restaurant we had gone to when I was practising being Fifi / Sally’s mother, as there was little chance of seeing anyone we knew.

We did attract a certain amount of attention but Sally assured me they were admiring glances. Anyway, no one bothered us. It may have been that we were conversing entirely in Spanish; or that Sally was giving the evil eye to any wandering male who came too close to us.

We had a great meal, and reminisced about the changes we had been through since our previous visit.

“You don’t look like my mother anymore, Maria,” she said, “with your dark Hispanic looks, but I still can’t stop thinking about what’s lurking under your dress.”

I looked around hurriedly to make sure no one had overheard that last erotic remark.

“Look, Sal,” I said, “are you sure you’re OK with this… whole… Maria thing?”

“I’m fine with it – really. I can see why you might have your doubts, but I promise you I love it. And I think you’re very brave to go through with it all. I don’t know what else I can do to convince you – apart from what I’ve got in mind for when we get home…”

* * *

What she had in mind for Saturday night nearly made us late on Sunday morning, but everything went well enough. The Woodford family kept out of the downstairs rooms. It was mostly just dusting and vacuuming, lighter work than I’d had up to then, and I finished around lunchtime. I called Sally to come and pick me up. When she arrived she and Joyce discussed our final invoice and Joyce insisted on adding another fifty pounds because she was so pleased with the job I had done.

“I hardly recognise the place,” she gushed.

She insisted on giving me a £20 note as a tip ‘just for yourself’. Sally graciously permitted that. Joyce also asked if I would be able to come regularly, suggesting that three hours every two weeks might be enough. Sally readily agreed, of course.

“You’ve obviously missed your vocation, babe,” Sally said in the car on the way home. “You’re a born cleaning lady.”

Music to my ears, I don’t think!

“I suppose you can keep the twenty quid, as you’ve been such a good girl this weekend,” she said with a grin. “Just don’t spend it all on make-up or frilly underwear.”

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 8 – A Maid by Any Other Name

There is a difference between a cleaning lady and a maid, isn’t there? Not according to Dave’s mean big sister.

So I had worked through the weekend, which was exhausting, but we had made much more than we’d expected. If we could carry on like this, our home would be safe, at least until the Tribunal. I had now been Maria continuously for eight days, except for removing my abdominal prosthesis about every other day. At bedtime on those nights I washed the grotesque object and myself carefully in Carol’s – now Maria’s – en suite, and Sally inspected me closely to make sure no extraneous hairs were popping up. She insisted the inspection needed to be tactile as well as visual, which inevitably led to enjoyable nocturnal shenanigans.

But when that Monday morning came around, and I woke up groaning, there seemed to have been no gap between finishing at the Woodfords and starting with the Hunting-Smythes for my second week as a full-time cleaning lady. I was usually up before Sally, who was not a morning person, and making breakfast before she surfaced, but today she had to rouse me.

She had spoken to Mrs H-S on the telephone and explained that she would be delivering me at eight o’clock, and would ‘conduct a survey’, as she put it, so that she could brief me in Spanish on my duties. Our new client, a married doctor with no children, was very different from Joyce Woodford. She was happy enough to converse with Sally, whom she recognised as managerial class like herself, but clearly had no interest in talking to me, even if that had been possible. She called Sally ‘Mrs Jackson’ and made it clear she was to be ‘Dr Hunting-Smythe’ to her, and ‘Señora’ to me. The relationship would be strictly employer-employee. Sally played up to this outrageously, presenting herself as the Managing Director of our prestigious household services agency. She had always seen herself as my boss, of course, and was glad to have it recognised by a client.

We began the usual tour of the house, Sally barking orders in Spanish and me taking notes. When we’d finished and were back in the kitchen, Dr H-S turned to Sally and said, “I suppose I can trust her? She’ll be on her own here all day once I’ve gone in to work, and after what happened with Pinner Maids…”

“Rest assured, Dr Hunting-Smythe,” Sally said. “Maria is an honest girl. Also she knows that if she puts a foot wrong, her work permit will be revoked and she’ll be packed off back to her village outside Madrid. She’ll behave herself; she knows how lucky she is to be in Pinner.”

Good grief! It’s lucky I had no dignity left anyway. My wife would have killed the last of it this morning.

“Very well, but perhaps you could warn her that I will be popping back at some point during the day. Hopefully that will keep her on her toes.”

Sally complied. I nodded vigorously, muttering, “Si, si, Señora. Entiendo.”

And I did understand. This week wouldn’t be like being part of the family, as at the Woodfords. It would be strictly business and I would be strictly servant class.

The upside of working at the Hunting-Smythes was that it was a smaller house and Dr H-S was far too fastidious to have allowed it to degenerate into squalor just because she had no cleaning lady. I never learned what her husband did for a living but I suspected he had to share the household duties, or else!

Anyway, the work was much lighter, and I wasn’t required to do laundry or ironing, so I completed a diligent spring-clean of the whole house by the end of Wednesday. Dr H-S professed herself content when Sally came to collect me on Wednesday at half-past five and gave her a cheque. No tip and just a wintry smile as thanks. She did however say that she would like to retain our services for two hours a week for the foreseeable future at the same rate. So she must have been satisfied. Sally made a note in her diary.

When we got home, she called Dorothy and asked if there was anything we could do for her this week as I was unexpectedly free. She offered my services for grocery shopping as well as cleaning. Dorothy was delighted and confirmed that she would be happy to pay for a morning’s work that Friday. She dictated a shopping list which Sally duly recorded.

“Hang on,” I said. “What about transport? I can’t drive, remember?”

“No problem,” she said smugly. “You can do an internet shop and get it delivered here tomorrow. Then we can take it round on Friday morning in the car.”

I had to admit that she was getting quite good at running a domestic services agency.

“I think there’s an old bike of my mother’s in the garage, by the way,” she said. “You’ll just need to pump up the tyres and oil the moving parts. It would be better if you didn’t have to depend on me to ferry you backwards and forwards.”

* * *

Since I was now free on the Thursday I decided to go round to my sister’s for morning coffee. It was thanks to her that we could now see a light at the end of the tunnel. Maria was her idea, and she had facilitated and paid for my transformation. I hated to admit it but I owed her a huge debt; I just didn’t realise how huge. Sally had passed Mrs McLaughlin’s envelope to her unopened.

“£3,750,” Anna said, when I insisted on knowing how much she had spent.

“How much?” I gasped.

“I told you not to worry for the moment,” she said. “That’s nothing to us; well, next to nothing. It can wait till after the Tribunal. You’ll easily be able to afford to pay us back then…”

“Assuming we win!”

“…assuming you win.”

“I can’t be in your debt for all that time,” I wailed. “I just can’t!”

Her face went dark.

“This is about us, isn’t it?” she said. “You and me. Our sibling rivalry?”

“I would never borrow that amount of money from a friend, and you and I…”

“…aren’t friends,” she finished. “I know.”

“That’s not what I was going to say…”

Although it was, of course. I had just stopped myself because I was aware of how it would have sounded.

“We were never close growing up…” she went on.

“To put it mildly,” I snorted. “You’d get up and walk out of the room when I came in!”

“And you kept sneaking into my bedroom and throwing my clothes all over the place, particularly my first bras, and you laddered my first grown-up tights.”

I’d forgotten that. We fell silent.

“No, we were never friends,” she said, “but we’re family. You’re my little brother, despite what you currently look like.” She chuckled. “I may not always like you, but I love you. I only want the best for you and Sally – who you absolutely don’t deserve, by the way.”

“Finally we agree on something,” I said. She smiled. “But I still can’t stand owing you so much money,” I insisted.

She sighed. “Well, how about you work it off, a little at a time, and pay off the rest when you can afford it? I still need my house cleaned regularly, and someone to do the laundry, and so on. I hate doing housework and you seem to be really good at it. How about £100 for three hours a week?”

“That’s much more than I’m getting from anybody else!”

“Well I suppose I could add a condition that would make it a little harder for you; make you feel you’re earning a higher rate...”

Her eyes gleamed. I knew that look and I knew I wasn’t going to like it…

* * *

It was good to see Dorothy again on Friday morning. We brought her shopping in and I put it away while she and Sally went through what she wanted me to do that morning.

“By the way,” said Dorothy to Sally when we’d finished making the day’s ‘To Do’ list, “how is Maria off for clothes? It’s just that she looks like she’s wearing her mother’s cast-offs. I can’t see it very well of course, but her outfit looks too old for a girl in her twenties.”

“You’re quite right, actually,” Sally agreed. “I gave her some of my Mum’s old stuff. She can’t afford to buy new clothes, hence her need to work as a cleaning lady.”

“No, I understand that,” she said, “but I have wardrobes full of old things I’ve never got round to throwing out. I haven’t worn most of them since the eighties. Oh, I don’t mean business suits with huge shoulder pads, or gold lamé, sequinned party dresses. Just ordinary tops and skirts. They don’t really go out of fashion and they’re much more suitable for someone of Maria’s age.”

She lowered her voice a little, as if afraid I might overhear and be offended by what she was about to say, even though she ‘knew’ I couldn’t understand.

“I was a plump little thing back then too. I’m sure my clothes would fit her, even though she’s quite a bit taller. She can think of it as a tip, if you like. Have you got time to come up and help her pick out some nice things?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Sally. “They won’t mind if I’m ten minutes late for once. I’m usually first in.”

She explained Dorothy’s offer to me in Spanish. Dorothy led the way upstairs to her spare bedroom.

“¡Vamos!” said Sally, grabbing my hand and hurrying after her. “¡Ropa nueva! Esto será divertido!”

Looking at new clothes might be fun for her… Sometimes Sally seemed to forget now that I was not really a woman. I tried to look happy for Dorothy’s sake, then I remembered she could barely make out my expression. We entered the back bedroom.

“I offered all this lot to my nieces years ago,” Dorothy said, opening the first of two large wardrobes. “They weren’t keen to take their Auntie’s old clothes, and in any case they’re both tiny little things. They take ‘petite’. Maria can have anything she’d like here.”

Sally reached for a couple of hangers, pulled them out, and looked at them thoughtfully. Everything looked… quite nice… but of course I had no idea whether the clothes were decent quality, in fashion, or what.

The wardrobe was overflowing with dresses, skirts and women’s slacks. There were some long, elegant Laura Ashley-type dresses, obviously from the seventies rather than the eighties, or even earlier. Dorothy was probably old enough to have been a flower child. They were beautiful and I liked them a lot, but even I knew there was no way they were fashionable now.

“Ra-ra skirts!” exclaimed Sally in English. “She’d look great in these!”

Dorothy went over to a big, old-fashioned chest of drawers.

“These are full of tops, smart blouses, cardigans, shell suits – remember those?” she laughed. “There’s not much underwear of course, but she wouldn’t want my old worn-out bras and knickers! There might be some nice slips though…”

Sally had to go to work, but we arranged to come back on Saturday for a proper look. I spent the rest of the morning dusting, vacuuming and doing laundry. It passed quickly and happily.

Sally came back during her lunch hour. I made tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches for the three of us. The conversation was lively, despite me needing simultaneous translation.

“So how was your morning?” Sally asked in the car on our way home.

“It was fine,” I said. “Dorothy is a lovely old lady. She’s so cheerful despite her handicap. I’m happy to help her.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Maria,” she said. “You’ve another busy week coming up, and then you’ll be going back to the Woodfords and the Hunting-Smythes for a couple of hours each – maybe more. A cleaning lady’s work is never done – fortunately!”

* * *

It was Saturday morning. I was standing in our kitchen submitting to a critical inspection.

“So now not only do I have to clean her house for her every two weeks, I have to do it wearing a maid’s uniform! And it has to be Friday mornings so that I can serve coffee and biscuits to her damn Bridge Club ladies. She said that having a uniformed maid will shoot her straight to the top of the social pecking order.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes to you,” Sally said. “You’re already disguised as a woman and wearing women’s clothes all the time. Why is a maid’s dress any worse?”

“I’m not a maid, I’m a cleaning lady,” I insisted.

My wife laughed. “What the hell’s the difference?”

“A maid is a servant. She has to do everything her mistress says. She has to be servile, submissive, at her employer’s beck and call. A cleaning lady is a freelance contractor. She’s a professional, engaged to provide specific services for a predetermined number of billable hours – just like a lawyer! She doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to.”

It struck me that this was a ridiculous conversation for a man to be having with his wife. And it didn’t help that I was dressed from head to toe as a maid. After our talk on Thursday morning, Anna had called Transformations and ordered three maid’s uniforms in my size, one black, one grey, one navy blue.

“Your sister is a bit much sometimes, isn’t she?” said Sally, sympathetically.

“You’re just realising that now?” I asked gloomily.

“No, I’ve always known she’s a mad bitch. I just tried to keep the peace between you, but now she’s going too far. This is too humiliating. I’ll have a word with her and get you out of it.”

“No, I’ll have to do it. We took her money. I promised, and anyway, there’s no reason for anyone to connect Maria the maid with your absent husband, Dave.”

“Really?” She looked confused for a moment. Then the light appeared to dawn. “I think you’re actually looking forward to it!”

“No, no. I just have a thing about keeping my promises…”

“You’ve got some sissy fantasy about being a maid!”

“No! No, I…”

“It’s OK, actually,” she smiled. “I’m more than happy to share that fantasy. It’s sexy as hell!” She checked her watch. “Come on then, maid Maria, let’s go.”

We trooped over to Anna and Phil’s place. I was under instructions to go round the back – the Servants’ Entrance, as my beloved sister put it. She was waiting for us in the kitchen. She hooted with laughter when she saw me.

“Oh Dave – sorry, Maria – you look marvellous! A perfect picture of a housemaid!”

I gritted my teeth and didn’t reply.

“To be honest, I don’t see how this is going to work,” Sally said, well aware of my rising anger. “How are you going to give your maid orders, when she doesn’t speak English – your idea, I seem to remember – and you don’t speak Spanish?”

Anna’s face fell. I hadn’t thought of that either. My clever wife might have found an escape clause for me.

“Well, you’ll just have to jot down some phrases in Spanish for me,” she blustered. “You know – ‘Coffee and biscuits, please, Maria’. ‘You can clear the cups and plates away now, please, Maria’. That sort of thing. Write them out phonetically. I’m sure we’ll manage. My maid won’t want to embarrass me in front of my friends…” She looked at me meaningfully. “…because she knows that I could embarrass her much more!”

I sighed. That was indisputable. Anna was going to win again.

“Now I want you to practise serving us,” she said, “so that there are no mistakes next Friday.”

“What – now?” I said, looking at my tiny ladies’ watch. “But we have to be at Dorothy’s in less than an hour.”

“It won’t take that long. Now Sally and I will go and sit in the lounge. You know where everything is, Maria. Bring us coffee and biscuits on a nice tray.”

She turned to my wife and led her out to the sitting room.

“This is brilliant,” she was saying, “I get my house cleaned; impress my friends with a uniformed housemaid; and humiliate my horrible little brother. I’d have paid Transformations twice as much for all that! By the way, Sally, you don’t have to use the Servants’ Entrance, you know…”

* * *

Anna made me go through the motions twice, asking Sally to write the appropriate instructions in Spanish and explaining how to pronounce them. My sister has a tin ear for accents and sounded like a caricature of an English person attempting to speak Foreign, but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t understand.

This stupid rehearsal made us late and we had to rush round to Dorothy’s place as she was going out later. Obviously I didn’t have time to change out of my uniform. Despite her poor eyesight Dorothy could see what I was wearing. She was most impressed at how her scruffy cleaning lady had metamorphosed into a smart housemaid.

“You look wonderful, dear,” she said, obviously assuming I had come straight from working for another client. “Why don’t you wear that nice dress for all your cleaning jobs?”

I nearly answered her, then remembered at the last minute that I wasn’t supposed to understand. Sally quickly translated. I shrugged and muttered something about how the uniform wasn’t as comfortable or convenient, and not suitable for dirty jobs. Dorothy nodded after hearing the translation and led us upstairs. Sally and I each carried a suitcase.

We spent an hour going through her old clothes. There was some really nice stuff. I took off my uniform and tried a few things on. The few minis she had would have been totally obscene on me, but there were plenty of normal dresses I could wear. Like with Carol’s stuff, skirts which would have been two inches below the knee on Dorothy were two inches above on me. I could live with that.

Sally insisted I try a ra-ra skirt, but I couldn’t believe how big it made my bum look. No way would I ever wear that.

I took a couple of really beautiful Laura Ashley dresses though. We filled both suitcases. I left wearing a very nice blue minidress, not that it would have been mini on Dorothy. I still looked fat, I thought, but at least the dress was attractive.

* * *

After dropping the suitcases containing my new wardrobe at home, we had to head out to Transformations for my fortnightly maintenance appointment. Sally dropped me at the front door and went off to do our weekend grocery shopping.

I had taken my false bottom off at least every other day to clean it, and check my nether regions for damage, and for… other reasons, but I had been wearing the false boobs, cheeks, nose and chin for two weeks now.

Vera applied a strong-smelling solvent to the affected areas and prised all my prosthetics off, checking for signs of rash or other skin damage. She asked me whether I was following her instructions for looking after myself and keeping the prosthetics in good condition. I was able to claim full compliance with a clear conscience.

“Your skin seems to be keeping its lovely olive tone,” she said. “So how are you enjoying being Maria?”

“It’s not a question of enjoying it,” I said. “I’m doing this because I have no alternative.”

“Of course, you are, dear,” she said, implying, but not saying, ‘That’s what they all say’.

She started washing all my prosthetics, being especially thorough with the abdominal piece.

“No, really,” I persisted, “I’m suspended without pay from my real job; I can’t get another high-paying job; and me working as Maria is the only way we can keep our heads above water.”

I wasn’t sure why I was sharing so much personal detail with her, but I suppose I couldn’t consider someone who had twice manhandled my private parts a total stranger, could I? Besides, I suppose I felt a need to show that I was a real man, and not a cross-dresser, transgender, or a pervert, even if I was beginning to suspect that I might be all three.

Vera was hanging the wobbly, fleshy prosthetics up to dry. She turned her head to look at me.

“So you’re in financial difficulties?” I nodded. “Yet you can afford our fees?” she said, sceptically.

“Well, my sister is lending us the money…”

“Really?” she said. “She must love you very much.”

“Well that’s not actually how I would describe our relationship, no.”

“Okay, off with the rest of your clothes, and up on the bed, please,” she said, changing the subject abruptly. “Let’s see if you need any waxing.”

Shit! I did, of course. It wasn’t as bad as the first time though. She examined my face and neck carefully.

“The anti-androgen cream seems to be doing its job,” she said. “I’ll just give you an extra close shave where the prosthetics have been. You might not need to shave for much longer.”

Half an hour later, thoroughly cleaned, waxed and shaven, smothered in soothing lotion, and with all my prosthetics carefully replaced, and a clean pink bra and matching panties on, I made my way to Sharon’s salon. We greeted each other with girly air kisses and she helped me into a smock. I soon felt the sensual pleasure of her soft hands and lukewarm water on my scalp.

“Your hair and the extensions seem to be in good shape,” she said, approvingly.

“Well I didn’t wash it till the third day after I was here,” I said. Sally had actually washed it for me when we showered together. “And I used conditioner. Also my wife dabbed tint on my roots last weekend.”

“Good girl,” she said. I didn’t know whether she meant me or Sally. “What style have you kept it in?”

“Mostly just a ponytail or a bun,” I said. “I’ve been too busy working to do anything elaborate.”

“I know just how you feel,” she laughed. “Even though I know how to do virtually any hairstyle, we working girls just don’t have the time, do we?”

I smiled and agreed. It’s hard for ‘us working girls’ to make the best of ourselves.

After Sharon had finished with me, I had put my new blue dress back on, I made my way back to Reception to wait for Sally. While I was waiting I asked Angela, the receptionist, whether I owed them anything for the afternoon’s work.

“Oh no,” she said. “Your maintenance appointments are all included in your up-front fees.”

I supposed that was good news, and maybe went some way toward explaining why Transformations’ fees were as high as they were.

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 9 – A Life in Service

Life settles into a routine for Maria, the cleaning lady and reluctant maid. Then a new business opportunity arises.

Saturday was my first day off for nearly two weeks and it had still been dominated by Maria-time, so I insisted on spending the rest of the weekend just relaxing. We read the papers; watched TV; and consumed lots of alcohol. I had two very unladylike pints of real English ale with Sunday lunch, and we polished off a bottle of Cotes du Rhône between us with dinner.

The abdominal prosthesis came off as soon as we got back from Transformations on Saturday afternoon and didn’t go back on until Monday morning. In between we made the most of unrestricted access to Dave’s equipment. My over-generous bust precluded wearing any of my men’s shirts, and I needed a bra to support it anyway, so I just wore one of Carol’s nighties and a peignoir most of the time. As usual the fact that everything she could see of me was entirely Maria drove Sally on to greater passion. I’d given up trying to work out why. I settled for being grateful that she still wanted me, whoever I was.

* * *

But Monday morning soon came round and we were off to the third of Dorothy’s friends. We arrived at a handsome four-bedroom detached house a couple of streets away from us – the first of my clients I could actually walk to, if I had to. Sally rang the doorbell. I hovered modestly behind her, once again the immigrant cleaning lady deferring to her betters.

Ruth Baker quickly answered the door. She was brisk and business-like, perfectly coiffured, and dressed in a pinstriped skirt suit, nylons and heels. She looked like she was in a hurry to get out and off to work.

As with our previous clients, Sally had explained over the telephone what we needed to do. Like Dr Hunting-Smythe, Ruth had approved of ‘being able to deal with management’, as she put it. Anyway she had heard all about us from Dorothy and Joyce and was ready to show us round. We followed her as she outlined her priorities for cleaning. She was keen to have me do her laundry as well, but as she apparently lived alone, there wasn’t much. Unfortunately all her underwear was expensive and was ‘hand wash only’ – as she forcefully pointed out. It was a big house and it clearly hadn’t been cleaned at all for weeks. I told Sally (in Spanish) to say it would take me four full days. Ruth wasn’t fazed.

As at my other clients, I reviewed her collection of cleaning products. It didn’t include everything I needed, so while she was discussing times and fees with Sally, I went back out to the car to collect my basket.

While I was doing that, the garage door opened and Ruth backed out in her Lexus CT 200h Hybrid Luxury Compact – very nice. She waved and roared off, the garage door closing automatically behind her. Clearly she had no compunction about leaving two complete strangers in sole charge of her home. She was either supremely self-confident or very stupid. Or maybe she had done her homework about us and spoken to Dorothy and the others.

“She’s given us a key, because she’ll need to leave before you arrive each day and won’t usually be back till after you’ve gone,” said Sally as she was getting ready to go. “Looks like you’ll be on your own all day, but at least with the key, you’ll be able to come and go as you please.”

I took the key and put it in my handbag.

“She works four days a week as a paralegal at Wainwrights, a big Solicitor’s firm in town,” Sally went on. “No sign of any children; no toys, children’s books, or clothes. I think she’s separated.”

“Yes, I noticed some men’s clothes in the wardrobe in the spare room,” I said. “Looks like he moved out quite recently. I hope he doesn’t come back when I’m here on my own.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “If he does, don’t let him in. Call me, and I’ll call Ruth. Maybe she’s changed the locks.”

But nothing happened while I was there all that week. Sally and I agreed that I would make my own way there and back each day on Carol’s old bike, as it hadn’t always been convenient for her to drop me off and pick me up. She would just be there at five-thirty on Thursday to arrange the invoice and payment.

I hoped I wouldn’t bump into someone I knew on the way over – that is, someone that Dave knew – but it was very unlikely that anyone would connect him with Maria anyway.

* * *

Ruth got home at four o’clock on Thursday afternoon and tried to communicate with smiles and hand signals how pleased she was with my work. I responded with smiles of my own, little curtseys, and ‘Gracias, Señora’ to try and indicate that I understood.

Sally arrived at the usual time. She and Ruth settled the business details while I was packing up.

“Dorothy mentioned that Maria sometimes works in a maid’s uniform,” Ruth said. “I think I’d rather like that.”

“Well she doesn’t on the big spring-clean in the first week,” Sally said, “as it can get too dirty.” I shot her a grateful look. “But she could come in uniform for any regular visits after that.” Grrr!

“That would be lovely,” Ruth said.

I suppose that was quite clever of my wife – a sort of negotiating tactic to get the client committed to further work. I suspected some of Ruth’s friends and neighbours would be invited over while I was there in my uniform. I was becoming a status symbol for the posh Pinner wives. I observed (again) that Sally was proving rather good at managing our little one-maid cleaning company.

* * *

It was a good thing that I was able to finish at Ruth’s by Thursday afternoon, as I was due at Anna’s on Friday morning in my dreaded maid’s uniform. I hoped that at least I would have time to change before setting off to Joyce’s house for my afternoon shift.

Anna must have ordered the uniforms immediately after our talk on Thursday. Transformations had delivered them on Saturday morning, in time for me to parade in front of my sister. At the time I had just hung them up in Maria’s wardrobe. I had pulled the grey uniform out of its protective polythene sleeve and dressed as quickly as I could to get the whole embarrassing experience over with, still disgusted with having to do the whole degrading ‘parlour maid’ thing for her. I had put off thinking about the uniforms, or even looking at them properly. But now the fateful day had arrived. I got up early to get ready, and to steel myself for my maid duties.

I took out the grey uniform again and hung it on the wardrobe door. I stood there, the fat immigrant girl in her bra, panties and tights, inspecting this horribly symbolic instrument of my further humiliation.

The base of the uniform was a plain grey dress, 100% cotton according to the label, with a white Peter Pan collar, three-quarter-length sleeves, and buttons down the front. It was accompanied by a white bib apron, with frills around the shoulder straps and along the bottom hem. There was a silly, frilly white maid’s cap, which I had to secure to my bun with hairgrips. At least it would keep my fringe out of my eyes while I waited on Anna and her guests.

I was glad that my wife had already gone to work when I stood and examined myself in the mirror. I felt depressed for the first time since I had become Maria. I hadn’t minded the female disguise before. As Sally had said, I’d worn sillier outfits in my university revue days. Despite the feminine smocks and slacks, hair and make-up, I could convince myself I was still Dave, just wearing a costume to earn some money by acting a part.

But the maid uniform was different. If I was seen out in this, everyone would know what I was. I could feel myself slipping into the persona of a poor, immigrant female domestic who needed her humble cleaning job for basic survival. I was going to have to talk to Sally about this. I felt like I was losing control of my life.

I arrived at Anna’s back door at half-past eight. I was grateful now that I could sneak in the ‘Servants’ Entrance’ round the back and avoid parading myself in the embarrassing uniform at the front door in full view of the whole road.

Anna was not in evidence. She was probably still getting dressed. She had left various notes for me, but the priority was to put the first load of washing in, and for that I would have to go upstairs to their bedroom. She was dressed and attending to her make-up.

“Morning, Maria, dear,” she trilled when she saw me. “You do look lovely this morning. My ladies will be so impressed by my pretty domestic.”

“Gracias, Señora,” I said. “Por favour, no olvides que no hablo Inglés.”

“What?” she grimaced. “I hope you’re not being rude to me!”

I curtseyed, but didn’t answer. She sighed.

“All right, Dave, you can break character for a moment. If you have something to say, say it.”

I stood up straighter with my legs apart and my arms folded in a probably futile attempt to assert my masculinity.

“I was just reminding you that Maria ‘no speaka Inglés’, and your guests will all know that. So there’s no point in giving me orders in English. Have you got your cue cards handy?”

“Yes, yes,” she said patting the pocket of her cardigan. “Look, you will play nice, won’t you? You’re not going to spill a cup of coffee all over one of my guests or something, are you?

“Of course, I won’t!”

“And you will smile?”

“As long as you don’t give me a reason not to. I know you’re having a wonderful time humiliating me like this, but I warn you – I do have a breaking point.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, shuddering.

She was remembering our first real, no-holds-barred, skin-and-hair-flying fight, when she was thirteen and I was eleven. It was truly physical and my fury and total lack of control frightened her. I was the loser of that contest, being smaller and lighter, and was severely punished by our parents, but Anna emerged far from unscathed. I don’t even remember what the fight was about, but it was the first time she realised that she had gone too far. Certainly she was never quite so annoying ever again.

“You should try and enjoy this,” she pleaded. “It’s another performance, isn’t it? A challenge to your vaunted acting ability?”

“That might have been true a few weeks ago,” I said, “but being Maria isn’t a performance anymore, and it’s not really a challenge.”

I realised that was the first time I had admitted it to myself. I wasn’t acting Maria. I was Maria. But was I still Dave? Anna didn’t seem to notice my sudden jolt. I brushed past her on my way to the laundry basket.

“Ahora, disculpe, Señora. Debo continuar con la lavandería.”

Well I didn’t know how many loads of laundry there would be, so I needed to get on with it.

* * *

My vacuuming, cleaning and dusting were limited to upstairs so as not to disturb the bridge players. I was ironing quietly in the kitchen at eleven o’clock when Anna appeared to request refreshments.

She stood at the kitchen door and tried to say, “Café y galletas, por favor, María.”

Fortunately I knew what she wanted, as an actual Spanish maid would have struggled with her accent, but no doubt her guests were impressed. I interrupted the ironing to put the kettle on and prepare the cafétière and a teapot. I laid out a selection of biscuits on a large plate and fetched side plates, cups and saucers.

It turned out that Ruth was one of Anna’s Friday morning bridge set, so I saw her again when I took the coffee and biscuits in. As I set the tray down on the dining room table I realised that the ladies had been talking about me. I smiled and curtseyed but studiously ignored their conversation because of course as Maria I couldn’t understand them. Anna was smirking quietly to herself because she knew I could.

“Frankly to find someone who is friendly and obliging and doesn’t steal is a major achievement,” said Ruth. “If she does a good job too, that’s a bonus.”

“And Maria does a very good job,” said one of the others, apparently called Margie, “based on what I’ve heard – and seen at Dorothy’s.”

Ruth hastened to agree.

“Don’t let my sister-in-law hear you say that,” said Anna, “or she’ll put her prices up.”

“Still worth it,” said Ruth. “Plus Maria doesn’t speak English, so we can talk about her and she won’t understand.”

“Watch it,” said Anna. “She’s learning!”

They all laughed. I refilled their coffee cups and passed round the chocolate biscuits, giving no sign of understanding the conversation. I curtseyed a lot while I was serving, which Anna knew was sarcastic but everyone else thought was charming.

* * *

When I had finished clearing up after the bridge players’ refreshment break I went back to cleaning, washing and ironing for my sister. The ladies left just before one o’clock. At least two of them had to get back to organise lunch for their families.

I was on the upstairs landing as they were leaving and rushed down to help them with their coats. Margie was asking Anna for Sally’s – that is, our – phone number. She also wanted to book Maria to give her house a thorough spring-cleaning and to come for two hours a week thereafter. At this rate my dance card would be full even after I’d finished with the major spring cleans. So maybe we’d get some long-term benefit from my acting as my sister’s maid in front of her bridge friends.

“Thank you, Maria,” Anna said as I was packing up, a smug grin all over her stupid face. “You did very well. Same time next week?”

“Perdóneme, señora, yo no hablo ingles,” I said emphatically. “Por favour, hable con mi empleador.”

Anna’s black look almost made up for the humiliating morning. Not having to talk to my sister was an unforeseen benefit of becoming an ignorant immigrant girl who couldn’t speak English.

But that was the first time I had referred to my wife as my employer.

* * *

Friday afternoon was the first of my regular fortnightly visits to the Woodfords. My time at Anna’s had overrun but Sally was able to rush back from the bank on her lunch hour to give me a lift. Again I didn’t have time to change out of my maid’s uniform. Sally explained but I could see that Joyce had no complaints. In fact she was pleased and asked if I could always come in uniform. I still wasn’t happy about appearing in public in such a degrading outfit but what would be the point of arguing?

It was two weeks since I cleaned the Woodfords’ house from top to bottom and it was still looking reasonably neat and tidy, but it was such a big house that a proper clean would take me most of the afternoon.

Also the vacuuming and dusting had to be interspersed with doing the laundry. Three full washes were necessary. It was a good thing she had a tumble-dryer. Then there was a huge pile of ironing to do. In the end I was there for nearly four hours.

When Sally came to collect me, Joyce asked her if I would be able to come weekly – in my maid’s uniform. Sally quickly agreed. I just hoped I wouldn’t bump into Peter again. He’d started flirting when I was just in slacks and smock; there would be no stopping him if I was in my sexy uniform. It seemed everyone liked it except me – even my wife, who was supposed to be on my side, as I pointed out to her bitterly that evening.

“The señorita doth protest too much, methinks,” she said, without looking up from her computer.

Further discussion was interrupted by the house telephone. Sally reached for it but I was too quick for her. I grabbed the receiver.

“Dave Jackson,” I said, in my normal voice.

Sally looked horrified, but what the hell? I shrugged. At home I was going to take every available opportunity to be Dave, to remind my wife – and myself – who I really was. The caller couldn’t see what I looked like anyway.

“Hello, Mr Jackson,” came an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “My name is Pat Ashcroft. We haven’t met, but I used to run Pinner Maids. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

I had the presence of mind to put the phone on ‘speaker’ so that Sally could hear the conversation.

“Oh hello, Mrs Ashcroft,” I said. “We certainly have heard of you. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Well I understand that your wife is starting a cleaning business?” she said.

I was watching Sally’s face. Her eyebrows shot up.

“I’m retired, as you probably know,” Pat continued, “but I might be able to help. Several of my old clients are desperate for a reliable cleaning service to replace Pinner Maids, and I’m still in touch with many of the girls who used to work for me. They really need the work…”

She trailed off, obviously hoping to gauge my reaction. She sounded quite sincere.

“Well, it’s very kind of you to offer, Pat. I’ll need to check with my wife. Just a moment, please.”

I looked at Sally. She was thoughtful. She stepped up to the telephone.

“Hello, Pat,” she said into the microphone, “Sally Jackson here. This all sounds very exciting. I wonder: would you like to come over some time this weekend, so we can discuss it further? Or we could come to you?”

I shook my head vigorously. Dave certainly couldn’t go to Pat’s house and there would be no point in Maria going instead as she wouldn’t be able to contribute to the discussion.

“No, I’ll come to you, if that’s all right,” she said. “My place is in a bit of a state. How’s Sunday afternoon?”

“That would be great – say, two o’clock?”

Pat agreed and they exchanged addresses and telephone numbers.

“So we’re starting a business now, are we?” I said after Sally had hung up.

“We already have a business – J & J Services.”

“But that was the company I set up for my digital currency trading! We only need it so we can reduce our tax bill.”

“Well now J & J Services are branching out into Domestic Cleaning. It’s just that at the moment we only have one manager and one cleaner.” She grinned. “You can have the first ‘J’ for your app; I’ll have the second for my cleaning company.”

She was pacing up and down now. I knew better than to interrupt her at times like these. My role was just to slam the brakes on if she went too far, too fast.

“We’ll have to do some serious thinking,” she said. “We'll need business plans, financial models...” She looked up at me, her eyes flashing. “But if it’s viable I might be able to leave the bank, and it could be something to fall back on if the Tribunal doesn’t go our way. We should think about it anyway.”

“I guess it all depends on the numbers,” I said. “If I do two to three hours a week for each of Dorothy, Joyce, Dr H-S, Ruth and Margie, that’s still only about two-and-a-half days – not counting bloody Anna, of course. I need more clients to fill Maria’s week.”

“Yes, but as long as I’m still at the bank you’ll have to do most of the admin too – invoices, rosters, corporation tax, etc. I’ll be the Managing Director; you’ll be my secretary, as well as a cleaning lady.” She giggled. “We should get you a nice little skirt suit. You can sit on my knee and take dictation.”

“I’m already a director of J & J Services,” I protested.

“Dave is a director, but he isn’t around, is he?” she said, firmly.

“But I can’t help you ring up all Pat’s old clients as Maria.”

“I suppose not,” she admitted. “Okay, you can talk to clients as Dave, but by telephone only, obviously.”

“Well, there’s no point in thinking about it any further till we hear what Pat has to say,” I said. “I’m a little worried she might be trying to push her way back in. Dave will have to be out when she comes, of course, but Maria can serve refreshments, and potter around. If you meet with Pat in the dining room, I can listen in the kitchen through the serving hatch…”

* * *

My second free weekend as Maria arrived. No way was I going to wear a maid’s uniform or even a dress on a weekend if I didn’t have to. I spent Saturday trying out the clothes Dorothy gave me. When we went out to the shops for groceries and a lot of replacement cleaning materials (which we would charge our clients for), I was wearing a nice pair of white jeans and a lace top. Sally was quick to confirm that, yes, my bum definitely did look big in them. My big boobs lifted the delicate lace way up, revealing my flabby midriff.

As we had some spare time this weekend for once, we experimented with my hair. Sally helped me braid it and secured the braids round my head with pins. It felt a little like wearing a heavy helmet but my hair wasn’t in my way for the first time since Sharon put the extensions in.

I checked myself out in the mirror afterwards and realised my outfit and curvy figure were likely to attract a fair bit of attention, especially male attention. Oh well, if you’ve got it, flaunt it, I suppose.

* * *

After our shopping we had a lazy afternoon. We cooked dinner together and retired early.

I was getting quite good at removing my false bottom by now. I washed it and hung it up to dry on the shower rail. I went back to the bedroom wearing only a black vintage babydoll nightie from Dorothy’s collection. I was just stepping into the matching panties when my wife called from the bed to tell me not to bother…

* * *

Pat arrived promptly at 2 pm on Sunday. I was wearing a demure floral housedress (one of Dorothy’s) with Carol’s red cardigan and a brightly-coloured, Spanish-looking apron over it all. When the doorbell rang I scurried into the kitchen, while Sally went to answer the door. She showed Pat into the dining room, as planned, opened the serving hatch, and called through to the kitchen (in Spanish) to request tea for two. She left the hatch open so I could hear the conversation.

“Before we begin, Mrs Jackson…” said Pat. She had a very slight North London accent.

“Oh please call me Sally,” my wife said.

“…Sally, I just want to stress I really don’t want anything out of this for myself, if you were worrying that I’m trying to get back into the business through you.” She smiled, clearly a little embarrassed. “I’m quite secure, financially. I just want to help out my old clients and staff – and you with your new business.”

That was actually quite a relief. We’d been wondering if she had an angle.

“You probably know that we got in trouble because a couple of my girls started thieving,” she continued, clearly upset by the memory and the admission. “The police caught them eventually, you know, and all the rest of my maids were honest as the day is long. It’s not right they should suffer.”

“No, no,” Sally said. “I quite agree.”

“I had my suspicions about the two bad girls when I first met them, but I’d taken on too many clients and I was desperate. That would be the only advice I’d give you, by the way – you need to learn to say no, and not get greedy as I did.”

At that point I came in with a tray of tea and biscuits. Sally introduced me.

“This is Maria, Pat.” She turned to me and introduced Señora Pat Ashcroft to me, in Spanish.

“Maria’s actually my only cleaner at the moment. I can’t really call it a business yet, and I hadn’t intended to expand until you called.”

“Oh, I thought…” Pat sounded surprised. “Your sister-in-law said…”

At that point I nearly dropped the tray. A teaspoon clattered against a side plate, interrupting Pat’s flow. So Anna was going round telling everyone we were starting a cleaning business! Was she genuinely trying to help, or just trying to embarrass me in front of more people?

“Yes, Anna’s been very helpful,” said Sally smoothly. “I didn’t know you knew her…?”

“Oh everyone knows Anna,” Pat smiled. “She and Dorothy and I were talking at the Women’s Institute the other day. You must come along. Everyone is saying how good Maria is, but I didn’t realise she is your only cleaning lady. I understand she’s from Spain and is learning English?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Sally. “Slow progress, I’m afraid. She’s an excellent cleaner, but – between you and me – not terribly bright.”

My wife seemed to be catching the habit of teasing me from my sister. In Spanish she instructed me to introduce myself in English. They both turned to me. I handed Pat her teacup.

“Myee nem eez Mar-i-a,” I said haltingly, in a sing-song voice. “I ham ferry pleeze to mee choo.”

I did another of my not-quite-a-curtsey curtseys and scuttled back to the kitchen where I tried to sound busy while Sally and Pat laughed at my horrendous accent. Well, I’ll take it. Comic actors love to hear the sound of laughter from their audiences.

Pat got a small notebook out of her handbag and started reading through a list of potential clients.

“You can have this,” she said. “I originally started the business… oh, nearly thirty years ago now, after my husband died suddenly. It was just me and my two daughters. We were none of us any good at schoolwork, so we didn’t have much in the way of qualifications, and we didn’t like the idea of working in an office anyway. The business grew really quickly – I’m sure you’ll find the same. Most of the ladies round here work, and those who don’t are too posh to clean their own houses.”

She smiled. Yep, that describes my sister to a ‘T’, I thought.

“At one point I had more than twenty girls working for me,” Pat continued, “mostly part-time of course. We had clients all over Pinner, Watford, Harrow, even as far as Rickmansworth. Both my daughters ended up working in the office, only going out cleaning to fill in for the regular girls being sick or on holiday. Eventually two of my grand-daughters started working for us. In fact, they’re the girls I’d recommend you talk to first – Chloe and Fleur. They’re good, hard-working girls and I know I can trust them. They also need the money! If it takes off as I think it will, I can recommend another couple of really good girls.”

“Well, why don’t you bring Chloe and Fleur round?” Sally said. “Any evening this week would be fine. I’m still working full-time, but my husband, Dave, will be helping me. He’s out at the moment. I think this is very exciting! I’ll start ringing round the clients you gave me. If even half of them want to hire us, there’ll be enough work for Chloe, Fleur and Maria. But are you sure you don’t want anything out of this for yourself?”

“If you can give my grand-daughters some gainful employment, that will be quite enough for me…” she said. “Well I suppose there is one thing. I’m not as young as I was, and I really struggle with the housework myself these days. Perhaps one of your staff could clean for me too?” She smiled.

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Sally laughed.

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 10 – Our New Careers

Maria, the cleaning lady, gets a new boss (same as the old boss). Business booms.

Sally and I (as Dave) rang round Pat’s list of clients – nearly thirty in all. Dorothy, Joyce and Ruth were very willing to act as references, although they wanted Sally’s assurance that they wouldn’t lose Maria’s services. Some of the ladies on Pat’s list had already made alternative arrangements, but many were keen to talk further after checking with our referees. Some had already heard good things about us on the grapevine – which presumably meant Anna and Dorothy.

Sally interviewed Chloe and Fleur together. She met them in the dining room, with me as Maria in and out with refreshments and listening from the kitchen again through the serving hatch. They were cousins, not sisters, and they were very different, but they both seemed to be nice girls – friendly, boisterous, with an earthy sense of humour. They were obviously very fond of each other. Like the older women in the family neither girl was at all academic and both left school at sixteen with barely a GCSE between them. Nearly ten years later, nothing much had developed for them, career-wise.

Chloe was married to Harry, a plumber, actually a plumber’s mate, still learning the job. They had recently moved into a little house on the downmarket side of Pinner. Pat had helped them out with a deposit of three-quarters of the asking price – she wasn’t kidding when she said she was ‘financially secure’ from running Pinner Maids for thirty years – but she had insisted they take a mortgage and meet the payments themselves. Hence Chloe’s need for cleaning work – at least until Harry was fully qualified and earning properly. Then they wanted to start a family.

Fleur was single and lived with her mother, Pat’s older daughter. She seemed to be in no hurry to settle down. She was very attractive, as was evidenced by a string of boy-friends. Her mother and grandmother had indulged her ‘wild days’ for some time but had had enough by now, and that was why she too had to find honest work.

Sally introduced me to them as I came in with refreshments. She made it clear that I was ‘the help’ and employed as a cleaning lady by J & J Services. I played along, deferring to her politely and calling her ‘Señora'.

“Maria’s learning English,” Sally said, “but she has a way to go. Show them, Maria,” she added in Spanish.

“’Ello, lye-deez,” I began. “Ah yam Maria. Ah yam a clean-eeng lye-dee. Ah work for Señora Jackson.”

Both girls struggled to control their laughter at my terrible English. Sally smiled indulgently.

“So if you work together, you’ll probably have to talk to the clients for us,” she went on. “You’ll be representing J & J Services. I hope you’ll be comfortable with that?”

Both girls assured her that wouldn’t be a problem. They both obviously liked the idea of being ‘team leader’. I quietly determined that Maria would learn English more quickly than originally planned.

Sally promised the girls that she would be in touch as soon as she had firm orders from any of Pat’s old clients.

That happened quickly and Chloe and Fleur were soon engaged by J & J Services on a freelance contract basis.

* * *

Neither Chloe nor Fleur wanted to work full-time, while I, of course, very much needed to. I was used to cleaning for my existing clients by myself, but for the new ones we tried working in pairs. So I often found myself working with one of the other girls.

We got on very well but communication was a problem at first, so they both took a keen interest in helping me improve my English. They helped me learn the words for everything a cleaning lady did: dusting, vacuuming, ironing, and so on. I pretended to struggle with all the new vocabulary and had to think hard about how an ignorant Spanish girl would mangle the vowels in words like ‘tumble-dryer’. Chloe and Fleur giggled helplessly at my accent. They particularly enjoyed teaching me the names of the clothes as they came out of the washing machine.

“What’s this, Maria?” Chloe would say.

“Uno Sostén,” I’d say.

“It’s a bra,” Chloe would say.

“Brarre,” I’d repeat.

And she would laugh her head off, and repeat the exercise with another garment.

“Las bragas.”

“We say, knickers.”

“Neek-erse.”

Laughter.

But I was gradually able to improve my English over the next two months without raising any suspicions – at least for words that would come up in the daily duties of a cleaning lady. Thus Maria was able to operate more independently as she learnt the language, and I didn’t need to be so careful to pretend not to understand what was being said in my earshot. If I slipped, and showed I understood a word that wouldn’t be part of a housemaid’s everyday vocabulary, people simply assumed that it was something I had learned at home from Sally, my landlady and employer.

* * *

Our business took a big leap forward when Sally’s branch of the bank decided to terminate the contract of their current cleaning service, who had become lazy and complacent. Sally got wind of this early and quickly put in a bid. With her inside knowledge of the premises and excellent references from our existing clients, her tender was successful. So now Sally and Dave had to ring round more of Pat’s old contacts to find more staff. Till then Chloe, Fleur and I had an extra two hours work at the bank every day from five till seven. The girls were grateful for the overtime, though it limited Fleur’s social life and Harry had to start making his own dinners. I was a little less grateful, as I was now working a fifty-hour week. But at least the money was good.

Over the next three weeks Sally interviewed and hired three more girls, all highly recommended by Pat. Since she was still full-time at the bank, I had to do most of the rostering. I sent instructions via text messages from a spare phone, signing them as my wife. It was better that Dave take a back seat so that Sally could say he was away on business. I didn’t want any of the girls to start asking, “How come we talk to Mr Jackson on the telephone all the time, but never see him?”

Now that the business was taking off on a grander scale Sally decided to introduce a uniform to make us more distinctive. I argued against spending the money, but gave in because I could see how it would help the business. Nevertheless to control costs we agreed on just a cleaner’s smock in either pink or grey with our new ‘J & J’ logo on the left breast, worn with smart black leggings which the girls had to provide themselves.

Staff were allowed to wear maid’s dresses, but they would have to pay for them themselves, so no one else did. I was therefore the only J & J employee who wore a maid’s uniform. Sally arranged to have the logo added to all my dresses. (I wore a smock and leggings too whenever the client hadn’t explicitly asked me to wear a dress.)

So in the early days of our contract with the bank, Chloe, Fleur and I would rendezvous at their back door at ten to five. Chloe and Fleur did all the talking to the bank’s custodial staff of course, and they were very competent.

There were three floors to clean so we took one each, collecting our cleaning carts from the store in the basement and taking the lift to our assigned work areas.

Each floor had a kitchen with a small dishwasher, so our first job was to collect coffee cups and clear up any lunch detritus from the desks, and stack and start the dishwasher.

Then we made our rounds of the work areas, emptying the waste baskets into two big plastic sacks at the end of the cart, one for recyclables and one for rubbish. Then we would dust the surfaces, being careful not to disturb any papers (lots of people ignored the bank’s ‘clear desk’ policy); clean up any spills; and then vacuum.

By this time the dishwasher cycle would have finished, so we’d empty the cups and plates into the cupboards. Finally we tidied the kitchens and collected all the rubbish, taking it on our carts down to the basement and the large garbage disposal.

As for all of my – Maria’s – work as a cleaning lady, it was mindless activity and I found it calming, almost Zen. I found myself thinking of other more important things, though these days that was as much about developing our business as my money-making digital currency app. I thought about the admin, the rostering, how we would staff our rapid expansion. I was planning to set up a website for J & J Domestic Services. This was overdue and Sally had been nagging me about it.

Then I would turn around and see the beautifully clean and tidy bank offices and smile. I loved this job. When they saw me smiling happily, the other girls thought I was weird.

Chloe and Fleur both had little brothers. When the three of us chatted over our breaks they would often exchange stories of their awful siblings. I, that is, Maria, was an only child and anyway I had to pretend not to understand a lot of their conversation, but some of their complaints were familiar. Hearing the horror stories of the big sister – little brother relationship from the sister’s side made me more sympathetic to Anna.

So she was a little surprised when I went out of my way to hug her the next Friday morning before the bridge ladies arrived.

“What on earth was that for, young lady?” she asked.

“Can’t I hug my big sister who’s been so kind to me?” I asked.

“Are you quite well?” she asked. “Have you got some terminal illness, or something? Anyway, get off! I can’t let my friends see my maid hugging me.”

‘Right!’ I thought. ‘That’s the first and last time I show her any affection.’

“You’ve got a ladder in your tights, by the way,” she added. “I hope you’ve got a spare pair in your handbag.”

* * *

Sally was in her element. She was always good at organisation and telling everyone what to do, so she was born to run a company. She took on more staff to support the ever-growing client base. She interviewed every new cleaner personally; insisted on at least two references, which she always checked; and made sure she partnered each new member of staff with an existing, trusted girl (sometimes me). She also visited the client’s house whenever a new girl was deployed there, to see her in action for herself. She was determined that J & J wouldn’t run into the kind of problems that killed Pinner Maids.

Things began to settle into a routine for us over the next three months. The business continued to grow and was starting to make serious money. I helped by computerising our invoicing and payroll, using freeware for small businesses. We were charging our clients the same rates Maria had got from Dorothy, Joyce and Ruth in the early days, but none of them objected, as we were developing a reputation for excellence. Sally made sure the quality of our work was exceptional.

I set the company’s standards. I drafted work instructions for every type of cleaning job and these were distributed to each new member of staff as they joined. Of course, none of the others knew that Maria had written them – how could she have, with her poor command of English? They thought it was all Sally’s work.

Our staff were always ‘cleaning ladies’, never ‘maids’. (I insisted on that even though most of my clients liked me to wear one of my maid’s uniforms.) Our ladies were required to be conscientious. Slapdash work would not be tolerated. They mostly toed the line. Those who didn’t weren’t offered many shifts and Sally made sure they understood why. With our clients’ enthusiastic cooperation, she carried out surprise inspections to make sure everyone followed the guidelines. Most of the girls didn’t mind anyway. They were all making more than they had when they worked for Pat. Pinner Maids hadn’t been exactly ‘cheap and cheerful’ but J & J was a premium service. We were practically a status symbol for Pinner ‘ladies of the house’.

The company still made a 25% mark-up on each hour worked by our staff. I was working forty to fifty-hour weeks, but I took no salary as Maria. Our revenue came from dividends paid to the company directors according to their shareholdings. Phil acted as our accountant. He assured us our arrangements were legal and minimised our tax burden. Soon we were doing very well and were much less worried about meeting our mortgage payments.

We eventually decided that we could afford for Sally to leave her dispiriting job at the bank and devote herself to running the company full-time. So then I was a company director, website designer, and Sally’s secretary, but mostly a humble but happy cleaning lady.

* * *

Around about the end of my third month as Maria I realised I wasn’t acting as a cleaning lady anymore. It had all become real. I had even started thinking in Spanish. I was Maria; she had fully materialised as a person in her own right; and she was completely different from Dave. I was used to being told what to do now, by my clients, and by the Señora. Dave might not have liked it much, but I, Maria, was completely comfortable with it all.

It was different when Sally and I were alone together. We were equals as we always had been, not mistress and maid, but even then my posture, movements, gestures and mannerisms were entirely feminine. It was too difficult to switch between Dave and Maria, so I stayed as Maria all the time.

What was even better, I realised I was getting used to being Maria – reconciled to being her, even happy to be her. I stopped worrying about Sally no longer thinking of me as a husband; or that she might start looking for a real man to replace her sissy secretary and maid (I mean, cleaning lady). She had long ago convinced me that she found me equally attractive as Maria, if not more so.

Now that we had a little more money, I let Sally persuade me to buy some sexy evening wear and go to a beauty parlour. We both enjoyed getting me dressed up to go out on the town, my hair in a fancy style, dramatic evening make-up, my voluptuous figure in a killer frock – plus size, of course.

I looked for dresses that displayed my décolletage to best effect. Some of them were quite short; Sally persuaded me I had good legs – for a ‘fuller-figured’ girl anyway. I found I liked to wear stockings, despite their obvious inconvenience, and I loved petticoats. They just felt so sexy.

When Sally first saw me done up to the nines, she couldn’t control herself and dragged me upstairs, where she quickly undid what had taken me the best part of two hours to do.

We started going out together at weekends into London, or anywhere a good distance away from Pinner. On one occasion we were walking from the underground to a night club in Soho and I became aware we were being followed by two men, who weren’t trying too hard to keep their conversation private.

“Have you seen that fat bird’s arse?” one of them said. “It’s like two huge sacks of jelly!” Which of course wasn’t far from the truth. “Can you imagine what her knickers must be made of to keep that lot under control?”

I’d wondered myself, so I’d looked it up. Spandex is a synthetic material primarily made of polyurethane polymer.

His friend laughed. “I’d give her one though, wouldn’t you?”

I was blushing big-time now. It felt like my face was glowing like a furnace.

“Well, yeah, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. It would be like rolling around on a pile of pillows. But have you seen her friend? Fuckin’ gorgeous. Could be a beauty queen! Wonder where they’re going?”

At that point Sally and I turned into a well-known gay club. Our admirers’ disappointment was obvious.

“Shit! Shit!”

Sally took my hand and grinned at me. I smiled back.

“I’ve never seen you blushing like that,” she said.

“What about you, ‘Miss Pinner 2018’?”

We often went to gay clubs where two ladies dancing and smooching together wouldn’t attract attention, but occasionally we went to ordinary night clubs and allowed ourselves to be picked up. She was much more attractive than me obviously, but some men seemed to like my voluptuous figure and exotic Spanish accent.

We never let it go too far though. Sally was very clear that she didn’t want to have sex with another man, but she was curious, maybe even a little excited, about the idea of me letting a man have his way with me. She threatened to slip some Rohypnol in my drink when I wasn’t looking. I think she was joking.

I couldn’t help but wonder whether my abdominal prosthesis could accommodate a man, assuming he could get my heavy-duty knickers off…? Or whether I might have to try one of the other well-known ways to satisfy him. But I wasn’t gay and couldn’t imagine doing that. Besides, I didn’t want Sally to go with another man either, so obviously I couldn’t.

My usual excuse was that I had work in the morning. Of course when Monday came around I had to go back to being a drab cleaning lady. It wouldn’t do to let our clients – or our staff – think that Maria was a wealthy good-time girl only moonlighting as a cleaner.

* * *

But while I was perfectly happy in my role as Maria, we knew it wasn’t a long-term option. There were too many things that could go wrong. So we were looking forward to the Tribunal. Then I could give up cleaning and Dave could come back permanently.

The first development on that front was a phone call from Bill Rafferty, a solicitor recommended to me and paid for by the bank. He asked lots of questions, and we exchanged many more telephone calls and emails. He was very keen to arrange a face-to-face meeting, which I was equally keen to avoid, for obvious reasons.

At first I was concerned that I would be stitched up – after all Bill’s fees would be covered by the bank unless I won my case – but in our conversations he convinced me that he was completely on my side. He had the papers the bank’s lawyer had prepared, and he faithfully recorded everything I told him in my defence and turned it into an appropriate deposition in legal language.

When I asked him (over the telephone) whether he thought we would win, he hesitated.

“It’s tricky,” he said. “It’s fairly obvious you haven’t done anything that’s really wrong. You haven’t tried to defraud anyone. You weren’t acting in competition with the bank in any area in which you have been employed. But Atkinson Stern is a competitor in other areas, and you are technically in breach of your contract. To be honest, I think this is more about a settlement, and what they really want from you.”

That wasn’t very encouraging, especially if Lawrence was involved. I would need to take the Tribunal very seriously.

* * *

At lunchtime one Wednesday I got a telephone call from the bank on my cheap mobile. (Maria obviously couldn’t afford an expensive smartphone.) Fleur and I were in Joyce’s kitchen. I was, as usual, ironing. Seeing the Caller ID, I excused myself and went into the back garden to answer.

Almost six months to the day since I was suspended, the bank was ready to proceed to Tribunal. The hearing was set for the following Monday morning at their headquarters in the City. I immediately called Bill and Sally. She told my clients for the remainder of the week that ‘something had come up at home’ and I would be unavailable for a while; and, no, she didn’t know when I would be back. We arranged for other girls to cover my shifts.

So my last day as Maria, the cleaning lady and reluctant maid, had arrived and we arranged an appointment at Transformations to bring Dave back. I had been there several times over the last few months for waxing – which got steadily less painful – and maintenance of my prosthetics, skin and hair, but on all those visits I knew I would leaving again as Maria. This would be very different.

Luckily they had a slot available on Friday. Sally dropped me off with a suitcase containing Dave’s clothes.

“It will be great to see my husband again,” she said, smiling, although I felt she might have spoken with a little more enthusiasm.

Angela, the receptionist, welcomed me and called Vera.

“You look wonderful, Maria,” she said. “You’ve really blossomed. Are you sure you want to go back to being a man?”

I realised I had been wondering that myself. The last six months had been unexpectedly happy and fulfilling. But it was a fantasy, and more than slightly perverted, so I confirmed my wishes.

“Very well, then,” she said. “Follow me.”

I stripped off and packed my dress, tights and shoes in the suitcase. The first job was to remove all my prosthetics: Maria’s nose, cheeks, chin, ginormous boobs, buttocks and hips. A short, thin man with a familiar long face gradually emerged from under the fat little female body. As a result of months of hard physical graft I had gained some muscle, but had lost more than ten pounds in all. I was hard and wiry, but also the skinniest I had been in my entire adult life.

I was genuinely astonished at how light and agile I felt afterwards, though I almost fell over backwards when I stood up, my centre of gravity having changed so much. Looking down, it was a surprise to be able to see my feet again without turning sideways. I had gotten used to only being able to see a pair of giant breasts. I realised to my surprise that I was going to miss them, and their matching buttocks.

“We’ll keep your prosthetics for a month or so,” said Vera, as if reading my mind, “just in case.”

“I won’t need them,” I said, scornfully. “My next performance won’t involve female impersonation.”

“Still,” she grinned, “you’d be surprised how many people in your position change their minds.”

I didn’t believe she had ever met anyone ‘in my position’, but I didn’t say so.

“I strongly recommend you wait a while before ‘purging’ your collection of women’s clothes too,” she continued.

I packed Maria’s bra and panties in my suitcase with just a hint of regret. I pulled on a pair of Dave’s underpants and some of his socks. They felt rough on my skin. Presumably that would change when my body hair returned.

My next appointment was with Sharon at the Transformations hairdresser salon.

“I know you need to go back to looking like a man, Maria,” she said, pointedly sticking to the only name she knew me by, “and obviously you need a serious trim. Only hippies and rock stars have hair down to the middle of their backs. But I recommend we don’t go too short, just in case you change your mind.”

Her too?

“Not going to happen,” I said.

“Well, I’ll go short enough that you can look entirely male by putting it in a trendy low ponytail, or female again just by styling it differently and setting it with hair spray. It can’t hurt to keep your options open, can it?”

“I suppose not.”

“I need to dye it back to your original colour now,” Sharon said. “I’m afraid that’s going to take a while. I need to bleach out the black colouring first. I would normally recommend using a clarifying shampoo to do this as there’s much less risk of damaging your hair, but that would take several washes over a period of weeks to work, so that’s out. The product I’m using is a specially designed colour remover. It attacks the molecules of the original hair dye. It’s less harsh than bleach, though there is still some risk of damage to your hair. Unfortunately it probably won’t restore your natural colour – most people come out looking a bit orange – so we’ll have to use another dye to get back to your original mousy brown. But we took plenty of photos back then of course, so I know what product to use.”

She set to work with her colour removers and dyes. As usual we chatted as she worked. She asked me about my experiences as a woman over the last six months, but I parried most of her questions politely. I liked Sharon a lot, but the fewer people who knew about what I had been doing, the better. She didn’t seem offended by my reticence, and gradually the conversation gave way to silence. I dozed through most of the two hours her work on my hair took.

When she finished trimming and combing it through, I stared at my image in the mirror. I looked very much like how I had in my first year of university. In fact, with my weight loss and my ‘long-haired student’ hairstyle I looked eighteen again, except that the anti-androgen cream I’d been using meant that I hadn’t even the beginnings of a beard. In fact, faint residual traces of Maria’s make-up made me look like an off-duty drag artist. Sharon saw the problem.

“It might help if I add some sideburns and a little five o’clock shadow,” she suggested. “I can bulk up your eyebrows too. All easily reversible if you change your mind.”

I let her do that, but I decided not to bother asking her to remove the skin dye or my lip filler. I had taken out and discarded the last of my dark contact lenses, so I looked enough like Dave again now. If anyone asked, I could just say that I had spent part of my enforced suspension sunbathing in Spain.

I hung up the Transformations smock I’d been wearing over my male underwear and got some of Dave’s clothes out of the suitcase. I dressed in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, both of which were baggy on me because of my weight loss.

I was glad to be able to put my wedding ring on again, and exchange Maria’s little ladies’ watch for my old cheap but masculine Casio.

* * *

Sally came to collect me later in the afternoon. I was waiting in Reception. I stood up when she came in. She did a comical double-take when she saw me.

“My God, I almost didn’t recognise you!” she laughed. “It's been ages... and I had no idea you’d lost so much weight under all that…” She trailed off.

“Not too much of a disappointment, I hope?”

“Of course not, silly!” She reached up to give me a kiss. “Nice to be able to do that in public again,” she said.

“You kissed Maria in public all the time.”

“Not where we might be seen by anyone we knew,” she said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that it might take me a while to get used to being Dave again.”

“I can see that,” she said. “Look at how you’re standing, for a start.”

“Huh?”

“One foot in front of the other with your hand on your hip. Also you’re thrusting your boobs out at me, even though you haven’t got any anymore.”

I shuffled my feet and tried to stand in a more manly manner.

“Also, your hands…” I looked down, puzzled. “Your wrists are cocked; your palms are downwards; and your fingers are extended. That stance makes you look… effeminate.” She tutted. “Oh, stick your hands in your pockets, or something.”

I picked up my suitcase, now filled with Maria’s clothes. Sally led the way to the car. As we approached she dropped back. I turned to see her watching me.

“You’re walking funny now. You're wiggling your bottom the way a woman does, but you don't have big hips or a fat bum anymore and you're not wearing high heels. Can't you just try to put one foot in front of the other, like a man?”

“It's a habit,” I said, embarrassed. “I'm sure I can break it. It's just a matter of practice.”

I put the suitcase down and walked back towards her, concentrating on walking like John Wayne.

“Right,” she said, sceptically. “There's no need to swagger, for heaven's sake. Take longer strides – you've gotten used to taking mincing little steps. Swing your arms more.”

“You originally trained me to move like a woman,” I said. “I may need your help to go back.”

“I have personal experience of female movement!” she snorted, opening the door of the car. “I don’t know how to move like a man.”

“You seem to be doing a good job of pointing out when I don’t!” I said.

“I’m only trying to help,” she said. “Come on then, get in.”

“I should drive,” I said. “I always used to drive us when I was Dave – before, I mean. Besides I haven't driven for six months. I need the practice.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

She’d always liked being chauffeur-driven. She went round to the passenger door while I put the suitcase in the boot. I opened the driver's door and sat down.

“That was wrong too,” she said.

“What now?”

“You got in like you were still in your maid's uniform: turning round, dropping your bum down onto the seat and then swinging your legs in – the way a woman gets in a car when she's wearing a tight dress. You're wearing trousers now; you won't show the world your knickers if you get in one leg at a time.”

And so it went on all day. When we got home I made some tea, resisting the temptation to put on an apron. We took it into the sitting room. I had just sat down when I heard her sigh.

“You're sitting like a woman.”

I was sitting upright with my legs together demurely, and my hands were on my knees. I sat back and relaxed.

“Better,” she said, “but not quite right yet.”

I looked blank.

“Men don’t cross their legs like that. In fact, they usually don’t cross their legs at all. Open yourself up.”

I sat back and splayed my legs.

“Like this?” She nodded. “It feels weird,” I said. “Practically indecent!”

* * *

Over the weekend we tried to get out and about as much as possible. On the Saturday morning we made for the shopping centre after breakfast. Sally and Maria had promised to do some shopping for Dorothy as usual, but as we weren’t available on the usual Friday afternoon, we had to get her groceries and drop them off a day late. She had confirmed that she could manage till then.

After getting Dorothy’s and our own groceries, we left the shopping in the car boot. Then we went back for a coffee and window-shopped for new clothes for me – for Dave, that is. I was wearing a typical casual outfit but everything felt heavy and rough and fitted badly. It was ironic that as Maria I had been much too fat to wear Dave’s clothes, but now new Dave was too thin for them. I suggested we at least buy me a new suit for the Tribunal, but Sally said we should wait. After all, if I was no longer doing fifty hours a week of hard physical graft carrying forty pounds of surplus fat, I’d probably regain the weight I had lost quite quickly.

We delivered Dorothy’s shopping at around lunchtime. She was pleased to finally meet me.

“We were beginning to think you’d left her, or something,” she said mischievously. “I just wish I could see you clearly. You sound handsome.”

“Oh he is,” said Sally, surprisingly. “I wouldn’t settle for anything less. It’s just a shame that his work takes him away from home so much.”

“But we’re hoping that will change soon,” I added, unpacking her groceries into her cupboards. I hoped she wouldn’t notice that Dave knew where everything went.

“And how is Maria?” Dorothy asked.

“Oh she’s fine,” said Sally smoothly. “Some sort of family crisis back in Spain.” Dorothy looked concerned. “It seems that it’s all under control, but she doesn’t know when – or if – she’ll be back. But don’t worry, we have other girls now. We’ll make sure you’re not left high and dry.”

“Well that’s kind, but I will miss Maria. She’s a lovely girl, and her English is coming on very well. We have nice chats now.”

That was a slight exaggeration. Our chats tended to be limited to topics such as washing, ironing, and cleaning. I could never allow Maria to be chatty. It would be too easy to give myself away in an unguarded moment.

We debated introducing Dave to some of Maria’s other clients, so that Sally could show everyone that she really did have a husband after all, but it seemed like an unnecessary risk. Of course I looked very different from Maria now; also I could speak good English and make my voice sound very different from hers. But there might be other giveaway clues – especially if I accidentally said something only Maria would know, or did something effeminate. Better to let their memories of Maria fade a little, and give me a chance to cement my restored masculine identity.

* * *

We went out for dinner with Anna and Phil on Saturday night. Anna kept looking at me strangely.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I confronted her.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “It’s just that it’s fascinating. You’ve changed so much.”

“Well of course I have,” I scoffed. “I’ve stopped playing the fat immigrant cleaning lady, and I’m back to being your annoying brother.”

“No, it’s more than that.” She was thoughtful. “I can see both Maria and the old you in there. It’s as though you have two personalities, competing for control. When Maria is on top, you’re softer, quieter, courteous. Then it’s as though you’ve remembered who you’re supposed to be, and Dave pushes back into the conversation, loud, rude and contradictory.”

“Hey, I’m not like that!” She raised an eyebrow. “Well, not to anyone else – just you!”

“You certainly don’t treat Sally that way, I agree, but that’s only because she got the measure of you years ago. I doubt anyone else would put up with your histrionics.”

I turned to Phil and Sally for support. Sally was grinning and nodding.

“She’s exaggerating,” said Phil, “but she’s not completely out of order. To be honest, you’re as bad as each other.”

Anna had a face like thunder. Phil would be for it when they got home.

“You’re both good company though,” he laughed. “It’s never dull when you two start on each other.”

I had never understood the dynamics of their marriage. I now realised I had been wrong about Phil all these years. He wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Anna. He indulged her because he loved her, but he certainly wasn’t afraid of her. My opinion of him shot up.

The rest of the evening went very well. We were all laughing together by the end. Several bottles of good wine were consumed. In the end we were glad we had come in a taxi.

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 11 – The Tribunal

Dave returns to the bank face the music. Is this the end of his career as Maria, the cleaning lady?

I showed up at the bank’s headquarters that fateful Monday in my best suit, now a size or two too big for me, and with my dyed hair in a discreet low ponytail. I was smart enough but I guess I must have looked worn and haggard. Maybe I would get the sympathy vote.

The first surprise was that the loathsome Lawrence was nowhere to be seen. I was very pleased that the Tribunal chairman was Harry, my old boss and Lawrence’s predecessor. While we were waiting for the other panellists to arrive, he quietly explained that Lawrence had left the company since I had gone on my enforced suspension. He lowered his voice and looked around surreptitiously to make sure no one was within earshot.

“Lawrence was a dick,” he said, “and he obviously took a personal dislike to you, probably because he recognised how much brighter you are than he is. I always saw that as a good thing, myself. A sensible manager is perfectly happy to have people working for him who are cleverer than he is. He can claim the credit for their ideas.”

He grinned. I had really missed Harry.

“Look,” he said, turning serious for a moment. “I know lots of people do what you did. Nobody cares if staff use their computers to browse the internet, or record a TV programme remotely, or write little programs to switch the central heating on and off at home. Even using the bank’s resources to pursue your own little project is fine as long as it doesn’t interfere with your work. What you did wasn’t so very different and most of us managers would never do what Lawrence did. Unfortunately your project was too successful. You made too much money, and Lawrence saw it as a way to create a new revenue stream for the bank and claim the credit. As I said, he is a dick, but a lot of the money-grubbers around here don’t think he was entirely wrong.”

He sighed and gave me a sad look.

“It would all have been very different if you’d told someone what you were doing. There’s every likelihood we would have backed you. We might have built a whole new division around you to offer digital currency trading.”

“I would have done exactly that if you’d still been my boss, Harry,” I said, “but there was no way I was going to trust Lawrence with my brainchild! He’d have stolen it and shut me out!”

“I understand,” he said, “and you’re probably right. It’s a shame, but I don’t think you’re going to win this. I just hope we can come to a fair settlement.”

Shit! I had hoped Harry would be on my side, but even he thought I was going to lose…

At that moment Bill, my lawyer, turned up. We shook hands. This was the first time we’d met face to face.

“We’ve agreed that you won’t be asked to speak,” he said, after an exchange of pleasantries. “Everything you might say is in the deposition anyway. It’s possible they might ask some clarifying questions but it’s unlikely. The facts are pretty simple and aren’t in dispute.”

That made sense to me. I’d already told Bill everything and he had skilfully drafted my arguments in writing far better than I could say them in words under potentially hostile questioning in the heat of the Tribunal room. We took our seats.

There followed nearly two hours of depositions and legal arguments, most of which I didn’t understand. They kept referring to my contract. I could tell that some of the panel of five were sympathetic. There was a representative of the bank’s professional body, a sort of white-collar union, but Bill said he was only there to ensure the correct procedure was followed. He would see that I wasn’t wronged or victimised, but he wasn’t there to speak on my behalf.

A Spanish Technical Director I had known slightly while we were in Madrid said that I was too promising an engineer to lose; but a saturnine woman from London Human Resources said it was a matter of trust, and a star performer who couldn’t be trusted was too dangerous to keep on.

They retired for private discussion just before lunch. We were told to return at two o’clock.

When we reconvened, it was clear that they had spent the best part of an hour and a half in heated debate, and they were still arguing when they sat down.

Eventually Harry turned to me and summed up. He clearly wasn’t happy.

“I’m sorry, David, but the majority of the Tribunal panel find that you are in breach of your contract. As such, we have no choice but to terminate your employment.”

So that was it; it was all over. What were we going to do now?

“However,” he went on, when he saw my face fall, “that’s mainly the view of our Legal and HR people, and they don’t run the bank… yet.”

He frowned at the evil-looking HR woman and an equally sour-faced fat man who presumably was from Legal Services. They seemed to find the papers in front of them especially fascinating.

“So we hope we’ve come up with a Settlement Agreement that will satisfy all parties,” Harry continued. “I’ll describe it to you now in plain English, but Mr Rafferty will go through the Agreement in detail with Mr Spratt of the bank’s Legal Department later, and advise you of any niceties.”

Bill looked interested. The fat man blinked at the mention of his name.

“The bank maintained that it should have a claim on the revenues generated by your digital currency app because its resources were used during its development, but as no bank infrastructure was involved in the actual delivery of the service, nor were any of our consumables used, the Panel believes it would be inappropriate to pursue any such claim…”

The fat Mr Spratt winced at this. He clearly voted against that, and felt that Harry was saying things that would put the bank in a dubious position legally, but Harry was too decent a person to hide behind legalese obfuscation.

“…provided that a satisfactory working relationship be put in place for the future. We therefore propose the following. It will of course be up to you to decide whether or not to accept this, and Mr Rafferty will advise you appropriately, but you should understand that what I’m about to say comes as a package. Failure to agree to any element will invalidate the entire deal, and that may result in litigation, which I imagine none of us wants?”

He paused for breath. No one spoke up.

“First, all the funds in the escrow account will be released immediately for the exclusive use of Mr Jackson. The bank will make no further claim on them.”

Whew! I had no idea how much was there but I suspected that we would have no further problems meeting our mortgage payments, at least for the moment. Bill nudged me and grinned. I grinned back.

“Second, the bank will take over the management of the service, collection of revenues, first-line customer support, etc. Once that happens, future revenues will be divided in equal shares – 50/50 – between the bank and Mr Jackson. We will be happy to pay Atkinson Stern a reasonable sum to continue to advertise the service on their website if they wish it, but they will receive no revenue from the service itself, and clicking on the link on their website will redirect the customer to us.”

That shouldn’t be a problem. I had never paid for the advertisement on the Atkinson Stern website. They only benefitted from the additional traffic the service brought to their site. That had seemed enough to them at first, but they might have been re-thinking that when it started to take off. Too late now. I hoped Danny wouldn’t be criticised for not making more of the opportunity.

“IPR?” said Bill. I assumed he was talking about the Intellectual Property Rights for the app.

“I was coming to that,” said Harry. “Thirdly, the IPR for the app will be jointly owned, going forward, by the bank and Mr Jackson. Neither will be permitted to make any changes to the service without the permission of the other. Both will benefit equally from any further developments.”

Bill was thoughtful. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it to me. It read, “That might not be good for you. But let’s see the whole package first.”

I think I understood what was on his mind. The money was important, obviously, but the IPR was potentially far more valuable.

Harry had paused politely when he saw our exchange. When we looked up at him again, he continued.

“Fourthly, Mr Jackson will be retained by the bank on our standard freelance contractor terms and at a rate of £1,000 per day for ‘support and development services’. It is of course impossible to say how many man-days of Mr Jackson’s time will be required in any given financial year – that will depend on service take-up, what kind of support customers might need, what opportunities may arise for further development, etc – but we are prepared to guarantee at least fifty days per year. For what it’s worth, my personal opinion is that it’s likely to be considerably more than that for at least the first two years. This is a fast-changing area, after all.”

So if all else fails we will get £50,000 a year for about two and a half months work? Result! Harry had nearly finished now.

“One more thing: it’s normal to forbid anyone leaving the bank to return as a contractor for at least six months, but HR have agreed that the six months suspension you’ve already served will count as that. So if you agree to these terms, your freelance contract can begin immediately.”

The sour-faced HR woman looked even more sour-faced, if that was possible. She had obviously only agreed to that under pressure.

“Now I won’t ask for your commitment until you’ve had all this in writing and Mr Rafferty has had the chance to check it,” Harry went on, “but could I ask you for your initial reaction – without prejudice, of course?”

I looked at Bill. I whispered to him that I thought the generous financial arrangements and the freelance contract more than compensated for the loss of half the IPR. After all, they still couldn’t exploit my concepts without my say-so. He nodded.

“If Bill approves the Agreement, I’ll be satisfied,” I said. “Thank, you, Harry.”

The meeting broke up.

* * *

The goblins from Legal and HR left the room. I thanked Bill for all his efforts as he went off with Spratt. Harry came over to me.

“Most of the arguments over lunch were about whether we could keep you on the staff,” he said. “I felt it would be better to have you ‘in house’ doing everything you’ll now be doing as a contractor, but when I realised I wasn’t going to win that one, I negotiated on your behalf for as much as possible. Those bureaucratic idiots don’t seem to realise what they’ve lost. I’m pretty sure you’ll be much better off with this arrangement – at least financially. It’s our loss. Also as an approved contractor, we may be able to put other work your way – stuff that has nothing to do with digital currencies.”

“Fantastic! You’re a true friend, Harry. You must let me know if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”

“It was a pleasure. You didn’t deserve what was going to happen.” He paused. “Actually there is something you might be able to do. You and Sally run a cleaning company in Pinner, don’t you? We live in Harrow. My wife can’t find good household help for love or money. Do you have anyone available?”

“I’m sure we do,” I said. “We were looking to expand in your direction anyway.”

I gave him a J & J Services business card.

“Great, thanks! By the way, do you know how much is actually in your escrow account?”

“No, I haven’t been able to access it – for obvious reasons.”

“Well, there was about £50,000 a few months ago, and that’s the figure the panel saw. I checked more recently. There’s just under a million there now. The revenue flow went up tenfold as a result of that tweak you made to the risk algorithm. I didn’t tell anyone on the panel that, or they might have insisted we pursue our claim. Mum’s the word!”

“Holy mackerel! We’ll clean your house for free, Harry!”

* * *

So the Tribunal was a mixed success. My high-flying career in banking IT was definitely over.

On the other hand, we recovered the money my crypto-currencies app had earned, and it looked like it would earn a lot more, at least for a while. I had never actually speculated with our own money of course – we didn’t have any – but my algorithms meant that I made money from all my clients’ transactions whether they were successful or not. I just made even more if they made profits – sometimes quite obscene amounts, thanks to the peculiar roller-coaster performance of digital currencies. Also the service was now totally legitimate and backed by one of the biggest financial institutions in the world – and I had a freelance support contract which would supplement our income nicely!

* * *

So on the whole I reckoned we came out ahead. Our money worries were finally behind us. Sally was over the moon. We paid off our mortgage entirely; repaid Anna and Phil for the Transformations’ fees; took out a savings account; bought a state-of-the-art home cinema and a new, flashier car; and so on.

Sally took out a lease on a small serviced office for the cleaning business. It was on the industrial estate just outside town. I helped set it up, installing a Local Area Network with some cheap computers, and loaded simple freeware scheduling and accounting systems.

It took a little while to make the arrangements for the bank to take over the app. It had to be transferred to their servers, which had a bundle of security measures that my own private server didn’t need, plus a similar number of banking regulations to comply with, not to mention the European Commission’s General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR). None of it made any difference to the service to customers, but it took me at least a month of hard work to tick all the boxes. Still that was paid for out of my contractor fees, so that frustrating, pettifogging, time-wasting exercise in pointlessness netted me about twenty grand. I have no complaints.

I also had to work things out with Danny. He had been a lifesaver and I really hoped he and Atkinson Stern wouldn’t lose out from the bank taking over. But it turned out he wasn’t around. He had made partner a little while ago, and new partners have to take a sabbatical within two years of promotion, so he was on a break. No one seemed to know where he’d gone. I tried calling his wife, Jackie. She was friendly but said she couldn’t reach Dan just at the moment. She was sure he wouldn’t be at all upset about the app though, and would just be glad he’d been able to help.

[If you’re interested in what happened to Dan, check out Inter-Submission by the same author.]

I went back to Danny’s deputy at Atkinson Stern and we agreed that they would keep the link up and the bank would pay them a small monthly fee for the space on their website. I promised to update it with more details and new branding. He even asked if I would be interested in doing some IT work for them. I was encouraging but pointed out that I was on a retainer with my old employer and wouldn’t be able to help with anything that might be competition for them. We parted friends.

So I was quite busy for a month or so after the Tribunal, but things settled down after that. I was still able to charge about a day a week to the bank for various maintenance and support services, but for the moment I had run out of new ideas for the app, so I didn’t attempt any development work. Everything was running smoothly on the bank’s platform anyway, and the money was pouring into J & J Services’ business account. Although I only got to keep half of my app’s revenues now, it was still a lot more than the cleaning business earned.

It also gave Phil plenty to do as our accountant. I felt guilty for taking up so much of his spare time and suggested I hire someone, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said he enjoyed the challenges of managing the tax affairs of our strange new online business, and anyway he felt he should make up for how Anna had treated me as Maria.

I seemed to have managed to keep my weight steady and Sally finally agreed that I needed new clothes for my thinner, wirier figure, so one weekend we went to a couple of men’s outfitters before doing our grocery shopping. I got a new pair of jeans and some smart chinos, and I was looking at jackets, but I couldn’t really get into the shopping the way I had as Maria. Men’s clothes were boring; they were just clothes.

I was also still acting as Sally’s secretary, computerising all the admin, managing the rosters, and answering the phone when she was out meeting clients or checking up on her staff. She also insisted I went back to keeping our house clean and tidy since she was working flat out and I was – apparently – sitting round doing nothing. That was no problem. It took me back to the days pre-Maria, and before our money troubles began. I enjoyed housework. I was even starting to enjoy ironing. It was therapeutic; it calmed me down; and I was sure it would only be a matter of time before my empty mind would come up with new ideas for money-spinning apps.

The only other change was that our sex life wasn’t quite as wild and passionate as it had been. Still, apart from that, I was more or less content… for a while…

* * *

Unfortunately none of these activities filled my day. I found one morning, when Sally had gone out at eight-thirty, that I could do the cryptic crossword, and the quick crossword, and the Sudoku, and read the bridge column, then do that day’s household chores, and it wasn’t half-past eleven yet. So I set the house business phone to forward all calls to my mobile and wandered over to my sister’s place. She normally made coffee around now.

I had to be careful visiting Anna during the day in case one of Maria’s clients was there. She probably wouldn’t connect Dave with Maria, but why take the risk? Anyway, there were no cars outside so I reckoned it was safe. Being used to going in the ‘Servants’ Entrance’ I entered through the back door and called to announce my arrival. An answering voice came from the sitting room.

I was surprised to see Dorothy there, but then I realised she would have come in a taxi. Aware that her eyesight wasn’t up to recognising a new face in the room Anna hastened to introduce me.

“Oh I knew who it was as soon as I heard his voice,” Dorothy said. “Nothing wrong with my hearing, you know.”

So it was a good thing that Maria had always spoken in a high, breathy semi-whisper, with a strong accent.

At Anna’s invitation I helped myself to coffee and a Jaffa cake.

“We were just talking about the autumn lecture programme at the WI,” Anna said. “I thought Sally might come and talk about setting up a small business. It would be good publicity for J & J Services as well.”

“Good idea,” I said. Of course I had done most of the setting-up. Still it would be better if Sally talked about it, rather than a man. This was the Women’s Institute. “I’ll suggest it to her.”

“It’s a pity you can’t go out cleaning,” she said mischievously. She turned to Dorothy. “Dave does the lion’s share of the housework at their place, you know, what with Sally being the main breadwinner now, and always out and about visiting clients.”

I gave her a filthy look. She knew perfectly well that it was my work for the bank and with the digital currency app that earned 90% of our money. Also, the last thing we needed was her telling anyone how good I was as a cleaner. Dorothy just laughed.

“But he’s a man!’ she said. “What does he know about housework?”

“True,” agreed Anna. “I can’t see him going out cleaning with any of Sally’s girls.”

They both laughed. For some reason I felt hurt. My skills as a cleaning lady were being impugned.

“I do miss Maria though,” Dorothy said, wistfully. “Sally and Dave do my shopping for me, and I’m very grateful for that…” She smiled at me. “…and the new girls Sally has sent me are very efficient, but it’s just not the same. I don’t know why… Maria and I just seemed to connect even though she could hardly speak English. She was always so cheery. It was as if I could feel her smiling. She used to sing – well, hum – along with the radio as she worked. I think it helped her learn the language.”

It was true that several times I had caught myself almost breaking into song as I worked, which would have been a real give away. I had had to train myself to ‘la-la-la’ in a high voice instead, but I didn’t know Dorothy had noticed.

Anna and I looked at each other, both a little embarrassed, for different reasons. I felt that in giving up being Maria I had let Dorothy down.

* * *

When I returned home that lunchtime, I made myself some soup and a sandwich and watched the lunchtime news while I ate it. Afterwards, still in search of something useful to do, I went upstairs, thinking of clearing out some cupboards or something. I had been putting off packing away Maria’s clothes in the loft and restoring her room to a guest bedroom.

I went in. Apart from me vacuuming and dusting, no one had disturbed the room since I had gone to Transformations that Friday weeks ago to say goodbye to Maria forever. The chest of drawers was full of her clothes – Dorothy’s, Carol’s and Maria’s own. I was no longer sure which was which. There were tops, socks, and her voluminous bras and knickers. Other drawers held colourful smocks, tights, stockings and girdles. I took out some of the garments – just to recall how they felt, I told myself – and sat down on the bed. The material of the panties and stockings was so soft and silky, and, er, spandexy…

In a dreamlike state I went over to the wardrobe and slid back the door. Dresses, skirts and slacks met my eye. And three maid’s uniforms. I stared at them, a lump forming in my throat.

I got out some suitcases from the spare room and put them, open, on the bed. I started to fill them with Maria’s things. I was still there, the suitcases half-packed, clothes all over the place, when Sally came home and found me. I was holding one of my maid’s uniforms up against myself and looking in the mirror.

“It suits you very well, sweetie,” she said, “but you’ll need your bust and bum back before you can wear it out and about.”

I smiled vaguely, caught in the act of… what?

She took the dress from me and laid it down on the bed. Then she took my hand, and led me downstairs. She put a glass of wine in my hand and I started to gather my wits together.

“I’m worried about you,” Sally said.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I thought I’d tidy up Maria’s room, and I got distracted.”

“You were staring at her – at your – clothes, like you missed them.”

“No, no, I was just…”

“You were practically licking your lips.”

“Look, I’m just bored. I’ve run out of ideas for the app and I haven’t enough to do. I’ll think of something soon.”

“You haven’t been really happy since you stopped cleaning… no, since you stopped being a cleaning lady.”

“Rubbish! We’ve had a great time, clearing our debts, spending all that money, building your business…”

“Well, I’ve been happy, but you’ve just gone along for the ride.” She looked genuinely concerned. “Let’s face it: cleaning is your thing. It makes you happy. It’s the only thing that does make you happy, now that you don’t have acting as a release. I bet if you took an aptitude test, it would come back ‘cleaning lady’.”

“May I remind you that I’m a highly regarded software engineer?”

“OK, ‘cleaning lady who dabbles in computer programming in her spare time’.”

I sighed. Sally was teasing but we both knew there was truth in what she was saying.

“Well I can’t go out cleaning with the other girls, can I? I’m the boss’s husband. I’d be a laughing stock – even if the clients let me inside – and apart from it being social suicide for us both, there’s too much chance of being recognised as Maria. Some of those girls are pretty sharp, not to mention the clients.: I sighed. “Maybe I’ll join up with Pinner Players again, now that I have some spare time.”

“Then why haven’t you already? You’ve been free and clear for a month now.”

I didn’t have an answer to that. Somehow acting for real had spoilt play-acting for me.

“No, I agree,” she said, reading my mind. “I think you have to be Maria again.”

“I can’t see how that would help. Anyway I can’t go back to being Maria! It’s not decent, a man living as a woman. It’s perverted.”

“Don’t be silly! Honestly, you sound like a homophobe from the 1950s sometimes. Being gender-fluid is totally acceptable these days, even fashionable.”

“Well it’s not… practical,” I said, struggling. “I have to be Dave. I can’t be both.”

“Why not? In fact, why do you have to be Dave at all? You can do all your freelance work from home, dressed as Maria, and keep in touch with the bank by email and phone. You’re not exactly snowed under with work for them anyway. When they do give you a few days’ work to do, and you have to go in for meetings and so on, Maria can take a break. We have enough girls to fill in for her now.”

“But you need your husband to be around too!”

“And he can be – every couple of weeks when you have to take your prosthetics off for cleaning and personal hygiene. You can make an appointment on a Friday afternoon to be turned back into Dave, and another early on Monday morning to become Maria again. Over the weekend we can go out and about to show you off, and remind everyone you’re still around. The rest of the time, we can say Dave is away working – it’s not even a lie really!”

“But I became Maria in the first place because I had to, because of our dire financial situation. If I go back to being her now, it will be a matter of choice.”

“So what?”

I couldn’t answer. Was I ready to accept that Maria was a major part of me and that I, and apparently my wife, both preferred me to be her most of the time? Dave would only be back every second or third weekend when I had to remove my prosthetics. Sally pressed her case.

“I know you miss working as Maria, and your clients miss you. They ask about you – Maria – all the time. Anna told me what Dorothy said. And Joyce? Remember how frazzled she was before you started helping her? You saved her life! And you miss her lovely kids, don’t you?”

I nodded. I missed Lucy enormously but I could never see her again as Dave.

“So you’re saying I should go back to being Maria?”

“Well, why not? Maria has far more people who know her, and like her, and need her than Dave does.”

That was harsh, but true.

“And what about you?”

“What about me? I lived happily with Maria for six months! You know it didn’t make any difference to me. I don’t care how you’re dressed. You’re my partner, my best friend, my soulmate. I love both of you.”

She couldn’t help looking a little embarrassed at using the ‘L’ word, but I knew she meant it. I said nothing, but I must have looked doubtful. She pressed on.

“Look, you’ve always been an actor, maybe not professionally – though I think you’re easily good enough – but that’s what you are on the inside. You’re obviously not satisfied with just being Dave Jackson. He’s only a role, like Maria, like all the parts you played at college. Who knows how many more you have in you – male or female? But just now you need to be Maria. You’re not done with her, which is why you’re moping around all the time. Maria is unfinished business.”

I was having a hard time accepting this.

“So you really don’t mind if your husband is a fat Spanish cleaning lady most of the time?” I said incredulously.

“No, Dave, I really don’t mind,” she said, “and actually it’s more than that… I don’t know… Maria gets me going more than Dave does.”

I must have looked crestfallen.

“It’s not your fault, honestly, babe,” she said hurriedly. “It’s something weird in me. I don’t know why I feel that way about Maria, but I love seeing you as her. I don’t know why she turns me on so much. I’m not a lesbian, or at least not in that way. I’ve never been sexually attracted to any real girl. But when I see Maria, I want her – passionately – but only because I know she’s you. I also don’t know why you like being her, but I’m really glad you do, because it means our fetishes fit together perfectly. Why don’t we just make the most of it?”

I sighed. “I guess we can try it for a while,” I said, “but nothing that can’t be undone, okay? No implants or hormones.”

She nodded vigorously.

“You should get your beard lasered away though,” she said. “Maybe even all your body hair?”

“I suppose that would be more convenient,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t need that anti-androgen cream.”

“Oh, you should still use that. It helps you to have soft, feminine skin…”

“Muy bien, Señora.”

“That’s my girl.”

* * *

So we set up an appointment with Transformations to make me Maria again. We explained that we wanted to bring Dave back every other weekend. Mrs McLaughlin confirmed that they had kept all my prosthetics, and that they could arrange a series of sessions for the permanent removal of my body hair. As both laser methods and electrolysis tended to leave the skin inflamed, she recommended doing it in a series of fifteen-minute sessions, each one being done on the Friday after removal of my prosthetics, to give my skin the weekend to recover before going back to being Maria.

It was nice to see Vera and Sharon again. I knew both of them were thinking “I told you so,” but they were much too kind to say anything.

When Vera brought out my huge boobs and big fat bum, I couldn’t wait to get them stuck on again. In my pink 42D bra and giant granny knickers, I felt like I had come home.

Maria would have to have shorter hair, so that it could easily be re-styled for Dave. It could stay Dave’s colour. After all, women dye their hair, don’t they? Men don’t. It would be quite plausible for Maria to try a new colour when she wanted a whole new style. Most people wouldn’t notice anyway as I always wore a headscarf or a maid’s cap when I was cleaning.

I bought more dark contact lenses from Ingrid. We didn’t need to renew the lip fillers, and we accepted that on his occasional appearances Dave would have permanently darker skin – not implausible if he was working in Spain. Nevertheless it would be sensible to avoid Dave meeting any of the people who knew Maria, and vice versa.

I left later that afternoon with Sally, our arms around each other, chattering away in Spanish. My boobs bounced in my push-up bra. I was wobbling dangerously as I tried to get used to three-inch heels again. My fat butt was swinging from side to side for all it was worth. My skirt swirled around my nylon-covered legs. My handbag was over my shoulder. I looked forward to seeing Dorothy and Joyce and Lucy and Ruth and Margie, even Dr H-S, again.

I was Maria Ortega, plump Spanish immigrant cleaning lady, again and all was right with the world.

Epilogue

So to our neighbours, Sally’s husband, Dave, is working for the bank overseas on digital currency applications, and only gets home every couple of weeks. Meanwhile I live and work as Maria, the cleaning lady. Her English is improving; she can now understand simple instructions from her clients. I usually wear a smock and a headscarf and an apron, but sometimes I wear a maid’s uniform with a frilly cap because all our clients seem to like that. I smile a lot and nod and bob little curtseys. On average I work three to four days a week.

I still appear as Maria the maid at Anna’s place every other Friday to serve refreshments to the Bridge Club ladies. Sally doesn’t understand why I do it, but Anna pointed out that it would look odd if Maria suddenly stopped working for her for no obvious reason, especially as she was now pregnant and really needed a maid to help her.

We all know it’s really because of the social cachet she gets from having a uniformed maid waiting on her and her friends, but I can live with it, I suppose. I still don’t really like the humiliation of being my sister’s maid, but I owe her a lot. We would have lost our house if it hadn’t been for her.

Cleaning is still a joy to me. It keeps me sane and my brain clear, and as before new ideas seem to come to me while I’m doing something mindless. Ironing works particularly well, ironically.

In my remaining time I work on the crypto-currency service, keeping it ‘state-of-the-art’ and providing support and maintenance. So far I have managed to avoid going into the office for meetings, and the bank has started to assign me other small work packages.

I do most of the housework at home too, often in my maid’s uniform. Many’s the time Sally has arrived home unexpectedly and come up behind me when I’m vacuuming or dusting, thrown me onto the couch, and jumped on top of me. We both know I’m easily strong enough to resist her, but why would I want to do that?

Sometimes we like to pretend she’s my mistress and I’m her submissive maid, but we never do anything without mutual agreement. Anyway we do it the other way around too. I secretly ditch my abdominal constraints and catch her by surprise. It’s hard to say which is more fun.

I once thought that being a fat woman would be horrible, but I was wrong. I do understand how an overweight adolescent girl feels – there’s so much pressure on us fatties from our peers and from the media to conform to the ridiculous supermodel standard of beauty, which is completely unattainable for most of us – certainly for me!

And that’s how I felt way back in my first few weeks as Maria. My figure damaged my self-confidence. I was shy. I was embarrassed meeting new people. I felt humiliated. I remember once stripping down to my bra and panties in front of my bedroom’s full-length mirror, and bursting into tears. I’m just glad that I got myself under control before Sally got home. It didn’t help at all that Dave wasn’t fat underneath because I was Maria. That’s how the world saw me and I was a porker.

But adolescents mature eventually. I’ve accepted myself as I am and now I love all my silky, wobbly flesh, and so does Sally. It’s so sexy! I’ve surprised myself. Who knew that inside this thin man there was a fat woman struggling to get out?

Not that I care what men think, but it seems that plenty of them really mean it when they say they find us overweight women attractive. I get propositioned surprisingly often when Sally and I go out together dressed up. In fact it can get to be a nuisance.

I assumed that my obesity would keep men away but I was wrong there too. I guess I’m fat enough to be voluptuous but not enough to be repulsive. And of course, I’m not really fat at all inside, as I’m reminded every two weeks at my appointment with Transformations. With the prosthetics peeled off, I’m slimmer and stronger than ever. I suppose regular manual labour carrying forty pounds of extra weight really does build you up.

At our last session Mrs McLaughlin brought in a doctor to give me a thorough medical, and she cleared me to take whatever exercise I wanted. I’m strong enough now to carry the additional load without risk. I don’t think I’d cut a very elegant figure dashing round the squash court, but I might start going along to women’s aerobics or yoga with Sally. She’s keen to see what I look like in leotard and tights.

The only real problem is that Maria can’t be Sally’s social equal when there’s anyone else around – like clients and the other girls I clean with. She is strictly la Señora, and I bob and curtsey whenever I see her, which seems to amuse everyone, especially her.

Maria can’t afford expensive clothes, of course, so when Sally and I are out together I always look like the poor relation in my cheap polyester pants or unfashionable second-hand dresses. Oh well.

I also can’t drive our flashy new BMW as Maria, which is annoying.

But in the bedroom we’re equals (more or less). Sally has bought me some seriously sexy underwear and nightdresses, and I rather enjoy being her sex toy. She loves to undress me, first down to my bra and knickers (or sometimes my plus size bustier), and then she strips me totally naked. My jiggly breasts, fat tummy and big round buttocks seem to drive her wild.

When she’s finished working herself up playing with my wobbly flesh, I can get out of my abdominal prosthesis in seconds now, though obviously we can’t remove my huge boobs or the facial prosthetics, so we have to leave them in place when we make love. She prefers it that way, so it’s not a problem.

Now that we have money in the bank, Sally wants to expand the business. She’s heard of a firm called Home Counties Housekeeping, a little bigger than us, who also operate north of London but to the East. She thinks we could link up at first, and maybe we could invest; then she would get a seat on their board; and then perhaps a merger. If I know her, she would be running the joint firm in five years. Then maybe… national?

As long as I can just keep on cleaning as maid Maria and secretly writing software as Dave.

We’ve bought a cottage in Wales where Sally and Maria can go and be lovers openly. We would have preferred a villa in the Algarve but with no passport Maria can’t travel internationally. The locals don’t know about Dave at all and call us y lesbiaid yn Lloegr (the English lesbians). They’re open-minded, as we come often and spend lots of money in the town.

I particularly like going to the cottage because I can dress up and go out as a rich, elegant lady, not as the working-class cleaner I have to be at home. We don’t have to speak Spanish there either. We’ve often invited Anna and Phil to stay with us there, but no one else.

* * *

Can this go on indefinitely? These days it seems to be acceptable to ‘identify’ as the opposite sex without actually having SRS, but if I want to live lawfully as Maria Ortega I will have to at least get a Gender Recognition Certificate. Without it I won’t be able to apply for a driving licence or a passport in Maria’s name, or register for tax.

This is what worries me most. If Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs find out about Maria, they’ll see she isn’t paying tax and might be curious as to why J & J Services’ most hard-working cleaning lady isn’t on their payroll at all. If they check, we will have to admit that Maria Ortega is really Dave Jackson, a director of the company, and of course he pays his taxes.

I’d much rather they never found out. It’s not that I want to cheat the Revenue; it’s just that they’re a Government Department, so they leak – obviously. I wouldn’t trust them to keep such a juicy titbit to themselves, and if someone blabs, that would be the end of my career as a cleaning lady, and who knows what else besides? It might get in the papers! One of my female clients might sue me for getting into their home on false pretences, or I might get beaten up by a husband. I can’t imagine the police being on my side. So although it seems superficially stable, my situation is actually quite precarious.

Getting a Gender Recognition Certificate will require evidence from a qualified doctor that I have gender dysphoria. That should be easy enough, given how much happier I am as Maria now. I will probably need to live as her for at least two years, but I know I can do that. I will also have to convince the doctor that I intend to live in my acquired gender for the rest of my life – which is certainly my aim at the moment, though I have no intention of having an actual sex change. Both I and my wife are perfectly happy as we are (though I may have to reconsider breast implants).

Looking back I realise I have done something that all actors dream of, from the hammiest amateur to the most celebrated professional: I have created a character and made her real. Maria is a part of me now and I am as much her as I am Dave Jackson, if not more, and it is clear that both Sally and I want me to be her most of the time from now on.

So, what am I, exactly? A transvestite and a crossdresser certainly, and not a transsexual, but I don’t use any of those terms. I’m a heterosexual man who wants to live as a woman, and am phenomenally lucky to have found a wife who prefers me like this. What were the odds? The working-class Spanish immigrant part was a happy accident, but it satisfies my love of amateur dramatics, so I enjoy it.

Maybe if Sally and I ever move to a new neighbourhood, Maria can become an ordinary Englishwoman and I can drop the accent. That could be a new role. What would she be? Sally’s sexy secretary? A nurse? A nanny? An old-fashioned housewife? It’s exciting to think about…

No rush, though; I’m happy to be Maria indefinitely.

Talking of amateur dramatics, we went to see the Pinner Players all-male production of Anthony and Cleopatra. The guy playing Cleopatra was rubbish. I would have been much better.

By the way, we’ve just discovered that Sally is pregnant. I have absolutely no idea how we’re going to handle that…