Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

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.

On the whole my work at the bank had been going well for the last few months since we had returned from Spain. The team in Madrid had been quite small and mostly responsible for migrating the latest software to the Spanish networks. I often had to visit regional offices in Barcelona, Seville, Cadiz, Valencia and Malaga to sort out local problems. I thoroughly enjoyed the travel and the independence. But most of the original software had been written by the hot-shots in London and that was where I really needed to be. That’s where the state-of-the-art stuff was being done, and where the new innovative services would be developed, hopefully to put us ahead of our competitors.

I had settled into this team well but was very much the most junior software engineer. Harry, my boss, was aware of my academic qualifications, and was very encouraging, but he made sure I understood that my time in Madrid didn’t count as ‘relevant experience’ for his team. I would have to work hard to catch up with my peers. It was true that the bank was Spanish in origin, and Madrid was the international Head Office, but it was a quiet backwater for banking finance software. London was the hub.

I worked hard, and at my first annual review Harry was glowing with praise. More importantly, he came up with a five-figure bonus and a 10% increase in salary. We paid off a bit more of our mortgage.

Unfortunately that was the last bit of good news we were going to get for a while. Harry was promoted to Vice President and his replacement, Lawrence, was a very different animal. He was nothing like as good as Harry, either at software design or as a manager. He also had a bad habit of claiming other people’s ideas as his own work. The rest of us engineers couldn’t understand what management was playing at in promoting him.

We no longer saw much of Harry as he was always flying off to conferences in the USA and the Far East, but when I bumped into him a few weeks later I couldn’t resist asking him about Lawrence. He assured me it wasn’t his decision and he was as baffled as we were. He suspected nepotism had been part of it – Lawrence had a relative at board level. Harry’s advice was to keep our heads down and stick it out. He had already heard rumours that Lawrence’s performance at management review meetings was less than impressive. It seemed he was unlikely to last.

But he lasted long enough to destroy my career. I don’t know how he found out – I had kept it quiet at work – but he discovered my side-line in digital currency trading. I wasn’t actually breaking any rules doing this. I wasn’t competing with my employer, as the bank didn’t currently offer any services in crypto-currencies. But Lawrence found a different objection. He claimed that since I was an employee of the bank when I developed my app, the intellectual property and any trading profits belonged to them. As my Line Manager he called me before a disciplinary hearing.

I argued that I had written the app entirely in my spare time, which was true; the design was entirely my own, having been based on my degree dissertation, which was also true; and that I had used no bank resources in the course of the development, which I also believed to be true. So I hadn’t infringed my contract in any way, and everything to do with the app was my sole property.

But Lawrence had been thorough. He had been through the search history on my bank laptop and found that I had accessed various cryptocurrency and block chain websites. I remembered doing some research one wet lunch hour months earlier. I’d had a bright idea for a new service and I couldn’t wait till that evening to check it out.

Every member of the disciplinary committee knew Lawrence’s argument was thin, and I could tell they wanted to let it go, but they had no choice. There was a case to answer and they would have to get the lawyers in. They couldn’t say how long the legal process would take but warned me that it was likely to be at least six months. The only good thing was that the committee promised to provide legal representation that we would not be charged for if we lost, and which we could pay for over time if we won.

Meanwhile I was suspended without pay, and the bank took out an injunction to stop me accessing any of the revenues that continued to flood in from the app. Their argument was that until judgement was complete the funds were potentially theirs, and I shouldn’t have access to them in case I spent the money or squirrelled it away somewhere they couldn’t get it if they won the case. We considered an appeal, but that would cost us a packet in lawyers’ fees and we would be completely ruined if we lost.

We were in trouble now. With the bank’s redundancy programme still rolling there was no chance of Sally getting a promotion, even though her manager admitted that she was overqualified and underused in her current position. She was always on the lookout for higher-ranking opportunities within the bank, or at head office, or with competitors, but nothing came up. So without my salary and with no more revenue from the app we wouldn’t be able to meet the mortgage payments and also feed ourselves from our income. We had savings of course – the last year had been very good – but they wouldn’t see us through six months. We might just make it if we returned the leased BMW and managed with Carol’s Fiesta. We resolved to stick it out, hoping that we would win the Tribunal eventually.

We started an economy drive – no spending on non-essentials. No holidays. No new clothes. No haircuts. No long journeys. No nights out. No parties.

Meanwhile with nothing but time on my hands, I looked for any other source of funds. I couldn’t sign on the dole, as I was theoretically fully employed. I couldn’t apply for hardship benefits; we had too many assets to pass the ‘means test’. I couldn’t work for another bank as a freelance. I couldn’t get any other contracting work as my only experience was in the financial sector. The local computer shop was interested but they really had no openings. Paid work wasn’t forthcoming.

To fill my time I started doing odd jobs around the house. I put up shelves; I mended the garden fence; I redecorated two bedrooms; I did the grocery shopping and cooked our evening meals. Carol had given me a good introduction to housewifery before she left for Oz so I did all our laundry – even ironing – and I cleaned. Boy, did I clean! I emptied out all the kitchen cupboards and scrubbed a generation’s worth of grease out of them. I cleaned all the appliances: fridge, freezer, oven, grill, washing machine, tumble-dryer, microwave. I dusted and vacuumed the whole house, including the loft. I put all my frustrated energy into cleaning the house within an inch of its life.

I actually quite enjoyed myself. I pretended to be Fifi again, and hummed French folk songs to myself as I scrubbed.

* * *

Every night when Sally came home to see another area of our home transformed and rejuvenated, she looked me over with a sort of genial scorn.

“I wish I’d known this was where your real interests lay before I went to the trouble of marrying you,” she said. “I could have just hired you as my cleaning lady.”

“I like to think I have more to offer than that. What about the sex? Were you going to pay for that too?”

“Touché,” she laughed. “OK, sweetie, while you have your frilly apron on, you can get me a drink.”

“Yes, Madam.”

As she was currently our only source of income, she was doing all the overtime she could get and was working long hours. I knew she appreciated not having to do any housework when she got home and I was more than happy to do a little waiting on her.

She pulled her high heels off, rubbed her stockinged feet, winced, and threw herself down on the sofa. She reached for the TV remote and clicked the news on. Her eyelids drooped. I put her glass of Chardonnay down by her hand. We were on our last bottle of her favourite tipple and I was wondering whether our economy drive would run to replenishing our stocks, when the doorbell rang.

It was my sister. Anna walked in (without being invited) and headed for the sitting room. She snorted at my apron.

“Nice pinny, Dave,” she said. “Good to see you’re adapting to your rightful place in the house… Holy Moley!”

“What?” I said, following her into the lounge, a little worried that she was going to disturb Sally. “What’s the matter?”

“This place looks amazing!” she said. She saw Madam returning to consciousness on the sofa. “Sally! How on earth do you keep this place looking so great when you work full time?”

“Hey!” I said.

“Oh it’s murder,” Sally said, “and of course your lazy brother just sits around playing on his computer all day while I slave away.”

“Hey!” I said, louder.

Both women laughed.

“Seriously, Dave, you’re doing an amazing job,” Anna said.

“And you know I appreciate it, babe,” Sally added.

“In fact, yours is probably the cleanest and tidiest house in the area,” Anna said. I gave her a scathing look. Sarcasm wasn’t necessary. “No, I mean it,” she continued. “Since Pinner Maids packed up, no one I know can find any cleaners, so we’re all living in increasing squalor.”

“What happened to them?” Sally asked.

“It’s a sad story. The company was set up… oh, probably ten years ago… by Pat – I don’t think I ever knew her surname. She was an ex-charlady from… er, Watford, I think. She recruited all her unemployed friends and their friends, and their daughters, and their daughters-in-law. They were mostly school leavers with no qualifications or prospects; or young married women struggling to make ends meet; or older widows down on their luck.

“Anyway, Pat checked out every cleaner personally and vouched for them, and they did a great job. They’d do a top to bottom spring-clean in three or four days, then two hours a week afterwards to keep it like that. They were all friendly and helpful. They’d do some shopping for the elderly and housebound; pick up their prescriptions; some were even trusted to go to the cash machine. My cleaning lady was Betty. She was great.” She sighed. “But they were victims of their own success.”

“So what went wrong?” I asked.

“Well, sort of what you’d expect, human nature being what it is. The service was so popular, Pat struggled to get enough girls. Eventually she must have hired some wrong ‘uns. Valuables started going missing. The police got involved. A couple of women upped and disappeared but I don’t know if anything was ever recovered. It broke Pat’s heart. They didn’t find any evidence against her, of course, but the trust was gone. Most of their clients cancelled their contracts, and some of the older cleaning ladies – including my Betty and Pat herself – said they didn’t need the hassle and retired.”

“So all the posh houses in Pinner are getting dirtier and dirtier?” Sally said, with little sympathy.

“Well most of the wives in this area work. They have to, to afford their mortgages. Some – like doctors and teachers – work locally, but plenty of them commute up to town. Even those whose husbands do their share – and that’s far from all of them, of course – don’t have much time or energy left for cleaning after minding the kids, grocery shopping, cooking, and laundry. And as I said, there are a number of elderly widows who relied on their cleaning ladies for a lot more than just cleaning, but they’re terrified of letting strangers in now.”

Anna was eyeing Sally’s wine thirstily. I went to the kitchen to get the bottle and another glass. When I got back the girls were deep in earnest conversation.

“I really came over to see how you’re managing,” Anna said. “I must say, I think your boss is a total scumbag!”

“No argument here,” I said. “But please don’t worry about us. We just need to survive till the Tribunal. We’ll get by.”

Anna looked at Sally. I noticed that my wife wasn’t rushing to back me up.

“You do know that Phil and I will sub you if you need help,” Anna said.

“I’m not taking money from you,” I said, firmly.

It sounded stupid and unreasonable as soon as I said it. Sally looked away.

“But if you only have Sally’s income…? You need more money coming in. You don’t want to eat up all your savings…”

“We’ll manage!” I insisted.

“All right, you silly, proud boy,” she said. “How about this? I’ll cover your next mortgage payment if you’ll clean my house as well as you’ve done yours,” she said, with a challenging look on her face.

“Don’t be silly! That’s nearly a thousand pounds!”

“So? Are you negotiating your fee downwards, Bonehead? I reckon it’ll take you at least three days – and you can undertake to keep it like that as part of the package – two or three hours a week till the Tribunal.”

“That’s still bound to be a lot more than you were paying what’s her name, Betty. What was she getting? Minimum wage?”

“Not bloody likely! Pinner Maids were really good and much in demand. We paid £20 an hour.”

“Really?” said Sally, perking up. “That’s a lot more than I would have guessed.”

“Well, this is stockbroker belt. Families round here are more than happy to pay £50 a week to avoid housework. Some people have two girls for two hours.”

I hesitated. Sally saw her chance.

“Well, for heavens’ sake, why not, Dave?” she said. “It’s perfectly respectable work, and you’re obviously good at it. It just gives us a little breathing space.”

I hesitated, again.

“And you enjoy it too, don’t you?” she added.

“Oh all right,” I said at last. “But you can’t tell anyone that your brother is cleaning your house. It would be too embarrassing.”

“Agreed,” Anna said. “It would be embarrassing for me too.”

I must have looked unconvinced.

“I mean it,” she said. “I know I tease you a bit sometimes…” I snorted. “…but this is a serious situation, and I only want to help.”

“OK, then,” I sighed. “When would you like me to start?”

“As soon as possible. Before Phil and I get food poisoning or something.”

“Don’t forget Maria’s coming next week,” Sally said.

I had forgotten that Maria Ortega was coming to stay with us for a few days. She was considering going to London University and we had volunteered to put her up while she went to interviews and checked out possible accommodation. It would be nice to see what kind of young woman the Spanish schoolgirl we had known had become.

“OK, I’ll make a start as soon as Maria’s left – say, Monday or Tuesday week.”

“Great – and why don’t all three of you come to dinner at the weekend? We’d love to meet her.”

And so it was arranged. I admitted to Sally later that earning enough for even one mortgage payment would be a load off my mind.

* * *

Maria arrived on the early morning flight. We met her at the airport, just managing to get the three of us and her luggage in Carol’s old Fiesta. We had told her parents about our financial setbacks and they understood that we wouldn’t be able to treat her to much. We promised to make it up to her when we were back on our feet. She was grateful just to have somewhere to crash while she went to her meetings and checked out university life in London.

She had grown into a charming young woman. Her Spanish hill farmer heritage was plain to see; she was short and a little plump; but she had flawless olive skin, raven hair, and an enchanting smile. We had a lovely day together catching up. Sally and I enjoyed practising our Spanish again, and we tried to help Maria with her English, which was quite good already. We gave her a mock interview, to make sure she had all the vocabulary she would be likely to need.

We took her round to meet Anna and Phil. They liked her immediately and treated us all to a meal at their favourite restaurant, currently out of bounds for us on our economy drive.

Maria’s interviews seemed to go well, but it would be a while before she knew whether London University would take her, and she was planning a Gap Year.

She was with us for the rest of the week. On a free afternoon Anna and Sally took her into London to go shopping in Oxford Street, window-shopping in Sally’s case.

We had a riotous dinner party on Saturday night at Anna’s place with card games and several bottles of excellent wine. I helped in the kitchen, which was beginning to look seriously grubby. Anna didn’t work but kept herself busy with her social circle and various charities. She certainly didn’t seem to spend much time looking after her house.

We were sad to see Maria go back to Madrid, but we all had high hopes she would be back the following October.

* * *

Ever since I had foolishly agreed to clean my sister’s house I had been looking around carefully on every social visit to size up the job. Each surreptitious inspection had depressed me a little more. Cleaning our own house hadn’t been too bad, because Sally and I were naturally fairly tidy people, but Anna and Phil were slobs – no other word for it. Worse: their place was quite a lot bigger than ours. It had five bedrooms, four bathrooms, two en suite, and three reception rooms. The kitchen/breakfast room was enormous with a central island. Like the rest of the house, it was filthy.

I turned up to make a start on the Monday after Maria had gone home. I was wearing an old T-shirt and jeans, as I fully expected to ruin my clothes, but Anna insisted I wear a cleaning smock that Betty had apparently left behind. It was very feminine and completely unnecessary, just another in a long line of Anna’s pranks, intended only to humiliate her little brother. When I objected, she insisted that she was the boss, and if I wanted to be paid, I would have to obey her instructions.

As she was showing me around, I raised another obvious objection.

“Look, Anna, I signed on to clean, but I can hardly even start without doing a major tidy-up. You’ve got stuff lying around everywhere.” We were in the lounge as I was speaking. “I mean, just look at this place! On every surface there are books, videos, papers, CDs, magazines, letters, bills, dirty coffee cups, wine glasses... I mean, I don’t know where to put any of this stuff and I can’t clean until it’s all cleared away.”

“The coffee cups go in the dishwasher, but the wine glasses are crystal. You have to wash them by hand.”

“Har-de-har. And what about the rest? If I have to put everything away somewhere it’ll take twice as long and you’ll never be able to find anything.”

“Well we can’t find anything now!”

“But it’s the same in every room...” I sighed. “OK, I’ll do the tidying-up too, but don’t blame me if I put things in the wrong places. And I’ll probably be here all week!”

* * *

And I was. First of all, I went round the house gathering up dirty plates, cups and glasses and putting them in the dishwasher, or the washing-up bowl in the case of her precious crystal wine glasses. Then I started collecting up all the books, alphabetised them by author, and consigned them to near-empty bookcases all over the house, non-fiction downstairs, romances and thrillers in the bedrooms. I did the same for their videos and albums. All but the most recent papers and magazines went in the recycling. I filed all the official-looking letters, utility bills, invoices, receipts, and tax demands in the study desk drawers or the filing cabinet, in accordance with their rudimentary and completely inadequate system. I wasn’t snooping but I couldn’t help learning a lot more about their financial situation than I had known before. Phil was doing very well. They were loaded.

I changed the sheets on their bed as well as those in the guest bedrooms – God knows when any of them were last washed – and I collected up all their dirty clothes. Then I began at least two months’ worth of laundry. I tried to draw the line at ironing, but Anna argued that she was paying £1,000 for five days’ work, so I should do everything she asked. So in between the tidying and filing I was continually loading and emptying the washing machine and the tumble-dryer.

The ironing pile grew steadily. How could one couple have so many clothes? I guessed that when they had no more clean shirts or underwear, they just bought some more. When I opened Anna’s wardrobe to put her ironed blouses, skirts and dresses away, I saw that she kept all her shoes in their original boxes, which were stacked in tidy rows, four deep. I worked ten hours on my first day, and I was knackered.

By Tuesday lunchtime I could finally see all the carpets and the surfaces of the tables, chairs, and furniture. So cleaning was now possible. I was ready to make a start when I discovered another problem.

“You’re practically out of cleaning materials!”

“Probably,” Anna agreed. “What do you need?”

“Well… everything! Cleaners for the kitchen, bathrooms and toilets; bleach; disinfectant; furniture polish; scrubbing brushes; dusters. You don’t even have a mop!”

“Betty looked after all that for me. She brought a lot of brushes and dusters and smelly cans and bottles with her on a little foldaway cart. She made me buy an expensive vacuum cleaner – that should be working all right. As for the rest, make a list, then you can go down to the supermarket.”

“Er… I don’t think I can afford all that,” I said hopefully.

Anna wasn’t fazed. “You can take my credit card. I often gave it to Betty when she was my maid.”

“I’m not your maid!”

“If you say so, sweetie. Can you do a grocery shop while you’re there? I’m sure you can work out what we need. You can fill up your little car too, if you like. Mileage is a legitimate expense for a professional cleaning lady.”

I was about to object at being called a ‘cleaning lady’ when I realised the Fiesta’s tank was nearly empty and would take fifty quid to fill, so I held my tongue. I was just wondering if I could buy anything else on Anna’s credit card. I knew she never checked her statement…

“I can trust you, can’t I, sweetie? I’d hate to think that my little brother was less trustworthy than my ex-maid.”

I swear, sometimes it’s like she can read my mind.

“Don’t forget to take your smock off – or maybe you’d just like to borrow my hat, coat and handbag?”

* * *

The laundry and shopping finished off Tuesday. So I began the main cleaning on Wednesday morning.

I started in the bedrooms. A long-handled feather duster was soon filthy with cobwebs. There were grubby fingerprints on the paintwork all over the place. I wiped with ‘Mr Muscle’, dusted, and vacuumed. Then I moved on to the landing, hall, lounge and dining room. I filled the vacuum cleaner bag twice.

Then I tackled the bathrooms and toilets. They were disgusting and took hours. It was also hard physical work, as even with the most powerful cleaning fluids, months of accumulated grime took a lot of scrubbing.

I couldn’t say I was enjoying the work exactly. I particularly hate ironing. But it was… peaceful. Once you’ve planned your day, housework doesn’t require much thinking or calculating or decision-making. I could switch my brain off. More importantly, I could calm my mind and stop worrying about our financial situation. I put some Mozart on the sound system and found myself relaxing for the first time in months.

But it’s strange the way the human brain works. On Wednesday morning, while I was mindlessly ironing Phil’s eleventh shirt, my mind apparently a blank, the risk algorithm from my digital currency app suddenly popped into my head and I realised where it was flawed, and I knew how to fix it!

With my sister’s grudging approval, I quit a little early on Wednesday to go and get on my computer. I wanted to rewrite the algorithm. It wouldn’t be long before potential competitors noticed what my application was doing and started working on their own versions. I needed to stay ahead of them. My service was still fully operational via the Atkinson Stern website, linked to my personal server. I couldn’t profit from it at the moment, as its revenues were going into an escrow account. I thought about redirecting them to a new account the Bank wouldn’t know about, but I realised that would in contravention of the injunction. I didn’t need to be facing criminal charges on top of everything else. Hopefully all the money would be returned to me if – when – I won the Tribunal. Meanwhile I was trying to keep the service up to date and ahead of the competition. Besides, it was a matter of personal pride that my application should be as good as possible.

I was back at Anna’s bright and early on Thursday and I worked solidly through the day. I was even humming happily to myself, now that I had fixed my algorithm problem. To my surprise, more ideas of a similar nature floated into my head as I worked. I couldn’t wait to get home and start coding.

When I finally packed up for the day only the kitchen was left to do. I might even get Friday afternoon off! I was getting ready to go when Anna reminded me that she wanted the garage clearing out before the end of my week’s servitude. Aarghhh!

* * *

“I had some friends round for bridge yesterday,” Anna said.

She and I were sitting in her kitchen over morning coffee. It was a couple of weeks after I’d done her major clean, and I was there to do my two hours upkeep, plus the laundry and ironing, of course.

“They all admired how clean and tidy the place looks,” she continued.

Was that a slightly shifty look in her eye?

“So of course you told them how hard you’ve been working to keep it looking nice?” I said sarcastically.

“Ha! No, they know me too well. None of them would have believed me.”

“I hope you didn’t tell them I cleaned for you! You promised!”

“No, no, I kept you out of it. I told them I’d hired a new maid,” she laughed. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? I just didn’t mention that the maid was a boy.”

“Good,” I said, relieved. I was used to her calling me her maid by now. Water off a duck’s back. “But we’ll have to be careful that none of them see me here when I’m doing your two hours a week.”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “But I haven’t finished. They wouldn’t drop the subject. They’re all desperate for a cleaner. No one seems to be filling the gap left by Pinner Maids closing down. They all wanted to hire my new maid.”

“So what did you say?”

“I said she was a friend of yours from your time in Spain – Maria Ortega.”

“Why on earth…?”

“I thought it was quite clever. A couple of my friends had seen Maria going in and out of your place. I said she was only visiting temporarily and was a bit short of money, so I had hired her to clean our house. But I told them she’s gone back home now, so she’s not available.”

“Maria is not a cleaner,” I protested. “For God’s sake, she did the International Baccalaureate and got very high grades. She’s hoping to come to London to study Medicine.”

“Well no one here ever needs to know that, do they? And if she does come back sometime, we can always say it’s a different Maria. No one saw her up close, and Ortega is a fairly common name in Spain, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so, but why did you have to make all that stuff up at all?”

“I’m sorry – I panicked. Maria just came to mind after that evening we spent with her. Anyway it worked, didn’t it? They stopped asking for her contact details.”

“It might have worked – for now. But what will they think when they see that your home stays nice and tidy? They’ll know someone’s cleaning for you.”

“Are you trying to get out of your weekly chores? No way, buster! If the local ladies hassle me further about my mysterious cleaner, I’ll think of something else.”

* * *

It was a very specific ‘local lady’ who next asked about Anna’s maid. Dorothy lived a few streets away. We’d seen her coming and going to Anna’s house for coffee mornings and other social occasions, but she was partially sighted and didn’t get out much. She usually travelled by taxi. We learned of her plight at half past seven one evening when Anna burst in and interrupted our dinner.

“You have to clean Dorothy’s place for her!” she announced firmly. “She’ll pay you the same as I did. That’ll be another mortgage payment sorted out.”

Sally looked up, hopefully.

“Hold on,” I said. “I told you I don’t want to make a career out of cleaning. It’s too embarrassing. This is a posh neighbourhood. We wouldn’t be able to hold our heads up…”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Dave!” Sally interrupted. “You have plenty of faults, God knows, but I never thought you were a snob.”

She got up to pour Anna a glass of Rioja. Yes, we’d spent a few quid from my earnings as a cleaner on wine.

“I’m not a snob!” I began. “Hey! What do you mean, ‘plenty of faults’?”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Anna, gulping our plonk. “Dave can’t clean Dorothy’s house. He’s a man – sort of.”

I ignored that. Typical Anna insult.

“So what?” Sally said.

“Well, none of the older ladies around here who live alone would dream of letting a man in to do their cleaning. Even if they might have considered it before, it’s out of the question now after the Pinner Maids debacle – Dorothy least of all with her handicap. Why do you think domestic cleaners are all women? Come to think of it, that even applies to us younger married women – our husbands wouldn’t be happy with a strange man in the house when they’re out at work! Phil even complains when I invite our gardener into the kitchen for a coffee. Bless his jealous little heart.”

“So what have you come to us for?” Sally asked. “I’m certainly not doing it!”

“No, not you, and not Dave,” said Anna, with that air of smugness that’s annoyed the hell out of me since we were kids. “So that leaves… Maria!” she finished, triumphantly.

Her triumph dissipated when she saw our blank looks.

“Maria isn’t here anymore,” I pointed out, “and as we said she isn’t a cleaner anyway!”

“Oh for Pete’s sake…! You can clean Dorothy’s place, Dave, disguised as Maria! See… no need to be embarrassed in front of the neighbours!”

Our blank looks changed quickly; Sally’s to amusement, mine to outrage.

“You’re mad!” I spluttered. “I’d never get away with it… even if I were willing…”

“Yes, you would,” Anna insisted. “I’ve thought it through. Dorothy’s eyesight is really bad. She can only make out shapes and colours, not faces. We just need your hair, figure, mannerisms and posture to be convincing. So you’d have to put on the shapewear you wore for the party, with a woman’s top and leggings, and that smock I lent you. You’d need a dark wig or you could wear a headscarf or something. You showed at the party that you can move like a woman really well, with feminine gestures and mannerisms. You actors…!”

Anna didn’t know the half of it. We never mentioned that I’d spent an evening out disguised as Sally’s mother and got away with it.

“But even if all that worked, she’d know I was a man as soon as I opened my mouth!”

“Actually the voice you put on as Fifi at the party wasn’t half bad – that high-pitched, breathy whisper,” Anna said. “You’d probably be fine. But there’s no need to risk it. Maria’s Spanish, right? We can say she doesn’t speak English, so you won’t have to talk to Dorothy at all.”

“But if I don’t speak English, how is she going to tell me what she wants me to do?”

I thought I had her there.

“Well, let’s see. It’s too far to walk so Sally will have to drop you off each morning on the way to the bank. Then she can go round the house with Dorothy, talk through the day’s chores with her, and give you your instructions in Spanish. You’re both fluent, right? You’ll just to have nod and say ‘Si, si, Señora,’ in a Spanish version of your Fifi voice. It’ll be fine.”

“The whole idea’s barking mad,” I said, though it seemed she’d thought of everything.

“Please, Dave! Come on, it’s just another acting role. I really like Dorothy and she’s desperate.”

I couldn’t remember Anna ever pleading with me for anything. Ever. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

“Look, I was fine with being Fifi; it was a fancy dress party. Lots of men drag up for parties, but this is real life. People wouldn’t understand…”

“People won’t know,” said Anna.

“Nine hundred pounds, babe,” said Sally, quietly.

I sighed. The money would keep the wolf from the door for another month.

“I suppose I could try on an outfit and see what I look like…”

Anna hugged me. Sally smiled.

“…but if I look stupid, you can forget it!”

Both women nodded vigorously.

* * *

We agreed that we would test my disguise that weekend. Sally still had access to the Pinner Players costumes and props store. So on Saturday morning we went round and appropriated the foam breast forms again. She also found an expensive-looking, long-haired, jet black wig. Apparently it had been procured for the natural blonde who played Dulcinea in the previous season’s production of Man of La Mancha.

“That’s going to be hot and uncomfortable to work in,” I objected.

“I can pin it up for you,” said Sally, “and you can wear a headscarf. That should at least keep it out of your way. It’s a pity your own hair isn’t long enough. Mind you, it soon will be since you banned haircuts on our economy drive.”

“All right, all right, you can get your hair done,” I said, taking the not-so-subtle hint. “With Dorothy’s payment we can afford one trip to the hairdresser’s. Just a trim, mind!”

“I promise. I need to look smart for my job even if you don’t, and even my split-ends have split-ends. Now, let’s go up to the bathroom. I need to shave you all over.”

“Why? I’m going to be wearing slacks and long sleeves.”

“You always say the costume is an essential part of getting into character. Smooth, lady-like skin is just as important for that as your padded bra and girdle. Now stop arguing and get upstairs.”

“Can’t we use that Nair stuff? Shaving all over will be really scratchy.”

“No, we haven’t got any. But I’ll rub you all over with Aloe Vera afterwards. Actually I like you all smooth and oily, so maybe we can… make the most of it afterwards… if you know what I mean.”

Oh, I knew! I shelved my objections. Sex in the afternoon. Cool! The sheets needed changing anyway.

* * *

After our ‘afterwards’ Sally handed me one of Carol’s bras and the breast forms. After my practice getting into my role as Fifi I was able to put them on like an expert. She went with black underwear this time, as she had picked out dark colours for my outer clothes.

Then I had to endure the indignity of getting into my mother-in-law’s shapewear while my wife padded it all with cotton wool. Again it would obviously be padding to anyone who looked closely but we hoped that with her poor eyesight Dorothy wouldn’t be able to tell, just so long as my overall shape was about right.

Before she decided what I would be wearing, she added the wig and some make-up, so I could begin to get into character as Maria. I stood in front of our bedroom mirror and examined myself from every angle. I had to admit it; I looked good. Very good. Very curvy. I might even get away with it with someone with good eyesight – at least, at first glance.

“Haven’t you rather gone overboard with the padding?” I asked. “I’m sure I wasn’t this fat as Fifi.”

“You’re not fat,” Sally said, “just ‘pleasantly plump’. Okay, maybe a little over-endowed in the bust region,” she admitted. “I may have ‘enhanced’ the forms a little. But it’s all deliberate. We need Dorothy to see a convincing feminine silhouette, don’t we? You need a nice, curvy, hourglass figure.”

“I suppose so, but this humongous bust will get in the way when I’m cleaning.”

But she wasn’t listening. She was busy rifling her mother’s drawers.

“OK, here’s a plain top and some dark leggings,” she said. “They should be skin tight, but quite comfortable over your shapewear.”

Both the top and the leggings were made of a soft but stretchy material. This wasn’t the sort of clothing I was used to – most men don’t wear anything skin-tight, I suppose – but since everything sensitive was well protected by the shapewear and the padding, it was all ‘quite comfortable’, as Sally had promised.

“Good, now let’s put your cleaner’s smock over it all.”

I complied and took another look in the mirror. I realised then that I was actually going to have to go through with this. I looked pretty convincing – certainly good enough for someone with impaired eyesight.

“You look great,” Sally confirmed, “but you can’t work like that. Your hair will keep getting in the way. Put this headscarf on. I’ll show you how.”

I didn’t even know Sally had a headscarf – I supposed it must have been one of Carol’s – but it was the finishing touch. I would only need a little light make-up to look exactly like a cleaning lady.

“We should talk only in Spanish now, Maria,” Sally said, switching effortlessly to that language. “We need the practice.”

* * *

It was late afternoon now, and Sally called Anna and Phil. They came over straightaway, eager to offer their unbiased opinions.

When he’d finished laughing, Phil said, “Fifi was much sexier, Maria mate.”

“We’re not going for ‘sexy’,” I said, sullenly. “We’re only aiming for ‘passable’ – to a half-blind lady.”

“Hey! That’s no way to talk about a handicapped person,” said Anna, nudging me painfully in the ribs. “She’s ‘partially sighted’.”

“Thank you, the PC brigade. Can we get on with the business in hand? Will I pass?”

“Well, you look pretty good – actually much better than I expected. You’d almost pass even in front of a fully sighted person. Maybe not close to, or for a prolonged period, but it’s nearly good enough for Dorothy…”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” said Sally.

“She’s supposed to be a Spanish peasant girl, isn’t she?” said Anna. “An olive-skinned beauty…”

“Well, not necessarily a beauty, but I see what you mean,” Sally agreed.

“What?” I asked. “What’s the matter?”

“Your skin, babe,” said Sally. You’re a pasty-faced white chick.”

“As I said, Dorothy can see shapes and colours,” said Anna.

“Is it really that important?” I asked. Both women nodded. I sighed. “So what can we do about it?”

“Fake tan,” Anna said. “I’ve got some left over from our Indian Ocean trip last summer. I’ll go back home and get it.”

Phil and Anna had spent three weeks in the Seychelles the previous year, and Anna, being Anna, couldn’t bear to appear as a chalky-white Englishwoman in front of the natives and all the tanned jet-setting women. So she had enhanced her complexion with ‘tan in a bottle’ until she had achieved the real thing. Fortunately she browns quickly so there was nearly half a bottle left.

Thirty minutes later I was stripped to the waist and Anna was rubbing a noxious brown fluid into my skin. She covered my hands, arms, shoulders, neck and face, and was starting on my chest and back. I tried to stop her.

“Hang on, I’m not going to strip down to my bra while I’m cleaning!”

“Sorry,” she said, not in the least sorry. “I got carried away.”

“It’s a bit pongy,” I complained

“The smell will soon fade. Anyway, you’re lucky,” Anna said. “I had to do my whole body. It took ages.”

“You mean I had to do your whole body,” grumbled Phil.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it,” Anna said. “OK, I’ve finished. The trick is to avoid it looking streaky.” She turned me toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s pretty convincing.” I was sporting a very Hispanic dark brown face.

“I think you’d pass anywhere now,” Sally said. “After all, lots of people at the party didn’t realise you weren’t a woman.”

“Until the following morning when I appeared with my wig askew and no boobs in my bra. Hey, how long does this warpaint last?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll still be a dusky maiden on Monday when you start at Dorothy’s,” Anna said, reassuringly.

“That’s not what I meant! I expected to be me again for the weekend. I can’t go out as Dave with Maria-coloured skin.”

“Why not?”

“Well, suppose someone we know saw Dave with brown skin and then met Maria? It would be obvious what was going on!”

“Well, I suppose you’d better stay as Maria for the moment,” said Sally.

“Does it wash off?” I asked.

“Well obviously it doesn’t wash off!” said Anna scornfully. “It’s for when you’re wearing a swimsuit at the beach or by the pool. You have to be able to go in the water after sunbathing. You don’t want your tan to have disappeared when you come out. It will wear off as you lose the top layer of skin – in about twelve to fourteen days, I think. The only way to remove it earlier is to exfoliate using lemon juice or suchlike. That’s not much fun, and you’ll only have to put it all back on again for Monday.”

“Not to worry, babe,” said Sally. “Mum’s wardrobe is full of stuff for Maria to wear. And at least we know your tan won’t make a mess of the sheets… no matter what we might get up to.”

“Too much information,” said Phil.

* * *

I stripped off my disguise after Phil and Anna left and refused to budge for the rest of Saturday. I also insisted Sally answer the door when our pizza delivery arrived. I rushed upstairs to hide when the doorbell rang.

But Anna was right about the robustness of my fake tan. It was unchanged on Sunday morning, despite some vigorous action overnight. I tried to persuade Sally that we should stay in all day again, but she would have none of it.

“It’s a lovely day, and you need some more Maria time, to practise your act and build up your confidence. We could go for a walk in the park, then to the shops, and maybe a movie this evening.”

“What if we meet someone we know?”

“Not very likely, but we can go out to the country, if you’d prefer. How about a Sunday roast at that pub in the Chiltern Hills?”

As I may have mentioned, there’s little point in arguing with Sally when she’s made up her mind, so I grudgingly allowed her to dress me up as Maria again – padded bra, shapewear, wig, light make-up.

“You know, some false eyelashes would make you look even more feminine, and maybe a little exotic.”

“Forget it.”

Grumbling, she went off and ransacked her mother’s wardrobe for more casual wear that would fit my enhanced figure. She found some plain dark slacks, a grey top, and a black ladies’ jacket. I wore the same sensible black shoes I had bought for Fifi. I had to admit, with the dark skin, jet-black wig, and make-up, I looked exactly like a Spanish hill farmer’s daughter… I imagine. I’ve never actually met a Spanish hill farmer’s daughter. The real Maria Ortega was strictly a sophisticated urban señorita.

“You’d better take off your wedding ring,” Sally said.

I wasn’t happy about that. There seemed to be something altogether too symbolic about it. But I did. Sally was prattling on.

“And you can wear my old ladies’ watch. Yours is too masculine. I’ve got some fun rings here too and a little necklace with a crucifix – very suitable for a good Catholic girl like you. Oh – we should get your ears pierced when we get a chance, but these hoop earrings are clip-ons.”

“I don’t want my ears pierced, thank you. Surely Dorothy’s eyesight isn’t up to noticing whether I’m wearing earrings?”

“Hopefully not. I’m just pointing out that a Spanish girl of your age would almost certainly have pierced ears. Here, you can put your money and keys in the old handbag of mine that you used when you were my mother.” She rubbed her hands with glee. “Sometimes it’s quite fun being married to an actor – or should I say ‘actress’?”

* * *

Sally drove us out to the Royal Oak, an excellent country pub we’d been to a couple of times. It was about three quarters of an hour away, enough to make it unlikely we would bump into anyone we knew. Sally had to drive of course, as once again I didn’t look anything like my driver’s licence photo.

We found a table in a corner where we wouldn’t be overheard. I spoke only Spanish, trying to keep my voice at an appropriate pitch. Sally ordered for me in English.

Just as she had when she and I had gone out for dinner before our party, she quietly but firmly corrected me if I slouched in an unladylike manner; or if I let my legs slip apart; or spoke too loudly; or if I did anything else unfeminine. This continued throughout the meal and afterwards when we went for a walk.

“Little steps, Maria. Pretend you’re wearing a tight skirt,” she said. “And maybe try swinging your big bum from side to side a little.” So I tried that. “Not as much as that, you dork! Think Audrey Hepburn, not Marilyn Monroe.” I tried again. She sighed. “Well at least you’re not walking like John Wayne anymore.”

It was a brisk Autumn day and there were lots of other walkers on the footpath, many with dogs. Most of them smiled and said hello as we passed but I was a little worried at the attention we were attracting. Was this because my disguise wasn’t good enough? Maybe it was too obvious that my curves were stiff padding rather than jiggly female flesh? Or maybe I wasn’t moving right – stomping around like a docker, or mincing like a flamboyant drag queen?

Sally hastened to reassure me.

“You’re doing fine, Maria,” Sally said. “You need to get used to people looking at you. You’re an attractive girl now. In fact, I’m a little surprised that no one’s tried to pick us up yet. I’d be tempted to let them in your place – you’re a single girl in a foreign country…”

“Pass!” I said firmly. “And don’t you even think about it either. Your husband may be out of sight at the moment, but he’s not far away.”

“Yeah, well, out of sight, out of mind, babe.”

I hoped she was joking. But, all in all, it was a good day, and I was beginning to get used to being Maria. Perhaps my disguise wasn’t up to close inspection, but I knew my gestures, mannerisms and movements were becoming decidedly feminine again. I just hoped it would be as easy to go back to normal next weekend – assuming I could get rid of my fake tan by then.

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

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.

At half-past seven on Monday morning, we – that is, Sally and Maria – rang Dorothy’s doorbell. We’d already apologised for having to be here this early, but Sally had to be at work by eight-thirty. The old lady wasn’t at all bothered. She told Sally that she didn’t sleep much at her age. She was always up at six.

It was a chilly morning so I was wearing dark glasses, my headscarf, and an old coat of Sally’s over my cleaning lady costume, and carrying my handbag. Also, having learned my lesson at Anna and Phil’s, I had an old basket full of essential cleaning materials, in case Dorothy was as under-equipped as my sister.

“Listen, are you sure this is… well... right?” I asked Sally, in Spanish. “We’re deceiving an elderly, handicapped lady for monetary gain.”

“We’re not robbing her,” she said, reasonably. “You’ll be working your balls off for her… well not balls, obviously; you’ve already put them out of reach… as it were. You’ll be doing her a real service, something she desperately needs. You’re not proposing to attack her, or rifle through her drawers or anything, are you? You want a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work – as a humble cleaning lady.”

She was still cackling at my discomfiture when the door opened to silence any further conversation. Dorothy blinked nervously at us in the morning sunlight.

“Morning, Dorothy,” said my wife cheerfully. “I’m Sally and this is Maria.”

I smiled and bobbed something that might have been a sort of curtsey. Then I realised she wouldn’t have been able to see me smiling.

“Oh, do come in,” Dorothy said warmly. “It’s so kind of you to help. Let’s go into the kitchen first, then I can show you around. Do you want to hang your coats up?” She pointed to a row of coat hooks behind the front door.

She was a lovely old lady – early eighties, I guessed. She ushered us in and led the way confidently. She obviously knew her way around her own home, despite her poor eyesight.

On the way to the kitchen we passed her sitting room. I noticed all the furniture was round the outside of the room against the walls, so there was nothing in the middle of the room for her to trip over. There was an occasional table beside each armchair; a television in the opposite corner; and plenty of bookshelves, but there were no books or magazines on any of the chairs or tables. I made a mental note to dust the bookshelves carefully. They probably hadn’t been touched since Dorothy’s eyesight began to fail.

The kitchen was laid out in a similar fashion, except for a counter dividing the room in half, with a chair each side. I imagined that as she lived alone she would take many of her meals here. There was a radio at one end of the counter.

We refused her offer of coffee as Sally was pressed for time, and began our tour of the house. Dorothy led the way, giving instructions to Sally in English, which she translated into Spanish for me, although of course I understood everything Dorothy said. I just nodded, smiled and said “Si, si,” and “Si, si, Señora,” in a breathy, high-pitched Spanish accent. Dorothy showed no sign of suspecting I was anything other than what I appeared to be.

Apart from the kitchen and breakfast room, the ground floor consisted of two reception rooms and a cloakroom with toilet and washbasin. Up the first flight of stairs were four bedrooms, one with an en suite, and a family bathroom. A second flight of stairs led up to two more small bedrooms, which had no furniture to speak of and were clearly used for storage.

I had a notebook in which I recorded everything she wanted me to do. I wrote in Spanish, just in case, though it was fairly obvious she wouldn’t be able to read my scrawl anyway. When we finished the tour we returned to the kitchen.

The house had clearly not been cleaned properly for some weeks. The kitchen and toilets were looking grubby, and there was dust everywhere. But it wasn’t untidy like Anna and Phil’s place. Even the memorabilia and junk in the attic rooms were all neatly packaged up and labelled in boxes and suitcases. I wouldn’t need to be making continual trips out to the bins with rubbish. I guessed I could complete the job comfortably in three days. Sally relayed my estimate to Dorothy.

“Would you like her to do some washing and ironing for you too?” she asked.

“Oh would she?” Dorothy smiled at me. “I do find that difficult these days, particularly the ironing.”

That would probably mean four days, and very nearly another mortgage payment sorted. Sally had clearly realised the same thing. She opened the discussion of payment. Dorothy actually offered a rate even higher than Anna had paid me, and Sally accepted happily. I was glad there was no need for any negotiation. Sally is a tough negotiator but I already liked Dorothy too much to want to make her uncomfortable.

“Maria doesn’t have a bank account over here,” Sally said, “but if you make out a cheque to me, I’ll pay her in cash.”

Dorothy was fine with that. I felt I had joined the ranks of generations of cleaning ladies who worked hard and saw their wages commandeered by their spouses. At least I could trust Sally not to blow my hard-earned money on booze and fags.

“I should offer to make lunch, shouldn’t I?” I suggested in Spanish. “She must struggle with the cooker controls.” Sally nodded.

“Maria’s asking if you’d like her to make lunch for you both later on,” she interpreted.

“Oh I don’t think…” Dorothy began.

“It really would be no trouble,” Sally pressed. “She’d be happy to help out,” she said on my behalf.

At Dorothy’s invitation I checked her cupboards. For today I suggested chicken soup from a tin, and bread and cheese. She was happy with that. I told Sally that I would bring something from home to make lunch for the next three days. She relayed the message and Dorothy looked very pleased. She asked Sally to tell me to help myself to coffee and biscuits whenever I wanted. I smiled and asked Sally to thank her. This speaking-through-an-interpreter business felt a little silly but it was obviously necessary, and it would be so easy to make a mistake and answer Dorothy directly in English!

Sally left to go to the bank and I got to work.

I started at the top of the house flicking away spider-webs with a long-handled feather duster; dusting all the lower surfaces – mantelpieces, shelves, table tops; vacuuming to remove the dust; wiping down all the paintwork with a cloth, a sponge and a washing-up bowl full of soapy water; and finally cleaning the insides of all of the windows.

The hardest part of the work was moving all the heavy boxes so that I could vacuum thoroughly. I hoped Dorothy wouldn’t be suspicious that I was capable of moving such weights.

Each of the attic rooms took me about three-quarters of an hour. When I’d finished the second one, I made my way back downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee and empty the dirty water from my bowl. Dorothy was in the kitchen on the telephone. She smiled at me; I smiled back. I didn’t know if her vision was up to seeing that.

“Yes, she’s here now,” she said into the phone. “She seems very nice…”

I studiously ignored what I was hearing, as I wasn’t supposed to understand an English conversation.

“Well, I haven’t had the chance to look at anything she’s done yet… I might not be able to tell how thorough she is anyway…”

This was a little worrying – not that I was ashamed of my work, but who on earth was she talking to? And why were they interested?

“… with my eyesight, you know…? Well, why don’t you come round after she’s gone and see for yourself?”

It was getting harder to concentrate on being oblivious to what I was hearing. I just hoped that the mysterious person at the other end of the telephone didn’t turn up while I was still here. Should I have asked Sally to tell Dorothy that I was too shy to meet anyone? I dismissed that idea as soon as I’d thought of it. Anybody would be suspicious of that.

After my coffee break I carried on with the much larger bedrooms on the first floor and managed to get one more done by lunchtime. But now, and for the rest of the day, I was worrying about being seen at close quarters by someone with 20-20 vision.

I came down at about ten past one to find Dorothy dozing in an armchair in the sitting room. I didn’t disturb her yet but went into the kitchen to start preparing our meal. I deliberately made more noise than necessary with the saucepan and the grill, in the hope that she would wake up without me needing to go and rouse her.

As planned, I heated the chicken soup and made some cheese on toast and a pot of tea to wash it down. It was all just about ready when Dorothy appeared. She smiled and sat down at the kitchen counter.

Lunch was a strange affair. As I served the meal the two of us communicated almost entirely by sign language. I worked out what she was trying to say most of the time, and bobbed, and whispered, “Si, Señora,” as appropriate; but I was never sure she had caught any of my signals, given her vision issues.

Still she ate hungrily, and we each returned to our morning activities: me to scrubbing the bathroom, Dorothy to dozing in the sitting room.

Progress was a little slower in the afternoon as the other bedrooms were in a poorer state. I suspected Dorothy had grandchildren who came to stay and who were still at the stage of knocking over any vessel containing liquid. I spent a lot of time with carpet shampoo and scrubbing brush. More than once it occurred to me to wonder whether she would appreciate what I was doing. Did she know about the many orange juice and milk stains? Would her eyesight be up to seeing how much better the carpet looked after I’d finished?

I took her in a cup of tea and a plate of chocolate digestives at about half past three, but otherwise saw no one for the rest of the afternoon as I laboured away. At one point it occurred to me that I was actually enjoying myself, and I began to wonder why. I had always been a bit of a neatness freak, but still…

Sally returned to collect me at about five-thirty. Dorothy asked her to tell me how pleased she was with the rooms I had cleaned, and how much she appreciated my work.

“So how was it?” Sally asked in Spanish as we left, just in case someone was hiding behind one of the road’s tall privet hedges.

“Oh it was fine. I’m quite used to cleaning now, as you know.”

“This was the first time you’ve done it in drag though,” she mocked.

“It’s just wearing a costume – playing a part. No biggie. Though all the tight shapewear and padding is quite uncomfortable. The wig too. I’m pretty sweaty underneath. I’ll need all clean underwear tomorrow.”

“Yes, I can tell you do need a shower,” she said, sniffing me ostentatiously. “The trouble is, you don’t smell woman-sweaty; you smell boy-sweaty. I think we’d better dowse you in girly anti-perspirant tomorrow, just in case.”

“Anyway I can put up with it all for the moment,” I said. “It’s a fairly painless way to earn the extra money we need to keep ourselves in the black.”

“But don’t you find it all a little demeaning?” she said after a little thought. “Someone with your qualifications doing unskilled labour, and female labour, at that?”

“But it was all your idea!” I protested. “Yours and Anna’s. Anyway, that’s a bit sexist, isn’t it? Given that I can’t make use of my elite qualifications at the moment, I definitely prefer cleaning toilets – even in a bra and knickers – to emptying bins or digging holes in the road. And as for unskilled labour, there’s nothing wrong with that. We can’t all run British Airways or Microsoft.”

* * *

And so the week progressed. Sally came with me each morning to take and translate any additional instructions. I brought a light lunch in each day. I dusted and scrubbed and wiped and polished and vacuumed, and gradually the house began to sparkle. Dorothy was delighted. On Wednesday I started putting in loads of washing between cleaning sessions. By Thursday morning there was only the kitchen left to clean and a huge pile of ironing to get through.

On each day that week I finished early enough to shower, wash my shapewear, organise our dinner, and still spend an hour on my computer. Being Maria during the day and Dave in the evening was hard work but altogether a fulfilling and satisfying experience.

There was one disturbing episode however – well, three episodes, in fact. I kept overhearing Dorothy talking about me on the phone. Obviously she completely believed in the fictional Maria and her inability to understand English, or else she would have been more discreet. Each time she reported to her caller how satisfied she was with my work and invited her (I heard enough of the caller’s voice to know she spoke to three different women) to come round in the evening to see for herself.

It sounded like other local ladies might be interested in Maria’s services. In principle I’d be very happy with the work and the money, as I couldn’t earn anything as myself at the moment, and I felt I was letting my wife down with no salary. But we both knew my disguise wasn’t good enough to be around sharp urban women in full possession of their faculties. It was time for Maria to go back to Spain. The only problem was my sexy olive skin. I needed to return to pale white Dave as soon as possible. I determined to find out all I could about exfoliating.

* * *

On the Thursday afternoon I had just finished putting all of Dorothy’s newly washed and pressed clothes back in her wardrobes and drawers when Sally came by to collect me. Perfect timing. A smiling Dorothy pushed a large cheque into Sally’s hand and said she hoped I would be available for a couple of hours a week for the foreseeable future. Sally promised to see what could be arranged. I was standing behind Dorothy shaking my head vigorously. So Sally backtracked a little, saying she wasn’t sure how much longer Maria would be staying in the UK, but she would discuss it with me.

Back at home, she wanted to talk about it further.

“I hadn’t realised just how good you are at cleaning,” she began. “I mean, I know you keep our place looking amazing, but you’ve really impressed your sister – and Dorothy.”

“Well, it’s not rocket science,” I began modestly. “It’s just a matter of being organised and following a few simple principles…”

“No doubt, but I don’t think you could be as good at it as you are, unless you were actually enjoying yourself.”

“Well I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. “I find it… restful. While my body gets on with the physical work, my mind wanders free. I get creative. I’ve got a couple of new ideas for my digital currency app to test out tonight.”

“I think it’s more than that. I think you really like being a cleaning lady!”

This was a little embarrassing. I hoped she wasn’t losing her respect for me as her husband. She must have guessed what I was thinking.

“No, don’t worry,” she hastened to say. “I think it’s great. Since you can’t make any money in software engineering at the moment, it’s a great side-line to have. People will always need cleaning ladies.”

She went off to fetch a bottle of wine, chortling to herself.

* * *

I was still in bed at eight o’clock the next morning when my slumber was disturbed by Anna bursting in, followed by my wife. Sally was fully dressed and ready to leave for the bank, but I was surprised to see my sister. Her bursting into my bedroom while I was trying to sleep was nothing new – she’d been doing it all my life – but I didn’t think that dedicated lady of leisure ever got up much before nine.

“Sorry to disturb you so early,” Anna began, quite plainly not in the least sorry, “but this can’t wait, and you both need to hear it.”

She sat down heavily on the bed, narrowly avoiding squashing my foot.

“Who’s died?” I asked, suppressing a yawn.

Anna tutted. Sally grinned.

“No one’s died, idiot! Dorothy called me last night. Three of her friends are desperate for Maria to clean their houses – and they’re promising big money. Between them you can make enough to cover all your mortgage payments up until the Tribunal.”

Anna sat back in triumph. I looked at the two dominant women in my life. I yawned and stretched.

“I thought we were clear about this,” I began. “There is no Maria! She’s a fiction, make-believe, play-acting. For God’s sake, Anna, she’s not real!”

“She’s real enough to make nearly nine hundred pounds in four days. Don’t you want to keep this house?”

“Of course we do, but I thought we all agreed: I could only get away with pretending to be Maria with Dorothy because of her poor eyesight. Anyone else would soon see through me. And they’d probably call the police – a man getting into their homes under false pretences. It’s tantamount to rape!”

“You’re exaggerating,” she scoffed. “Anyway all we need to do is improve your disguise. I’ve even found a service that can do that. It’s called Transformations.”

Sally perked up. “What do they do?”

“They use computers and 3D printing to make masks and prosthetics and stuff to disguise people. Apparently they’re very big in the cross-dressing and transgender communities.” I must have been looking sceptical. “They’re very discreet. You can be anonymous. They don’t advertise. You have to know someone…”

“They must be expensive,” said Sally dubiously.

“Don’t worry about that,” Anna said. “It’s just a one-off cost. Then you can make seven or eight hundred a week! You’ll have plenty of customers. Phil and I can cover any up-front spending and you can pay us back whenever you’re ready; there’s no hurry. Or maybe you can do something else for me...”

“I don’t know…” I began.

I knew they could afford it easily – I’d seen their bank statements and credit card bills when I was tidying their place, but I wasn’t keen to be beholden to my sister, of all people.

“Well it can’t hurt to go and see them, can it?” said Sally. “If they can’t make you a more realistic Maria, or if it’s too expensive, we won’t be any worse off, will we?”

Acting as a Cleaning Lady

By Susannah Donim

Chapter 4 – My Transformation

Can the professionals make Dave more convincing as Maria?

I didn’t ask Anna how she found out about Transformations or who her contact was, and she didn’t say, but the following Saturday morning Sally and I found ourselves at their anonymous-looking manor house out in the country. We were welcomed by a very pretty receptionist who introduced herself as Angela.

“I understand that it was your sister who made the appointment on your behalf, sir?” I nodded. “Now we never enquire of our customers why they require our services and indeed most prefer to maintain their anonymity. When I explained this to your sister, she suggested we make the appointment in the name of ‘Maria’. Will that be satisfactory?”

I snorted. Sally laughed.

“That will be fine,” she said. “He’s getting quite used to being called Maria.”

“Good. Well, if you’d like to follow me. I believe your consultant is ready for you.” She opened a door next to her Reception desk and beckoned us in.

“Come along, Maria,” Sally said with a huge grin on her face.

The ‘consultant’ turned out to be a large no-nonsense lady in a tweed skirt suit. She was checking her notes when Angela showed us in.

“Good morning,” she said. “I’m Ingrid McLaughlin.” She extended her hand. We shook. “Do call me Ingrid,” she said. “Please sit down.”

She was brisk and business-like. I couldn’t say I liked her exactly, but her professional manner did inspire confidence. We took our seats.

“So – Maria – let me just have a good look at you. I understand you’re hoping to pass as a Hispanic girl at close quarters and for long periods?” I nodded. “Forgive this possibly stupid question, but you do speak Spanish fluently?”

“Yes, we lived in Madrid for nearly four years,” I said.

“Which answers my second question – you won’t be caught out on the geography or culture. Now, your sister also said that some people you meet as Maria might have met your real self, so it would better if your face was unrecognisable too?”

Sally and I looked at each other. She shrugged.

“I suppose so,” I confirmed.

“Very well,” Ingrid continued. “Would you take your outer clothes off, please?”

I dutifully stripped to my underpants. Well, it was far too late to start being modest now.

“Yes… yes, good,” she said. “You’re not too tall; quite slim; not too musclebound. I think we can oblige you.”

She gave me some flip-flops and a plain pink ladies’ dressing gown to put on, from which I deduced I wouldn’t be getting dressed again for the moment. She consulted her notes.

“Can you clarify exactly what you mean by ‘Hispanic’?”

“He needs people to believe he’s a young Spanish woman,” said Sally.

“Yes, but what do you think a Spanish woman looks like?” Mrs McLaughlin persisted. “I mean compared with an English woman?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I suppose it’s like asking what French people look like, or British people, or American people… It’s about what we expect to be the most common features… I guess dark hair is more common in Spain than fair, and dark eyes too. I’d say Spanish women are mostly tanned – what they call ‘olive-skinned’? A typical Mediterranean look, similar to Italians and Greeks. I don’t know about things like broad noses and thick lips. I think those sorts of features are more South American – Latino, not Hispanic.”

“That’s about right,” she said. “The point is that Hispanic is not a race but an ethnic category. Hispanics are a multiracial community; there are white Hispanics, black Hispanics and Asian Hispanics. People of Anglo-Saxon descent don’t expect anyone coming from Latin America or Spain to have blue eyes or fair hair, though actually many do. You might find these pictures interesting.”

She showed us some colour print-outs of web pages. She’d done her research all right. The first three were well-known Spanish celebrities, two actresses and a TV presenter: Inma Cuesta, Sara Carbonero, and Cristina Pedroche. They all conformed to my characterisation of dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin.

“But then there’s this lady,” Ingrid said, showing us another picture. “Esther Cañadas. She’s a Spanish model and actress. I’d say she’s more like a typical Scandinavian. But none of that really matters, I think most people’s expectations will be the same as yours.”

“Just don’t expect to be as pretty as any of these, babe,” Sally laughed.

“No, indeed,” said Ingrid.

“I was hoping I could look like Garbiñe Muguruza,” I said, not entirely seriously.

“The tennis player?” said Sally. “You should be so lucky! She’s gorgeous.”

“She is… though not in your class, obviously...” I said. Sally grinned.

“Anyway,” Ingrid interrupted our banter. “We’ll need to dye your hair and colour your skin properly. You’ve been using that cheap fake tan stuff, haven’t you? I can see it’s fading in streaks already. The skin dye we use is much better. You’ll also need dark contact lenses, and we need to round out your face. A long thin face is typically male; yours isn’t too bad, but some cheek padding and a little double chin will make a huge difference. I think we might make your nose a little broader too, not to make you look Native American or anything, just to disguise your real features a little more. Anyway I can show you what I mean on the computer and you can decide then. How do you feel about injections in your lips?”

“What – collagen you mean?” said Sally.

“Actually collagen is being phased out nowadays. There are many types of dermal fillers for increasing volume in the lips but the most commonly used now are based on hyaluronic acid. It’s a naturally occurring sugar in your body, mainly found in the joints. The filler is a synthetic version but, because it’s a natural substance, your body thinks it’s its own so it doesn’t break down as quickly. Hyaluronic acid is hydrophilic, meaning it attracts water, filling the lips from the inside. Most collagen fillers are very short term as the body breaks it down too easily.”

“So how long do these new fillers last?” I asked.

“Well they say four to six months, though it varies a lot from patient to patient. The new fillers are still temporary, just usually longer-lasting than collagen. They’re also reversible.”

I was dubious, but Sally said, “Look at this way, sweetie, you won’t be able to go back to being… yourself easily with dyed skin and hair, and prosthetics stuck all over your face and body. So why do long-lasting thick lips matter? If you really hate the whole thing, we’ll just have to come back and they can undo everything at once.”

Ingrid nodded. “You need to understand that this is going to be a big commitment. Your male self will have to disappear for as long as you need to be a convincing Spanish woman. You won’t be able to be Maria during the day and ‘take her off’ in the evening.”

That was exactly what I’d thought I could do. I wasn’t at all comfortable with saying goodbye to Dave for the duration.

“I realise this is a big decision,” said Ingrid. “I need to go next door to set up the photography suite anyway, so I’ll leave you to discuss it.”

She left.

“I don’t want to be Maria all the time,” I began.

“It’s only till the Tribunal,” Sally said. “If you do this – and we win – we’ll be back on our feet. Besides, what’s the problem? I know you’re enjoying the work. You did a fantastic job for Anna and Dorothy.”

“The work’s OK, but I never wanted to be a charlady, for fuck’s sake! I can just imagine you introducing me at parties. ‘And what does your husband do, Sally?’ ‘Oh, he wanted to be an actor but that didn’t pan out so now he’s a cleaning lady’.”

“Well I never planned to be a bank teller either! I hate it, but I put up with it because it’s our only regular source of income. We’re both making sacrifices!”

I slumped. She was quite right. I knew she loathed her menial job as a counter clerk when she should be making a fortune as an investment banker. All she was asking of me was to spend a little time play-acting as a working-class, immigrant cleaning woman. Hell, at one time I was hoping for a whole career pretending to be someone else. Being Maria for five months was about the same commitment in terms of time as being in a West End play. But at least you could be yourself off-stage…

Sensing victory, Sally continued, “Also you can find out what it’s been like to be born female throughout history – stuck with menial tasks, cooking, cleaning, at the beck and call of some man…”

“What are you talking about? You’ve never had to serve a man in your life!”

“I never said I have,” she said, not in the least embarrassed. “I merely said it wouldn’t do you any harm to find out what it’s like to be a serving woman, having been a privileged white male all your life.”

“It might not do me any harm,” I said, “but I can’t see why it would do me any bloody good!”

This was fast becoming our first serious row. I didn’t want that, and apparently neither did she.

“Look, if you really can’t stand this idea, I won’t think any the less of you for backing out,” Sally said, almost kindly. There was none of her usual banter now. “We’ll find some other way of keeping our heads above water till the Tribunal. If we sold the house and moved into a flat, we could probably afford the mortgage on my salary…”

“No, I know it’s our best plan, and I’m not afraid of the disguise, or the work. It’s not that,” I said.

“Well, what then?”

“It’s… well… us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to be sure that nothing will change between us… I love you, and I want to be your husband, not a female house guest, and a skivvy at that. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could be me again every night, but… I’m afraid you’ll start seeing me as a woman, and a servant… I don’t think I could take that.”

“You’re the one who said there was nothing wrong with being a cleaner!” she said, with a smile. But she saw I was serious. “Hey, come on, have a little faith. I’m not going to forget who’s under the prosthetics and the women’s clothes. And I won’t forget why you’re doing it all – it’s for us and our future. I know I don’t say it very often – it’s not really my style – but I love you too.”

I suddenly realised that I couldn’t remember her ever actually saying that. But it had never mattered; she showed it in everything else she said and everything she did. She only said it now because she realised how vulnerable I was feeling.

“So just think of it as a long improvisation session,” she said. “Anyway, it might be kind of fun to have a husband and a best girlfriend in one package,” she said. “Hey, remember the sex we had when you were Fifi? It’ll be like that again.”

Ingrid came bustling in again at that point.

“So, are we going ahead?” she asked. We agreed; Sally confidently, me hesitantly. “Well your sister has already transferred a deposit to our account, so we’re good to go.”

Apparently Anna was confident Sally would talk me into it. I hate it when the women in my life know me so well and conspire against me.

She led me next door to the photography suite, as she called it. It was actually a small dark room, not much bigger than a dressing room in a department store. The only illumination was a small dim darkroom lamp.

“The cameras are high definition. You stay still and they move around you on those rails.”

She pointed at three circular tracks that ran around the walls of the booth, including apparently the door, once it was closed. One was at head height, one at waist height, and the other one at knee level. There was a camera on each track.

“We use the images to build a three-dimensional computer composite of your body, accurate to a thousandth of an inch. The software then shows you the female shapes we can make for you. When you’ve chosen the body you want, we use 3D printing to make the prosthetics.”

She helped me up onto the little platform. There were footprints on it showing me where to stand, like at airport X-ray security booths. She opened the door again.

“When I’ve gone, take off your underpants, flip-flops and robe,” she said. “You can just throw them over there into the corner. I’ll give you further instructions over the loudspeaker.”

When I was sure she’d gone, I stripped off as instructed and re-positioned myself on the platform. In a moment Ingrid’s voice came through.

“OK, are you ready?” she said. “The lights will be going off in a moment. Please stand as still as you can with your arms horizontal and out to your sides.”

I complied, and the lights went out.

“Starting the process now,” she said. “Try not to blink.”

The lights came on. They were incredibly bright after the darkness. The cameras starting orbiting around me, snapping away. After two circuits they stopped and the bright lights went off again and the small darkroom lamp came on. Ingrid’s voice over the loudspeaker told me to put the robe back on and return to the office.

She and Sally were at the computer console. I looked over their shoulders. The photographs had been assembled by the software into a three-dimensional picture. A figure clearly recognisable as me was revolving on the screen. My private parts had been pixilated out, like they do with the faces of children and innocent bystanders in TV news.

“Now we superimpose an average female figure the same height as you.”

The new figure was female, with my face. It was mostly white with some coloured areas. Where my body’s dimensions were inside the proposed female shape her protrusions were coloured green; and where my body stuck out beyond the female template, those areas were red.

“We make prosthetics for the green zones which will pad you out to the selected feminine shape,” Ingrid explained. “This will be mostly around the abdomen – the hips, thighs and buttocks – and of course the breasts. But the red zones are the problem. Your shoulders are too broad for an average woman, and even though you’re quite slim for a man, your waist is still too thick. You could wear a stiff corset, if you can put up with the discomfort, but that wouldn’t help with your shoulders.”

“That’s right,” said Sally. “You can always tell a drag queen by her shoulders, can’t you? A triangular shape - an otherwise slim woman with shoulders twice as wide as her waist!”

I always knew there was a problem, though now I understood it better, but the whole point of coming to Transformations was to get a female disguise that was undetectable.

“So what’s the answer?” I said.

“We increase your other dimensions slightly to compensate,” Ingrid said.

She moved the computer mouse to a scale that read from 0 to 28. It was currently on 8.

“Are those dress sizes?” Sally asked.

Ingrid nodded. As she dialled up the number on the scale first to 12, then to 14, then 16, the female shape broadened out. The red zones started to shrink and the greens got bigger.

“Hang on,” said Sally. “I’ve just thought. Can you adjust your figure’s vital statistics to match the clothes and underwear we already have?”

“Yours, you mean? I hardly think…”

“No, they belong to a ‘larger lady’ we know. We can’t really afford to buy Maria a whole new wardrobe, you see.”

“We can certainly try,” said Ingrid. “If you have the sizes, I can override the projected figure manually.”

Sally got out a scrap of paper and passed it to Ingrid. All I saw was 42D-32-44, which seemed a long way from what I had always assumed to be the ideal 36-24-36, but what did I know?

“I have a suitcase full of clothes in the car,” she said. “I thought I’d better bring them in case you were able to do everything today.”

That was Sally, thinking ahead as always.

Ingrid entered Carol’s measurements. Virtually all the red disappeared. The green areas looked huge to me now. Maria was going to be plump-to-voluptuous.

“I think that will be very effective,” Ingrid said. “I’ll do the facial prosthetics next.”

With a couple of clicks she brought up a 3D model of my head.

“I’ll add long dark hair first, and change the colour of your eyes.” More clicks. “Now you can begin to see what Maria might look like. I’m going to broaden her nose, pad her cheeks, and thicken her lips a little.”

The picture started to look more Latina.

“Your face is still too narrow and your chin is too pointed.” She clicked a different icon and ran the mouse pointer along a scale. The face in the picture immediately became rounder and grew a substantial double chin.

“She’ll look better with a little make-up,” said Sally. “Can you do that?”

“Certainly,” said Ingrid. “How’s that?”

Without make-up the face was plain and plump, but unmistakably feminine and Hispanic. With make-up she was actually quite attractive. More importantly, Ingrid had done enough that she didn’t look at all like me anymore. Sally confirmed that this latest design was good.

“Then I’ll print all the prosthetics now,” Ingrid said. “Do you want to do the actual transformation here today?”

Sally looked at me. I quailed.

“If you come on Monday, you’ll be on your own,” she said. “I’ll be at work. You’ll have to use public transport or taxis. And don’t forget Maria shouldn’t be heard speaking English anywhere. It’s too risky.”

I sighed. “Yes please, Ingrid,” I said.

“Well, first we must get you waxed; then dye your skin. We need to attach your prosthetics and plan your make-up. Also your hair needs to be done. It’s not a bad length but I would suggest extensions. I need to check that our beautician and hairdresser are available for all that. What else? You don’t wear glasses, do you? I think we have some plain dark contact lenses. Oh, and I’ll have to see if our nurse can come in this afternoon.”

“Nurse?” I said, panicking a little. “What will we need a nurse for?”

“The lip filler injections need to be done by someone with a proper medical qualification. Charlotte is a retired nurse; she does all ours. Don’t worry; it’s a minor procedure.”

It sounded like there would be a lot of minor procedures which would add up to some really major changes.

* * *

And that’s how the rest of that memorable Saturday went. The whole process took hours. There was no point in Sally waiting around, so she brought in the suitcase full of Carol’s clothes and underwear, smiled sympathetically, took my clothes (including my underpants) away in a plastic bag, and went off to the shops.

The waxing was horrendous, despite the fact that Vera, the masseuse, pumped me full of whisky to dull the pain. I lay down on her operating table, drunk as a lord, and waited for the torment to come. I struggled not to show how much it hurt, but eventually I had to let it all out in a decidedly unmanly scream.

“Wow!” said Vera, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard an actual woman scream like that while being waxed.”

“How do they stand it?” I panted through gritted teeth. “I’ve never felt pain like that!”

“Hah!” she snorted. “Try childbirth! I dunno; I suppose you men have a lower pain threshold. Hey, maybe your time as a woman will change that for you. You realise you’ll probably have to do this again in a couple of weeks?”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen,” I swore. “I’ll get a Ladyshave.”

“You could try depilatory cream. It’s not as effective as waxing, but it might be good enough. You’re supposed to be Spanish, aren’t you? They say European women are hairier than English girls.”

“Isn’t that just the French...? Owwwww!”

The conversation was interrupted by Vera tearing another strip off me, taking advantage of me being distracted.

“You must have led a sheltered life,” she said. “Have you never even had a tooth pulled? OK, I’ve finished your body; now I have to do your face. A close shave first, then wax.”

If anything, that was even more painful, but eventually the torture came to an end. I was sore all over. Vera dabbed away a few spots of blood with an alcohol-soaked cotton wool swab.

“We normally rub some soothing lotion all over you at this point,” she explained, “but you’re having an overall skin dye, so we can’t. If you’re covered in lotion, the dye won’t take. I’ll just tidy up your eyebrows a little. I know they say Spanish girls don’t pluck, but yours are too thick for a woman. It will also be another difference between Maria and… your male self.”

She used a stencil to mark out a feminine shape for my eyebrows and tweezers to remove individual hairs. It hurt as much as anything she’d already done today, and that was saying something. Maybe the brow is a more sensitive area.

“Right,” said Vera, when she was finally satisfied, “time for your skin dyeing.”

So, stinging all over and still wobbly from the booze, I was taken to what looked like a shower cubicle. She gave me thin goggles to cover my eyes, a tight swimming cap, and a pair of ear plugs. She also pushed a couple of small pieces of cotton wool up my nostrils.

“Keep your mouth closed tight, dear,” she said. “It’s not poisonous, but you don’t want to swallow any of this stuff. OK, let me take your gown. You need to be naked for this, obviously.”

I then had a shower in a fine black dye. It was actually quite soothing after my waxing, but it looked awfully dark.

“Don’t worry about the colour,” Vera called over the noise of the shower. “It will be much paler when it dries. You’ll be a nice tanned shade. Can you move about a bit? We need the dye to cover you equally everywhere. We don’t want any streaks.”

I couldn’t prevent the dye getting on my lips and some in my mouth. It tasted like paint, as I suppose it would. After about fifteen minutes Vera switched the shower to ordinary warm water to remove the surplus dye. Then two fans came on and blew warm air all over me.

“Keep turning round,” Vera called, “so that it dries evenly.”

Eventually I was allowed out and Vera helped me put my gown back on. She sat me down and removed the cap, goggles, ear plugs and cotton wool.

“I just need to check around your eyes and the edges where the cap was,” she said, dabbing around them with a paintbrush. “The goggles stop the dye getting in your eyes but they also cover up areas which need to be coloured. If I don’t touch you up a bit, you’ll look like a panda in reverse.”

“OK, that looks pretty good,” she said eventually.

She opened a cupboard door. It had a full-length mirror inside. My skin was now a dark caramel tone, like I had spent several months sunbathing in the Mediterranean.

“It should last at least a couple of months,” Vera promised. “You and Mrs Maria should be on the lookout for signs of it fading in about eight weeks. But you’ll be back before that for your next waxing, won’t you?” She chuckled. “OK, now let’s see about these prosthetics.”

I looked round and saw a trolley laden with what looked like weird lumps of flesh, the same colour as my newly dyed skin. Ingrid must have brought them in while I was in the dye shower. I caught a whiff of something like latex. Vera indicated for me to lie down on her operating table again, on my back.

“We’ll do your breasts first. Hold still. You don’t want to get this glue all over you.”

She applied adhesive to a wide area around my right nipple and also to the back of the first form. Then she pressed it on, leaning on me with all her not inconsiderable weight and counting out loud to sixty. Then she repeated the whole process with the other form.

“OK, you’re stuck with them for at least two weeks. Hah – stuck, get it?”

“What if I need to remove them earlier?”

“Well, we can give you a solvent that will dissolve the glue, but it’s a real pain to use. You have to keep applying it around and under the edges and peeling the form back little by little. It will probably take at least half an hour.”

“Couldn’t I just rip it off like a band-aid?”

“I strongly advise you not to try that. This is medical adhesive. You’ll rip your skin off before the breast form. After a couple of weeks you will be shedding the top layer of your skin anyway and the forms will slide off by themselves. When you do get them off, wash your chest and clean the forms very thoroughly, to avoid getting a rash or an infection. I’ll give you some adhesive, then you’ll be able to re-attach them without having to come back here. Now you need to stay where you are for another five minutes to let the adhesive set.”

She did some tidying up while we waited, then came back with a fine brush and a little pot of goo which seemed to be the same colour as my dyed skin and the breast forms.

“The edges are feathered so there won’t be an obvious join where the form ends and your chest begins, but I still need to apply a little make-up to conceal the edges completely. When I’ve finished they really will look like they’re part of you. You’ll be able to go topless and no one will know.”

“Absolutely not happening,” I said. She grinned.

“This is permanent make-up, by the way.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, that just means long-lasting,” she laughed. “It’s not like I’m tattooing your make-up on. That really is permanent. No, you’ll probably still have to do a little touching-up from time to time. This should last until you need to remove the forms, then you’ll have to re-apply it. You can take this pot with you.”

When she had finished, she invited me to get up and check my chest out in the mirror. It was amazing! My 42D breasts (I assumed) were totally realistic. You really couldn’t see the joins, but they were heavy.

Vera was rummaging in the suitcase Sally had packed. She fished out a pink cotton bra of Carol’s.

“Slip this on then,” she said. “Make yourself decent. Those babies will need support. You’re not used to carrying big boobs around; you could strain your back or stretch the skin of your chest.”

I tried to put the bra on the ‘proper’ way, but I couldn’t work out how to fasten the clips behind my back. Vera helped. She was right; I was much more comfortable with my bra on. She made some minor adjustments to the shoulder straps, but it was a perfect fit. Ingrid and her 3D printing program were clearly spot-on. But it was a little disconcerting not to be able to see my feet anymore, or my knees, or my waist, or indeed anything below my gigantic bust.

“Now let’s talk about your lower half,” Vera said, holding up a swollen, hideous-looking, thing.

We examined the prosthesis together. It was like a pair of flesh-coloured shorts, but heavily padded round the tummy, thighs, hips, and its big, round bottom.

“It’s exactly the same weight that the real thing would be,” Vera said, “so it forces you to move as you would if it was actually part of you. If you look inside, you’ll see there’s a little tube for your… thing, and it’s connected to the vaginal opening. Obviously you’ll have to sit down to use the toilet, but the rear orifice is aligned with your anus, so ‘doing your business’ – number ones or number twos – should all feel quite natural.

“It will be a very tight fit and should stay in place without any adhesive for at least a couple of days,” she continued. “We can glue this on you too. We use a special paste that prevents perspiration. If we don’t, you may get sweaty and uncomfortable during the day, depending on what you get up to, but if we do, you’re stuck without access to your… wedding tackle for at least two weeks at a time.”

“No glue,” I said, firmly. “I want access to my equipment. It’s the only thing I’ll have left to remind myself – and my wife – who I really am.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “You can always come back if you change your mind. But make sure you clean it and yourself properly at least every other day. The material it’s made of will retain its shape for quite a while but it will soften a little, which will make it easier to get off and on. Just be aware that when it starts to feel loose, that’s a sign that the material has perished and it will start falling apart. It should last at least a year though.”

“Well I certainly won’t need it that long,” I said. “Six months at the outside.”

The mock blubber in the thighs and buttocks was contoured to resemble a plump young woman’s flesh, a little early cellulite at the tops of the legs, and all. Vera sprinkled some talcum powder inside to make it easier to get on. I stepped into it and tried to pull it up. It was really heavy. The flabby tummy and buttocks jiggled realistically.

“Getting yourself tucked away is a little tricky,” Vera said. “Let me help. It’ll probably feel a little uncomfortable at first, but you’ll soon get used to it.”

She reached inside the tight-fitting padded panties and manoeuvred my wedding tackle into the tube she had pointed out before. Then she tucked it down between my legs. It was very uncomfortable until she gently pushed my testicles back up into my body cavities. I didn’t even know they could do that.

“You need to get this right, or you could damage your genitals, and that might affect your little swimmers,” Vera said.

She was manipulating my wedding tackle around till it fitted tightly but comfortably into the prosthetic. I say ‘comfortably’ but I’m speaking relatively. There was very little about this experience that was comfortable. This horrible thing would definitely be coming off every night.

Vera handed me a pair of pink panties from the suitcase.

“Cover yourself up, dear,” she smiled. “We don’t allow full-frontal nudity here. This is a respectable establishment.”

Just bending to pull my knickers up was a strain, and they did nothing to conceal the rolls of new fat I would have to get used to carrying around. I pinched several inches of unfamiliar flesh on my buttock. When I stood up and leaned forward, my boobs nearly pulled me over.

“Phew!” I said. “I feel really heavy.”

“You need to remember that you’re going from being a twelve stone man to a fifteen stone woman,” said Vera. “You’re carrying forty more pounds around with a musculature that’s not used to it. For a woman, gaining so much weight that quickly would be very dangerous. Your male muscles are stronger but you still need to pace yourself for a while. Don’t overdo the exercise.”

“So no squash or mountain climbing till I’ve built myself up a bit. Got it.”

“And no heavy lifting in whatever your new job is going to be.” She grinned. “Still I don’t suppose your new employer would expect you to be able to lift much, looking like you do now.”

I examined myself in the mirror again. It was still my face, albeit a lot browner than usual, but underneath it was a plump woman’s body in pink lingerie. Amazingly there was no sign of my genitals now – any masculine bulge was concealed by my new mons Venus and soft, round feminine tummy flab. I gulped.

“On a purely practical note,” Vera continued, “with this and your new boobs, you’ll find your centre of gravity is very different, which will affect your walk,” said Vera. “You’ll find your bum wants to swing from side to side. You need to let it.”

I tried a circuit of the room. She was right; my enhanced rear was swinging from side to side. It was horrible! I felt so ungainly, bulky, wobbly. I felt… vulnerable. I would be helpless if I got into any trouble. I couldn’t possibly defend myself – or Sally. Is this how women feel all the time? Heaven help me if I actually needed to run anywhere. And, yes, any sport would definitely be out for the foreseeable future. Maybe bingo? Competitive knitting?

Vera was checking a list on her clipboard.

“OK, just one more thing to do. Now that your dye is dry, I’m going to spread a little anti-androgen cream where your beard grows. This will gradually reduce hair growth and cut down your need to shave and get razor rash. I recommend using it every morning after you’ve shaved and again later in the day. Do you get five o’clock shadow?”

“A little.”

“Well until the anti-androgen effect has kicked in, you’ll need to shave again if you’re going out in the evening. You can apply the cream after that. Otherwise do it last thing at night. You can finish this tube, but don’t get any more. It won’t have as strong an effect as oestrogen would, but it might still reduce your sex drive if you use it for too long.”

She rubbed some of the cream into my face.

“Right, I’ve finished with you now. You look pretty convincing, if I do say so myself. I’ll check to see if they’re ready for you at the hairdressers. They’ll be doing your facial prosthetics and your make-up too.”