“Paulie, are you awake? It’s time to get up.” Tall Paul prised his face from the keyboard, and moaned gruffly at his mother through the rope of drool he drew in his wake. A World of Warcraft veteran, he was no stranger to all nighters, but for that one evening, his sword arm had remained stilled. Who would ever have guessed a three-minute film could take so long to put together.

Nothing could seem less like work than looking at Stevie’s pictures, although choosing which to include in the clip, and which to discard was difficult. Were it not for the time constraints forced upon him by his chosen song, he would have included all the previous day’s outtakes; he was sure, however, that the success of his venture very much relied on its soundtrack. She had offered herself to the young IT worker - albeit not in the manner he had hoped for — and he had run away like a frightened child. If there were still a chance of a repeat, Paul would have to demonstrate how much Stevie meant to him.

Choosing a tee shirt was always the most difficult decision of his morning routine, and that was when he had merely to brave his colleagues’ opinion. Discarding the Superman tee as too ironic, Paul dithered between ‘I see dumb people’ and ‘Geek Orthodox’, before plumping for one emblazoned with Green Lantern’s logo. Its relative obscurity would appeal to the others in IT, yet not scream ‘nerd’ to Stevie.
Downstairs, his mother was rattling about in the kitchen, which gave him a few minutes to check YouTube before his summons to breakfast. Several users had reposted Stevie’s video blog to the site, and Tall Paul had responded to the most popular of these with his tribute video. Although only an hour had elapsed since his upload, it had in turn attracted thousands of views, comments and another five-star rating. Regret as he might his original betrayal, that single petty act had sent Stevie’s name speeding around the world; few people would ever create anything as powerful as he had, and it thrilled him.

Stevie had gone viral.

*****

Penny could not help but smile as Stevie waddled back to her own room, trying desperately to conceal her nightie’s tented front. For more than a week, the teenager had displayed no overt masculine characteristics at all, even though they had spent so much of that time in each other’s company. Since she had grown used to waking with a young woman in her arms, the appearance of a penis between them that morning proved disconcerting. Not that it was unpleasant, she felt immensely flattered, but Penny had barely reconciled herself to what was, ostensibly, her first lesbian relationship. Stevie had so many hidden facets Penny felt doomed to blunder upon each one accidentally, if she did not pay attention to everything about her. With this in mind, she took her companion’s abandoned book from the nightstand, but it offered few useful clues; text and title were both French. At least the author’s name was familiar, and provided a fitting coda for the sentence she had spun from her confusion. Penny’s girlfriend was an eighteen-year-old boy who read Proust in the original language.

“Shall I make a start on breakfast?” Stevie appeared in the doorway, her femininity regained. As always when waiting for an answer, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Awake, Stevie filled her every moment with movement, a constant bustle that carried her through the day; by contrast, she slept so peacefully Penny enjoyed simply watching her. Home life without her teenage guest had become almost unimaginable, and each day presented a fresh reason to love her.

*****

An important meeting took Bob Thornwell and his PA out of the office that morning. Their absence gave Stevie the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that she was too good to waste on making coffee, and keeping a manager’s appointment diary. A quick phone call to Stacy confirmed that the documents Stevie had asked her former colleague to check were still all held on the central accounting database, making a nonsense of filing hard copies. Data security might prompt a few objections, but she had a tame IT worker who could help with those.

“He’s already on his way up to see you.” Stevie detected a smirk in the speaker’s voice, while in the background there were kissing noises and gales of laughter. The IT department’s mirth was famously puerile, and she suspected she was the butt of the joke, but Tall Paul was a more likely victim. Remembering her own experiences the week before, Stevie suppressed a stab of sympathy for the young man who had embarrassed her. The young man however had tried to make amends, and she had exacted a petty revenge. An apology was in order, but Tall Paul's arrival disrupted her thoughts on how to word it.

“When I called for IT support I didn’t expect Green Lantern to turn up.” Stevie smiled at the young man hovering in the door, a laptop tucked under one arm, and wearing a distinctly harassed expression.

“You read comic books too?” Tall Paul had begun to recognise where his attraction to Stevie was leading, plummeted headlong past his heels.

“Are you kidding, people masking their true identities with outlandish clothes? If you ask me, super heroes are all borderline TVs and I love them.” Stevie laughed, and beckoned the young man to her desk.

After dispensing with Stevie’s questions about the accounting database, Tall Paul laid his laptop on Stevie’s desk, opening it to reveal his YouTube tribute. “I was stupid yesterday,” he said softly, “If you still want me to... um that thing you asked... I will do anything to be with you.”

“I’m so sorry Paul that was just cruel trick I played on you. Thing is, I don’t like boys that way.” Stevie gave him a wan smile, before turning to the laptop on her desk. “Now what’s this?” she asked running a finger over the touchpad, and clicking on ‘play’.

Paul had resisted the urge to load the video clip with the multitude of effects his father’s software offered. Instead, he had simply slowed the clips slightly, and applied a mild soft focus effect, so the images of Stevie laughing appeared almost dreamlike. Her laughter peeked through the soundtrack, but Brian Wilson’s plaintive lyric dominated.

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I'll make you so sure about it

God only knows what I'd be without you

“I had no idea; I thought you were just like the others.” Stevie turned to face the young man, who was blushing furiously. Taking his hand in hers she added, “I’m going to find you a girl like me, I promise.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I thought you’d like to see this.” Edna Green dropped a newspaper onto Stevie’s desk. Beneath a headline screaming ‘YOU WOULD’, was a picture taken from her blog showing Stevie stretched out on Mitzi’s bonnet in true Daisy Duke fashion. “I bet you would,” Edna said, poking Tall Paul in the ribs.

Stevie groaned. She had hoped the media’s attention had moved elsewhere now that she had dropped out of the local television news, but her photograph had found its way to page three of the Sun. She barely had time to recognise the leering tone of the accompanying article when the phone on Belinda’s desk began to ring.

*****

Bob Thornwell was at a loss. During the weeks it had taken to set up the meeting, no one had considered that the French company’s representative would not speak English. Bob and Belinda between them had enough French to book a hotel room and order breakfast; Monsieur Reynal’s assistant spoke English at a similar level. Unless Bob could find an interpreter at very short notice, he would have to waste several more weeks arranging another meeting.

If the two visitors were at all alarmed when Bob palmed his forehead, they disguised it very well; Belinda, however, cast a worried glance in his direction. Bob’s eureka moment was tempered by the knowledge that he had missed something that he should have remembered instantly. The Westons had a second home in Normandy, where Janet and Steve had spent much of each summer; both were, as he belatedly recalled, fluent French speakers. He reached for the telephone.

*****

Knee length black shorts and a sweater may have passed for smart elsewhere in the building, but on the Olympian heights of the twelfth floor, Stevie felt terribly underdressed. Not that there were many to see her, or to give directions, and it took her several minutes to find the conference room. Although her Uncle Bob had pressed her to hurry, Stevie dragged her heels, annoyed that he had called her away from something she thought important. Waiting a few minutes for their coffee will hardly kill them, she thought; she could see no other reason why an office junior had to be present. Still, it stopped her thinking about how cruel she had been to Tall Paul. If Penny had done something like that, it would crush her, even if the older woman had yet to mention love — stupid Blackpool.

Stevie followed her tentative knock through the door. Uncle Bob looked incredibly relieved to see her, more relieved than thirst could explain. “Stevie how is your French, still up to scratch?”

“It’s not bad,” she answered, wondering what on Earth that had to do with anything.

“You’re a godsend.” Bob pulled out a chair for her between him and Belinda, who sat poised with a blank shorthand pad on her knee. “There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding; Monsieur Reynal here does not speak English, do you think you can interpret?”

“I’ll give it a go.” Stevie reached across the table to shake the proffered hands, and took her seat. The teenager was unsure if she was up to the task; until then she had tackled nothing more exacting than classroom exercises, and passing the time of day with Norman villagers. Business negotiations, she feared, could carry her out of her depth very quickly. Setting her fears aside, she introduced herself in French to the two visitors, and gave her Uncle a look she hoped said, ‘I’m ready’.

Any worries Belinda had about leaving her future husband’s career in the hands of a PA young enough to be his daughter, evaporated as Stevie’s confidence grew, rattling away in French and English, translating for both parties. If she had a worry, it was that another manager might steal away Stevie. Penny Hawker would have been her prime suspect, had Belinda not been convinced that the two were already romantically involved.

Belinda was only party to the English side of the conversation, and could not know that Stevie had stumbled over several technical terms, and had to ask for an explanation. Monsieur Reynal obliged each time, and took pains to avoid using them again. She also had to ask him for the French word on a number of occasions, and at first was reassured that he did not point out her mistakes. As the conversation progressed, however she became suspicious of the speed at which he answered. After a particularly tortuous sentence of hers, which he answered without pause, she became convinced that he understood far more English than he admitted to. Of course, there was no way of proving this without potentially causing a scene, and she kept her own counsel until an opportunity arose to confide in Uncle Bob.

The meeting broke at eleven for coffee, which Stevie had to prepare, and the brief moments she had with Mr Thornwell, she lost to his thanks and encouragement. When their cups were empty discussion resumed, with Stevie once again fully occupied translating. So it continued until lunchtime, although the atmosphere became more relaxed as outstanding issues were resolved. A little before twelve, Bob reached over the table to shake Armand’s hand. Business effectively closed, the dapper Frenchman paid Stevie a compliment, which made her blush.

“What was that?” Bob asked, but Stevie fired off a question of her own at Monsieur Reynal, who in turn flushed and then began to laugh. “What was that?” Bob asked again in frustration.

“I merely remarked that Stevie here has an accent stronger than calvados, and she is even prettier in person than she is in print.” Armand Reynal grinned at his adversary. “Anything to get an edge Bob and your reputation precedes you,” he added with a stereotypically Gallic shrug, “But not your ability to find excellent staff. This young lady saw through me very quickly and yet waited until now to tell me. Such discretion is rare in someone so young, don’t you agree?”

“But what was that about her picture?”

Fabien, Reynal’s assistant, produced a copy of the newspaper with a flourish. “This was left in the cab we took from the station,” he said, in equally perfect English.

“Brave as well as beautiful,” Armand said before Bob could fire off another question, “Are you joining us for lunch my dear?”

“Oh, I’d already made plans with my friend — I’d hate to disappoint her.” Stevie looked to Bob for confirmation, but the visiting businessman excused her first.

“Then we must not detain you mademoiselle.” To Stevie’s utter amazement, he took her hand and kissed it. “Your friend’s gain will be our loss, I’m sure,” he added before releasing her hand. Armand Reynal’s gallant gesture kept the blood in Stevie’s cheeks as she continued her apologies, and all the way back to the lifts.

*****

Lunch for Steve Weston was usually a sandwich eaten hurriedly at his desk, and company of any kind a rarity. Stevie, on the other hand, now had a regular appointment with Stacy, and the two of them had somehow accumulated several other dining companions from various departments. Company was preferable to eating alone, but Stevie tired quickly of the questions fired at her from all sides. When was she on television next? How much did the newspapers pay for modelling? Was Ms Hawker a tartar outside work? Her interrogators were prepared to believe anything but the truth, and after an understanding glance from Stacy, she retreated to her office.

Other than the ever-present Edna Green, the occupants of the eighth floor were far too busy to bother Stevie. In relative peace, she completed her memo on unnecessary filing, and laid it on Bob’s desk a good fifteen minutes before he and Belinda returned from their lunch. Both breezed past the teenager, who had resumed the menial task she had abandoned when they left the office. Manager and PA shared a few minutes of banter, and then fell silent; Bob called the junior into his office.

“Belinda gave you work before we left, and yet you found time to produce this,” Bob said sternly, holding up the memo.

“It only took a few minutes, Mr Thornwell.” A bemused Stevie stood before his desk, hands at her sides, thumbs on the seams of her trousers like a guardsman. She feared an imminent trip to the corner.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my PC either,” Belinda added with a frown.

“I thought you’d be...” Stevie started, halting as the two senior staff members dissolved into a shared fit of giggles. Lunch had evidently been more than normally liquid.

“Granny Posner would have us file the contents of his waste basket, so this is golden Stevie” Bob finished his sentence with a laugh. “Sorry,” he continued, “The look on your face was priceless.”

“I’ll set up a meeting with Mr Posner,” Belinda said, stepping past Stevie and into the outer office. Bob asked her to close the door, and invited Stevie to take a seat.