You Bet!

Part 8

By Kim Johns

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I don’t remember much about the rest of that Saturday. When I awoke it was at my mother’s touch; she had left Harry and me to go shopping, and returning was surprised to find me alone and asleep. She was a little mystified at my tiredness, my lethargy, but in the light of my non-committal responses she laughed it off, although during that evening I could see her casting quite a few worried glances in my direction.

Suffice it to say that Kim did not put in an appearance that day or the next. She — and I — were, I believe, in a state of some considerable shock at the unforeseen consequences of the visit by my erstwhile best friend.

Sunday crawled past, tortoise-like, and then another torturous week dragged slowly by, and my mother, and indeed my work colleagues, must have become extremely exasperated by my distracted mind, wondering what had got into me. I was silent and withdrawn for most of the time, exceptionally introverted, speaking only when spoken to and even then often not understanding what had been said to me and stumbling over the most inappropriate of responses.

So much so that my boss at work summoned me to his office towards the end of the week to enquire whether there was anything the matter, and if so, did I need any help? I made some sort of reply that appeared to satisfy him, and was released, suddenly thinking I really ought to make the effort to snap out of my doldrums. I realised I had been existing in a slightly different dimension, maybe even an alternative universe, to that occupied by my colleagues, who viewed me with concern from the safety of their ‘real’ world.

I was trying to come to terms with my situation, to assuage my burgeoning doubts over my heretofore exceedingly uneventful life. While I knew without a doubt that I still liked women, I became aware that I had started unconsciously appraising men in the street, wondering what it would be like to be a real female and have their attentions. This was a somewhat strange thought, for I couldn’t get Harry’s assault out of my mind, his masculine-orientated attack on someone he believed, at the time, to be female. Perhaps I was trying to convince myself that most men were decent and could control themselves. Could I? I wondered. Could Kim, my feminine side, for that matter?

I then began to think that I might be gay, and longing for a homosexual relationship, but that didn’t quite ring true for me, especially after Harry’s violent attack. It would take me a long time to come through the trauma of that ordeal, and I shuddered at the thought of any repetition of it. If I wanted a man at all, it was as a woman wants a man, I decided.

Alone at home, I would suddenly find myself flipping idly through the pages of my mother’s magazines in my spare moments, hypnotised by the fashion pages and the beauty tips, wondering how I would look in the various styles of clothing on display, and with the beauty treatments offered. Catching myself in the act, I would impatiently throw the periodicals to one side and make a great point of finding one of the macho men’s monthlies I used to hide beneath my mattress, hopefully well out of sight of my mother’s inquisitive gaze.

From the Monday evening Kim had reappeared, a little more sober and frightened by what life had done to her, more wary, more cautious, and I continued as a matter of course to spend my evenings as her — an act of necessity, I was discovering, rather than choice. She was indeed a changed person. It was as if Harry’s assault on me was indeed a physical rape on her, and she and I had become remote and isolated. My — our — mother’s gentle probing led nowhere. Both Kim and I were unreachable.

I would lie awake at night in bed until the early hours of the morning, pondering my predicament, puzzling over the complexities of the situation in which I had come to find myself, slowly assimilating all the small pieces of evidence that I hoped would eventually point me in the right direction for a lasting solution.

For I knew there had to be a solution, an end that would satisfy my mind, body and soul.

I don’t think I was actually aware of when I reached the point that the final conclusion dazzled me by its obvious clarity and simplicity; the moment just silently crept up on me when I was least expecting it, unaware, until I realised one evening what my mind and heart had been telling me all along.

I went to bed to think over the consequences of my decision.

I’d like to think that I didn’t sleep that night, also, but that wouldn’t strictly be true. I must have, because my dreams were disturbing, worrying, strange, confronting me with a future that loomed huge and frightening before me, unveiling a dark and twisting path, but one I knew I had to walk.

However, I do know I spent a large part of the night lying awake, staring at the shifting patterns of light reflected on the bedroom ceiling, my mind in turmoil, examining my feelings in the context of the last few weeks and all that had happened in that bizarre time.

I watched the weak beginnings of a new dawn spreading through my room, the apologetic sounds of the birds heralding a new day, and finally realised that I had had what sleep I would be capable of.

I dressed and went downstairs where my mother, always an early riser, was sitting with a cup of tea. She got up to pour one for me in spite of my protests to the contrary, and eventually we both settled, gazing at each other reflectively.

“You don’t look as if you slept much last night,” was her opening gambit.

I admitted it. “I had a lot on my mind,” I told her.

“I rather think you’ve had a lot on your mind for a while,” she commented cannily. “Can I help?”

Could she? “Maybe,” I admitted.

“Go for it,” she told me.

I paused, wondering where to start. It had to be at the beginning.

“This dressing up business,” I began.

“Ah.” There was a wealth of understanding in that one sound.

“I did it for the beer. I was drunk when it was suggested, that was all there was to it. And I thought Jean would laugh the whole thing into touch. I couldn’t believe it when she told me I could get away with it!”

“You made a lovely girl,” remarked my mother, smiling reminiscently.

“Sorry, mum, but you didn’t help, either, with all that sentiment about your new daughter!” I collected my thoughts. “That Friday night was an eye opener. I felt really great. I didn’t realise girls had so much fun!”

My mother smiled mirthlessly. “Yes,” she commented, “We’ve been there; I think we’ve accepted that Kim overstepped the mark that night. John certainly did!” She stressed the ‘John’ bit.

“But the Saturday! I really felt a genuine part of it! I was accepted by everyone, and I accepted them. They all spoke to me, they were all friendly, and I had a great night’s conversation and thoroughly enjoyed myself! When I go to parties with the guys, all we do is drink as much as possible and make comments about the girls!”

“Women do have minds,” commented my mother dryly.

I nodded in agreement. “But I realised that I was feeling things differently after those two nights,” I continued. “When we told Harry and Barry that I had done the thing they believed I would never have the bottle to do, they reacted as I would expect two blokes to react. Pissed off because it was going to cost them money. Jean was a lot more supportive.”

I paused before carrying on. “Of course, Harry was also really uptight about it because he hadn’t realised Kim was a guy!”

“And,” contributed my mother, less than helpfully, “It can’t have helped him to find out that his best friend — his best male friend, that is — had been coming on to him!”

“Come on, mum,” I protested, “He started it!”

My mother smiled again. “My dad’s bigger than your dad,” she said suggestively.

I nodded. “OK,” I agreed, “We were both to blame.”

Silence for a moment before I continued.

“One or two other things have happened since then that have given me cause for thought, made me wonder who I am and where I’m going in life.”

“And these are obviously the things that have been worrying you so much lately. Can you tell me what they are?”

“I’d rather not,” I said, flushing. “They’re things I’m not proud of, not at all happy that I did them, but they have certainly opened my eyes.”

“OK,” my mother encouraged.

“I’ve come to a decision,” I said, “A really big one, but I don’t know quite how you’ll take it. In fact, I don’t quite know how everyone will take it!”

“Does it affect me?”

“It will affect everybody,” I told her, “But I think you especially.”

“I’m intrigued.” Her tone was neutral, not begging the revelation, but not quite discouraging it, either.

“Mum, you saw me the first night Kim appeared on the scene, and while I’m putting no blame in anyone’s lap, your positive reaction was one of the things that encouraged me to continue with the bet. You know I spent a couple of evenings with you, as her, getting ready for my big role.

“Then on that Friday and Saturday night I was Kim. As I’ve already said, everybody treated me differently, and I felt more accepted as her, more comfortable with my life, than I have ever felt as a boy. I’ve always felt a bit of a misfit, having to conform to the strong, masculine image blokes seem to think is expected of them. My sensitive side has only really been accepted because I’m considered artistic, and artists are always slightly different to everybody else.”

My mother nodded, although I could see the little line between her eyes that told me she was puzzled, wondering where I was going with this.

“It’s only been a few weeks, but I’ve spent a fair number of evenings here with you as your daughter, a few by choice but a lot because I’ve felt the need, the urgent necessity, to be Kim. I’ve enjoyed it, and I know you have. It’s opened my eyes, I know. Although I think John is a fairly decent sort of bloke, he is a bloke, and I don’t think I’m suited to be him anymore. I don’t like what he stands for now, the masculine viewpoint. He is a lie, in my terms. I have realised that, deep down, I am really like Kim. I want to be Kim. I am Kim!”

“I don’t understand,” my mother frowned. “You are John. I think John is a very decent ‘bloke,’ a great guy in fact, although I would have to admit to a slight bias on that score! And he is not a lie. I repeat, you are John. It’s a fact of life.”

“When I say a lie,” I said slowly, but thinking fast, “I mean that ‘fact of life’ that you’re so glib about! All my thinking tells me that the facts have been twisted. I’ve been playing at being John. I think, from the day I was born, that I should have been Kim!”

“Two things,” said my mother gently, reaching out and taking both my hands in hers, “Kim doesn’t exist, and if she did, Kim is a girl.”

“She does exist,” I burst out excitedly. “She was hidden deep inside me, but has always been there. It just took a stupid bet and the help of a good friend to bring her out of hiding. Oh, she had her moments, nobody’s perfect, but she is more of a truth than John has ever been.”

“John,” my mother said quietly, still keeping hold of my hands, “Just because you like wearing female clothing doesn’t mean you should have been born a girl.”

I shook my head impatiently. “Don’t you think I haven’t argued all this with myself? The clothes — yes, they made me feel special, but they also felt ‘right’ — the clothes were just physical pointers. They encouraged the real me — Kim, for want of a better name — to emerge from the cocoon that for nearly eighteen years people have referred to as ‘John’!”

“Do you hear what you are saying?” asked my mother. “Do you know what you are implying?” She was gripping me so tightly it was painful.

I swallowed hard, and told her without pausing, “I am saying that I want to be your daughter. Really be your daughter. Not just mentally, the way I have come to be over the last few weeks, but physically as well. I realise that Kim has been trying, unknown to me or anybody, to escape from John’s body all her life!”

My mother sighed, and I saw the glimmer of unshed tears brimming up from beneath her eyelids. “And how do you propose to achieve this aim?”

Again I didn’t pause. I knew if I faltered in my argument this opportunity to be open and frank about my feelings, wants and desires might be lost forever. I had done my research.

“I know it can be done. I’ve read about operations that are available for people in my predicament. There is medical treatment that can be had.”

“And do I have any say in this?”

“Mum, I’m your unhappy son. I want to be your happy daughter. But I won’t do anything you really don’t want me to do.”

“I can only tell you that you need to think seriously about this,” my mother counselled. “I wouldn’t stand in your way if it’s what you really have to do. Yes, I enjoyed seeing you as my daughter, but what you are suggesting goes a lot deeper than that. You’re talking about the whole of the rest of your life that’s stretching before you. Whatever choice you make now, you will be spending your life with that decision, and living with the varied opinions other people — including your friends and family — will form of you.”

“I’ve thought all night, every night, for longer than you know, Mum. I’ve been in an agony of indecision for the last week. I know it needs more than that before I make a final decision. I will give it even more thought. But I feel I know what the answer will be, and I wanted to know your opinion.”

“John,” she said simply, “You are my…child. All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness. If this is to be your choice, I will support you in it.”

At those words, I felt the overwhelming experiences of the last few weeks overload in my poor, befuddled brain. A tear leaked from one eye and rolled down my cheek, to be joined by its twin from my other. My chest felt as if my heart wanted to burst through my rib cage, and suddenly I burst into tears, a real, genuine and emotional flood.

I clung to my mother in a way I had not done since childhood, and felt her supportive arms holding me closely, tightly, comfortingly. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Just being there was enough.

I finally pulled away and sat back, mentally and physically exhausted, but with a sense of happiness within me. At last everything was out in the open and I had told my mother honestly my feelings. She hadn’t poured scorn on me, derided me for being misguided and foolish, and ordered me brusquely to ‘stop this nonsense.’

Now, I knew, the real thinking would start.
 

*          *          *
 
I phoned Jean a little later and asked whether she could meet me for lunch. She sounded surprised, but happily agreed, only stating that her time would be limited as she was meeting Barry that afternoon.

We met in a fairly out-of-the-way local pub that all of us frequented from time to time, and I told her all that had occurred that morning between my mother and me, pulling no punches, exactly as it had happened. She stared at me, concern written over her face. Thank you God, I prayed silently, the girl didn’t laugh at me.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” she queried, laying a gentle hand on my forearm.

I nodded, looking down at her varnished nails.

“Pretty sure,” I said. “I will need to give it a lot more thought, talk to a lot of professional people about it, but basically I think I know what my decision’s going to be.”

Jean sipped her drink and then played devil’s advocate. “But it’s based on your dressing up as a girl over two nights.”

I considered a little before replying. Then: “Those two nights consolidated and brought to a head feelings and emotions I suddenly realised I had had for most of my life. I’ve always felt a bit different to other guys…”

I noticed Jean’s thoughtful nod.

“…But so much happened during those nights to make me want to re-evaluate my life. Dressed as I was, in the situations I was in, I realised that as Kim I felt right, albeit that I may have been acting a bit over the top, and that realisation coloured my thoughts and deeds. I’m not saying everything was perfect, just that it made me feel that as a boy I had been playing a part all my life, pretending to be someone I wasn’t.”

She smiled. “You were certainly convincing as a girl. Now I come to think about it, once you were dressed you walked, talked, even thought the same way I did about everything. Well, most things. As you say, it was almost as if you had been born a girl and spent your whole life pretending to be a boy.”

I nodded, happy to have her agreement. “So you don’t think I’m being stupid, then?”

“John, I can’t tell you whether what you want to do is going to be right or wrong for you. All I can do is agree with your mother. If it’s going to make you happy for the rest of your life, it can’t be bad.”

“And if I do go for it, how do you think Harry and Barry will react?”

She smiled. “Barry comes across as a straight-laced frump a lot of the time, but I think you’d be surprised. He’s very open-minded about things.”

“And Harry?”

“From what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t count on Harry too much. Unfortunately he fell for you as Kim, and finding out you’ve fallen for another boy doesn’t endear you to that person. Even if you finally become Kim properly, I think you’ll have problems with Harry.”

“But he’s my best friend,” I objected, although visions of that fateful Saturday morning flashed through my brain. That memory would stay sealed in my mind — I hadn’t told my mother, or Jean. I guessed it might stay a secret even on my death bed. I hadn’t heard from Harry since, and had not contacted him myself. I guess my subconscious knew the truth — relations between Harry and me would never be the same again.

“But he can’t live your life for you,” she pointed out. “Only you can do that. Sometimes you have to give something up to move forward positively.”

“And what about you? What will you think?”

“John, you know I’ve always liked you. If Barry hadn’t come on the scene, who knows how we might have ended up? But he did, and that’s a done deal. I like you as John, but I also liked Kim, even though she started out to be a bit of a tart! She obviously has the same qualities that endeared you to me, but the bonus was that, being a ‘girl,’ I could talk about things with her that I would never have dreamed of talking about with you!”

“Even though you knew I wasn’t really a girl, just pretending?”

“That didn’t seem to matter once you were Kim. It was as if you had actually transformed completely into a female person. There was no deception. I accepted you for who you really were.”

“Don’t marry Barry,” I told her impulsively. “Marry me, and I’ll give up the whole idea!”

She smiled again. “But I don’t love you, John. Well, I do, as a friend, but it’s Barry I want. But thanks anyway.”
 

*          *          *
 
And so the die was cast. The following years were going to be full for me.

I made my decision, and it entailed numerous visits to my family doctor, many examinations by various consultants and other specialists who dealt with both the physical and mental well-being of their patients, many tests also both physical and mental, and finally the commencement of regular hormone treatment to feminize me once everyone was satisfied that my desire was not just a twenty-four hour fantasy.

Additionally, before I could count on an operation to complete the process I had already caused to become under way, I was told I would have to live as a female, night and day, for two years, undergoing constant physical and psychiatric assessment all the while I did so.

This raised other important issues. I had to give up my job, where everyone had known me as a boy, and begin attending interviews as Kim for other work. No one, at any time during these appointments, seemed to realise that I was not the girl I purported to be — apart from one.

The advertisement for the job had intrigued me; the work was pretty much what I had been doing in my previous employment, working in a publishing company doing basic administration work while being trained up for “bigger and better” things. It seemed tailor-made for me, in every way a continuation of the work I had been doing before Kim came along.

I submitted my application, held my breath and crossed all my fingers and toes. Seemingly as if by magic the following week I received an invitation for interview! This seemed too good to be true, but I’ve always thought it wise never to look a gift horse in the mouth; besides, I still had a long way to go yet.

I discussed strategy with my mother — that is, how to make a good impression at first sight. Like most things, I was finding the female answer to most problems was a shopping trip!

“It’s a publishing house,” said my mother. “You need to show them your serious side. I think you won’t go far wrong if you buy a neat little suit.”

“I didn’t wear a suit in my last job,” I objected.

“No, true, but things are slightly different for women,” advised mum. “You’re going to have to make twice the impression a man makes to get even the slightest notice taken of you and your abilities.”

“They jumped at my application, though,” I said. “They replied in seven days, and with an interview offer. Surely that’s not bad?”

“Unusual, but probably based on your qualifications.” I’d never been a brain-box, but I tended to excel in what I was naturally good at (that was the lazy part of me!), and I had ended up quite pleased with my examination results. I know my previous boss had been reasonably impressed, anyway.

“OK.” I gave in. I rarely won in an argument with my mother.

We decided a day trip to London would be in order, and I dressed in the most comfortable clothes I had, knowing we would be on our feet most of the time. I wore a white cotton bra into which the chicken fillets were placed, my hormone treatments having not yet kicked in with feminine attributes; matching panties and a pair of black tights; and a pair of slim-line dark blue denim jeans with a maroon crop top. Over this I wore a grey cable-knit woollen coat, and on my feet were a comfortable pair of trainers. My hair, which was growing longer and more lustrous now and didn’t need the addition of a wig any more, had been cut in a short bob-style that suited my face. Minimal make-up completed the picture.

“Wow,” commented my mother, “Is that dressing down?”

“Why?”

“You look as if you’ve just stepped out of the pages of one of my beauty magazines!”

“Yeah, and the rest,” I commented sarcastically, and in a most unladylike manner made a rude raspberry sound through pursed lips.

Mum shrugged her shoulders and steered me in front of the long mirror. “Look again.”

I put my head on one side and stared. How did I manage to do this with so little effort? She was right. Even trying to opt for comfort and a low-key look, I had managed to emerge a fashion babe once more. I smiled in a satisfied way, and felt my boy bits twitching in appreciation. With a sigh I shrugged my shoulders. In a couple of years that particular sensation shouldn’t be bothering me any more!

We hit so many clothes shops in the Big City that were so crowded with female shoppers it was no surprise to me that they all made a profit, and we weren’t just shopping for a suit for me. There were shoes, tops and skirts to be tried on and purchased, and of course plenty of underwear to be obtained, not to mention make-up! And it wasn’t just for me, either; my mother wasn’t going to miss out on a rare trip to London, and she indulged in credit card therapy as if it was going out of fashion!

Apart from a few saucy lingerie purchases I ended up with mostly sensible items, fairly sober tops, skirts and dresses, and a great little grey pin-striped suit with a pencil skirt that almost any of my tops would complement. I also treated myself to a couple of pairs of low-heeled dark shoes, purely for work.

All this sounds as if I knew I had the forthcoming interview so cut and dried that a job offer would be inevitable, but that was far from the truth; I was really building up a bank of clothes that would do me for any other interviews I might land, or do me for any job vacancy I might be asked to fill.

We both returned home that evening totally exhausted, and soothed our aching limbs with copious amounts of alcohol.

The day of the interview loomed large. I dressed carefully, wanting again to be comfortable, but also to have confidence. I chose a matching set of pink silk bra and panties with flesh-coloured tights, and a very light pink silk blouse that went really well with my new suit. I knew the panties were supportive enough to keep my lower bits and pieces securely hidden for the duration without causing me any slight pain or distress. My hair was still in the same short bob-style, which suited me, but I had gone to town, though not over the top, with my make-up. My nails had a natural varnish which gave them an attractive sheen.

Mum gave a few tugs to my clothing before stepping back in admiration. “Go knock ‘em dead!” she told me.

I grinned. “That’ll get me a prison sentence, not a job,” I quipped, feeling the nervous twitching of my stomach.

We kissed, and I left hurriedly, knowing the more I lingered the less likely I was to want to go through with it.
 

*          *          *
 
The building housing the publishing company was one of several hidden away in a small mews, with black-painted iron railings guarding the small drop to the windowed lower floor. Three concrete steps led up to the entrance door which was huge and also painted black. The railings followed the steps up to the door on each side.

With some trepidation I pushed open the unlocked door and entered a small foyer. Through glass doors ahead of me I spied a large mahogany desk at which sat a girl of about nineteen or twenty, busy with paperwork. At the sound of my entrance she looked up, smiled brightly and indicated that I should come through.

I gave her my name and she consulted a list, before smiling at me again. “Interview with Miss Tweedie,” she said. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

A brief, low-voiced telephone call followed, and she then stood up. “If you’ll follow me,” she said.

We walked along a narrow hallway. She glanced at me again. “I love your suit,” she told me. “Where did you pick it up?”

Feeling some of my nervousness abating I told her, and we chatted idly for a few moments before stopping in front of another wooden door.

“Don’t worry about Miss Tweedie,” the girl told me, “She’s a sweetie really. Looks terrifying, but her bark’s worse than her bite!”

She knocked at the door, and at the muffled response opened it and stood to one side to let me pass. She winked. “Good luck,” she whispered.

It was a large room, so large that I wondered how it managed to fit inside the small building I had entered. Apart from two large double-bayed windows in the wall ahead of me, it was fitted with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and all the shelves were bursting with books.

Another mahogany desk stood solidly in front of the windows, and behind it sat a woman who must have been about the same age as my mother. As I approached she stood up and indicated a chair in front of the desk.

“Do have a seat,” she said.

She was tall for a woman, and very thin. Her face appeared stern, her lips thin and tightly closed except when she spoke. She had a slightly hooked nose, on which perched a pair of almost invisible pince-nez, attached to a silver chain that hung about her neck. Her eyes were a very light blue, cold looking. She had blue-rinsed hair permed tightly to her head.

I sat as indicated, and she followed suit, picking up what I believed to be my application form.

“I’m impressed with your qualifications,” she began, immediately putting me at my ease, “But a little surprised that this is your first job. You left your last educational establishment over a year ago.”

The statement was a question, and again I experienced discomfort. I hadn’t revealed my previous employment as an enquiry wouldn’t have revealed any information under my new name.

“I’ve been ill for some time,” I lied.

“Yes,” she commented dryly, “A year’s illness can surely be no joke. One hopes it was nothing contagious. And are you better now?”

“At the moment, thanks,” I told her, “But I’m still under the doctor, and there’s a possibility I might have to have an operation either this year or next.” Give her edited information, I thought, and then when the time came she would be prepared. If I got the job, I amended.

As if to echo my thoughts, “Why should I employ you with a history of sickness, and the possibility of losing you during the rehabilitation period of an operation?” Her voice was cold, her tone sharp, and I swallowed convulsively. She seemed to be watching me like a hawk.

I pulled the hem of my skirt forward a little, and raised my head defiantly. “I thought being honest about it was only fair,” I said. “I can only say that, should I be lucky enough to get this job, I will give it one-hundred-and-ten per-cent effort so as not to let you down.”

“Pretty words,” she grunted, peering at the form again, “And easily spoken. What do you know about our business?”

I had to admit that, although I had tried to obtain information about the company, the only results I had come up with were that they seemed to have a large number of female writers. However, my last job had given me a lot of insight into what went on in publishing houses, and I sprinkled my response with snippets of experience, without actually admitting that I had worked in the business previously.

She nodded, apparently approvingly. “We specialise in women writers,” she told me. “Also, our employees are predominantly women, especially in this building, which houses the administration and editorial offices.”

I nodded, for want of something to say. She looked at me sharply. “You have no objection to working in a single gender environment?”

This time I shook my head. “No, ma’am,” I said.

She continued to interview me for about half-an-hour, all mundane questions relating mostly to my family, my leisure hobbies, very little about the job itself I later realised.

Finally, “Is there anything you want to ask me?” she offered.

I paused, thinking. “No, thanks,” I said, “I don’t think so.”

“And is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

I shook my head again. I didn’t think so.

She gave me a strange look. “In this firm we pride ourselves on being honest and open with each other,” she said curtly. “Are you very sure you have nothing else to tell me?”

That look penetrated to the depths of my soul, causing untold anxiety to shiver down my spine. What could she mean? Surely she hadn’t realised..?

As she continued looking steadily at me with those cold, penetrating eyes, a conflict of thoughts whirled through my brain. What did she know? Did she know anything? A battle was fought within me, until I made a decision. If she were to employ me and find out later my deception, I could lose everything I was fighting for here.

I told her everything.

She sat back in her chair, watching me intently as I let loose the secrets of my real self, silent, until I had talked myself dry. Then she leaned forward.

“So, in fact, you have almost a year’s experience in a job of this type?” she said in what I took to be an accusatory tone.

I felt myself flushing. “Yes,” I admitted.

A smile suddenly transformed her face. “Excellent,” she exclaimed.

I blinked.

“And your anticipated operation is for what purpose?”

“To complete the process,” I said delicately.

She smiled again. “I think, miss,” she said, “That you will fit into our little company quite nicely.”

My jaw dropped in astonishment. “What?” I said, inelegantly.

“I’ll send you a letter confirming my offer of a post with us. May I take it that you would be interested in accepting that offer?”

“Er…yes…yes please,” I stammered.

“Good.” She stood up, and I followed suit. “And when do you think you would be able to start with us?”

“Er…whenever you want me,” I mumbled.

“May I also compliment you on your choice of suit?” she asked. “You look extremely pretty, in a business-like sort of way. If your work ethos is as strong as your appearance, you will do very nicely.”

“So…you don’t mind about..?” I wanted to get her stance on this quite clear in my head.

“Your life choice? No. You will find yourself working with one or two kindred spirits after a while. In fact…” and her eyes actually twinkled, “I myself understand exactly what you are going through at the moment.”

I gaped. Was it possible that this steely-eyed spinster was once..?

She nodded, reading my mind, and shook my hand. “Goodbye, dear,” she said. “I look forward to your commencing work with us.”

The door closed behind me, and I wandered back down the hall to the receptionist in a shocked daze.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

I looked carefully at her trim figure, her pert breasts and rounded hips. Was it possible that she..? I just didn’t know.

She looked at me sympathetically. “No joy, then?”

“Oh.” I jerked back to this world, and shook my head, then nodded. “No, I mean yes,” I gabbled. “She’s offered me the job.”

The odd look she had given me changed to a beaming smile. “Oh, good. You’ll like it here, it’s very friendly. Perhaps, when you do start, we can have lunch sometime?”

I nodded. In earlier times I would have been lusting after her company with an evil masculine intent. Now, I knew lunch with her would be a fun thing, a good girly gossip thing.

I suddenly felt happier than I had for a long time. Were things suddenly going to go right for me?
 

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