Buyer’s Remorse Chapters 17 - 18 by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2023 To F words and one S word . It’s all calming down a bit.

-oOo-

Chapter 17

Steven attended his second appointment with Doctor Marsh wearing the dress we'd designed between us. I’d suggested we might call it a tunic, so it didn’t have such girly connotations, but he shook his head and said, “It’s a dress, Mum, let’s call it what it is.”

It was white with blue monarch butterflies all over it. My original idea had been for colourful butterflies on a blue background, but we’d been unable to find a material with that design. When our research stumbled across the blue butterflies though, we were both sold on it from first sight. Butterflies seemed to be a good compromise, landing in relatively neutral territory, somewhere between flowers and football in what they said about you.

The bodice, for want of a better word, I made close fitting to match Steven’s developing physique with sleeves that almost reached his elbows, aiming for something that would set it apart from both a tee-shirt and the three-quarter length sleeves that were so popular in women’s fashions.

From the waist down, and this was very much Steven’s idea, it had a very full skirt that reached to just above the knee with enough frills and ruffles to declare, “I may be a guy, but there’s a girl in here too.”

Finish it off with some navy-blue tights – Steven had a really spectacular pair of legs – and a pair of white trainers and I couldn’t imagine it looking better.

Ann had been the first person outside the family to see him in it. He invited her round for a private viewing, and she fell in love with it at first sight, all but insisting I make her one to match. Michael had already asked the same, which I’d anticipated and bought enough material to make a second dress. With two requests on the table, I was limited to making matching skirts for each of them, but that actually worked better since the final result said, “We’re together,” rather than, “We’re sisters and our mum dresses us like this.”

Paul was effusive in his complements, decidedly overegging the pudding when he asked if I made clothes for a living. I’d dressed up a bit myself, but might as well not have bothered, given the way Steven hogged all the limelight.

The second session ended up being a lot shorter than the first, but given that the National Health Service was paying for Doctor Marsh’s time, I hardly felt like I was in a position to complain. Besides, Steven had a grin on him to rival the Cheshire Cat’s when he came out.

“One more session,” Paul promised, “and this next week is going to decide whether or not he needs any more. How well he copes will be down to his personality to a large degree, but also down to your support and encouragement.

“I have every faith in you,” once again he melted my knees with his megawatt smile, “and next time I’ll be hoping to have a private word with you at the end.”

“Can you take a picture of me please, Mum?”

Steven was all but dancing with delight and it was too good a photo op to miss up. I caught him in mid twirl, giving off a radiance to rival the Sun, the skirt swirling about his thighs.

“Let me see.” He grabbed the phone out of my hands and tapped away for a few seconds.

“What did you just do?”

“Sent it to Ann,” he said with proverbial butter refusing to melt on his tongue.

It shouldn’t have taken that many key presses, but I wasn’t about to risk his mood by challenging him. I returned the phone to its place in my mammoth bag and dug out my purse as the bus pulled up.

Same as the trip out here, we endured a range of looks, from anger to amusement. Steven’s beatific smile disarmed most of them before we were upstairs and on our own. We stopped off at the shops on the way back to pick up some frillies for him, then home for lunch where he changed into his uniform so I could drop him back at school for the afternoon.

“Would you like a skirt to wear to school?” I asked him.

“I’m okay with lacy underwear for now,” he said, smiling. “but I’ll think about it.”

Being Thursday afternoon, I headed for Barbara’s and the book club. I’d have to put in a few hours in the evening to keep up with my quota, but that was the nature of flexitime and I was glad of the freedom it gave me.

The next day was an office day. I asked Steven if he’d mind me showing the photograph to some of my friends and he gave me his consent. Which was probably where the seed of the idea first germinated.

The Friday girls’ lunch had become something of a thing at Clark's. It had probably grown out of my lunchtime socialising, but in all honesty, it had a life of its own which had very little to do with me. Not that I was about to say anything of the sort to Max Andrews who saw it as evidence of me being subversive. Nothing he could use as evidence to sack me, of course, which meant I was happy to let him stew in his own juices. The man deserved his paranoia and the associated ulcers.

Anyway, my phone was passed around the table, meeting with a unanimously enthusiastic response, starting with joking comments like, “I could see my husband in something like this,” to more genuine praise of the sort, “You know you could make a living selling stuff like this,” to reflective comments like, “You know, I used to really enjoy sewing,” and “I haven’t touched my sewing machine for years,” to more wistful ones, “I wish I could do something this creative,” and, “Do you think you could show me how to do something like that?”

That last comment was the spark that lit the flame and before long one of the older ladies from admin had announced she could get us access to her church hall on Sunday afternoon, quite a few of the others said they had bolts of cloth just gathering dust in the loft they could contribute, almost everyone said they had a sewing machine they could bring, several of our number offered their cars to pick everyone up, complete with their machines and, pretty much before we’d finished eating, I’d been elected as the leader of an impromptu sewing circle.

Which gave me Friday night and Saturday afternoon to sketch a few ideas. Fortunately, I knew little enough about sewing that I didn’t know what wasn’t supposed to be possible, and I had a couple of young lads with a growing enthusiasm for the peculiar ideas I was coming up with to keep me inspired.

Ann came round on Saturday afternoon, I think hoping to entice Steven away from the family, but she quickly joined in the fun, begging her mother for permission to join us all on Sunday.

Sunday morning found us all standing outside the house waiting for our lift. Steven, inevitably, was in his butterfly dress with both Michael and Ann complementing him in their matching skirts.

Mrs Harris appeared in her doorway, arms crossed, lips pursed. I smiled at her cheerfully.

“Good morning, Mrs Harris. Lovely day.”

It really was. Sunday not being its usual ironic contradiction weather-wise.

My neighbour chose to be disagreeable, gave me her typical disapproving hmph and closed the door on me.

Grumpy neighbours aside, I cannot recall enjoying a day more. A lot of the girls reached the church hall ahead of us and had the place set up like a factory. Some of the other women brought their children along as well, so there was no shortage of companionship for Michael who ended up playing most of the day with a group of girls his age. Steven and Ann pretty much provided for one another all the companionship they needed, but they did get involved in some of the sewing projects going on about the place and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

For my part, the day started with me sharing my sketches. My lack of experience in design meant a lot of fresh ideas which ultimately weren’t that practical. When I was shown why, that just prompted me to come up with work arounds, so that by the end of the morning everyone was working on something refreshingly different. Quite a few of the pieces ended up extending Steven’s wardrobe, since he was about the only boy present with the courage to dress unconventionally, but there were quite a few deliberately made for adults and I wondered just what sort of reception the new clothes would receive from their intended recipients at the end of the day.

I split my time between making complimentary outfits for Ann and Steven, using materials they picked out, and wandering around the room looking at what other people were doing. There was pride in good workmanship everywhere I looked, and I was completely blown away with the quality of what we were producing between us.

Shortly after noon, a new crowd walked into the hall. Mainly women, I noted, but with one prominent male sporting a dog collar. They all came burdened with Tupperware boxes and cellophane wrapped plates piled high with sandwiches. Honestly, I might have worked the day through without thinking of food, but the eager response from some of the youngsters left me feeling quite guilty.

Work came to a halt, and space was cleared for the offerings, which very soon redistributed themselves around the room as everyone tucked in.

I helped myself to a small bowl of tuna pasta salad and a token butterfly cake with what turned out to be real cream, then looked around for the dog collar.

I found it sitting under a slightly worried looking expression.

“Feeling a little outnumbered, Father?”

He laughed. “Jeremy, please. Or pastor if you insist on using a title. Father is a Catholic term. And to answer your question, I’m actually used to being the only person in the room not wearing a dress. It’s just that usually that means I’m also the only male.”

“Does it bother you?” I asked. “I thought clergymen would be used to wearing frocks.”

“And that would be the Anglicans. It probably shouldn’t bother me, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t.”

I couldn’t think of a response – at least not one that wouldn’t come across as ungrateful – so instead scooped up a small mouthful of pasta.

“Are any of these children yours?” he asked conversationally.

I pointed out Michael, sitting with his circle of newfound playmates and Steven, looking marginally cuter than his girlfriend. I couldn’t help smiling at the pastor’s added discomfort.

“Steven used to have serious anger issues, then one day circumstances conspired to put him in a skirt and he... It’s hard to say exactly how he changed. He says he felt all the rage melt away. Now he's choosing to dress like that. With the full support and encouragement of his doctor I might add.”

“And your younger son?”

“Oh, Michael just wants to be like his big brother, I suspect. There’s every likelihood he’ll grow out of it.”

“And what if he doesn’t. Aren’t you worried about what all this will do to them?”

“I’m their mother. Worrying is in the job description. As for what ifs, would it be so wrong if my sons chose to look like this every day?”

“The Bible...”

“I think we’re likely to hold very different views on the Bible, Jeremy. Where you see the divine, inspired Word of God, I see something quite different. I wouldn’t want to give offense by telling you exactly what.”

“Fair enough, but aren’t you setting them up for a lifetime of abuse and ridicule by encouraging this?”

I looked him over. He looked a bit younger than me and unmarried if the absence of ring was any indicator. He meant well, which is why I chose not to give him the full broadside.

“I’m not encouraging them, Pastor. I’ll admit I’m not discouraging them either, but then I don’t see anything wrong in what they’re doing.

“As for the rest, I recently escaped from an abusive marriage – quite possibly also the source of Steven's anger issues – and the major life lesson I've taken from the experience is that you don’t beat abuse and ridicule by giving into them.

“If I can teach my children to be strong and stand up for what is right for them, and to do so in a way that is not openly confrontational or antagonistic, then I believe I will have fulfilled my obligations as a parent.”

“I’m not going to win this, am I?”

“Not outright, no, but then I thought it was a conversation, not a competition.”

He smiled a very genuine smile. “Well, quite possibly the most significant lessons I’ve learnt in life are to recognise when I’m outmatched and to know when to stop pushing.”

“Again, not a competition, pastor. I doubt I’d be able to change your beliefs.”

“And you are courteous enough not to try. I feel I could learn quite a lot from you Mrs er...”

“Please, call me Sandy.”

“In that case I’m going to have to insist you call me Jeremy, or Jerry.”

“I’ll let you win that one, Jerry.”

We shared a quiet chuckle.

“So, you’re the reason for all this then?”

“I’d hardly say so. We were all talking on Friday and somehow it just happened. I’m still amazed at what can be achieved when a group of like-minded people decides to act.”

“But I thought Marjory said you offered to teach them some things.”

I really did laugh at that. “I’ve learnt so much more from being here today, Jerry, than I could possibly have been capable of teaching.”

“That’s not what I’ve picked up from listening in to some of the conversations going around. Don’t sell yourself short, Sandy.”

“If you say so.” I bit into the butterfly cake and allowed myself a few moments indulgence as the texture and flavour of the cream caressed my taste buds. “We should probably get back to it. Thanks again for the use of the premises, and for the food.”

“You can thank Marjory for that, or... Oops, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, it’s too late to stop halfway.”

“Marjory paid for the use of the hall today. Providing lunch is a part of the service we offer.”

It would have been crass to ask how much, but a quick search of the church website showed their rates. I dropped a few words while I made my rounds during the afternoon and in return received eager contributions which more than covered the costs.

At the end of the day I gathered everyone together and thanked them for their contributions. Those who’d donated fabric refused payment for it, as did those who’s petrol had brought us together. In the end I gave Marjory more than twice what she’d paid hiring the hall, much to everyone’s approval. When she tried to refuse it, I suggested that if she didn’t want it she could donate it to a charity of her choice.

There was an almost unanimous request to do it again, which I only agreed to if everyone accepted recompense for any contributions they made, and if the results of our labour ended up being more evenly distributed. I’d been as embarrassed as Steven had been delighted when about half the clothes we’d all made turned out to have been made specifically for him.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. The latter part of the day he’d been trying on one outfit after another and preening like a peacock.

We packed up, tidied up and headed for our respective homes with a new date in our diaries for the same time next month.

Ann stayed long enough into the evening that I ended up feeding her as well. Steven had let her try on a few of his new things and, oddly enough, they didn’t look quite right on her. The two of them worked through their homework together while I cooked, then we all walked Ann home, Michael and me keeping a discrete distance behind the happy couple.

“Did you enjoy today?” I asked my youngest who was still wearing his butterfly skirt.

“Yeah, I made lots of friends.”

“I’m sorry there weren’t any other boys there.”

“That’s okay. I really liked playing with the girls. We did lots of stuff together which was much more fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when I play with boys, they’re always, ‘We’re better than you-oo. Ner ner ne ner ner’, but the girls were all, ‘that’s really good, I like how you did that.’ They made me feel special.”

“You are special.” More or less an autonomic response, but said with feeling. “Do you mind that Steven was given all those clothes?”

“Nah. I like him better when he wears a dress, so it’s cool that he has a lot more.”

Both boys wore their nighties to bed that night, with their giggling conversation carrying long enough after their bedtime that I ended up having to have a few stern words with them. Unfortunately I spoiled it by smiling, and what started off as a telling off turned into an all round tickle-fest.

They did settle afterwards though.

…

Monday was a work at home day, except I found someone waiting on my doorstep when I came home from taking the boys to school.

“Mrs Bush?” She was probably best described as formidable. One of those women who seemed to be as broad as she was tall with enough of a bosom on her to provide a significant contribution in the third dimension. She had a stern, no nonsense expression and a clipboard, neither of which boded particularly well.

“Until recently,” I responded. “I’ve gone back to my maiden name since my divorce.”

She consulted her notes. “Mrs Sandy Shaw? Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Ms Sandy Shaw, and if it is, then it’s one my parents perpetrated on me a great many years ago. That being said, I’m happier being a Sandy Shaw than a Sandy Bush.”

Not the least hint of a smile. She made a note on her clipboard. People with no sense of humour have always bothered me, and I started to feel nervous.

“My name is Hilary Blunt. I’m with social services and here to investigate a complaint of child abuse.”

I glanced across at Mrs Harris’s door which had just opened. The old harridan had her arms crossed as usual and wore the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile on her face.

“You’d better come in,” I said to Ms Blunt and opened the door for her. “I’m assuming you’re not going to tell me who made the accusation.”

“You’re correct.”

“So how do I make a complaint against her for malicious interference?”

“I don’t believe I mentioned that it was a woman.”

“No, you didn’t. However, I would still appreciate an answer to my question.”

“We don’t really have a procedure...”

“So, someone with a grudge against me can make a false report to you, which you are obliged to follow up. The least that will happen is that you inconvenience me and scare the willie’s out if me for no reason, and you have no procedure to discourage it from happening again?”

“If we didn’t protect the identities of those who contacted us with their concerns, then we’d have a lot less calls.”

Fewer, but I didn’t want to antagonise her over trivia.

“As I understand it, your job is to protect the welfare of children. How can you say you’re doing that if you allow an abuse of the system that brings frivolous complaints against innocent parents?”

“Perhaps we can start by establishing whether or not you are innocent.”

“All right. Please tell me what this is about. If you’ll follow me through to the kitchen, I rather feel the need for a cup of tea.”

She did so and I waved her into one of the dining room chairs, ignoring the less charitable part of my brain that was telling me, if it had been strong enough to support my lardy arse when I’d been larger, then it shouldn’t be at risk from my visitor. I offered her a cup of tea while I was making mine, but she declined.

“We have received reports that you are forcing your sons to dress as girls,” she said with no small amount of disapproval. “You are aware that this would constitute abuse?”

“Of course, assuming that I did in fact force them.” Emphasis on force.

“Perhaps you could produce evidence to the contrary.”

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“Mrs Bush...”

“Shaw.” Maybe I was going to antagonise her with trivialities after all.

“Ms Shaw,” she sighed, “surely you must see that the welfare of the child has to come first.”

“Oh, I absolutely agree. What I’m struggling with is how the welfare of the child is best served by requiring innocent parents to justify themselves at the risk of having their children taken away from them.”

“Nobody’s suggesting we take your children from you Mrs B... Ms Shaw, but if you’re going to continue to be obstructive, I’ll be forced...”

“Give me a minute please.” I fished my phone out of my bag and hit one of the speed dials. “Good morning, this is Sandra Shaw. I’d like to speak with Mrs Nullis if I may. It is urgent.”

She put me through straight away.

“Hello Sandy, is everything alright?”

“Hi Teri. Sorry to disturb you, but I have someone from social services asking why my sons are wandering around the neighbourhood in skirts. I wonder if you’d be willing to tell her what you know.”

“Of course.”

“I think she’d prefer to do it in person rather than trust that the random phone call I just made was really to the head of my son’s school.”

“Not a problem. Shall we say twenty minutes?”

I covered the mouthpiece, not that would do much on a modern mobile. “Twenty minutes? The school’s ten minutes’ walk away.”

She nodded.

“That would be great, thanks. See you in a short while.”

I hung up and prodded my computer to wake it up. Security details entered and pull up the browser. A brief search and the contact details for Paul’s practice.

“My older son is seeing a child psychologist at present. This is him.” I punched in the phone numbers on the web page and showed them to my humourless companion before pressing connect. The phone rang a couple of times while I switched it to hands free.

“Doctor Marsh’s surgery,” the nasal voice of Paul’s receptionist answered.

“Hi Pippa, it’s Sandra Shaw. I know he’s likely to be busy, but is there any chance I could have a quick word?”

“Oh, hi Sandy.” We’d made friends chatting while Steven was having his second session. “You’re in luck. His first patient is a no show, so I can put you straight through.”

A moment’s silence then, “Sandy, hi. This is unexpected. Is Steven alright?”

“Steven’s fine, Dr Marsh, but I have a Miss Hilary Blunt from social services asking why I force my children to wear dresses.” The Miss was a guess based on her unadorned ring finger.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Miss Blunt, there isn’t a great deal I can tell you without breaching patient confidentiality, but I can assure you that Steven is not being coerced in any way.”

“Then why are both he and his brother doing this?”

“You know I’m not at liberty to answer such questions. Have you tried asking him?”

“Not yet, though I certainly intend to.”

“Miss Blunt, you are barking up the wrong tree here. From what I’ve observed, and I do have considerable experience in these matters, Ms Shaw is a supportive and committed parent.”

“Thank you, Doctor Marsh. I’ll include an account of your words in my report.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I added.

“Sandra, please be sure and tell Steven he is under no obligation to explain why he’s doing what he’s doing. All social services need is an assurance that you’re not forcing him.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. We have to go. I’ll see you when I next bring Steven.”

“See you Thursday then.”

I hung up the phone and turned to the social worker. I could read no expression on her face, which suggested she still had an agenda she wasn’t prepared to share. I was going to have to tread carefully.

“We should go,” I said, slipping my feet back into my shoes.

I managed to set a satisfyingly punishing pace, despite the heels and the skirt. By the time we arrived, Miss Blunt in her sensible shoes and slacks was looking a little red around the face. I wasn’t being vindictive you understand, just keeping her off balance.

Well. Maybe a little vindictive.

Mrs Nullis was ready for us. I made introductions and suggested I should let them speak in private. I would have preferred to stay with them, but there was something else I wanted to do more. I hoped the headmistress knew the best way to handle the Hilary Blunts of our world and went hunting for a quiet place to make a phone call.

“Hey girlfriend. You wanna do lunch tomorrow?” Given Charlotte’s occasional Tuesday court appearances, we’d fallen into the habit of confirming our lunch rendezvous on a week by week basis.

“Sounds good,” I said, “but it’s not why I called you.”

“Go on.”

“Social services turned up on my doorstep this morning. Apparently, there’s been a complaint about the way I’ve been looking after my boys.”

“That fucking husband of yours!”

“Actually, I think this time it’s a neighbour. It seems I’m forcing my sons to dress as girls.”

“What have you told them?”

“Personally? Nothing. I called Steven’s psychologist for what he could say, and now I’ve just brought her to the school to talk to the headmistress.”

“Who’s the social worker?”

“Her name is Hilary Blunt.”

“Shit.”

“What, why?”

“She has a reputation for digging deeper than she should. I’m on my way to you now. Don’t let her talk to either of the boys until I get there.”

“Why’s that?”

“The attack on Jake.”

“They’re kids, Charlie.”

“Yes, which means they can’t be prosecuted, but if Blunt gets to hear of it, she’ll make trouble for you.”

“Okay. I should get back to them. When will you get here?”

“Half an hour, maybe less.”

“Alright, thanks.”

Well that didn’t do much for my nerves. I went back to the head’s office and knocked before entering.

“Miss Blunt was asking if it would be possible to speak with Steven,” Mrs Nullis told me. “I was about to send for him.”

“Actually, I’ve just been talking with a lawyer friend. She’s on her way here now. She advised against allowing Mrs Blunt to interview either of my sons without her being present.”

“I don’t have all day to waste on this, Mrs Bush.” Miss Blunt said petulantly.

“Ms Shaw,” I corrected her again, “and you’re welcome to come back at a later date when you have more time and have given me a chance to set up the interview correctly.”

She locked eyes with me, but I wasn’t about to back down. “How long until your friend arrives?”

“No more than thirty minutes.”

“Why don’t I organise some coffee then?” Mrs Nullis gave us both a way out of the staring contest.

Organisation of coffees took ten minutes, by which time Miss Blunt had regrouped.

“I’m curious, Ms Shaw. Why do you feel the need to have a lawyer present in these interviews? Could it be that your son has something to hide?”

Mrs Nullis gave me a nervous glance. On the plus side it suggested she’d managed to avoid saying anything incriminating so far, but on the minus, it signalled to the enemy that perhaps there may be something worth digging for.

I took a sip of coffee – disappointingly instant, but still useful as a delaying tactic.

“The suggestion came after I told her your name, Miss Blunt, so I’m inclined to believe that perhaps the advice has less to do with me or my children than your reputation.”

That comment went down no better than the coffee and we passed the next few minutes in frosty silence.

Charlotte must have decided to break a few traffic laws as she walked into reception just ten minutes later.

While Mrs Nullis arranged for Steven to be brought to the office, Charlie negotiated the terms of the encounter.

“Firstly, Ms Shaw and myself will be present throughout...”

“No, not acceptable. Abused children are often intimidated by the presence of their parents.”

She glanced at me and I shrugged. From having seen Charlotte work before, I suspected this was something of a ploy. Give the enemy an early win to put them off their guard.

“Alright, but I will be present throughout.”

“What’s your relationship with the boy?”

“Steven is friends with my son, Jake. Sandy and I are friends also.”

“Alright, but I’ll be watching you.”

“Secondly, I’d like to see your case summary.”

“Certainly not. There’s confidential information in it.”

“Fine. Put me in touch with your supervisor.”

Blunt’s phone was pink. She didn’t particularly look like the sort of person who'd be into pink, but people surprise you in odd ways. She put through a call and handed the phone across.

“Hello. With whom am I speaking please? Oh, Penny, hi. Charlotte Greer here. Yeah, doing good thank you, yourself? Listen, I’m with Hilary Blunt. She's looking into something involving a client of mine. Sandra Shaw – used to be Bush until a short while ago. Yeah, I know. Tell me about it. Look I need to know what’s on the case summary and Hilary won’t let me see it. Yeah, I get that. I don’t need to know that sort of stuff. Just what the brief is. Uhuh? Uhuh? Uhuh. Okay, thanks Penny. Give my love to Maddie, won’t you?”

She hung up and handed the phone back.

“Right. You limit your questions to the brief you’ve been given.”

“I’m entitled to investigate further if I think there’s more to the matter.”

“You’re welcome to try, but I’m going to advise Steven only to answer questions relevant to the brief.”

“And if the problem goes deeper? Are you prepared to accept the consequences?”

“There is no problem and there are no consequences.”

“Then what’s your problem.”

“My problem is your reputation, Hilary, and you are not going to make trouble for my client’s family. The interview will be recorded, and I will be reviewing it with your boss.”

Steven arrived and, after giving him a quick hug, I followed Mrs Nullis out of her office.

“Would you care to walk the grounds with me?” she offered.

It was a friendly gesture and I had nothing else to do – nothing I could do without access to my computer in any case – so I accepted.

She asked me about George and I gave her a brief and heavily expurgated version of what had happened between us. I asked her what her involvement with the man had been and she reeled off a list of all the things she suspected from the work he’d done for her. Several visits. Upwards of a thousand pounds worth of work, most of which she suspected hadn’t been necessary before he’d come, damage to walls gaining access to hidden pipes which he’d not fixed particularly well.

“I presume he gave you invoices for the work.”

“Oh yes. I wanted proof of everything he did in case I ever had anything to question him about.”

“Do you still have them?”

“Of course. Would you like to see them?”

“I don’t know. I have a nagging feeling something’s not adding up here.”

“Well, any time you want to, just ask.”

“Okay, thanks.”

We carried on walking around, chasing a couple of boys back to class who’d managed to persuade their teacher to let them take a bathroom break.

“We tend not to allow it during lesson times, except when there’s a known medical problem. We don’t have the staff to patrol effectively when most of us are teaching and this tends to be the time when the graffiti appears.

“You know, if they put as much effort into doing what they were supposed to as they do into breaking the rules...”

“What was that?” My mind had been drifting, worrying about what was going on back in the head’s office, but something about what she’d just said had caught the attention of that intuitive part of the brain I’d inherited.

“I said I wish they’d put as much effort into doing what they should as they did into breaking the rules. I mean, they’re not that clever and they must know they’ll be caught eventually.”

There was the nagging feeling again, but no connections yet. Past experience told me I’d get nowhere if I tried to force it, so I left it with my subconscious.

“We should be getting back,” Mrs Nullis said. “I can’t imagine the interview lasting much longer than this.”

“Sure. Teri, those invoices? I think I would like to have a look at them if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll bring them in tomorrow morning.”

“I’m working in the office tomorrow. I won’t have time in the morning.”

“After school then.”

“Sure. I’ll swing by your office before I pick up the kids.”

She gave me a mildly bemused look. “You know, I’m a little worried your American friend is influencing your speech.”

We were still sharing a chuckle when we stepped into the head’s office.

Steven ran to me and threw his arms around me. Not characteristic Steven behaviour at all. I glared daggers at Miss Blunt.

“What happened?” I asked him.

He was too upset to answer so I looked to Charlotte.

“She wanted to know about the dressing up and how it started, and to be fair that is why we’re here. Steven told her about the cheerleading punishment and she wanted to know whose idea it was. When he said it was the other mums’ idea, she insisted that he tell her exactly what happened. Which he did. Next she asked about why he was still wearing dresses and wasn’t that an odd thing for a boy to do. On my advise, he told her he was doing so from his own choice and not because you made him, but that the reason why he was doing it was entirely his own business.

“She then started fishing for answers on why he and his friends had been given the cheerleader punishment, and I had to keep intervening since it was outside her remit. The arguments ended up being a little heated over that – I’m actually surprised you didn’t hear us. I think we may have gone a little overboard. Sorry Stevie.”

Steven settled a little, but stayed close.

“I’d like to speak with the other one,” Blunt announced, very much living up to her name.

“I can call across to the primary school,” Mrs Nullis offered.

Charlotte was shaking her head. “Not if this is how you’re going to do it.” She pointed at my still quivering older son.

“You have no right to stop me.”

“Only if you allow Michael’s mother to be present.”

Blunt huffed, but decided she could permit it.

Once Steven was settled and sent back to class, we headed over to the other school and were ushered into an empty office where Michael was waiting. He smiled when he saw me – always a heart melter – and I went over to sit by him. He clambered into my lap and Hilary started her questions.

She asked about the dressing up to which he answered, “Mummy lets me. I like to do it because my brother does it too.”

“And why does your brother do it?”

“Well, he used to be really mean and angry all the time, but then he did something bad and he had to put on this short skirt and cheer for the visiting football team instead of playing himself, and...”

“What was the bad thing he did, Michael?”

“Don’t answer that,” Charlotte interrupted before he could respond. He looked up at me and I shook my head gently.

Blunt pursed her lips and tried a different tack. “How did your brother feel when he was made to dress up?”

“I think he felt kind of stupid to start with, but then he kind of changed.”

“Changed? How?”

“He wasn’t so angry anymore. Then some kids at school stole his uniform and he had to come home in his cheerleading stuff, and that made him really sad.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow in my direction which I took as permission to speak.

“My husband and I were going through some troubles. I’ll tell you about them afterwards if you like, but not here. He arranged to have the locks changed on the house while we were dealing with matters in court, which meant that Steven ended up being locked out and stuck in a skirt.”

“Sounds like quite a punishment. He must have done something really bad.”

Charlotte told Michael not to respond once again, then turned to the social worker. “You have what you need: a declaration from both boys that they are not being forced. Now I think this interview is over.”

She grunted but agreed, then, “I still want to talk to Mrs... Ms Shaw.” I also agreed and Michael allowed himself to be led back to class.

Mrs Nix, the primary school head, permitted us to keep using the office, which made things marginally easier.

“This situation with your husband concerns me. I’d like to hear more about it.”

I looked at Charlotte who nodded cautiously, so I told her about his abusive behaviour and how it had affected the boys, Steven in particular, about his attacks, the restraining order and the divorce.

“Since we finalised that, he’s had no involvement in our lives. I was given the house in the settlement and have been working since, earning enough to support the three of us.”

“And the dressing up?”

“I’m not going to stop either of them if that’s what they choose to do. I’ve been pretty clear on what they’re likely to encounter from the rest of the world, but choices like these ultimately belong to the individuals themselves.”

“Very well. I have enough to write my report. You shall hear from me in due course.”

“What about the person who made the complaint?”

“I’ve told you, I cannot give you any names.”

“I’d still like her to be prosecuted for making a wrongful complaint.”

“It hasn’t been established that she did.”

So, it had been Mrs Harris. I smiled grimly. Charlotte’s grin was wider.

“Nasty, when folks trick you into saying something you didn’t mean to, isn’t it?”

She huffed again and stormed out. I thanked Mrs Nix then walked Charlotte back to her car.

“Lunch tomorrow?” she asked as if nothing had happened.

“If you’re not going to have to put in extra time to make up for this morning.”

“Oh, I’m not done yet. Her boss is going to have a transcript of those meetings before the end of the day. I doubt you’ll hear from Hilary Blunt again.”

“I am so grateful to have you as a friend.”

“Works both ways, girlfriend. I’ll see you tomorrow, usual place and time.”

She drove off and I headed for home, bumping into a rather lost social worker on the way. Magnanimous in victory, I showed her the way back to her car.

Chapter 18

I had to work hard to catch up with the time I’d lost and just about managed to get back on track by working through lunch. I’d had a couple of deadlines looming, only one of which I missed, and that by a narrow margin. The important one I uploaded with minutes to spare. The internal one I finished and sent in ten minutes late. Chances were Max would want to chew me out in the morning, but that was tomorrow’s problem. I put in a bit of overtime, getting ahead on my next task, just in case social services needed any more of my time, which meant it ended up being a long and tiring day.

Instead of story time, we talked about what had happened that day. Michael was less bothered by it than Steven, but I left them feeling a lot less worried about it all.

I turned in early and still nearly slept through my alarm. Rather disturbingly, I dreamt of George doing his paperwork with Mrs Nullis’s words echoing in the background, “I wish they’d put as much effort into doing what they should as they do into breaking the rules. I mean, they’re not that clever and they must know they’ll be caught eventually.”

It still didn’t make any sense, but it reminded me to talk to Mrs Nullis about her receipts.

Because of my late start, everything ended up being a bit rushed. The boys were a little slow off the mark too, but then we’d all been a bit stressed out by the previous day’s events.

We made it to the school on time, but only just, then I missed my bus by seconds, which meant a fifteen-minute wait and a late arrival at work. I texted Max to let him know and he replied with ‘Not good’ and an angry face. I was still working flexitime and there were no essential meetings planned for the morning, so what was his problem? He sent me a second text which read, 'Cum c me when u Rive.’

I’m not sure if his choice of spelling was deliberate or simply misguided, but I wasn’t sure I was the right person to tell him.

The next bus was a couple of minutes late then stopped at every stop on the way, so I was closer to twenty-five minutes late when I finally arrived. I went directly to see Max.

“What time do you call this?” he asked tapping his watch.

I shrugged. “Flexitime?” I suggested.

“I can do without your facetious remarks, young lady.” That was ironically funny too, since he was only a couple of years older than me. “Your contract requires you to be in the office on Tuesdays and Fridays. Today is Tuesday.”

“My contract allows for me to leave early on Tuesdays and Fridays so I can pick up my kids. It doesn’t say anything about set hours, just that I do the required amount of work.”

“Like you did yesterday? Deadlines are there for a reason, you know?”

“I am aware. I met the customer deadline...”

“By less than a minute.”

“I still met it. Was the customer upset?”

“As a matter of fact...”

“Then as my manager you should have defended me since I still met the deadline. If he wanted it half an hour early just to be safe, he should have set the deadline half an hour earlier.”

“You’re not in a position to lecture me young lady. That wasn’t the only deadline you had yesterday, and you missed the other one.”

“By ten minutes, and I emailed you to let you know well ahead of time, and giving you the reason.”

“It doesn’t matter. A deadline is a deadline. I’m sorry, Sandra, but I’m going to have to give you a second written reprimand for this.”

From his expression, he was anything but sorry. It didn’t take a genius to recognise this was about more than deadlines.

“Do I scare you, Max?” I asked.

“What?”

“Or maybe it’s Mr Clark. I mean he was the first person to give me a formal reprimand. Is he worried I’m going to stir up all the women who work here and get them to demand equal salaries? Has he instructed you to find a reason to fire me before I cause too much trouble?”

“I don’t know what you’re on. You know, this is probably why we don’t pay women as much as men. Prone to flights of fantasy.”

“Does it bother you that we meet for a girl’s lunch every Friday? Do you think we’re plotting our revenge?”

“You have to admit, it looks a bit strange, gathering together regularly like that.”

“I suppose it would if you didn’t have any friends.”

“What was that?”

“Do you know what we plotted last Friday? We decided to get together and have a day of experimental sewing. Marjory rented her church hall, everyone brought a sewing machine, quite a few people brought bolts of unused material they had lying around and we had a go at sewing something completely new. We didn’t think about work for one second.”

“So? What’s your point?”

“Oh, I have a couple. The first is we are not plotting to wreck the business. For all that I don’t agree with what either you or Mr Clark told me, I do see that an abrupt change would be bad for everyone.”

“And the second?”

“You’re not giving any of us girls, and me in particular, any reason to show the company any loyalty. All you’re offering us is a day’s wage for a day’s work...”

“Which is all we do for anyone.”

“Except, as per our previous discussion, a different day’s wage for us for the same day’s work. You don’t even bother to check who’s giving you better value for the same work.”

“I’m not hearing anything new.”

“One day you might. One day someone might offer some of us girls a better deal and we won’t have any reason to stay in this place.”

“Well, good luck to you on the day that happens.”

“Thank you. I’d wish you the same, but I really don’t think I care what would happen to you.”

“Do you want your third written reprimand?” Clark’s ran a ‘three strikes and you’re out’ policy.

“Only if you want to contest it in court. That second reprimand of yours is a little thin. I’m sure I could demonstrate prejudicial bias without much effort.”

“Not with this insubordination you’ve just shown.”

“Oh, sorry I’m confused. It must be my inferior female brain. That insubordination, are you planning on using it as the basis for the third reprimand, or as a little added substance to make the second one stick better? I don’t see how you can have both.”

“Get to work,” he growled.

“Gladly, assuming you don’t need me for anything else.”

“Get out of here!” It wasn’t quite a yell, but it was close.

I spoke to Charlotte about my workplace woes over lunch. She suggested fighting fire with fire, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep working in a place that didn’t want me there. The problem was any references I'd get from Clark’s would be written by Max’s hand, and I didn’t predict a particularly glowing recommendation from him.

“You could come and work for me,” she suggested. “I have a little spare in the budget and I could do with someone to help me write up all my reports.”

“Secretarial work?”

“It wouldn’t pay much, but it would keep the wolf from the door. I’ve seen you type. You got mad skills, girlfriend.”

I forced a smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. “I really appreciate it, Charlie. You’re an amazing friend. My life seems to go from one crisis to another, and you’re always there, bailing me out.”

“It’s what friends do, girl. One day I’m gonna need help and I’ll know you’re gonna be there for me.”

My smile grew a little realism. “Here’s hoping that never happens.”

I raised my glass and she tapped hers against it.

“And here’s to an end to your troubles. Honestly, you deserve better than you’re getting.”

I trudged through the afternoon on autopilot, struggling to find the least hint of enthusiasm. I gave some thought to Charlotte’s advice, at least the bit she gave me before offering me a job. However little I liked my situation, bills would need paying and mouths feeding, so I had to do what I could to keep my job. I checked through the staff handbook on what to do when you have a complaint against your immediate boss and went to collect the relevant forms from HR. I filled in the easy bit on the bus home – you know, name address, phone number, that sort of thing – and was drawing a blank on how to word the nitty gritty of the issue when my phone rang.

I didn’t recognise the number which meant most likely spam or scam, but I answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Is this Sandy Shaw?”

Not spam or scam. They wouldn’t know me by that name yet. Prank caller, maybe. I stoked the coals, preparing to give him a roasting. Except there was something familiar about that voice.

“Who is this?” I asked.

He gave me his name and I could hardly believe I’d not recognised it from the start. He was on the radio most days, singing bittersweet songs of love and loss. He was also on most of my Spotify playlists.

“I understand you make clothes,” he said.

“Well, I’ve made a few things for my children, but I’m nothing special.”

“Oh, I disagree.”

“What do you mean? What do you know about it?”

“You have a smartphone, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Long, drawn out, wary.

“Put me on speakerphone and bring up your browser. Check out mymumsamazing.me. I’ll wait.”

I followed the link and found a fairly rudimentary website. One page with the title in sparkly letters across the top. Underneath it were dozens of pictures of Steven, all in the things I’d made him, or the fruits of our impromptu sewing group. Each one had a caption crediting the person who’d made it, but always giving me as the designer.

“What is this?” I asked. “And how did you find it?”

“I’m guessing your son put the website together in an IT lesson at school. As to how I found it, it’s gone viral. The website address is being shared everywhere on Facebook, Twitter, you name it.”

“He’s only eleven. There shouldn’t be pictures of him on the Internet. I’m really sorry, but I need to call the school.”

I ended the call and hit the school speed dial.

“Mrs Nullis please. It’s extremely urgent.”

“Hello Sandy. What couldn’t wait ten minutes till you were here picking up your children?”

I told her, and was highly impressed with how quickly she acted. Within ten minutes the website disappeared from the ether. It wouldn’t be a total fix. If the site address had been shared around the globe, there would be copies of the pictures downloaded on hundred of personal computers, possibly even thousands or millions.

My phone rang again. Same number as before.

“Look, don’t take this personally – or do, I really don’t care – I don’t particularly want to talk to someone who looks at pictures of children on the Internet.”

“You don’t understand. I wasn’t looking at your son. I was looking at the clothes he was wearing. I want you to make something for me.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s going to be all over the media soon that I’m gender-fluid.”

“I’m not familiar with the term.”

There must have been something in my tone, because I could hear him smiling.

“Yeah, I'm not too keen on the title either. It kind of sounds like something you keep in a sperm bank.

“It means my gender expression shifts over time. Some days I wake up wanting to be a guy, others I want to be a girl, and then there are the days I can't decide.

“That’s why I got so excited when I found your son's website. I mean, I agree it wasn’t the cleverest thing, posting all that online with all the sickos out there, but your ideas are magical. I want to be wearing something you’ve made when I come out officially. You just need to name your price.”

“I’m really sorry, I can’t think on this right now. Not until I’ve figured out what to do about this website business.”

“I’m not sure there’s much else you can do. I noticed you already had the site taken down, which I totally understand. There really isn't anything you can do about the pictures people will have copied...”

“Thank you, I realise that. I need to work out what to say to him, and I’m nearly at the school.”

“Well don’t be too harsh with him, please. His heart was in the right place. He only wanted to show the world what an amazing mother he has.”

“And you know this how?”

“Right up at the top, under the sparkly title. I missed it at first because the photographs are so eye catching, but he wrote a short intro.”

“Well, the website’s been deleted now, so...”

“Ask if the school kept a copy.

“And when you’re ready, please call me back. I have a TV appearance on Friday evening and I’d really like to go appropriately dressed. Like I say, just name your price.”

Mrs Nullis was waiting for me when I arrived, all apologies and contrition. We waited together until Michael appeared then made our way to her office where a nervously worried Steven and an even more worried teacher sat waiting.

They both started speaking the moment the door was closed, but stopped when Mrs Nullis held up her hand. The secret powers of headmastery at work.

“Introductions first. Sandy, this is Mr Todd, our IT teacher. Richard, Sandra Shaw, Steven’s mother.”

“I am so sorry about this, Mrs Shaw. We’ve been designing web pages in class, but I had no idea this was what Steven was doing. The class was split into groups and Steven’s group were supposes to be making a page about the football team. Here, let me show you.”

Mr Todd was a typical tech guy in that he was happiest with his hands on a keyboard. Male pattern baldness had extended his forehead halfway to the back of his neck, and he had grown a thick moustache, possibly to compensate.

He brought up a screen filled with text and photographs relating to the school team. One of them was recent enough to show Steven and the girls cheerleading in the background.

“I haven’t actually done much on that,” Steven said. All eyes turn towards him. “Most of the guys on the team have been kind of weird with me since I chose cheerleading over football. They told me I should make my own page on cheerleading since I so obviously like it better.”

“You didn’t say anything, Steven.”

“What would you do? If you made them work with me, they’d just find ways of ruining my work.

“Then there was something Doctor Marsh said last week that gave me an idea.”

“Doctor Marsh? What did he say?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. I didn’t want to get mad at him, but if he’d been in any way responsible for Steven’s actions, I’d be prepared to make an exception.

“I told you about it. He said I had a couple of choices with the way I was. He said this wasn’t going to go away, so I had to choose between hiding it away again – which hadn’t worked so well last time, but maybe if I knew what it did to me, I could figure out a way to control it – or I could just be me and do what I was doing then. You remember, that was when I went to see him wearing my butterfly dress.”

Mr Todd gave him an odd look.

“He said I seemed so much happier and more relaxed like that, and I really was. He also said that if I was thinking about embracing that version of me, I should go big or go home. If I was all kind of timid about it, that would just make people laugh at me more, and that would put me back in my shell. I needed to show everyone that I wasn’t ashamed of being like that.

“That’s what gave me the idea for the website. When you took that picture of me by the bus stop, I didn’t send it to Ann. I emailed it to my school address. Then on Sunday, when I was trying on all that stuff, I asked your friends if they would photograph me and send me the pictures. A lot of them kind of didn’t want to, but there were enough who didn’t see the harm.”

“How did you publish it though?” Mr Todd wanted to know. “We’ve only been making webpages for the school site.”

“I talked to a girl in year ten who’s a real whizz with computers...”

“Wendy Lawson?”

Steven faltered which was more confirmation than denial. “She showed me how to get around the firewall and set up a free website, complete with domain. I only put it up this morning. How did you find out about it so quickly?”

“Someone called me, Steven. You put my mobile number on the site.”

“Didn’t I warn you about the danger of putting contact details on a website? Absolutely anybody can see it and not everyone is nice.” Mr Todd was doing my job of telling him off for me, which meant I could remain sympathetic and supportive.

“Did you keep a copy of the site? I asked. “I’d like another look at it.”

“I’m sorry. Steven uploaded it to a webhost that has nothing to do with the school. I traced them through their IP address and called them to tell them they were hosting inappropriate content and they deleted it straight away.”

“I’ve still got it in my workspace,” Steven offered. At Mrs Nullis’s invitation, he logged onto her computer and brought up the working files.

The text at the top of the page read, ‘My amazing mum designs skirts and dresses for boys. If that’s you, you should call her. Her name is Sandy Shaw and you can reach her on,' and then my phone number.

Mrs Nullis made a copy of the files onto a memory stick, then deleted them from Steven’s directory. The memory stick went into a locked drawer in her desk.

“We need to decide how to deal with this now,” she said. “It seems that your intentions were misguided rather than malicious, Steven, so you’re not in trouble, but hopefully you can see why we’re so worried about this.”

“I think so. I’m really sorry.”

I crouched down next to him and pulled him into a hug to let him know I wasn’t mad either.

“Mr Todd, I want you to have a quiet word with Miss Lawson. Again I’m not inclined to punish her, since that would probably end up landing back on Steven, but use this as an example of why she shouldn’t circumvent the school restrictions even though she’s capable of doing so. See if you can’t get her to help you tighten up the security a bit.

“Unfortunately, we are going to have to inform the police. Since this thing went viral in the short space of time it was on the web, I imagine they’re already aware, just trying to trace it back to its source. In fact, I’m a little surprised they haven’t called you yet. Incidentally, you’d be best changing your number as soon as you can. I imagine you’ll start getting some fairly unsavoury phone calls in a while.”

“I already have that on my list of things to do.”

“See how it goes, but you might have to switch your phone off if it gets too bad. Do you mind if I make that call to the police now while we’re all here?”

We agreed and she dialled out. The cybercrimes division had noted the website, but considered it low priority. They now noted that the site had been taken down and would send someone the following day to deal with it. Since they didn’t wish to interfere with the running of the school, they asked if four o’clock would be acceptable. We all made notes in our diaries and I went to collect Michael from reception.

“Sandy?” I turned to see Mrs Nullis holding up a sheaf of papers. “I know this situation has superseded a lot of other things that are going on, but did you still want to look at these?”

“George’s invoices? Let me take a few quick snapshots.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that.”

She laid them out on her desk and I put my camera phone to good use. They all looked in order, but... Something still nagged at the back of my mind.

After all the hassle, I didn’t feel much like cooking. We’d been making regular use of the chip shop on Tuesdays, but a Chinese takeaway had recently opened, and I was game for something a bit different. I gave the boys the choice. Michael wasn’t that keen, but Steven, still a little shaken by the afternoon’s events, sided with me. I made sure the boys had noodles and ordered a mix of satay and sweet and sour, which I was pretty sure would go down well. Special fried rice for me as it was likely to be the only thing I got to eat after the boys made up their minds how good the new flavours were.

I called Charlotte while I picked through my rice and bits. Probably the one bad habit I’ve not tried to do anything about, using my phone at meal times. It used to be browsing topics of interest, but lately I’d been using the phone for its original purpose.

“Hey girlfriend! How’s it with you?”

I updated her on Steven’s most recent misadventure while he sat across from me looking appropriately contrite.

“Sounds like you did everything right. Cyber squad may give Steven a roasting, but this shouldn’t amount to anything.”

“Thanks. I’m glad I don’t need you to bail me out this time.”

“We’re good. How are things otherwise?”

So I told her about my run-in with Max and the second written reprimand.

She talked me through how to find the built in voice recorder on my phone and pin it to my main screen.

“Whenever he approaches you, take out your phone, start recording and tell him what you’re doing. You need the evidence, otherwise it’s his word against yours, and he’s senior. You’re right to put in the complaint, but don’t expect it to come to much. It’ll be more of a backstop when he throws the third one at you.

“Anything else you’d like to share?”

“Yeah, I may be in the market for a child minder on Friday. You interested?”

“Could be. What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing’s decided yet, so I’d rather not say just now.”

“Look at you being all dark and mysterious.”

“Yeah. Look, I have to go. I need to see if I can get anything decided for Friday.”

The boys had finished eating, so I sent them upstairs to change for bed. Knowing them as I was beginning to, they’d take their time over it in the hope that I wouldn’t notice time passing. It would give me time and privacy enough for my next call.

I took a moment to put my thought in order, then called back my potential customer.

“Okay, I’ll do it. First question. What sort of event is Friday night and where?”

“It’s a talk show and it’s at the television centre in London at nine.”

“Okay, so we'll need to be there by eight. I’ll have a look at train timetables.”

“No need. Where do you live?”

I gave him my address.

“I’ll have a car pick you up at six.”

“Oh, okay. Second question. What sort of thing are you looking for. I’m assuming something with a skirt, but dress or skirt and top...”

“Dress, definitely.”

“Ankle length, below the knee, above the knee, mid thigh?”

“What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t make it too short, otherwise you might end up showing off more than you might want people to see. For safety I’d say no higher than just above the knee. The rest is kind of down to the statement you’re trying to make. Ankle length is elegant eveningwear for any age group. Below the knee would probably come across as demure – you know, shy and retiring; middle aged librarian sort of thing. Above the knee would be teen and twenties saying, ‘look at me, I’m fuckable.”

“That’s... not how I was expecting a young mother to talk. Er what would you suggest?”

“What are your legs like?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When you look at your legs in the mirror, do you find them attractive?”

“I’ve never really given it much thought.”

“Probably not spectacular then. Let’s go full length this time round. If you decide there’s a next, we can see what your legs are like and maybe show them off a bit.”

I went through colour, patterns, materials, degree of coverage up top. Did he shave more than his face, how did he feel about the smooth skinned metrosexual look. With each question answered, a new piece of the puzzle slotted into place. After about ten minutes of questions, I had a clear image in my mind of what I was going to make and how. I’d need to buy in quite a few supplies, which would take a fair bit of time, as would the cutting and sewing.

“So how much is this going to cost me?” he asked when I’d run out of questions of my own.

“I haven’t quite decided yet. What’s your budget?”

He laughed.

“I promise it’ll be no more than you think is fair. I have something other than just cash in mind, but could we talk about it after the event? If you don’t like what I have in mind, we’ll settle on a price and be done.”

“You don’t negotiate very well, do you?”

“It all depends on what I’m negotiating for. If I just wanted to make some money, I could think of a number and double it, but what if I want a more lasting arrangement? Wouldn’t it be worth making a concession or two to try and grow a little goodwill?

“Anyway, I think we’re done for now. If you’ll excuse me, I suddenly find myself with an urgent need to shop for supplies.”

“I’ll see you in London, on Friday.”

“Yeah. Like I said, I’d like us both there an hour before you’re due to go on.”

“A whole hour?”

“I don’t have your exact measurements and it may take that long to adjust this thing to fit you properly.”

“Fine. One hour. The car may come a little early to make sure you’re there in time.”

Shopping wasn’t that urgent. I crept up the stairs, managing, with my lightweight form, to avoid any creaking floorboards. I loved the easy grace of my new body. I was about to spring the door open when Michael spoke.

“Steven?”

“Mmm?”

“Um, nothing?”

“Come on, what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know, it’s silly.”

What sounded like the thump of two feet jumping down from a top bunk followed.

“I promise I won’t laugh.”

“It’s... We’ll, it’s just, what if Mum isn’t really Mum?”

“What do you mean? I mean, who else would she be?”

“I don’t know. She’s just so...”

“Different? So much nicer?”

“Yeah, I s’pose.”

“What about me? I mean, I’m different too, and in a good way. Does that mean I’m not me either?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not. At least... I don’t mean to, Mikey. I’m just trying to understand.”

“You changed slowly. You got less angry at first, then more like you are now. With Mum it was like we woke up one day and she was...”

“Different. I do see what you mean.”

“Then there was that day, you remember, you did cheerleading practice and had your stuff nicked.”

“It’s not something I’m likely to forget. It was like everybody hated me, and I was alone, and...”

“Yeah, well it was kind of scary for me too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know Mum and Charlie took me and Jake to the courthouse?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, while we was waiting...”

“Were waiting.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that.

“While we were waiting, this man came over and talked to Mum, then to me a bit. He was big, like Dad, and fat like him too, only not as much, and he said, ‘What the f...k,’” he whispered the word, but I could just hear it, “’are you doing here?’ and I mean, the voice was different, but it sounded so much like Mum. You know, the way she was before...”

“Are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

“No! I didn’t! I mean at first I wasn’t sure, but the things she said, I mean he said. The words he used, like ‘innit’ and ‘incha’, and he kind of talked through his nose like Mum did. You had to be there, Stevie.”

“It’s okay, I believe you. What else did he say, this guy?”

“I don’t know. Something about a car Mum never had, and about quitting his job. I didn’t really understand, but there was a lot of swearing.”

“Kind of sounds like Mum, I suppose.”

“Then he said something like, ‘Yeah. Your f..king kids. Right.’ Like he didn’t believe what Mum was talking about, and Mum said something like, 'They deserve to be loved,' and he said, ‘What would you know about that?’ and Mum said, ‘Hopefully enough.’”

“So what are you saying?”

“You remember that film we watched on Sunday? Freaky Friday? It made me remember the man at the courthouse.”

“You think Mum swapped bodies with someone? That was just make believe, Mikey. Things like that film don’t happen in real life.”

“I know. But what if they did?”

“Okay, what if they did?”

“Well, in the film, they changed back at the end.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want Mum to change back.”

“No, me neither. But you know, this isn’t that film. I mean, can you imagine waking up in Mum’s life the way it was? Like, what reason did we give her to even like us?”

“I s’pose. So what d’you think happened?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad it did.”

“Yeah, but what if she changes back?”

“What if she doesn’t? I mean we couldn’t do anything about it either way, could we?”

“No, I suppose. But what if she doesn’t want to stay?”

“Maybe we could make sure she has a reason to want to. You know, she’s the mum we want, so maybe we could do our best to be the kids she’d want.”

“Do you think that would work?”

“I’m sure of it.”

I’d heard enough. Tears were prickling my eyes. I made my way back downstairs, carefully avoiding the creaky steps, and found myself a box of tissues.

I must have sat there a while, either that or they had some sort of sixth sense thing going on, because the next thing I knew was a creak on the stairs as they came down.

“Mum, are you alright?” Steven asked. He was wearing his nightdress.

I sniffed and gave my eyes one last dab before hunting out the smile in my turbulent mess of emotions.

“I’m fine, sweetie. Have you brushed your teeth?”

“Not yet. Is this about, you know, what I did at school?”

“No dear. It’s about a lot of things, but mainly good ones.”

“Then why are you crying, Mummy?” This from Michael.

“Women cry for a lot of reasons, sweetheart, not all of them bad. I was thinking how lucky I am to have two such wonderful children as you two.”

“And that made you cry?”

“Sometimes when I fill up with feelings, it doesn’t matter what they are, they sort of leak out. There’s nothing wrong, but I suppose I could really use a hug right now.”

They obliged, filling my heart to bursting.

“I love you, Mum,” Steven said, “and I’m sorry for today.”

“Well I’m not. Your heart was in the right place, and that’s what matters most. I love you too. Both of you.

“But you have school tomorrow and it’s... Oh my, is that really the time?”