A Legal Requirement by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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Paul Merchant was a trainee accountant working for La Belle Dame. He was also a bit of a handful, quite literally. He stood about five feet five inches and weighed no more than nine stone, a hundred and twenty six pounds, dripping wet. He was twenty two but looked fifteen on a good day, on a bad one he looked even younger. His squeaky voice and lack of facial hair didn’t help his efforts to look older and more authoritative, so he developed an attitude.

Unfortunately, his attitude didn’t win him many friends and only the fact that he was good at his job kept him his job. La Belle Dame was a chain of dress shops, which sold mid range clothes, they aimed at the more sophisticated market of late teens early twenties clientele than people like New Look, who aim at the lower end of the market. LBDs clothes were good, well made and very fashionable. They ran shorter lines in their marketing and were usually quickly sold out.

The owner was a wealthy thirty something called Karen King, and she included a range of clothes within her shops aimed at the better off business woman, so suits, blouses and some dresses were included in this range, which were labelled as Queen partly as a play on her surname but also because she ruled her empire like a mediaeval monarch. She didn’t brook argument at any price, although she would listen to alternative views, they just had to be couched in careful language.

Most of her surviving staff at head office knew how to handle her, they learned by watching those who didn’t become statistics on the unemployment register. Paul of course didn’t work at head office, so all of this was merely folklore to him, possibly even urban myths. However, his boss Maisie Fremantle, knew very well–she was one of the survivors–that HQ was a dangerous place.

Paul caused Maisie all sorts of problems: he was rarely on time; took longer than the allotted thirty minutes for lunch; kept his desk like a compost heap; argued with everyone and had a nice range in put downs–which everyone had suffered. If he hadn’t been a whizz with spreadsheet software, she’d have sent him and his attitude packing.

Today, he was standing before her once again. He’d insulted one of his colleagues, a youngster, another trainee accountant called, Katie Price–no not that one–this one was small breasted and had a few functioning brain cells. She’d tried to use one of Paul’s amended programs and had messed it all up. He had to spend two hours sorting it, when he discovered the fault–a glitch in his programming. He of course immediately remedied it and suggested the fault was Katie’s, calling her ‘a brainless ninny who should be having babies and leaving things she didn’t understand to men, like him.’

This went down like a lead balloon. Paul was the only man working in the office and one of only ten in the whole company, eight of whom drove vans. The other man, was a director and the husband of Mrs King, and he was more interested in his own concerns–the weapons industry, where he was a multimillionaire entrepreneur.

Maisie looked at Paul. His long thick hair–always like a disgruntled mop; his jacket and trousers–hadn’t seen an iron since they were bought; and his shirt and tie–were the yellow spots part of the pattern or the remains of his breakfast egg?

Dishevelled wasn’t quite adequate to describe Paul’s appearance and she stared at him for a moment before saying anything.

“Paul, Katie has gone home very upset by your remarks.”

“So, she shouldn’t be such an airhead.”

“I don’t think someone who has a first in accountancy and who is getting through her exams in her articles faster than you, is an airhead, do you?”

This was one of Paul’s weaknesses. He was good on computers poor on the legal aspects of accountancy and the tax elements. In fact he’d only scraped by with a 2.2 in his degree and that was at a second attempt.

“She’s rubbish at spreadsheets,” he retorted.

“She claimed there was a problem with the program.”

“Well, you try it, I did and I can’t find any problem. In fact I’ve just spent two hours trying to destabilise it and I can’t. The program is good, like me.”

Arrogance wasn’t something Maisie liked, especially as she had had the program seize-up on her too. Paul needed taking down a peg and she wished she had a means of doing it. She was sure if he left his attitude behind, he’d be a nice kid, but as he didn’t she’d have to act.

“Paul, regardless of the merits of the program or lack of them, you can’t go round insulting your colleagues like this, and as this isn’t the first time, I’m issuing you a verbal warning.”

“What? Just because she’s on a period, I get my arse kicked–that’s bloody wonderful isn’t it. I thought this company had an equal opportunities policy. Some equal opportunity this is.”

Maisie’s blood boiled. “How dare you! Whether or not Katie was on her period or not is none of your business, and we take our equal opportunities very seriously.”

“Yeah, when?”

“The fact that you have a job here is one of them, mister. Mrs King would prefer an all female workforce because they tend to be more productive than arrogant little boys who spend all their time projecting their masculine inadequacies on their colleagues.”

“Huh?” her tirade caught him off guard.

“Look here, mister, if men had periods they’d be off one week in four–women get on with things.”

“With due respect, Mrs Fremantle, but women were designed to have babies and stay at home while men go out and do things.”

“Like farming, I suppose.”

“Yeah like farming,” he agreed.

“In the third world, women produce most of the food while men sit about on their hairy arses planning their next bloody war.”

“Yeah, but real productivity needs men, we invented the technology to produce surpluses, just like we do the technology to run things now. Let’s face it men are better at it than women–women do babies and keep home, that’s what they were designed for.”

“Men and women weren’t designed for anything, mister, we evolved to complement each other. Men were given muscles and women, brains. Quite how you missed out on both is a bit of a quandary.” Maisie had overstepped the mark, she’d made a personal remark, but then he was as good as telling her she should be chained to the sink while giving birth.

He’d heard the remark about his lack of musculature. It wasn’t his fault, but exercise wasn’t his thing, computer gaming was and you don’t get big biceps from operating a keypad. Besides, when he’d tried to be more butch, at uni, all he got was stronger and thinner. He was wiry and his metabolism just burned up calories, rarely laying down any fat for the future–somewhat like his bank account, which was equally lean.

Maisie had sent her sexist trouble-maker back to his desk because she felt she was in danger of physically attacking him. She was still seething when she was invited to dinner by her boss, who she knew socially as well.

Later that evening while Paul was playing computer games as the White Wizard, Maisie was dining with Karen King at her penthouse flat along with half a dozen other mangers and heads of department. When dinner was over, Karen asked Maisie to stay behind, Maisie felt her tummy flip.

“What happened to the central reporting, this morning. Katie was sending me the financial updates and it went down?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Karen, I think it was a software bug. I got Paul to sort it out but it took him a couple of hours.”

“Didn’t he write the program or modify it?”

“Yes. He’s pretty clever on computers.”

“But not so with his articles.”

“No, Katie has the edge over him there.”

“What happened to her, you had to send me the completed report, I thought we’d agreed that was her responsibility?”

“Yes it is, but she was taken ill and I sent her home.”

“I see, what’s wrong this time?”

“It’s her endometriosis again, poor kid, she does suffer with it rather badly.”

“I’d heard one of her colleagues contributed to her discomfort.”

Maisie blushed, Karen had ears everywhere. “That’s been dealt with.”

“The same individual who sorted or possibly caused our shutdown this morning?”
Maisie blushed again, Karen was well informed. “Yes.”

“Did you sack him?”

“No, because he’s actually good at what he does.”

“How is it we have one man in an office and he creates ructions?”

“It happens with women too, Karen, as you well know.” Maisie referred to an episode in the firm’s history when a shop manager, called Absinthe Cartier had caused Karen loads of trouble and who Maisie, then just Karen’s accountant had discovered some irregularities in the accounts for that shop. They’d been cleverly disguised but Maisie had found them and had been a close friend of Karen’s ever since.

“My sources suggest he thinks women are inferior to his masculine genius?”

“He’s got a bit to learn about himself and others, which I suspect is an over compensation for his diminutive size.”

“We talking stature or willie size?”

“Stature I think, I have no idea what he has in his underpants, nor do I wish to–can’t think of many women who would.”

“He needs to be separated from his ego a little?” smirked Karen.

“Something like that.”

“Remember this,” Karen handed Maisie a sheaf of papers.

“The equal opportunities policy–I ought to, I spent enough evenings helping your lawyer friend write it.”

“And this one?” Karen handed another file to Maisie.

“Conditions of service, I have a copy in the drawer of my desk. Why are you showing me these?”

“Because part of the contract enables me to introduce some changes without any consultation.”

“Like what?”

“Shall we say that we recently introduced uniforms in the shops and the girls liked it.”

“What’s that got to do with me other than arranging for the tax spent to be claimed back?”

“I’m thinking of doing it in the offices.”

“Oh?” Maisie nearly gasped. “Does that mean I have to wear the same as everyone else?”

“No, senior managers will have a different range to pick from, but the others will be offered a jacket, two skirts and three blouses and two pairs of shoes which will compliment them. They’ll have to buy their own tights and undies of course.”

“You’re going to stop them wearing trousers?”

“Yes.”

“I can see two of mine won’t be happy with that idea.”

“And who are those?” Karen asked smiling.

“Lizzie Perkins and dear Paul. Lizzie has legs like tree trunks and always wears trousers, and Paul of course is a member of the master sex and will scream blue murder about equal opportunities. He’ll claim it’s sexist.”

“He signed on the dotted line, which says he agrees to abide by any policy we have about corporate image.”

Maisie smirked when she thought of Paul wearing a skirt and heels–maybe he’d be less aggressive decked out like that, maybe they’d get sued, he’d almost certainly go to a tribunal claiming unfair something or other.

“Corporate image–what d’you mean exactly?”

“My office workers would be expected to wear the uniform provided while working and maintain a smart appearance commensurate with the image we are trying to project, this will include an opportunity for use of a company designated hair salon cum beauty parlour. I will be setting down standards for the use of makeup–I’ll expect my office staff to use lipstick and so on.”

“Some of them don’t wear much makeup at all, Karen, and I don’t just mean Paul.”

“But I suspect you like the idea of cutting him down to size, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to end up in court because of it.”

“Okay, the clothes are coming from my Queen range, so they’re good stuff...”

“Indeed.”

“If Paul doesn’t want to join in, we could arrange a transfer–can he drive a truck?”

“I don’t think he can drive anything bigger than a computer–he comes by bus.”

“According to our legal team, I can enforce this. I could arrange for him to have trousers but they’d be from the same line as the skirts. I suppose that would deal with your other girl, Lizzie?”

“Oh she’d happily wear one of your trouser suits, and she’d love hair appointments and facials.”

“This is the range they’ll be wearing.” Karen showed Maisie the catalogue.

“Fuscia pink? A bit girly, isn’t it?”

“The pattern is fuscias on a black background, I’ve had it designed specifically for the office girls. My lot are quite happy with it, they get a pink a white and a black blouse, with two pairs of black courts to go with it.”

“So this was coming anyway?”

“Oh yes, Paul Merchant is simply a coincidence, and he’s got it coming. If he doesn’t want to wear the fuscia, he can transfer to one of the shops–it’s daisies there, and a dress; or if he can drive a truck, I’ll happily move him to transport where he can wear the pink and black driver’s uniform.”

“That isn’t a dress too, is it?” gasped Maisie.

“Eh, don’t be silly, it’s industrial wear shirt, trousers and coat in black with our logo in pink, and a pink stripe down the arm and leg. They get a chance to get their hair cut too.”

“Oh, so when is all this coming on-line?”

“In two weeks, I want everyone’s measurements in by the end of the week and our suppliers have agreed to have them for us two weeks from then.”

The next day, everyone happily filled in the form for sizing of uniforms. There were questions about designs and so on, but Maisie was told to say she didn’t know. Paul was quite happy, he needed new threads and if someone else paid for it, so much the better–new shoes too–better still. The staff measured each other, and Paul’s thirty four inch chest and twenty six inch waist was noted as well as his size five shoes and his inside leg length.

He wondered if the stuff would be grey and plain like Marks & Spencer’s clothing, or a bit more with it, flared trousers and broad lapels. He went home the Friday before the new uniforms were due on Monday wondering whether he ought to take in a couple of ties to match them–he was sure he had one which didn’t have soup or gravy on, and he’d wear a white shirt–well it was white before he washed it with his jeans. He had a surprise coming.

That morning the air was buzzing in the office as Paul walked in fifteen minutes later than everyone else. “Watch out, the afternoon shift is here,” quipped Katie as he came in, eating a sticky bun he’d bought on his walk from the bus stop.

She looked at him, he was pathologically untidy. His clothing didn’t so much look like a cat had dragged him through a hedge, but that a pair of them had played tennis with him through the hedge for at least a couple of sets. She even thought he had some twigs or leaves still stuck in his hair.

“The master sex is ready to start work, I take it?” Katie asked him directly.

“I am,” he retorted, he was going to ask how she was but that would be a sign of weakness, and besides he liked the banter with her, unaware how hurtful he was at times.

“I’ve sorted that program you messed up yesterday, it runs fine now.”

“I messed up? Look here you arrogant little toe-rag, it was your program that was at fault not me.”

Before he could reply, Maisie walked in and called, “Okay, ladies,” she did it because she knew it annoyed Paul, “the uniforms have arrived.” Maisie opened the door and one of the drivers appeared with a sack trolley laden with boxes. After three trips the piles of boxes nearly blocked the doorway.

“I hope they’re better than the driver’s ones,” said Paul, commenting on the pink stripes and logos on the uniform of the deliveryman.

“I’m sure you’d look delicious in pink, little Paulie,” said Lizzie who towered over her diminutive colleague.

Each worker collected a box from Maisie, signing a sheet which said they had received their uniform and would wear it in line with company policy. Paul wasn’t last but next to it, Lizzie was last. Maisie had asked everyone to wait before opening the boxes.

“As far as I know, these uniforms have been made to the specs you gave two weeks ago. They are good quality and we expect you to start wearing them from today, though obviously not everyone can fit in the loo at the same time. If you’d like to open your boxes...”

Paul used his door key to slice through the tape on the top of his box, when he opened the flaps, he gasped. Shining through the clear plastic was the fuchsia and black patterned clothing. “There must be some mistake,” he said loudly.

“Does it have your name on the box?” called back Maisie.

He checked again, “Yes, but I can’t wear this?”

“That’s the office uniform, unless you wish to argue the toss with Mrs King?”

“But I’m a bloke–this will make me look like a fairy.”

Katie laughed out loud, “Is there something you’re not telling us, Paulie or is it Pauline?”

Paul pulled out the bags and saw there were six articles of the fuchsia and black, plus a pink, white and black shirt like thing. Underneath were two shoe boxes and when he opened those and saw the two and half inch heeled black court shoes he felt really angry. “Someone is taking the piss,” he said loudly.

“That’s the uniform short-arse, at least with the heels you’ll be nearly as tall as a smurf.” Katie enjoyed his embarrassment.

“Oh good there’s trousers,” said Lizzie and took her things off to try them on in the loo.

“Can’t wait to see you in the skirt, Pauline, have you got some black tights,” Katie chided him.

“Get stuffed,” said Paul almost in tears.

“Go on show us yer legs,” called another girl, “you ogle ours often enough.”

“I’ve got some spare tights that’ll fit you,” called another. Then several of the girls looked at each other and a pack instinct took over. Seizing the tights one of them advanced on Paul, another stood behind him preventing his escape.

Ten minutes later, he’d been stripped to his underpants, fortunately clean on that day, the tights had been pulled up his kicking legs, followed by one of the tight skirts and shoes were shoved on his feet. At this point they let him stand up and handed him a pink blouse.

He was so close to tears of rage he nearly threw it back at them, then realising his semi-nakedness, snatched it and put it on, the buttons on the wrong side slowing him down a little. The jacket was almost pulled on him by two other girls, so he took it and donned it himself.

Someone took a video on their phone of him pulling on the blouse and jacket, so it looked like he’d done it himself and willingly.

“Satisfied?” he said angrily as he stood wearing the full skirt uniform.

“Oh yes,” said a new voice, “I like that, Paul, I want to see you in it every day.” Mrs King had called by to see what the office workers thought.

He tried to protest but she ignored him and went into Maisie’s office sniggering. When Paul looked round for his own clothing, it was gone. His keys and wallet were on his desk but his jacket and pants were gone, so were his shoes and socks.

That was it, he went ballistic, swearing and ranting at everyone. Mrs King emerged from the office, “What is going on?” she shouted and Paul went quiet for a moment. Then he started his incoherent rant again.

“I think you’d better go home, Pauline, and I hope you feel better tomorrow.” Everyone else laughed and Paul flung himself at her, only to be grabbed by Lizzie and pulled back. He slumped on the floor and began sobbing.

“Can somebody take her home,” said Mrs King, going back into the office.

The End.