December already. Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat. I know it’s supposed to be a time of good cheer and everything, I really do, but…

The short days and the grey weather don’t help. Wake up in the dark, get dressed in the dark – at least that’s not such a hardship; I don’t have to look at myself while I’m doing it – wait for the bus in the dark with the cold biting at my extremities. Bus windows so dirt encrusted you can barely see through to the filth strewn streets. Maybe a few short minutes on the short walk from the bus stop when the sun makes its half-hearted effort to reach through the thick grey clouds and paint the street with an insipid pallet of almost-colour.

How can I be expected to find a smile when even the sun can’t be bothered to make an effort?

Then eight hours of relentless slog under harsh fluorescent lights. Cheap chair, cheap desk, cheap and frustratingly slow computer. Padded walls separating my sterile little pen from all the other corporate cattle in the cube farm, turning my own small cog in the great corporate machine. Thankless tasks for thankless customers, and for what? Enough money to pay the rent, because who can afford a house these days? Enough left over to cover the bills, as long as the price of gas doesn’t go up again.

And back home in the dark. Harsh lights in all the shops failing to brighten the world, but instead heightening the contrast so that the darkness outside seems deeper still.

There’s something to be thankful for though; at least I'm not part of the maddness in there. I look through shop windows at harried shop assistants, chasing from one customer to the next. The madding crowd surges like a turbulent sea, small eddy currents of customers swirling around the latest bargain offers; swarms of ravenous locusts stripping the displays bare; good little consumers all, spending their money, keeping the economy afloat, feeding the commercial monsters that enslave our modern world.

This isn’t helping. Dark thoughts for dark times. They’re only symptoms anyway; signs of a deeper sickness; my own little private source of misery. ‘Cheer up, things could be worse,’ they say. They don’t know, but they already are.

What hope for happiness when you can’t even be yourself?

Old man sitting in a doorway, looking more miserable even than me. His coat torn, and looking worn so thin it can’t possibly be doing much against this bitter weather. Still, he could get a job, couldn’t he? Instead, there he sits. Bloody parasite, leaching off the world, giving nothing back.

I walk past, blanking him, ignoring his outstretched hand. If I give him what he wants, he’ll probably just spend it on cheap booze.

Anger, crashing like a stormy sea on the cliff-face of my soul, eroding the humanity by small degrees. But even in the fiercest storm there’s a short respite between the waves. Anger recedes, and gives way to tears. When did the cold reach so deep? When did I stop caring?

People look at me strangely; a grown man crying in the middle of the street.

That’s what they see anyway.

‘Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.’

How does the rest of it go?

‘Please put a penny in the old man’s hat. If you don’t have a penny then a ha’penny will do. If you don’t have a ha’penny then God bless you.’

The tears are back, and it’s as much as I can manage not to moan out loud.

There’s a charity shop round the corner, I remember seeing it this morning. They have a rack of old coats out front. Nothing special, but then nothing special is still better than nothing at all.

I find one in what looks like the old man’s size, maybe a little bigger. They want fifteen quid for it. That’s the bottle of scotch I was going to buyt to help get me through Christmas day this year.

So who was it was going to spend money on cheap booze?

I crack a smile as I hand over the cash. There’s more mad desperation to it than cheer, but the old lady behind the counter doesn’t notice. She just smiles back and hands me my change.

In the coffee shop next door I choose soup and a roll for two, which leaves me with a handful of change; enough for the bus.

He’s still sitting in the doorway. I walk over to him and ease down beside him. It’s a tight enough squeeze that we’re rubbing shoulders. The doorway closing around us amplifies his smell of stale body odour and urine.

I hand him a Styrofoam cup and one of the rolls, which he accepts without a word.

“I’m sorry,” I try to explain, but I find I don’t have the words to make sense of this even to myself.

We sit there in silence. Me searching for words and not finding them, him staring at me as though I’ve gone mad. I don’t know, maybe I have, but it’s a madness I can live with.

I finish my own soup. Offer him my roll. His disappeared so quickly it was as though he was afraid I’d snatch it back. He accepts with a nod of gratitude; uses it to clean out the insides of his cup.

There’s nothing left of this moment. Words that never came and a shared soup that's already gone. There’s no reason to stay. I stand up and offer him the coat. I’ve been hugging it these past few minutes as though it were worth more to me than the price of a bottle of cheap whiskey.

He hesitates before accepting. I think my leaking eyes are putting him off. Eventually I put it on the ground beside him and turn to walk away before I lose control.

“God bless you, mate.”

His words make me pause, long enough to nod, but I can’t stop the tears now, and I have to get away. I hurry down the road, struggling to regain some composure.

My bus is just pulling away as I round the corner to the bus stop. No good deed goes unpunished, they say. Half an hour till the next one, and it’s too cold just to stand here waiting.

A light shines from a nearby alley, beckoning, almost cheerful. Curiosity wins and I turn the corner, looking for its source.

‘The Changing Room,’ the sign reads. ‘We’re here for your happiness.’

Yeah right.

Still, there’s nothing else to do, so I step inside. At least it’ll be warm.

Funny the way it seems bigger on the inside. Not a Tardis though, just an optical illusion.

Funny how the place is so empty. Everywhere else I’ve passed has been heaving with customers, and it’s not as if they don’t have some nice things here. If only I had the courage.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“Sorry, what did you say?” I turn to find a non-descript man of average build standing to one side. His smile speaks of secrets unshared, but other than that, there's nothing about him to set him apart - just an anonymous part of the background; ideal for watching the world.

“My apologies,” he says, his knowing smile dimpling briefly. “Please, if you see anything you like, anything at all, you’re welcome to try it on. If you’re not completely satisfied with it, I’ll give you twice its value.”

“What?”

“Anything you like. We’re quite alone, so feel free to indulge yourself.”

I’m not sure what happens next. It's sort of an extension of this afternoon’s madness perhaps. Maybe his enigmatic, knowing smile getting under my skin, but I decide to take him at his word.

It is quite the most perfect dress; turquoise and aqua satin with golden highlights. Despite its exquisite beauty, it's entirely the wrong colour for my complexion. It's also a size eight which means it was made for someone half my size. Quite apart from all that, it's a dress; not exactly appropriate for a youngish man with the a receding hairline.

I hold it up and cock an eyebrow at the shopkeeper, whose smile broadens into one of sheer delight.

“Perhaps I can suggest these to go with it,” he says turning to pick out a pair of satin heels in matching aqua. “And these, and these, this, and of course, this.” He hands me a packet of honey coloured tights, a small hanger with lacy undergarments, a handbag – colour matched, naturally – and a short fur coat. All of it for someone so much smaller than myself.

Well, if he wants to play the game, I didn’t mind joining in. He holds aside a curtain and ushers me through to a generously sized cubicle.

I strip out of my clothes, at least down to my boxers, and stare at the sad figure staring back. Completely satisfied, eh? There is nothing about my body that satisfied me, not even slightly. Thick black hair covers my arms, legs and back, the beginnings of a paunch hangs over the waistband of my underwear, my face shows its usual five o’clock shadow, and my high forehead gleams under the lights. Hair everywhere except where I want it. The body isn't mine either. I mean it is, I’ve grown up with it, grown into it, albeit ever so reluctantly. It isn’t a bad body, and I could have made it look better with only a little bit of effort. It felt like it had been given me by mistake though.

This is unfair. Weird as the place and its owner are, I can’t take advantage like this. I start to put my clothes back on.

“Is everything alright in there?”

“I, no. Look, this was a mistake, I’m sorry. I’ll be out in a minute.”

The curtain twitches aside and he steps into the cubicle with me. His smile had slipped a little, and there is a touch of sympathetic sadness in his eyes.

“It’s a little cluttered in here. Let me make some room for you.”

He gathers up my clothes from the chair, stoops to pick up my shoes and socks and withdraws.

“Hey, those are mine.”

“Try on the clothes. I’ll hold these for now.”

What other choice did I have? I could chase after him in my underwear, but fine, if he wanted to play this stupid game.

I slip out of my boxers and pick up the hanger with the lingerie on it. A teddy I think it’s called. No, who am I kidding, I know it’s called that. I’ve spent enough of my life looking at things like it and wishing. I step into it and pull it up into place.

It must be the stretchiest fabric ever, because it fits comfortably. I want to look at myself in the mirror, but for some reason, I can't lift my eyes to look. Maybe it's the thought of what I'll see; gorilla in a dress, hardly going to make the moment.

Next comes the tights. The packet opens easily and I ball up the left leg to slide it on, then the right. The tights are very sheer, only about ten of fifteen denier, and it worries me that my rough, hairy legs might ladder the delicate material. Still this was the shop keeper’s own lookout. If he was going to insist I play this ludicrous charade, I’d humour him and damn the consequences. Again, they slide on easily, coming all the way up to my high and narrow waist without feeling overstretched. Something doesn't feel right, and yet at the same time it does. My mind fogs. Thinking is like wading through treacle.

The dress next. I unzip the back and step into it. By rights I shouldn’t be able to get more than one leg in, but it slips over my hips smoothly and easily. It's even a simple enough thing to reach back and slide the zip up. Normally I struggle to contort my body like that, but right now I feel as though I could bend further without any difficulty.

Shoes. How could my size eleven plates of meat fit in those shoes? I think they said three and a half on the bottom, but they fit nonetheless. Last but not least were the short fur coat and the handbag. I look down at myself and a tangle of honey coloured curls falls in front of my eyes. I let out a gasp and look up at the mirror.

Into a delicate, heart shaped face, button nose, blue-green eyes, all framed with a curling mane of honey blonde hair.

I stand straight, staring stupidly at the lack of bulge between my legs. There are two swellings higher up. Not massive, but in keeping with the shape of my new, slender figure. Hairless legs emerged from the skirts of the dress, as slender and elegant as the rest of me. I am so overwhelmed I can barely breathe.

“Is everything alright in there?” The same question, but a very different answer this time.

I exit the changing room, staggering slightly in heels I am unaccustomed to wearing.

“I don’t understand.”

He shopkeeper points at a sign behind the counter, brother to the one out front. ‘The Changing Room,’ it reads. I suppose there isn’t a lot of arguing with that when all was said and done. Just not the change I was expecting.

“Why?”

He points at the rest of the sign. ‘We’re here for your happiness.’

“Would I be correct in assuming you’d like to wear those out of the shop?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I can afford them.”

He slides an invoice across the table. It itemises everything I'm wearing. At the bottom it reads, ‘paid in full.’

“I don’t understand.” I'm beginning to sound like a cracked record.

He points at the top of the invoice. It reads, ‘Kindness is our currency.’

I look up into his face, eyes now crinkling with the depth of his smile.

“Happy Christmas.”

“Thank you, I think.”

He hands me my keys, wallet and phone and slides a bulky bag across to me.

“I don’t suppose you’ll have much use for these now, but you never know, you might find a homeless man who could use them.”

The twinkle in his eye dares me to ask, but I don’t really want to. It's better this way, with just a little mystery still in the air.

I collect the bag and invoice and turned to leave; paused; turned back.

“What happens now? I mean if I only have these clothes, I hardly have anything to go to work in tomorrow, and what are they going to say when I turn up looking like this?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you not completely satisfied?”

“No, no, it’s not that. This is absolutely wonderful, the best thing that could have happened to me, but I… I’m not sure how to put it.”

“You’re not… completely… satisfied.” His eyes are twinkling, and his voice sounds as though he wants to break out in laughter. “I suppose I’m going to have to honour my agreement. Twice its value, I think I said.”

“But I didn’t pay you anything for it.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. Here’s my IOU until I make good on my promise.” He hands me a sheet of paper.

The sheet of paper carries an illegible scrawl. A few short lines of writing, but what they say is anyone’s guess.

“I can’t read this,” I say.

“I know, I’m sorry. My writing’s quite terrible, but I’m told it gets easier to read after a while. Is that your bus?”

I turn in time to see the number flash past.

“It is, thank you.”

“And thank you. Good night.”

I run across the road and joined the short line boarding the bus. Without thinking, I hold up my wallet, opened to show my bus pass.

“Thank you miss,” the bus driver says, checking the card and smiling at me. “You must be cold in that getup.”

“Er, yes, a bit.”

“Sit behind me. There’s a heater under the seat.”

The seat he indicated is empty, and I sit down in it gratefully, feeling the warm air blowing up my near naked legs. With neither hairs nor trousers to protect them, they've suffered in the few brief seconds I’d been outside. It might not take me long to get fed up with skirts, not with the worst of winter still to come.

More importantly though, why hadn’t he said anything about my pass? I turn the wallet around and looked at it.

My smiling face looked back. My new one that it. Name Jacqueline Langdon. Sex , F. Surname, address, phone number all the same as before.

I search through the other cards in my wallet, and my chequebook. Most are marked J Langdon, but some have my full name. Jacqueline instead of Jack. Everything that has my photograph shows the new me, everything that states my gender says female. Everything else is the same.

I slip my wallet into my handbag. I'm conscious I'm still holding the piece of paper. I stare at it stupidly. The first line is somehow legible. It reads, ‘To be seen and accepted as the beautiful human being you are.’ Neat line was drawn through the sentence. Three more remained.

I slipp the note into my bag for future reference, and settle down to enjoy the ride home. Grimy windows, filthy, rubbish strewn streets, occasional lascivious glances from fellow passengers. I don’t care for the unwanted attention, but it's part and parcel of a life I have dreamed of for so long. I'm sure I’ll get used to it, and I'm not about to let it stop me enjoying this new experience.

The bus stops and new passengers climbed aboard. One of them, a man about my age, points at the seat next to me and asks if I’d mind. I slide closer to the window and smile in invitation.

“Thanks. I haven’t seen you on this bus before, have I?”

“I ride it to work pretty much every day,” I say.

“No way. I’m sure I’d have noticed someone as pretty as you.”

How could I answer that?

“I’ve lost quite a bit of weight recently,” I offer a little lamely.

“Well, whatever you’ve done, it looks really good n you.”

“Thanks.” I'm beginning to understand why girls travel in packs.

“I don’t suppose you’d fancy going out for a drink sometime, would you?”

I'm not ready for this. Still it's likely to be another of those things I'm going to have to get used to. I don’t like lying, but there's an easy out here.

“Thanks, but I don’t think my boyfriend would like it.”

“Of course. I hope you don’t mind me asking though.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“If he ever…”

“He won’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but…”

“No, that’s fine.”

His smile turns a little frosty though, and he stops talking, keeps his eyes averted from me even. Things are uncomfortable for a few minutes until I catch sight of my stop. I press the bell and turn to him.

“Well, this is me.”

He swings his legs round so I can squeeze out. If he’d swung a little further, I wouldn’t have had to squeeze, and in the middle of it all, I distinctly feel fingers tracing the curve of my buttocks.

I spin on him, but he just smiles and raises an eyebrow in challenge.

It wasn’t worth it, but I’d remember his face for the future.

The short trip to my flat is uneventful, except that the door opposite mine opens as I fumble for my keys, and a young woman steps out carrying a couple of bulging bin liners. She looks across at me and curiousity wins out.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I manage, fiddling my rebellious key into the lock and pushing the door open. “You look like you’re going out, but would you fancy a cuppa?” This was great, being able to ask my neighbour in without seeming like the sleaze job I’d left on the bus.

“Yeah, why not? I’m not doing anything urgent. Hey, I thought a man lived here.”

“He did. He just moved out. I’m taking over from him. Jacqueline Langdon. Jacquie.” I hold out a hand, and have it shaken briefly.

“Alice. Peters. Wasn’t the guy who lived here called Langdoon? I remember signing for something for him once. Is he your brother or something?”

“Yeah, something.” I slip out of my coat and drape it over the back of a chair on my way to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home.”

“Wow, nice dress.” She follows me through. “Are you a model or something?”

“I wish. No I work in a cube farm in the town centre. At least I think I do.” I set the kettle boiling and grab a couple of mugs. No teapot, no tray. I’ve been living like a Neanderthal. It hadn’t bothered me back then, but when you have such big things wrong with your life, the little things don’t seem to matter so much.

“What do you mean you think you do? I mean either you do or you don’t, surely?”

“It’s complicated. Things changed for me today in a big way. Mainly good, but there are some things I just don’t know about yet. Right now everything’s up in the air and I’m kind of winging it.”

The kettle boils and I pour it out into a couple of mugs full of tea bag. The milk is in date and smells okay so I offer it.

“Yes please. So where’s all your stuff? I mean this place is pretty bare, and from the look of it, it’s pretty much all your brother’s. It was your bother, you said, didn’t you?”

“Actually I didn’t, but yeah I guess he is, kind of. I mean our relationship’s sort of complicated, but he’s family. And yes this is all his stuff. Mine?” I did a twirl. “You’re looking at it. This and the coat and bag in the other room.”

“You’re kidding me? What happened to you?”

“I wish I could say. I guess I was living a pretty miserable life, and this opportunity came along to get out and start over, but it meant just leaving with the clothes I was wearing, and these are them.”

“No way!”

“Yup.” I mash a teabag against the side of a mug and pass the drink across. It's warm, wet and brownish, which is about as good as my tea making gets. “Listen, I imagine you’re kind of curious, but I’m still trying to come to terms with it all.”

“’Nuff said. But listen, I was just clearing out my wardrobe. You caught me on my way to the Sally Ann with a couple of bin bags full of old stuff. It’s nothing like you’re wearing now, but you know, we’re kind of the same size. If any of it’s any good to you, you’re welcome to it.”

“Really? Wow, that’s really kind, thank you.”

“Wait till you’ve had a look at it before you say anything. It’s not much.”

She leads the way back into my living room where we unpack her two bags worth of discards. A short modelling session later, and I have a half-wardrobe full of clothes. It's mainly casualwear, jeans, sweatshirts, a few tops, skirts and dress. Alice even popped out at one stage while I was changing, coming back less than a minute later with a couple of silk blouses, and a matching skirt and jacket.

“I haven’t worn these for nearly a year now. I’m not sure why I decided to hang on to them, but if you can use them…”

“They’d be perfect for work, but it’s too much. I couldn’t possibly...”

“Nonsense, you’ll be doing me a favour. More space means I can go buy more.

“Listen, I forgot till I popped next door. I have a casserole on go, and there’s easily enough for two. I don’t know what you have planned for dinner, but why don’t you join me?”

To be honest I hadn’t planned for dinner. I hadn’t been shopping for a few days, and I was pretty much down to bread and cereal.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes would do it. Look, us girls, we have to stick together right?”

And there it was. What I’d been missing all along. I mean being a girl, being pretty, the clothes, the gentler side of life, all that I’d wanted. But this I’d needed. This connection. This ease of connection. This not being alone, even with someone who’d been a stranger until five minutes ago.

As Jack, I’d lived opposite Alice for nearly two years, and in all that time I’d barely exchanged a dozen words with her, and thoe had been when she’d held onto a parcel that had been delivered while I was out. I hadn’t even known her name until today.

That hadn’t been my fault. I’d always wanted to get to know her, to share her life. Part of me, the part influenced by all the testosterone, had wanted it to be a romantic involvement, and that was probably what had made her edgy around me. This was better. No expectations, no strings, just companionship.

“Sure. Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

“Great. So I’ll be ready to serve up in about ten minutes. Come over when you’re ready.”

“Sounds good. I’ll just… I’ll just put something a little more comfortable on, unless we’re dressing up for dinner?”

She smiles. “Well I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t going to get changed.”

“Jeans and sweatshirt it is then. I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”

She puts her mug down and heads out through the door, taking the much depleted bin bag with the clothes she’d decided were too far gone for me.

I dig my wallet out of my handbag, and pull out the IOU. As expected, the next line has become legible. ‘To have your needs met, and to be fed by kindness.’

I change quickly, then as an afterthought, disappeare into my bedroom. My secret Santa this year gave me a bottle of wine. It was cheap, every day table plonk, but it seemed appropriate to the occasion.

The meal was very welcome. Warm filling and tasty. I helped Alice with the washing up and we sat and talked into the evening, slowly making our way through the bottle. She spoke of her past and of her dreams, then asked about mine. Dreams that is. She knew better than to ask about my past. We’d both had the best part of half a bottle each by then, and we were slurring out words a little.

“I don’t really know,” I said. “I suppose I can have them now. Before today, I think the most I could have hoped for was to have an evening like this. To have a friend and to feel loved.”

“You’re not, you know, into girls are you?”

“I don’t know. That’s not what this is about though. I’m just enjoying having a friend to talk to.”

“Well, friend to talk to. I don’t know about you, but I need to get some sleep, so I’m going to go to bed.” She heaved herself out of her chair and staggered over to where I was sitting

“Okay. I’ll go to my bed too. I’ll see you, maybe tomorrow, and thanks for everything. The food and the clothes and the… everything.”

“You’re very welcome. G’nite.”

I levered myself out of bed and we shared a hug. Maybe a tiny bit too long, but that could have been the wine, or it could have been some vague memory of who I had been trying to hang on to something that I wasn’t even sure I wanted any more.

“Good night,” I said softly, and stepped through the door before anything more could happen.

I washed the teddy and the tights in my bathroom and hung over the radiator to dry. They were all I had for underwear, so I had to do something with them. I stripped the bed and put on clean sheets, then, put on a pair of loose jogging bottoms and a tee shirt for pyjamas. My old tooth brush went in the bin; somehow it didn’t feel right to be brushing my teeth with something that had been in my mouth when I’d been a man.

By the time I made it into bed, the combination of wine and being overwhelmed with what had happened today overtook me and I was asleep in no time.

I woke to a hammering on the door. My head hurt and my hair was a mess. I groped my way into the front room and opened the door.

“Who you?”

“Hello Mr Spatski.”

“Hello nothing. Who you?”

“I am… hung over, a bit. Can I come and see you in half an hour?”

“No. Where is Jack?”

I moved back from the door, leaving it open for him to come in if he wanted, and headed for the kitchen. Kettle plus coffee equals clarity. Mr Spatski could wait until my brain was functioning. I also grabbed a glass and downed several glasses of water, until the added pressure on my bladder sent me running for the bathroom.

Mr Spatski waited for me to get things together, then he confronted me again.

“Your neighbour, Alice, she say Jack is gone. Who are you, and where is Jack?”

I had a story of sorts in my mind; not quite a lie.

“Jack had to leave suddenly. He knew I needed somewhere to stay and, since the place is paid up for the rest of the month, he gave me the keys.”

“Who are you? I not know you. Jack pay for stay here, not you. You stay, you pay.”

“Jack and I are related. He has the place rented till the end of the month, so it’s his to do with as he likes.”

“No sub-lease.”

“No, he’s not sub-letting. He can’t use the place, so he’s letting me stay.”

“Not possible.”

“I don’t see why not. The rent is paid, you have his deposit, and there’s nothing in the lease to say he can’t have people come and stay.”

“He not here.”

“There’s nothing in the lease says he has to be here either. I’m happy to take it to a lawyer if I have to.”

“No. No lawyer.”

“So I stay?”

He didn’t look happy.

“Look Mr Spatski, if I stay, I continue to pay the rent at the end of the month. You don’t have the hassle of finding someone new to rent, or the loss of money while you’re looking. It’s better for you this way too.”

“Okay, you pay deposit.”

“If you want to give Jack notice, then go ahead. At the end of the notice, once you’ve paid his deposit back into his bank account, then I’ll move out. Until then, no deposit and no rent till the end of the month. You want to be unpleasant about it, I’ll call my lawyer and we can work it out that way. Like I say, this is better for you. Just don’t be greedy and try and take money from people who already don’t have a lot.”

“You have no money?”

“I will have money for the rent at the end of the month. I don’t owe you anything until then. I stay here and continue to pay Jack’s rent on time, then neither of us lose. You keep pushing for more, and there are layers and we both lose. How do you want to play it?”

“I not happy.”

“Why not? This is fair. Nothing changes except who stays here, so why make things difficult?”

“Okay you stay, but you not pay rent, you out.”

“Fine. Thank you Mr Spatski. I’ll see you at the end of the month.”

I pushed him out the door then set about getting ready for work. Halfway through breakfast there was another knock on the door.

“Hi Alice, come in. You want a coffee?”

“No thanks. I think I might have messed up though. I told Mr Spatski you were staying.”

“Yes, we’ve already had ourselves a conversation. It’s sorted. At least I think it is.”

“Well, if he gets awkward about it, you can come stay with me.”

“Thanks.”

“About last night…”

“Last night we both had quite a bit to drink. Tonight we can talk about it without any assistance from Bacchus, and we can sort out how to be friends in a way that works for both of us.”

“Sounds good. I was worried I might have messed that up too.”

“No way, we’re good. I wouldn’t have anything to wear to work today if it wasn’t for you. Which reminds me, I have to catch the bus. I’ll talk to you later.”

With that, I dumped the bowl in the kitchen sink, took a last swig of what wasn’t a particularly nice cup of coffee, grabbed my bag and shoes, which kind of matched the blue in the blouse, and ran out in time to catch the bus at seven thirty three.

“And who exactly are you?”

“Jacqueline Langdon sir. My brother’s been called away. Sort of a family thing. He said I could come in and cover for him.”

“No, no, no, no, no. It doesn’t’ work like that. I have a contract with your brother, so he’s allowed to work here. I don’t have a contract with you.”

“So perhaps you could give me a trial? I mean without my brother, you’re one person short. It would take most of the morning to arrange for a temp, during which time you’re losing business, and you don’t want to do that this close to Christmas, I’m sure.”

“And you just happen to know what your brother does for us.”

“Give me a try out, Mr Peters. Let me cover the morning until the temp agency can find someone to send out. If I don’t do at least as well as Jack, you don’t have to pay me. If I do, you sign me on as temporary cover while Jack’s away. What have you got to lose?”

“A morning’s worth of work while I supervise you.”

“Which you’d have to do with a temp anyway.”

“I’d rather have Jack here.”

“I’m sure, but he isn’t. Let me try sir, I won’t disappoint you.”

“Go on then. You’re just lucky I’m a sucker for a pretty face.”

Such luck, to have the opportunity to work in a place like this. A morning potentially unpaid for the privilege maybe getting to keep a job I don’t care for. Such luck indeed. Still bills needed to be paid, and there were good thing in my life right now. All I needed was to hold things together until I could plan for a better future.

I headed straight for my usual chair and fired up the computer. I let Mr Peters log me in as it would have seemed a little unusual if I’d known my own password. After that I went into overdrive, working as hard as I had when I’d first started here, before I realised that hard work wasn’t enough to get noticed in this place.

By lunchtime, I’d managed to sell far more than usual. Maybe it was having a pretty voice. Maybe it was the upbeat mood I’d enjoyed since yesterday afternoon. Maybe it was because I was working my buns off. Maybe it was a bit of all three. One o’clock arrived and I put my headset down and turned to look at Mr Peters, who happened to be peering over the divider at me.

“Why did you stop?”

I nodded at the clock.

“Not to be mercenary Mr Peters, but I need to know I’m going to be paid if I’m going to do any more. Plus I’m a little peckish and could do with some lunch.”

“What’s this Derek? She’s not on payroll?”

Another face appeared above the parapet. One or two prairie dogs stuck their heads up briefly and ducked back down.

“Er, no Mr Royston. This is, er, this is Jack Langdon’s sister. She came in to cover for him as he’s been called away on an emergency, I believe. She offered to cover the morning as a trial t see if we’d take her on as a temp.”

“Well I don’t want you as a temp Miss Langdon. I want to employ you full time as a supervisor. What do you think Derek? Sharon leaves tomorrow, and we’ve been discussing replacements.”

“I thought we’d agreed on Paul Burridge.”

“Oh, Paul’s an able enough lad, but I’ve been sitting here long enough to know we’re in the presence of someone with true talent. I’m assuming you’ve held a job like this before Miss Langdon.”

“Er, yes Mr Royston. A place very much like this one.”

“Any tips how we can improve our operation?”

“I wouldn’t want to presume sir.”

“Well I want you to presume. Impress me. What’s the one thing we lack here?”

“Incentive, sir. It seems to me that everyone would work a lot harder if there was a reward in it for them.”

“What sort of incentive?”

“Sales person of the month award with bonus. Promise of improved office facilities and staff perks if certain targets are met. Options to buy shares in the company.”

“Definitely the person for the job Peters. Get HR to draw up the contract. I’ll want it ready to sign by the time Miss Langdon and I come back from Lunch.”

At Mr Royston’s insistence, I picked up my bag and followed him to the lift. There was a café on the bottom floor where he ordered us sandwiches and coffee for lunch. While he was fetching it, I dug into my bag for my wallet and the receipt.

‘To be recognised and valued for who you are.’ The last line was complete.

“What’s that?” MR Royston place an Americana in front of me and settled into the chair to my left.

“Just a promissory note,” I said. “Have you ever heard of a shop called The Changing Room? It’s down near the market on one of the back alleys.”

“I don’t think so. All the buildings around there are derelict. The council’s looking to pull them down. If someone from down there owes you anything, you’ll be lucky to see it paid.”

“You’d be surprised sir. This one’s been paid in full.”

Lunch lasted half an hour, during which time we discussed my ideas. The Christmas rush was on, and he wanted me to come up with something to motivate his staff. I’d have to work in the cubicle this afternoon, but once Sharon had left, I’d be able to move into her office. He still wanted the plan agreed by the end of the day, and in action for the following morning.

We finished eating, and he was ready to escort me back upstairs, when something caught my eye.

“Er, do you mind. There’s something I’d like to do before I get started. It’ll only take two minutes.”

“I can wait two minutes.”

Grabbing my purse, I bought a couple of sandwiches and a couple of cups of coffee to go, and headed out into the street.

They were younger than the old man had been, but they still looked miserable huddled against the wall. I crossed the road and handed them my recent purchases.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, offering them a smile.

“God bless you, love,” the older one said, his companion nodding in agreement.

“Thanks, but I think he already did.”