"You sure picked a hell of day to come out!"

"Come out!?" I squeaked, my eyes big as saucers.

---

 

1. Straightening Out My Clothes
 

This story was written in response to Kristina L. S.' challenge.
It's a continuation of her Should Have Stayed In Bed.

 

When Gillian dismissed us from the meeting, she gave me a smile that both reassured and terrified me. I felt that I'd done pretty well at staying invisible for most of the meeting; I didn't want to call attention to myself while I was wearing Rita's clothes. And Gillian had granted me a raise, right there, in front of everyone! Which *must* mean that she wasn't planning to fire me, at least any time soon.

But that smile of hers — how did she manage to do it? I'm sure the client didn't notice; it was quite a nice smile, actually. However, I could see the hidden message there: We're going to have a little talk, you and I. I swallowed hard, and lowered my eyes as I stood and stepped away from the table.

Cathy and Dianne left the room first. Paul and I reached the door at almost the same time and he, with an unnecessarily large gesture, said, "Ladies first, Belinda." He managed to wink as I walked past, and I hurried away, because I foresaw a bottom-pinch in the offing.

I wasn't the only one trotting off quickly. We all did. There was an unspoken rule that whenever a client was in the office, everyone had to keep busy — or least look busy. Dianne gave me a little smile as I passed her desk, but it was something like a bell clanging a wild-weather warning: we all had to keep our heads down.

For once, I was happy about it: for the next fifteen minutes (maybe even half an hour?), while Gillian was busy with Roger and his two offsiders, I had a respite from teasing.

I decided to use that little window to get myself back to normal. "Normal" meaning back in my own clothes. I wanted to be Bill, not Belinda, before I had to talk to Gillian. It was bad enough that I'd done the meeting dressed as I was; I didn't want to serve as a living reminder.

After a quick call to the cleaners, I dashed nervously over to Dianne's desk. "Dianne, I'm going for a quick trip to the cleaners. My clothes are ready."

"Why the hurry?" Dianne asked, with a mischievous grin. "Can't you pick them up on the way home?"

"I don't want to talk to Gillian dressed like this," I told her, blushing.

"But you're ready to walk to the cleaners? Dressed like that?" she asked, eyebrows raised, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Hmm. Is our Billy getting daring, or do you want to show off your new look?"

"No," I said, glancing at the clock, "I'm in a hurry to get my own clothes back, and I don't see that I have any choice. You can't go now, can you?"

"No," she replied, "of course not. I have to be here when Gillian finishes with Roger."

"Okay, then," I said. "I'm off."

"Billy," she said, catching my arm, "and seriously now, you might want to get that suit cleaned before giving it back to Rita. She was kind enough to lend you two changes of clothes today, and this one fresh from the cleaners. I don't think she'll wear it until it's cleaned again."

"Oh, right," I said, seeing her point. "But how can I manage it? I can't possibly change at the cleaners, can I?" I cringed at the mental picture of myself fumbling my way out of a woman's suit and into a man's, in a back room filled with coat hangers, cardboard, and clear plastic wrap.

Dianne suppressed a giggle. "Don't panic, Billy! I don't think you need do anything as drastic as that!" She studied my face. "You really would have done, wouldn't you?"

"No," I lied, but her smile told me I hadn't fooled her. "So what *can* I do?"

"Borrow Rita's track suit again, and carry her clothes in a bag. That way, they won't risk getting drenched on the way." She raised her eyebrow so I wouldn't miss the reference to my soaking earlier.

"What about the shoes?"

"You could see whether Carole has a pair of trainers?"

"Oh, I wish I'd stayed in bed!" I groaned.

Dianne gave my hand a pat. "Then you would have missed getting your raise, wouldn't you?"

I brightened a bit at that.

"And we would have missed seeing the new you!" she chuckled.

I nearly ran to Carole's desk. She did have a pair of trainers, and was glad to get her flats back. Rita was doubtful at first when I asked to borrow her track suit again, but when I explained that I wanted to have her suit cleaned, she handed it over with a smile.

From the sound of things in the conference room, Gillian and Roger wouldn't be finishing soon, so I ducked into the men's room to change clothes for the third time that morning. Oddly enough, the pink and gray outfit didn't seem quite as girly as before. At least, I thought so until I saw myself in the mirror. After folding Rita's suit and blouse carefully, I tucked them into a white trash bag, which I clutched to my chest, and crept from the men's room like a fugitive.

Luckily, there was no one near the elevator. And — still lucky! — the elevator came quickly. Best of all, when the doors opened, there was no one inside! I was blessing my lucky stars as I watched the doors closing, and I was just about to declare Clean getaway! when a large hand slipped into the two-inch gap. The doors stopped, changed direction, and opened wide to reveal Roger Donaldson and his two colleagues.

I gulped and gaped. "Mr. Donaldson!" I gasped.

"Mr. Donaldson?" he echoed. "Call me Roger, Belinda! Mr. Donaldson's my father." He chuckled, and looked me up and down. "You're a quick-change artist, aren't you? Going for a run?"

"Uh, yes," I said, lamely grasping at the lie. "Some errands and a run."

He nodded, and gestured at the bag. "Taking out the trash?"

"No, no," I said, a little too anxiously. "I'm taking some clothes to the cleaners."

"Is it far?" he asked. "We'd be happy to give you a ride."

"Oh, no," I said. "Thanks anyway, but it's in the opposite direction." Idiot! I cursed myself mentally. Why not say something stupid, while you're at it? I had no idea which direction they were going, so how could I know what was opposite? Mortified, I wished once again that I'd stayed in bed this morning.

Mr. Donaldson — I mean, Roger — laughed as if I'd said the funniest thing. "Oh, the opposite direction!" he repeated. "Why didn't you say so? You know, today we happen to be going in the opposite direction, aren't we?" He turned to one of his companions, who was also laughing, for confirmation.

"Oh, yes, definitely. Today we're only driving in the opposite direction."

"There you have it, Bel," Roger said, rubbing his hands happily. "You've got to come with us. There's nothing to be done."

When the elevator doors opened, he took my hand, placed it on his arm, and led me to his car. I sat in the back seat with Roger, and gave directions.

"Are you sure there are clothes in that bag?" he asked me in a friendly tone.

"Of course," I replied. "What else could it be?"

"Gold, I'd say, from the way you're clutching it."

"Oh!" I said, realizing that I had a death grip on the sack. "Well, my wallet's inside too," I added lamely.

He nodded, and we pulled up in front of the cleaners.

"Thanks for the ride, Mr — ah, Roger," I said. Then, to his colleagues I added, "And thanks to you, too!"

"Glad we could give you a lift, Bel," Roger smiled. "See you tonight! And don't be so nervous. I don't bite."

One of the men in the front laughed in friendly contradiction.
 

---

 

I'd been to this shop once before, when I'd picked up something for Gillian, but of course the man behind the counter didn't recognize me. Which was probably a good thing. I fumbled the trash bag open and fished out my wallet, which was — I thought — suitably manly, a simple black wallet. I pulled out the ticket Dianne had given me, and noticed that "Dianne" was written in the NAME space. Pushing the ticket across the counter, I said, "I want to pick this up, and drop these off for Rita. And I'd like to pay in advance."

The cleaner looked at the first ticket and at Rita's clothes, and asked me, "So which one are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Which one are you? Are you Rita or Dianne?" he smiled in a way that made me distinctly uncomfortable.

"Neither," I replied.

"And you don't want to tell me," he stated. He seemed to be amused.

"Can I please pick up my clothes?" I asked.

He looked at the slip. "This is a man's suit and shirt, so they can't be yours. Are they for your boss or for your boyfriend?"

I fixed him with my best we are not amused face, but he didn't seem to mind. He reached back, grabbed the suit and shirt, gave them a glance, and hung them on a hook near the cash register. Returning his gaze to me, he said, "Your boyfriend has very good taste."

"Thanks," I said. It *is* a nice suit, after all. Then I realized he was talking about me. I got very red and flustered. "Uh, thanks," I muttered, as I grabbed the clothes and turned to go.

"Not so fast, my dear," he laughed. "You haven't paid yet, and you need the ticket for Rita."
 

---

 

I got back without further incident. I even managed to pass Sasha's without being seen. AND, by now it was 12:15, so everyone would be lunching. The office — at least the path between the elevator and the bathroom — should be clear.

Thinking I'd done well, I was actually smiling when the elevator doors opened on my floor. Imagine my shock and disappointment when I stepped out and came face to face with Gillian!

She regarded me the way a school principal looks at a troublesome student. She toyed with her right earring and tapped her left foot. Her eyes took me in, head to foot and back again. "Just the person I was looking for!" she said, drily. "You and I need to talk, NOW."

I gulped. "Gillian, could I just change clothes first? I'll only be a sec."

"Again? Oh, no, my fine girl! You've had enough costume changes for one day! In fact, let me take this for you." She snapped the suit and shirt from my hand, took me by the arm, and led me bodily into her office, where she shut the door and hung my clothes on the back of her door. Then she strode behind her desk and sat down.

I was still standing by the door. It wasn't that I didn't know why I was there or what I was supposed to do. That wasn't it at all. What I wanted to do was to make a stand: I wanted to insist that I change my clothes before we had our chat. But I never had a chance.

"For God's sake, Bill, sit down!" Gillian cried, so I sat. She shook her head. "Billy, what am I going to do with you?"

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I said nothing.

"You sure picked a hell of day to come out!"

"Come out!?" I squeaked, my eyes big as saucers.

She cocked her head and frowned. "You're not coming out? Bill, please don't tell me this was all a prank! Did Dianne put you up to it?"

"A prank!?" I squeaked, my voice even higher than before.

Gillian took a deep breath. I was a little afraid she was about to explode. "Bill, if you keep repeating what I say, we're not going to get anywhere. And believe it or not, I *do* want to get out of here and have my lunch! So take a breath, put your feet on the floor, and tell me WHAT THE HELL happened today!"

I gave the most condensed version possible of the morning's events, watching Gillian's face the whole time. Her expression didn't change.

When I finished, I said, "Oh, and thank you for the raise."

That was absolutely the wrong thing to say. It set her off like nothing else I'd said.

"The raise!? Thank you for the raise!? Is this how you thank me? By dressing up like one of the girls? Oh, my lord, do you have any idea what you've done? Listen to me, Bill: I'm giving you a raise, but I'm not giving you a promotion. I can't. And do you know why I can't?

"You're a good copywriter. You came through for us on this project, and I expect to see more good things from you in future. But I can't promote you. You're not supervisor material. If you'd told me that *you* had decided to dress up today and call yourself Belinda, it would have thrown me, but I would have to recognized the guts, the daring, the conviction it would take to carry it off.

"Instead, I find that you allowed the women lead you. You let Rita and Dianne turn you into their dress-up doll... not once, but twice! Let me ask you something: why didn't you go back home and change? Dianne saw you get soaked, she would have had to understand."

"I, uh, didn't want to be late...," I stammered.

"You would have had time," she prompted.

"I only have the one suit," I admitted, shamefaced.

"Ah," she said. "Well, that's no crime. But still, did you bother to ask one single man in the place if he had something you could wear?"

"No," I admitted. "But neither of them are my size." My size? I echoed mentally. That's girl talk. Still, it was better than saying They're all bigger than me.

"You could have asked them anyway," she insisted. "You never know. You might have said something to me. I might have had an idea that would have left your masculinity intact.

"Another thing: you had a hard time engaging our client. You barely looked in him the eye once. You're lucky that he loved your slogan, because if he'd been on the fence, you wouldn't have been able to push him over. Sometimes you have sell an idea to a client. We're lucky with Roger: he understands. More often, you get clients who think they know your job, who come to us with the stupidest ideas, and we have to help them fall in love with something better. Can you do that? Could you do that?

"If I'm going to promote you, I have to know that you can engage and lead our clients. And if you're going to supervise, you can't be so accommodating! How can you take your co-workers in hand if you're going to let them literally take the pants off you?

"I'm not saying that you'll never be a leader. I think you that you can be a leader, if you'll only step up and take responsibility. If you learn to be responsible, to make your own decisions, to stand up for them, and convince others to see things your way and get behind you, you can do it. The public speaking part... that's something you can learn, as well. There are some courses you could take, in fact."

"Okay," I said. I could see the justice of her remarks.

"Will you work on those things?" she asked. "Can you commit yourself to doing that?"

"Yes, I can," I agreed. "I will."

"Good," she said.

I decided to start being firm and decisive right then and there. So I made a decision: there was no way I was going to dress as a girl tonight. Maybe that's what Gillian was getting at all along? She wanted me to stand up for myself; in a figurative sense to put my pants back on. "Gillian?" I said, in what I hoped was a strong, self-assured tone, "I've decided that I'm going to wear my suit at the dinner tonight and explain to Roger Donaldson who I really am." I stood up and reached for my clothes.

"No, you're not," she said. "Forget it. And leave that where it is! I want to be sure you don't show up in it."

"But you just said—"

"Listen to me, Bill: we *just* signed the deal with Donaldson. He's happy with the slogan, with the campaign, and with the team. It's the worst possible time to change anything. We've got everything set. The client's on board. I'm not going to change the team."

"But we won't be changing the team!" I protested.

"From the client's point of view, we will," she stated flatly. "He likes Bel. Will he like Bill? We don't know. Besides, Roger might take it badly. He might think we were having a laugh at his expense. You never know how someone will react.

"I've seen it before: you have a lovely client, everything is going well. You make one, tiny, inconsequential change, and suddenly you've lost them. They start to change things... they're suddenly hard to work with... it's a bad, bad idea. We aren't changing anything."

"Then I won't go to the dinner," I said, putting my foot down. Had she noticed how decisive I'd become?

She scoffed. "Yes, you will come to the dinner, Belinda! You'll be there, with bells on!"

© 2008 by Kaleigh Way

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