CLEANER II: Chapter Four - Part Eleven

DAHLIA

It was a relief as always when my evening shift was over and I could settle down to eat myself. Serving the hotel’s guests was trying at the best of times – they could be very rude – but standing over all that food when my stomach ached to be filled was a painful experience.

My appetite was bigger now than it had ever been in my life. I was voracious. I needed to consume massive amounts at mealtimes and between meals I craved snack after snack: items I had to secrete in my apron, in the pockets of my uniform’s skirt or on my cleaning trolley. And the snacks weren’t healthy – of course they weren’t; nothing was in this absurd venture of mine – they were greasy pastries or crisps of sweets, cake or chocolate. My obsession with Coca-Cola had been nascent in England. Now I couldn’t help myself. I always had a bottle on the go unless I was on the hard stuff. I couldn’t openly drink alcohol while I was working (though more than half of the other cleaners did it on the sly) but I did sometimes tuck a little bottle into one of the toilet rolls.

I carried two mounded up platefuls of food through to the break room and tucked in. I’d found it was far easier to have two plates initially to save time on having to go back through to fetch more. The hotel guests were only allowed smallish plates for their buffet to restrict how much they could get in one go. As a member of staff I had access to some of the larger plates in the kitchen. I had two of these fully stacked with meat and carbohydrates and generously topped off with a variety of succulent sauces.

The other cleaners were in there eating and Maxine beckoned me over. “Come sit with us Little Piggy.”

There were giggles all round but I went over anyway, blushing, feeling they were making fun of me but wanting to be included more than I cared about that. With my increasing weight and the transformative effect it had had on my self-image and confidence, I was getting used to feeling as though people looked down on me now.

“We’ll be playing poker after we’ve eaten,” said Maxine. She chuckled. “Though by the look of it, you might still be eating. You’ll have to join us when you’ve finished.”

The girls all laughed and my face coloured more deeply. I smiled politely.

“You know when you started here, I got the impression you were right stuck up,” she said. “Like you was better than us – or thought you were.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t panic Piggy.” She smirked. “I don’t think that now. Now I reckon you’ve accepted that you ain’t nothing special here. You’re one of us. I mean look at you.” She gestured. “You must be two stone heavier than when you arrived, at least! You ain’t in a position to think you’re better.”

“No,” I said, but my voice was tiny. I cleared my throat. “No,” I said again.

She was right. She was right about everything. It made me feel glad, that I was following Mellissa’s instructions well; that I wouldn’t let her down. It made me shiver with arousal at the capitulation to this crass woman; to accept that she was on my level or even better than me. In my old life she would have been beneath notice. It also made me feel scared and alone; to long for Melissa’s company. When I was with her then this was just a game we were playing; two friends on a crazy adventure. Here, treated like the fat woman I looked, it felt too real.

“Where are you from anyway?” asked Maxine. “What part of the UK?”

“Uh, Nockton,” I said. I thought about Melissa’s life; the recordings I was listening to. “Well... Barton,” I corrected. “I live there... with my husband Robert.”

It felt oddly nice to say that, though the idea of living in the squalor of Barton for real was dreadful and was never going to happen.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just a working holiday,” I said. “I, uh, wanted a change of scene for a while.”

“What do you do back in England?”

I’m a retired model planning a comeback.

“I’m just a cleaner there too,” I said. “I do various houses and a school as well. No different from here really.”

“You see girls,” said Maxine, turning to the other cleaners. “I told you she’s alright now that she’s stopped being snooty.”

I closed my eyes and smiled, relieved.

“Ere,” said Maxine, offering me an open pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”

I faltered. “Uh...”

I didn’t smoke. I had no desire to. Melissa didn’t smoke so it wasn’t even something I should aspire to to complete my disguise. But Maxine was offering and I had the feeling it was another test; to see whether I was really willing to play the game the same way they all played it.

I looked down at my food and vacillated further. “Maybe when I’ve finished eating,” I said.

Maxine smirked. “Sure thing Little Piggy. I’ll hold you to it.”

LADY ANN'S FOLLY: Chapter Twelve - Part Seven

Hattie took her seat at the head of the grand dining and preened, taking just as much pleasure now in her own elevated status as she did in the dastardly revenge she was perpetrating against those she felt had wronged her.

To her right sat Patrick and the maid, Nellie, in Hattie’s own body. At the end of the table was Reggie, disguised as the Countess. Next to her, to Hattie’s left, were Geraldine and the two children. The little boy with Hattie’s mother’s brain looked sullenly down the table at his true body but unlike earlier there was no obvious sign the woman wasn’t who she had always been.

Since doing his lines, Reggie had taken an incredible leap forward in his ability to pass as his aunt. He had assumed the physical poise of an aristocratic lady and though he still clearly knew only the limited things within his sphere of experience, he was cognisant enough to keep relatively quiet and just smile politely to Geraldine’s conversation. It was a staggering transformation from the immaturity he had displayed at the lakeside.

Hattie had to ask herself once more what effect that same activity would have on her. As an adult and a member of the upper class, she was already far ahead on her ability to emulate her father’s modes of action. How much more like him would she become if she wrote a hundred times, I am Howard Neville, the Earl of Griply Manor? How different would it feel?

Her father had always possessed an irascible confidence and strength of will, far superior to her own. It would be amazing to feel that for herself. And surely she could always reverse the process if she wanted to; write two hundred times, I am Harriet Neville, the Earl’s daughter.

She was almost tempted to give it a try.

As they brought in the soup she let her mind wander, imagining what that would be like and how she would do it.

Obviously it would be far too dangerous to do it over an extended period, but maybe just for an hour or two would be alright. She could do the lines and alter her personality to be more like her father’s, walk around and interact with people, say, over the course of a meal, and then do the lines back the opposite way.

How could she phrase it?

I am Howard Neville, the Earl of Griply Manor, and I am a pompous, misogynistic, confident, arrogant, quick-tempered, overbearing, self-important, haughty, condescending, bombastic man with a passion for business.

She grinned to herself.

“And what are you finding so dashed funny Howard?” asked Patrick.

Hattie came back to the moment and realized she had disconnected completely. Her mind went blank as she tried to think of something to respond and she said the first thing that came into her mind. “Er, just thinking about these suffragettes that were in the news again today.”

Patrick chuckled. “Votes for women! I’ve never heard such poppycock in my life! Women possess neither the experience nor the education to form any kind of reasoned opinion on such weighty subjects. Isn’t that right Geraldine?”

“Hmmm?” Geraldine looked up from her soup. “Oh yes. Of course dear.”

“What’s your opinion on the subject Howard?” asked Patrick.

Hattie looked down the table at the different women present. She had long been following the progress of the women’s movement and had supported it (in the quiet of her mind at least – certainly not openly in front of her father). Now she found herself in the rather odd position of being expected to give a response counter to her long-held beliefs. If she started stating her real opinion then it might be obvious to those listening that she wasn’t the real Earl. Everyone knew his stance on the matter. Her mother, trapped in Reggie’s body was right there and the real Earl was potentially in earshot, living the life of a common maid.

She decided she had to state the case she might expect her father to, but as the words rolled out of her, stated as though she believed them, they became more and more familiar on her tongue. She started to wonder if stating beliefs contrary to her own as though they were her own might have a similar effect to writing lines. And indeed, unnoticed by her, the light buzzing started at the base of her skull and continued throughout her speech.

“I think that you are quite right Patrick. Women don’t possess the background or skills to make them capable of deciding what is right for this country. If they excel at anything then it is at inconsequential tasks such as needlework or flower arranging.”

She paused and the buzzing wavered. It was strange. The things she was saying not only belittled herself, but every other woman – ordinarily it would be abhorrent to hear such thoughts, let alone speak them herself – but now that she was saying them aloud, she could start to see the sense of the points she was making. When she was a woman she had only spent time doing trifling activities with no intrinsic worth. She had possessed little or no knowledge about the detail of how the country was run, neither in terms of politics or economics.

Even today she had spent her time in the society pages rather than taking the opportunity to read the business section, proving if anything that her womanly side was not equipped to address such matters.

“It takes a man to rule,” she went on, gaining momentum, “a man to make decisions of great import. No woman is equipped to do such a thing and only a woman would think so. I certainly don’t agree with it.”

She stopped, amazed by how easily that had come to her. That last sentence had slipped out unbidden but she had no particular urge to retract it.

Patrick was nodding his head in agreement and, amazingly, Geraldine was too.

Hattie cleared her throat, feeling as though she wanted to balance this opinion with one that favored women. “I have nothing against the fairer sex,” she said, trying to find words to state their virtues without exposing her disguise. “Only women can be women; can be beautiful and desirable.” She tried to think of an intellectual quality that women possessed over men but for some reason she could think of nothing. Floundering, she finished with the only logical point she could think of. “Women need to do what they do best and leave business and politics to men. That seems obvious to me and… and that is what I think.”

“Bravo old man!” said Patrick. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Hattie smiled, the buzzing just starting to subside at the back of her neck, but she said nothing. She was amazed that she had stated such things and more, that she could sort of see the reasoning behind it.

Perhaps becoming a man wasn’t changing the way she thought into a masculine way. Perhaps it was simply opening her mind to seeing both sides. Perhaps in this case the masculine perspective was simply the correct one.

Patrick and Geraldine went on chattering about the subject with Patrick blaming the liberal government for allowing too great a platform for the puerile rantings of these madwomen. Hattie chuckled to hear it but it made her realize something.

Patrick and Geraldine… Not Uncle Patrick and Aunt Geraldine. She hadn’t been thinking of them in terms of being her aunt or uncle and she reflected on why.

They had been treating her as an equal; perhaps even a superior. She supposed it would be odd to think of them in those terms from this new perspective.

Nevertheless it was odd.

She asked herself if… if she saw Patrick as her… as her brother. But no. No. If she thought deeply into it then she still considered him an uncle. She just had a different point of view now.

 She slurped her way down her soup and then banged her fist on the table. “I say! When is that main course going to get here? I’m ruddy starving! I want something substantial to eat!”

CLEANER II: Chapter Four - Part Ten

MELISSA

I had dinner overlooking the pool as I normally did, very much enjoying the high quality food.

It was funny to think now of a time when I would have felt an almost desperate yearning to fill my plate and go back for more. That time seemed a long time ago now, though it really wasn’t. It felt like there was a wall between me and that weak person I used to be – and not just in terms of my gluttony.

I had never been a strong person. Food had been a safe zone for me to travel to; a land of peace and pleasure in which I was protected from the stresses of real life. My drinking had had the same effect except that had gone a step further because it took away my ability to worry – dulled my mind to the point of idiocy and created a wonderful sense of detachment from the despair of my life.

I had never been assertive; unable to fight my corner or make my case. And people had walked all over me my whole life. I had made a trade in submission.

But I had never submitted to the submission. I had always resented it; despised the people who made me acquiesce to their commands.

That was the big difference between me and Dahlia. One of my principle occupations in Greece was plumbing the channels and pits of Dahlia’s mind; trying to understand why a beautiful woman with everything to lose would risk giving it willingly to somebody like me.

Obviously her brother’s death had been key to that final bid to escape her life, her body and England itself. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted the comeback she was planning. Perhaps the strain of pushing for it was too much. I got the impression there was a lot of that; the urgency to escape; but there was something else that I was realising. It was something there was no explicit evidence for; just an intuition that felt right.

I believed that Dahlia wanted to submit. I got the feeling she got off on it.

All her life she had been the one in control; the one people idolised; and surely that was a great thing. It was everything I’d ever wanted for my own life. But without the opportunity to come second or even last, maybe Dahlia had developed a kinky need to surrender control to somebody else. This swap of ours had turned me on from time to time – even now I got a faint shiver when I thought about what I’d taken from her – but surely it was erotic for her as well. I had sensed that on more than one occasion.

The question was why? Was it as simple as the fact that she had always been in control and she lusted after that which she didn’t have: poverty, ugliness and powerlessness? Or had something happened in her youth that gave her a taste for giving in?

The man whom I had shagged earlier walked past with his wife. He tried not to make eye contact but I saw him eyeing my crossed legs. I ignored him, smiling to myself, thinking how wonderful it was to have the power that looks and a figure gave; that money in the bank and fancy clothes imparted.

My eyes roved instead for my next conquest. I looked forward to finding another man to bed. I looked forward to bedding a hundred more men; as many as I wanted, as often as I wanted.

But my thoughts turned, as they always did, back to Dahlia. I couldn’t help it. She was my guilty obsession. It wasn’t enough that this experiment had given me the confidence and drive to better myself so magnificently; had presented me with a security and flair that only large amounts of money could provide. It wasn’t just about living a better life myself.

I wanted Dahlia’s life to be worse. I wanted it to be as bad as mine had been; or worse! And I wanted nothing more than for her to get as morbidly obese as I had been.

It had been a delight to see her today and to lie to her about Robert.

Was it just a fantasy that I might keep this life? That I could somehow persuade her to accept mine completely?

Was she screwed up enough to actually do that?

Would she become me – Melissa – permanently?

Honestly I didn’t know. And surely I couldn’t believe it, even in my fondest dreams.

But I had a feeling that wasn’t the strategy. If I went to her and suggested a permanent swap, the act of questioning her would make her question herself. Any of that and she might drop out of the moment enough to run for the hills.

No. It had to be more about simply extending it. That I could see her going for. She was already altering her shape massively; possibly committing permanent damage to her body. Her self-restraint was clearly disconnected. I needed to continue pushing that just a little bit further; a little bit further.

For the foreseeable future there always needed to be that escape route for her; increasingly implausible though that might be. But I wasn’t going to stop until we really had become duplicates of one another, if that was even possible. And I wasn’t going to stop until our swap had become something indefinite and extended and ongoing.

I didn’t just want to pretend to be her abroad. I wanted to go back to England; to Nockton Vale; and actually assume her life as though it were really mine.

I wanted her to really become me.

LADY ANN'S FOLLY: Chapter Twelve - Part Six

Reggie didn’t feel anywhere near as uncomfortable being a woman as he had done. In fact he felt very, very different all round.

After the picnic and getting told off so horribly by his Uncle Howard he had made himself scarce, hiding away in the library. He had always hated getting told off by grown-ups, but this time it had been strangely different. The Earl had been  a frightening and domineering man, just as he always was, but oddly Reggie had felt better and better during the punishment he was given.

Part of that was because he had suddenly been able to write! And the more he wrote, the easier it got! He couldn’t believe it, but now he could write just as well as any grown-up he had ever seen!

He had wondered if he could read too, and sure enough, as he took book after book down from the shelves he found that he could read every word. His education had, of course, been extremely limited up to now. To be able to read any book he chose was incredibly liberating.

He hunted round for children’s books, eager to finally be able to devour them without the assistance of somebody else. But when Reggie sat down with one he found it rather dull. The language used was over simplified and the situations didn’t engage him. Disappointed and bored, he discarded the book and looked round for an alternative.

Eventually he settled on a lovely illustrated book about horticulture. He settled into a comfortable leather chair and smiled to himself as he read the detailed descriptions about garden flowers and the advice on cultivating them. This was much better; far more interesting.

He didn’t feel quite so odd in this body anymore. Being a very fat middle-aged woman was a world away from his physicality as a little boy, but since returning from the picnic he didn’t feel that uncomfortable at all. Instead he found it new and exciting having such a round and squishy body; such bountiful breasts.

Being told off by his uncle had put things into perspective. He understood that he wasn’t to act immaturely anymore. As long as he was his Aunt Elizabeth he had to pretend he really was her. Now he was really looking forward to trying to do that; to fool his mother and father. It would be so funny if he could.

He read the horticulture book for quite a while and started to imagine putting the advice within to good use. He thought initially of his garden over in Blacklake, but quickly realised that it made more sense to think in terms of the garden here at Griply Manor. He didn’t know how long Uncle Howard would want him to stay like this but it would certainly be diverting to put some of his knowledge to newfound use in the meantime.

Just as he was thinking that, the door opened and in strode the Earl, swinging his arms confidently, chin raised, eyes blazing. “Ah there you are Elizabeth,” he said.

Reggie sat up straight, feeling rather on edge.

The Earl shut the door and then turned back in more furtively. “What have you been doing Reggie?” he said. “Keeping out of trouble I hope.”

Reggie decided to show how well he was doing by playing along with the game. Doing his best impression of his aunt, he said, “Really Howard; I would rather you address me as Elizabeth. I am, after all, your wife.”

The Earl got a look of abject shock on his face, followed by confusion, and Reggie couldn’t help burst into a fit of giggles. Seeing this, the Earl frowned deeply and Reggie tried to supress his laughter.

“That is you Reggie?” asked the Earl edgily.

“Yes Howard,” replied Reggie, proud of how well he was doing at pretending to be his aunt. “Am I doing better now?”

The Earl straightened, shifting his chin from side to side as he observed Reggie’s posture. “Yes. You’re doing far better young man. Far better.”

 “I’m not a boy at the moment Uncle Howard,” said Reggie, feeling rather more confident talking to the domineering man than he should have. “Shouldn’t we pretend that I really am your wife?”

The Earl frowned and shifted his chin again in thought, making his moustache shift and fall. “You’re quite right… Elizabeth. I am… very pleased; though surprised, by how well you are doing and how… willing you are to persist in this charade.”

Reggie beamed happily, as pleased at the compliment as he was at being able to understand such complex words and concepts.

“For now then, yes,” said Howard. “I will refer to you as Elizabeth, as a woman, and as my… as my wife.” A shadow fell across his features as he said this but he went on anyway. “If you continue to play the part of my wife this well during dinner later then you will find me extremely grateful.”

“Ooo Howard… How grateful?”

Reggie hadn’t been quite sure why he said that – the words had just slipped out – but the look of alarm that passed over the Earl’s face at hearing it was hysterical.

But it was ripping to play such a hilarious game with the Earl of all people. He had never imagined that pompous old man would wish to engage in such shenanigans. But now he had overcome his initial reservations, Reggie was eager to go on with it. He wanted to pretend to be Elizabeth Neville in front of his parents and the servants and the whole world.

He couldn’t wait!

A Solution for No Pictures in Cleaner

So if you were one of the first to get my latest book, Cleaner: The Original Story, and you ended up getting a version without pictures, then I am happy to tell you I now have a solution for you!

Kindle Support gave the following instructions:

Go to your “Manage Your Content and Devices” page on the Amazon website and find the book. 

www.amazon.com/gp/digital/fiona/manage

If you bought it on Amazon.co.uk or a different national site then you should still be able to find it if you go into your account settings and look for the Kindle help section. 

If you can't find it then contact Kindle Support so they can send the updated version. You can reach Kindle Support using the following link:
 
http://amzn.to/1HHskg1 

If that link doesn't work for some reason then go to the Help screen on Amazon. You should find it there. 
 
I'm really sorry about the balls-up. Hopefully this will now solve the problem.

CLEANER II: Chapter Four - Part Nine

DAHLIA

In the dream I was Melissa.

I wasn’t pretending to be Melissa. I really was her. I was as fat as she had been. I had her hair and glasses. I was wearing her clothes. And I was back in England. I was working at one of her other jobs; at the school. I was on my hands and knees in the cloakroom, trying to clean under the benches, using a tool to get the chewing gum off that had been stuck there. But it wasn’t her job anymore. It was my job. This was my life now. I’d taken it on entirely.

It was my crazy ambition come to fruition, not just as a holiday fantasy played out to ridiculous extremes but as an actual shift in my identity. My old life was gone. There was no way back to it.

She was Dahlia Western now. She was a famous model. She had made her comeback and the world loved her as never before.

I was a nobody; a nothing. I had no respect and little money. I was morbidly obese. I’d ruined my eyesight. I ha no prospects or future apaprt from more of the same; endless days of humiliating, back-breaking labour, lorded over by petty-minded employers.

I was peeling more gum off the underside of the benches but I realised that I wasn’t alone anymore. In the dream, my brother, Steven, was there.

He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, glaring down at me with scorching disapproval. Then he was shaking his head and in a stern but brittle voice he said, “Oh Dahlia. What are you doing, you silly girl? You’ve ruined your life.”

I was stammering, trying to explain why I was there in this fat woman’s body; why I had made the choices I had made. I told him that there was still a way to get back to my old life; that the change wasn’t permanent.

But he only glared at me. He knew I was lying to myself as much as him.

“You’ve let me down,” he said. “You let all of us down.”

And then I woke.

I jerked up in my seat on the bus, still on the way back to my hotel from Melissa’s. I was sweltering hot in the blaze of sun coming in through the window. My head was pinched and throbbing.

I slumped in the seat but that made my back ache all the more. I made myself sit up instead, rubbing my temple to push out the agony I was feeling. Nothing seemed to shift this headache I kept getting, except maybe food. I always felt better when I was eating.

I checked my watch, wondering how long it was before I could eat again. It wasn’t long before I had to start the second half of my split shift.

I groaned.

I still had the earphones in with the recorded conversation I had just had with Melissa; her explaining exactly what her home life was like with her kind and loving husband.

It sounded idyllic. It made me think that it was a shame this was only a temporary swap. What would it be like to have such a tender partner; to live in such a caring environment? Surely being poor; having such a basic job; these things would be worth it for the love of a good man.

It made me wonder how Melissa could bear to be apart from him for so long. But surely they were in regular communication. And wouldn’t he be pleased when she went home having lost so much weight to take up her life again?

It made me wish that it wasn’t just a holiday game; that we could really trade lives long term.

But that was crazy surely. What we’d already done was crazy enough.

But if it was crazy already then why not push further; take it all the way?

The bus juddered to a stop. I got out, my head still aching; my ankles sore. Walking wasn’t as easy now that I was carrying so much extra weight. The heat and sweat took a toll, as did the pressure on my muscles.

I walked back to the hotel and went up to my room; shut myself in and the heat and light out.

I sat on the edge of the bed, remembering my dream; picturing my brother’s disapproving face.

But I didn’t want to think about him now. I couldn’t.

I fetched the half bottle of gin I’d left by the TV and poured myself a generous glass; knocked it back with eyes pressed tightly closed. It pushed away the headache for a few moments. That was good. I poured myself a second and that pushed it back even further. It took the hard edges away and I needed that; I really did.

I really couldn’t think about my brother now.

And for now he wasn’t my brother. He was her brother. Dahlia’s. I was Melissa now.

I took in a long and brittle breath then sighed it out.

I thought about the tapes I was listening to; about how much I was learning about Melissa’s life. At first I had been a little confounded about Melissa’s reasoning for it – especially learning things from back home that I would never need to use – but I felt like I had absorbed so much already. I didn’t want to think about my real life. It was too tainted by tragedy, pressure and disappointment. I could pretend with Melissa’s memories that I had a simpler existence. It was such a relief to be able to wrap these stories around me while I did my cleaning around the hotel. Over and over I listened to them. The tales were becoming more real to me than any of my own past, especially because I refused to summon up any of my own memories.

I had a third gin, fantasising about a time when I might think these really were my memories. How perfect would that be? How much better?

Perhaps then the headaches would stop.

In fact… I made a decision.

As soon as I could, I would buy myself a voice recorder and into it I would retell these stories. Doing my best to effect Melissa’s patterns of speech, I would retell these memory tales as though they had really happened to me. Maybe then, when I listened back to them over and over again, they would seem even more real.

I smiled at the idea of that. I liked it very much.

Eventually it was time to start working again. I went downstairs, heading outside.

Someone was calling for aid down the steps into the hotel basement. “Can someone give me a hand with this?” she called. As I got closer I realised it was Maxine. This made me pause. I wasn’t eager to suffer her hostility. But then I made myself remember that she was more accepting now at last. She wanted me to play poker with her.

I hesitated for a moment longer then called down. “I can help! What do you need?”

“Who’s that,” called Maxine.

I hesitated again. Then, eager to ingratiate myself and eager for her approval, I said, “It’s Piggy!”

I heard her giggle then her voice came again and this time it was friendlier. “Oh good, Piggy. Get down here. I need help with this trolley. Someone your size will easily be able to move it.”

I smiled and hurried down to her but I got a shimmer of my dream again: the image of my brother’s disapproving face. I pushed it aside almost angrily. That was from my old life. As long as I was here in Greece I was Melissa. This was just my life. It was nothing to be ashamed of. This was just who I was.

No Pictures in Cleaner: The Original Story?

Well if you were quick off the mark you may have downloaded a version of Cleaner: The Original Story without pictures. 

I'm sorry about that. There were technical problems at the last minute which prevented the correct upload. By the time I rectified it, some people had already downloaded the book.

I haven't worked out a reliable solution for this but if anyone else knows then comment below.

If this happened to you then email me and I will send you the correct version of the book. 

LADY ANN'S FOLLY: Chapter Twelve - Part Five

When the coaches returned from the picnic, Nellie did not go inside Griply Hall with the others.

She was feeling more and more uncomfortable in this charade she was playing, but not because she didn’t like pretending she was Lady Harriet, a member of the quality. No. Being a beautiful titled lady was everything she had ever dreamed of when she was growing up; an impossible dream to be certain.

She had known her looks weren’t up to much before; though certain boys didn’t seem to mind (not that she ever gave them a chance to get up to no good). And her prospects had been minimal at best. Becoming Lady Harriet was an extraordinary dreamlike opportunity.

What she couldn’t stand though was the indetermination. She had no true sense of when this was going to end who how much trouble she might get into if she said and did the things she wanted to do to explore this exciting life she had borrowed. So far she had done little more than hang around quietly feeling totally unsure of herself. She wished she knew exactly how long it was going to go on for so that she could relax and enjoy the time she had.

She walked down the drive a ways and paused in a gap in the hedge, looking out across the fields. The hills rose up to the ridgeline, at the other side of which lay Blacklake where the Earl and Countess’s relatives came from.

She couldn’t have more than another day – she was sure of that – and she was wasting it with all this indecision.

Nellie came to a decision.

She was going to try and make the most of the time she had left in this body. She would kick herself for the rest of her days if she didn’t explore it as much as she could. It would be a terribly wasted opportunity.

She just wished she wasn’t so shy; so afraid to speak up.

It was still hard for her to understand why the real Lady Harriet was doing what she was doing. And she was so convincing as her father! No one could tell that she was really a young woman. She was able to act and sound exactly like a middle aged gentleman. It gave Nellie a little more confidence to think about it. Perhaps with effort she could be as convincing herself.

She wondered if she should approach the Earl; the real Hattie; and ask him what his plans were. But then she didn’t want to pre-empt things and speed up the process of return. She wanted to stay this way as long as she could.

“Pssssst.”

Nellie frowned, looking round. She was sure she heard—

“Pssssst.”

There! She did. She headed toward the sound and was perplexed to see a buxom young woman crouching in the bushes a little further down the path. It was a girl she didn’t recognise but she could tell her class instantly. She was from Griply village. She wasn’t even good enough to be serving staff.

“Hattie,” whispered the girl.

Nellie went a little closer.

Ann shuffled to the edge of her bush, conscious of how ridiculous she looked hunched there, clothed in Mavis’s flesh. “Don’t call the servants. Please.” She said. “I’m begging you.”

Nellie wavered ,unsure whether to hastily withdraw. She reminded herself that she was quality for now, higher in rank than this unseemly girl. She shouldn’t be intimidated by her. “What do you want?” she said.

Ann crept closer. “I know you know about the pendant,” she said.

Nellie’s eyes widened. Could she mean the magical necklace that had allowed the exchange of physical attributes?

“And so you must know that I’m really your sister, Ann.”

Nellie’s mouth fell open slightly. She put her hand to her chest. She couldn’t imagine what to respond. There was nothing of Lady Ann in this dirty girl. Could it even be possible that they had changed places too?

“Mavis has stolen my body. She’s trapped me like this. And now she’s left town on the train. I’m stuck as a barmaid. I hate it. You have to help me Hattie. You have to give me the pendant back.” Ann’s eyes were moistening. She felt so desperate. But at least her sister’s face seemed incredulous rather than conniving. She had worried this was more of her sister’s mischief; that it had been planned somehow. “I know I haven’t always been a good sister,” she continued, “but I do care a lot about you. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you in the past. I just want my body back. I know you have the pendant. Please give it to me.”

Nellie regarded the girl , trying to decide what to do.

If this really was Lady Ann in disguise then there was every chance she would cause trouble until she got her way and got her body back. Nellie was in no hurry for that to happen. But a solution occurred to her suddenly that seemed so perfectly elegant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Mavis,” she said, as boldly as she could manage, and in response, her voice clicked into an almost perfect simulacrum of the real Hattie’s. “I have never heard anything so preposterous as what you are saying. Of course you aren’t my sister. Look at you.”

“But I am,” said Ann, stepping forward out of the bushes. “It’s me Hattie, really!”

“Don’t touch me!” said Hattie, “or I’ll call for the servants.”

Ann looked worriedly toward the hall and stepped back into cover. “Please,” she whispered. “I need that pendant. Even if you don’t believe that I’m Ann; please fetch that pendant out for me. You know it’s mine.”

Nellie narrowed her eyes, frankly amazed at how confident she was feeling suddenly, and said, “If you’re referring to the little stone pendant with a gold spiral fitting then you can forget about it. Lady Ann took it with her to Nockton Vale and she won’t be returning for some time.”

Ann gaped at her in disbelief and horror, realising what this meant; how much further she would have changed by the time the false Ann returned with it. She would be Mavis through and through by then and almost certainly identifying fully with who she now was.

It was hopeless. It really was hopeless.

Tears started to stream down her cheeks and she fled, weeping.

Nellie watched her go and then turned back to the hall.

She thought about the lie and where the pendant really was: in the Hattie-Earl’s pocket.

She felt a smidgeon of guilt.

Then she started walking back up the drive.

That girl wasn’t her responsibility. It wasn’t her fault what had happened to her.

Her responsibility was to enjoy this chance she had before it was too late. She had to make the most of being a titled lady before it was cruelly snatched away from her again.