WTF is going on? You may ask… Well… my mother works for herself and for no other reason than trying to impress one of her clients, she claimed that she had a Personal Assistant to help manage her diary, run errands, keep her topped up with coffee and so on. It was one of those innocent white lies until this particular client wanted a face to face meeting to discuss a new contract, and the client insisted that Mum’s PA also attended the meeting. The fact that her PA didn’t exist was a big problem, and it was my idea that Mum simply gets someone to pretend to be her PA. The last thing I expected was that it would be me!
I’ve had less than a week to ‘get into character’, which has mostly involved getting used to wearing heels, learning what a PA actually does and learning as much as possible about her consultancy business. I’d tried on numerous items of clothing from mum’s wardrobe until she found an outfit that fit me properly. Most of her skirts and tailored dresses were too baggy around my hips, and many if her blouses and jackets were too narrow on my shoulders. After an entire afternoon of trying this and that, Mum finally found me something suitable; a black body-con skirt, a white sleeveless blouse and a black fitted jacket with its shoulder pads removed.
Then on this very morning, Mum took me to a salon where I had a (near) full body wax, my hair trimmed and styled, a manicure, my eyebrows shaped and my ears pierced… then she took me to a lingerie store bought me some underwear. I think I’m still in shock. My earlobes are throbbing. My ‘tackle’ feels like it’s being squashed out of existence in the vice like grip of my control knickers. I’ve got chicken fillets in my bra and have barely any body hair. I can even feel the light dusting of powder on my face, the mascara on my eyelashes and the lipstick on my lips. I don’t think I could feel more feminine as I gently touched my hairless thigh and cautiously felt my earlobe and its new adornment.
“Simon! I told you to leave it.” my mother said.
“Sorry.” I said as I whipped my hand way from my earlobe. I fumbled with my fingers as I stood nervously in my underwear, wondering if my mother would see sense and call the whole thing off or…
“Right… you need your skirt and blouse on, maybe a necklace too.” she said, passing me the blouse. “Do you want tights?” she asked as her eyes dropped down to my legs. “They look nice enough as they are so you don’t need any tights.” she said as I buttoned myself in to the white collared blouse.
I was happy enough to skip a pair of tights, so I donned the black pencil skirt that Mum’s long outgrown yet fits me perfectly. The only issue with the skirt was that its figure hugging style didn’t account for my boyish bulge. “Blouse in or out?” I asked.
“Well tuck it in and see how it looks.” Mum said. I did as asked, fastened the zip and looked down at myself. “Perfect.” Mum grinned, staring at my groinal region. “No lumps.”
“These knickers are so tight I can’t even feel them.” I said as I ran my hands over my hips. I knew I was exaggerating a bit as I can feel them and they feel flat. I slipped my feet into the only item of my outfit that feels familiar; a pair of Mum’s court shoes that fit me like a glove… or a shoe, even. Mum said I was a natural in heels and I agree with her, although I’d much rather wear flat shoes… boy’s flat shoes to be specific. I spent much of the afternoon in the role of Mum’s PA; tending the printer, sorting invoices and making coffee… plenty of coffee. Oh, and answering the phone. “Good afternoon you’re speaking to Janice. How can I help?” I say each time in my soft ‘female’ voice. I guess I’d have been happier if is they all said ‘you’re not called Janice… you’re a bloke!‘ but not a single one did. At least that would have given us a good reason for me not to go through with this ever so important meeting.
As 3.00pm approached I became increasingly nervous. I told her that I was getting cold feet but she just grinned and offered me a pair of tights. “Simon you’re doing perfectly. You look the part, you act the part, you speak the part…” she paused and inhaled. “…you even smell like a woman.” she told me.
“Can’t you just tell them I couldn’t make it?” I suggested. “Tell them I’m sick or a family matter’s come up…. anything.”
“After all we’ve done?” Mum said. “Anyway, I’m sure they’d smell a rat if my PA didn’t attend.”
The meeting was as 4.00pm in some really posh restaurant. I topped up my lippy and dropped the lipstick into ‘my’ handbag, before taking my first step outside. And a very nervous step it was. “Now remember what I said about getting in and out of a car.” Mum said as I opened the passenger door. “Very good.” she grinned. I fastened my seat belt as she reversed out of the drive. Mum talked me through what I should say and shouldn’t say. “Where possible, just redirect any awkward questions to me… and don’t but in, don’t argue and don’t answer back… I’m your boss, not your mother.” she said. “And if you need the toilet, make sure you take your handbag, and make sure you use the ladies, and…”
“I know… make sure I sit down.” I interjected. “I’ll just make sure I don’t need the toilet.”
I can’t describe how I felt when I finally met Mum’s clients. Crapping myself doesn’t come close to it. We got off to a bad start when they were certain that my name was Janine and not Janice, then Mum made a real boo-boo when we ordered the food and called me Janine. I was asked about my previous experience and felt it would be safer to claim that this was my first post as a PA. I’d supposedly worked for Mum for two years, spent a year at secretarial school after I’d completed my A levels, but that would put my age at twenty one and not twenty three as we’d claimed. Mum and I bumbled our way through Janine or Janice’s back story, filling in the gaps on the fly. I suspected that they weren’t really buying it, and as the meal and the meeting came to a close, my suspicions were proved correct. It was pointed out in plain English that neither my mother nor I seem to know if my name’s Janine or Janice. Gaping holes and contradictions in my story were also pointed out. “I don’t know who you are, but what I do know is that you’re not who you claim to be.” the prestigious client said to me. She turned to my mother and asked what was going on and Mum reluctantly confessed. To make things worse, the client was sipping her wine when my mother informed her that the supposed twenty-three year old personal assistant is in fact her sixteen year old son, causing her to splurt through her wine in a most unladylike manner.
“What!” the client exclaimed as she wiped the splats of red wine from her face and blouse with a napkin. “She’s not even female?!”