Chapter Text
It all started on a fateful Monday in July. When Stephen arrived at work that morning, he was astonished to find an unknown lady bent over the signing-in book. She was wearing the brown costume of Grace Brothers' female employees and thus had to be sales staff, but the short blond curls that were coming down to just above her collar belonged neither to Miss Brahms nor to Mrs Slocombe. Her skirt was pulled tight over a small, perky bottom, and below the hem a set of shapely calves poked out. It was an attractive display. Curious, too, since Stephen should have been informed about any new arrivals to the floor.
"Good morning, madam," Stephen said, putting all his charm into his voice. "Have we met before?"
The lady turned around, eyebrows raised in surprise. She was older than Stephen had assumed and not as pretty as he had hoped. Still, there was something fascinating about her face. Mostly, however, Stephen was distracted by how familiar her features were. Was she a relative of someone he knew, perhaps? She smiled, then, revealing a tell-tale gap between her front teeth, and the penny finally dropped. "Ah. Mr Humphries."
Of course. Mr Humphries was supposed to be manning a promotional stand for stockings and suspender belts this week, and since the task had been deemed unsuitable for a man, he had happily offered to dress up for the occasion. Mrs Slocombe–being offended at the suggestive display units of the stand–had refused to do the job herself and wouldn't allow Miss Brahms to step in either, and everyone else had been too relieved that the matter had been settled to put up much of a protest. After all, stranger things had happened at Grace Brothers.
"Good morning, Captain Peacock. I believe we have met, but thank you for the compliment." Mr Humphries fluttered his lashes, looking very pleased with himself. "It's Miss Humphries, by the way."
Stephen rolled his eyes and brushed past Mr Humphries to sign in himself. He refused to feel embarrassed. This was, after all, the best proof that Mr Humphries' disguise was working and would be unlikely to get them into any kind of trouble.
With some satisfaction Stephen observed that Mr Grainger, too, was deceived when he arrived on the floor. He kept griping about the impending take-over of the men's department by "those women" all morning and refused to exchange a single word with Mr Humphries, no matter how often the latter tried to explain the situation. Mr Lucas, on the other hand, recognised Mr Humphries instantly but seemed to delight in pretending he was an innocent young lady: He greeted him with an over-dramatic hand kiss, and during the day he kept sneaking up upon him to try to pinch his bottom. Stephen had to reprimand him more than once to get him to stop and concentrate on his own work instead.
In other words, it was a fairly normal work day, all things considered.
The next few hours settled beyond any lingering doubts that Mr Humphries' disguise was indeed working well, and on top of that he proofed to be quite successful with his sales. Or as successful as could be expected, given the average sales figures of the rest of the department. In any case, his powers of persuasion worked on the female customers just as well as they usually worked on the male ones. He was obviously having fun, which seemed to help matters, and not for the first time, Stephen wondered why he enjoyed dressing up like this so much. Had it been any other man, one might have suspected ulterior motives at play: the chance of getting close to women under false pretences, perhaps, to watch them pick and try on such intimate garments as suspender belts and stockings. However, this was their Mr Humphries who had more ulterior motives taking a man's inside leg, so that couldn't be it, could it? But then, Mr Humphries had a lot of interests that Stephen didn't understand–in fact, his whole lifestyle was a complete mystery to him–so why was he even giving this so much as a second thought?
Around noon, Young Mr Grace made an appearance, inquiring after the success of the promotion.
"It's going rather well," Stephen informed him and slowly led him down the stairs to the centre of the sales floor where the promotional stand was set up.
Mr Humphries was just handing a small paper bag over to a happy customer. With a genial smile on his lips, he informed her: "And if the stockings are a bit short, don't worry, they will ride up with wear."
The lady thanked him and turned around, a swing in her step and the bag dangling jauntily in her hand.
"You are doing very well, my dear," Young Mr Grace said when the customer was out of earshot.
"Thank you, Mr Grace."
Young Mr Grace shuffled towards Mr Humphries and laid a familiar hand on his arm. "I used to tell the same lies back in the days when when I was running my first little clothing shop. It's good to see the tradition live on."
"Oh, but it wasn't a lie, this time. They really do ride up with wear." Mr Humphries bent down to lift up his skirt. "You see, I'm wearing the exact same stockings, and when I first put them on, they came up to about here–" He pointed to a certain spot on his thigh, then hitched up his skirt even further. "–but look at them now."
Stephen, for his part, didn't need an invitation to look. He had already admired Mr Humphries' calves earlier, and the rest of his legs certainly didn't disappoint. His thighs were slender, firm, with a hint of muscle that wouldn't have been out of place on an active woman–a dancer perhaps, or a showgirl. The sheer stockings created the perfect feminine illusion, silky and smooth and just barely concealing the skin beneath, sure to fuel a man's fantasies. The hem of the skirt had ridden up far enough to reveal the clasps of the suspenders, bringing to mind how easily these stockings could be unfastened and stripped off. A patch of skin was showing–hairless, Stephen noted with fascination.
A shove against his side pulled him out of his reverie, and he realised that Young Mr Grace was toppling over, a hand clutched to his chest. Stephen caught his elbow, and with the help of Mr Humphries on Mr Grace's other side, propped him up again.
"Mr Grace?" Mr Humphries asked. "Mr Grace, are you with us? You seem to be a little faint."
"On the contrary. I'm feeling very alive, my dear," Mr Grace said, a rakish smile on his lips.
"Of course you are." Mr Humphries patted his arm, then tried to step away, but Young Mr Grace still clung to him for support.
Stephen missed the rest of the interaction, as the ding of one of the lifts called his attention towards a new customer. He inquired after the man's desire and just when he had directed him towards Mr Grainger, he heard Mr Humphries call out: "Stephen!"
Stephen bristled at the undue use of his first name. He turned around, a stern warning on his lips, but there was something so imploring on Mr Humphries features that he forgot his annoyance momentarily. Before Stephen had quite reached him, Mr Humphries closed the remaining distance and looped his hand around Stephen's elbow.
"I didn't know your wife worked for Grace Brothers, Peacock," Young Mr Grace said.
What on earth was going on?
"Only temporarily, aren't I, darling?" Mr Humphries looked up at Stephen, eyes wide, the effect amplified by dark eyeliner and long, false lashes.
Stephen had no choice other than to play along. "Err. Indeed. It's just for the promotion, sir."
"I see, I see. Well, should you ever change your mind and want a permanent employment, Mrs Peacock, I'm sure we'll find something for you."
If the use of Stephen's first name had been jarring, the use of his wife's name was even more so. Partly because Stephen didn't want to be reminded of her or the state of his marriage, and partly because ... well, this whole situation was just wrong in general.
Young Mr Grace waved his walking stick, almost losing his balance again in the process. "I must be moving on. Very pleased to have made your accquaintance, Mrs Peacock!" When he passed by Stephen's side, he stopped and leaned in. "I would keep an eye on your wife, if I were you, Peacock. She's a saucy one!"
Too stunned for words, Stephen forced a smile on his face and nodded. As soon as Young Mr Grace was a safe distance away, he disentangled himself from Mr Humphries, finally giving air to his irritation. "What was that all about?!"
"Young Mr Grace was getting a little frisky. He came very close to making an unpleasant discovery. It's surprising, really, how fast his hands can be; you wouldn't believe it from such a frail man."
Stephen's gaze inadvertently dropped towards Mr Humphries' crotch. He shuddered in sympathy, though sympathy for which of them, he wasn't sure. Either way, Mr Humphries had been the one who had provoked Young Mr Grace, hadn't he? "Maybe you should have thought about that before you showed him your stockings."
"Men don't usually react like that when they see my legs. Well, most of them don't, anyway, and the ones who do tend to like what's attached."
That made sense, Stephen supposed. After all, Mr Humphries was only play-acting, and despite his success at it he was apparently not quite as accustomed to his role as one might assume just from watching him. Still, it was on him to be more careful in the future. "Just ... don't forget you are a woman, will you?!"
That had come out wrong, somehow, but Mr Humphries didn't seem to mind. He merely waggled his eyebrows. "Of course, Captain Peacock."
A short while later, Stephen was called into Mr Rumbold's office.
"Young Mr Grace was just here," Mr Rumbold announced without preamble. "I don't quite understand why, but he has invited you and your 'charming wife', as he put it, to the annual executive retreat. He seems to be under the impression that she works here."
"Ah." Stephen had hoped he could just forget about Mr Humphries' little fabrication, but apparently, he wasn't that lucky.
"Since when does your wife work at Grace Brothers? Is she using her maiden name, perhaps?" Mr Rumbold rifled through some files, though what he hoped to find, Stephen didn't know.
"Oh, no sir, that's a misunderstanding. It's Mr Humphries."
"You are married to Mr Humphries?" Mr Rumbold's eyebrows climbed high, causing his ears to wiggle. "I didn't know your interests ran in that direction, Peacock."
"No," Stephen drawled, trying his best to keep calm in the face of such a preposterous conclusion. Some days, he felt like he was working with imbeciles. "I'm not married to Mr Humphries; I'm married to my wife. Mrs Peacock. Young Mr Grace merely thinks I'm married to Mr Humphries."
"I see," Mr Rumbold said. Then, a moment later: "Why does he think you are married to Mr Humphries?"
"As you may remember, sir, Mr Humphries is doing the stockings promotion this week, posing as a female sales assistant. Young Mr Grace wrongly got the impression that Mr Humphries, dressed as a woman, is Mrs Peacock."
"Ah. Do they look much alike, your wife and Mr Humphries?"
"Of course not! The point is that it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding and thus Mr Humphries and I will naturally decline the invitation."
"You can't," Mr Rumbold said.
"We can't? Not only do I think we can, I very much think that we should!"
"I might have agreed with you under normal circumstances but the problem is, there's been a proposal to move Shoes to our floor. Which would result in less space for us, and I'm sure you can image what that means."
Stephen could indeed imagine all too well. Their sales figures were already dwindling, and having to cede valuable floor space would be a disaster. There was simply no point in having a clothes department under a certain size, surely anyone with the least bit of common sense could see that?
Mr Rumbold continued: "If Young Mr Grace is so impressed with your wife–I mean, with Mr Humphries–maybe Mr Humphries can use the opportunity to convince him of the importance of our department. Alienating him by declining the invitation is the very last thing we need. Besides, everyone of importance will be there; we need to do as much networking as possible, and the three of us will have much better odds than just I on my own. It might be our only chance!"
Stephen sighed. He couldn't believe he was earnestly entertaining this idea, but Mr Rumbold had made some pressing points.
"By the way, Peacock, what did Mr Humphries do that had such an effect on Young Mr Grace?"
"He was flashing his suspenders at him. It caused quite the stir. So in other words, what you are asking is: Would I pretend to be married to Mr Humphries so that he, dressed as a woman, can seduce Young Mr Grace into stopping the Shoes invasion."
Mr Rumbold removed his glasses and considered the situation for a moment. "Well, if that's what it takes..."
There really was nothing for it, was there? Still, Stephen tried to deflect. It was a matter of pride. "I can't speak for Mr Humphries, sir."
He was very well aware, however, that Mr Humphries wouldn't need much convincing, and so he watched with trepidation as Mr Rumbold picked up the phone to summon the man in question.
Thankfully, lunch time was nearing, marking the half-way point of a work day that had somehow, through a series of unfortunate events, taken a rather absurd turn.
In the canteen, when they were all picking up their questionable food, it became apparent that Mr Humphries wasn't completely at ease in his high heels. It had barely been noticeable earlier when he was keeping close to his stand and only moving short distances between his goods and his customers. Now, however, he was the last to enter the sitting area, taking careful steps while delicately balancing his food tray in front of him. It was almost a relief to see that the illusion wasn't perfect–it served as a much-needed reminder that staring at Mr Humphries' legs was rather futile, nice as they were. Then Stephen remembered the farce they had agreed to play, and his relief turned into worry: They couldn't afford any mistakes at the executive retreat, and a lady stilting awkwardly in high heels was sure to draw the wrong kind of attention. At least, Mr Humphries still had the rest of the week to practice before they would be on their way–Stephen hoped it would suffice for Mr Humphries to immerse himself fully in his role.
When Mr Humphries finally arrived at the table, Mr Lucas reached out and pulled the free chair by his side back. "Here you go, Miss Humphries," he said, helping Mr Humphries to settle down. "Or should I say Mrs Peacock?"
Stephen jolted. "Mr Lucas," he warned. While he would have to get used to hearing his family name applied to Mr Humphries soon enough, he wasn't going to accept it from Mr Lucas.
Mr Lucas shrugged. "I heard you were going to go on your honeymoon next weekend. But maybe I'm mistaken and it's just a scandalous little getaway with our lovely Miss Humphries."
"It's a business trip," Stephen corrected sharply.
"Yeah, that's what they all say," Miss Brahms muttered.
Stephen looked sternly at her, then at Mr Lucas, then at the rest of them. How had they even found out, and so quickly, as well? Sometimes, it was as if the walls had ears at Grace Brothers.
"You should all be very grateful that Mr Humphries and I have agreed to attend this important meeting. After all, the position of everyone of you could be at stake."
Mr Lucas, apparently remembering his place in the department, poked at his food in resignation. He was, after all, the most dispensable of the staff.
"Surely not the positions of the seniors," Mrs Slocombe said.
"Perhaps not," Stephen conceded. "But you might have to share your floor with Shoes, Mrs Slocombe."
"Shoes!"
"If a certain proposition to the board gets accepted, yes."
"Why, though?" Miss Brahms asked.
Stephen sighed. "Our sales figures aren't in our favour at the moment, I'm afraid."
"But if they take floor space away from us, our figures aren't going to get any better, are they?"
"Especially not if we are stuck with awful Shoes," Mrs Slocombe said, voice full of disdain.
Mr Grainger stopped slurping his soup for a moment. "Better than Sports."
"Oh, I don't know." Mr Humphries pursed his lips. "I rather think swimming trunks and running shorts do a lot to improve figures."
"And here I thought you would miss me a little when I'm gone," Mr Lucas said.
"Of course I would." Mr Humphries laid a consoling hand on his arm. "Why do you think I'm willing to waste my weekend at some boring executive retreat wearing uncomfortable shoes and a wig?"
Mr Lucas cast him a glance that was thoroughly unconvinced, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue this time.
"Maybe we should do it like Novelty Candles at Lally and Willot's," Miss Brahms said. "They had a break-in the other week."
"How's that supposed to help?" Mrs Slocombe asked. "We can't sell goods that have been stolen."
"Nothing was stolen, that's what's so funny about it. The thugs what broke in just smashed some of the candles. Ever since it's been reported in the news, curious people have been going in to have a look for themselves."
Mr Lucas grinned. "And buy a commemorative candle?"
"They really do," Miss Brahms confirmed.
"I don't see how commemorative ripped underwear would have the same effect," Mrs Slocombe said loftily.
"No," Mr Humphries said. "That would have an entirely different effect."