"You're doing WHAT?!" called Abigail.

But Prama, Abigail's daily companion on the 7:15 from Woking, swept away in a torrent of commuters cascading down the steps into Waterloo's Underground. Of her laughably unfashionable Hippy dress and floral waistcoat, there was no trace, and her last words drowned in the cacophony of voices, trains and announcements.

Abigail replayed the conversation, starting from when they got off the train, emerged under the infamous clock and jostled down the length of the concourse. Prama had been agonising over her approach to her work colleagues. But what had she decided?

Growing a ... (something) ... Nile? Kyle? Lyle? No. What was it?

Abigail gnawed at the puzzle during the congested hustle to the office, parrying briefcases, dodging buses and ignoring traffic noise and fumes. It was only when she entered the glittering, tomb-silent lift, squeezed among the suffocating press of Monday morning zombies, that she prised open the answer.

Of course! How typical of flower-powered Prama! Although ... with suitable sharpening, Abigail could repurpose it as a weapon. It might give her an edge --pun intended-- in the office jungle.

Prama wouldn't approve.

Prama didn't work here. She couldn't understand.

Fetors of deodorant and dread wafted from the Despairing Dead pressed around, contaminating the air enclosed in the metal-and-mirrors mausoleum. It was almost overwhelming. Another day, it would have riled her, preparing her for the daily survival of the fittest contest. But today, Abigail had a new weapon which might neutralise or even destroy her enemies. The surrounding lifeless husks, having nowhere to run, offered ideal target practice.

She stretched her cheeks inappropriately. Beneath a severe cinched-back hairstyle, a rare smile dazzled in the mirror. It felt like a disciplinary offence to beam love and joy at anyone who would make eye contact with her in the lift, directly or in reflections.

No one reacted. The ambulant cadavers stared off into private visions of hell.

But that didn't mean her weapon had failed. They were simply the wrong target, as was proven when they chose to remain entombed when Abigail escaped at the sixth floor. The Eternally Damned of the seventh floor Finance Department were clearly beyond any reach of the Powers of Light.

Nevertheless, it had been fun to try and still held promise with living mortals. Who should she try it on first?

High heels clicked on lift lobby tiles as 'Klipboard' Karen bore down on her. Here was the acid test. Could her positive projections prevail against authoritarian dictatorship?

"You're late, again! Don't bother sitting at your desk to check social media. Collect the box of documents from my office desk and start filing immediately."

Oh crap, what a lousy job to start the week. But, taking aim ...

"Oh Karen, I'd be delighted to." Abigail dialled her widest grin up to 10.

"And -er- no sloping off to the restroom to play games on your phone. I ... want it finished by three ...?"

The Klipboard seemed unfocused, off her usual stride.

"For my wonderful supervisor on such a lovely morning, I'll get it done by lunch."

Striding with uncharacteristic purpose to Karen's office, Abigail heard only her own footsteps. Strangely absent was the sound of Karen's power heels, clicking with malice-aforethought, running down another quary.

Reaching the office door, she risked a backwards glance to where Karen remained, clipboard and jaw hanging loose. Abigail blew her a cheery kiss, turned the handle and let herself in.

Score! Abigail-1, Klipboard-nil. If it worked on Karen, then ...

Oh, crap.

It wasn't a reused, cardboard photocopier-paper box that awaited her. Oh no. This was the Real McCoy -- a plastic case designed to hold a serious amount of paper. And ... yes, it was heavy. It was full.

All this by lunch? Crap! What had she done?

Abigail pulled up the sleeves of her polyester suit’s jacket and dragged the case off the table by its handles. She started to wonder whether she should have propped the door open first, when it opened of its own accord. Pruneface came in. Her strained expression proof of recently falling prey to the Klipboard, her Italian wool suit and styled hair affording little defence. With Klipboard on her case, she'd be more sour than ever.

Before the older woman could launch her own attack, Abigail adopted a pleased-to-see you voice. "Dear Ms Conway, you're my lucky angel! Be a sweet and hold the door open, please?"

Unused to such cordiality, Pruneface stiffened and, to the surprise of both, complied with the request.

Morning light gleamed on the harridan's immaculate, auburn French Twist as Abigail struggled past with her load.

"Goodness, your hair’s lovely this morning, Ms Conway. Glowing. You simply must tell me what conditioner you're using. Lunchtime?"

Pruneface's eyes narrowed. Her voice tightened with suspicion, "What're you up to? What do you want?"

"Nothing." Abigail tried to add a twinkle to her merry expression as she crossed the lift lobby, "You always buff up well, and your hair looks radiant in the sunshine. See you later."

Pruneface's eyes widened as she took a deep breath; the corners of her mouth hinted at a smile; colour suffused her cheeks. Abigail turned away to hide her surprise and punched the Down button. Mercifully, a lift opened immediately, offering a haven for unobserved assessment.

Who'd have thought a human soul lurked inside that superior bitch?

*****

The day passed in a whirl of willing work, up-beat comments, outright compliments and dazzling smiles. In the main, she received suspicion, hostile looks, and confusion.

As she'd hoped.

The weapon was effective.

But, for a few of her intended targets, warm emotions opened like shy flower buds in the warmth of her smile. Pruneface was a notable example. Lunchtime with 'Deirdre', as Abigail could now call her, had been pleasant, memorable and promised to be more than a one-off.

*****

Prama was waiting for her near Platform 10.

"Hey, flower! What're you ON? You're positively glowing, girl."

Abigail was still smiling. After a whole day. Her face ached, true, but ... her smile remained.

"I tried what you said this morning: giving the extra smile."

Prama laughed all the way to their usual seat. "Actually, hun, I said I was 'going the extra mile' but, meh, close enough. We should compare notes. You first - you look like you had one TRIPPY experience!"

Abigail used the time settling on her seat to reflect on her day. Prama waited and, as the 17:58 to Basingstoke pulled away with a deep electric whine, Abigail finally had her thoughts in order.

"Prama, I work in a toxic place. People there are really mean. I became a bitch just to survive; now a habit, I suppose. So today, this bitch tried using smiling and happiness to confuse and upset her … enemies ...." Her voice trailed away.

"And?"

Words came slowly, following cautious thoughts.

"Well ... smiling all day was painful, literally ... but it worked ... kinda ... Oh, I upset or confused many, but ..."

She paused to take a breath and slow her heart.

"... I didn't expect to end up feeling ... happy ... genuinely happy ... and ... "

Gantries and grimy commercial buildings streamed by as rails clacked in time with "Positivism, positivism, positivism." Abigail savoured the wonder of her revelation, smiling through tears and aching cheeks.

"... and ... unexpectedly ... I have new friends ... who'd been hiding ... pretending ... like me."