Mike lay blindfolded on the satin sheet, the sumptuous fabric caressing his naked skin, his limbs secured to each of the four bedposts.  He moaned as a sweep of silky long blonde hair tickled his face, her lips then claiming his in a long lingering kiss that made his toes – and other parts of his anatomy – curl.  

Then, all at once, she pulled away, leaving him aching for more, and quivering with excitement at what she might do next. 

He didn’t have long to find out, flinching as a dollop of gooey chocolate mousse landed on his left nipple, the rich smell of cocoa mingling with her exotic perfume. 

Then her lips were on him again, trailing kisses down his neck until they reached his chest, where her tongue made a welcome reappearance, licking off the cream with expert—

 

‘What do you think, darling?  Is it too chocolatey?’

Part way through his breakfast in the kitchen of The Laurels on Lovelace Lane, Mike Hylton clattered back to earth with a landing that would have had the most experienced of travellers reaching for their life jacket. 

‘It’s not quite right, is it?’ chuntered wife, Judith – who didn’t boast a sweep of silky long blonde hair, but rather the same short, sharp – increasingly orange - bob she’d sported over the three decades Mike had known her. 

‘It’s missing something.’ She swirled her spoon around the mousse in her bowl, before tilting up her head to him.  ‘Nutmeg?’ Her brown eyes peered at him expectantly, evidently awaiting some sort of sensible, constructive reply. 

After his impromptu mental foray into the world of satin sheets and mousse-smeared nipples, Mike was in no state to give one.  So entrenched in his naughty musings had he been, that his spoonful of the apparently-missing-something dessert had slithered down his throat practically unnoticed. 

‘Er, yes.  Definitely,’ he blurted, suspecting he’d have given the same riposte had she suggested minced caterpillars. 

What on earth was happening to him? he pondered, as Judith leapt off her chair, snatched up both bowls from the table, dumped them on the bench, and began scrabbling about in the cupboards for whatever she was scrabbling about for.  That was the sixth time in the last two weeks that he’d experienced such outrageously lewd thoughts.  And, just as on previous occasions, today’s had crept up on him completely unbidden.  There’d been the sultry scene in the shower the other day, that had resulted in him stabbing himself in the eye with the loofah and dropping the bottle of shampoo on his foot.  And the indecent visualisation in the supermarket when Judith had despatched him to buy carrots.  That one had caught him so off guard that his legs had weakened, causing him to topple onto a display of watermelons.  As the fruit had scattered over the floor, much drama had ensued, involving first aid kits, accident report forms, and several frantic tannoy announcements, culminating in Mike being transported back to his car in a wheelchair - with the carrots, that week’s two-for-one offer of custard doughnuts, and a free sample of strong-smelling Swiss cheese.  So mortified had he been by the incident, that he’d refrained from telling a soul about it, and had avidly avoided all outlets of that particular retail chain since.

As Judith continued her cupboard-scouring, muttering something about cocoa percentages all the while, Mike wondered - not for the first time – if he should seek medical advice.  This change in his mental state had erupted so suddenly, it was both worrying and disconcerting.  Up until a couple of weeks ago, he’d been a perfectly normal forty-nine-year-old.  Husband of one, father of two, an experienced architect with his own well-established practice, and a pillar of the community – who unfailingly participated in the biannual village litter pick, donated regularly to animal charities, and had once dressed up as Pippi Longstocking and packed shopping bags in that now never-to-be-graced-again supermarket, as part of one of Judith’s WI fundraising events for the endangered species of—

He jumped as Judith plonked the bowl of mousse back down in front of him. 

‘I’ve added nutmeg,’ she announced, clambering back onto her chair and slicing through his thoughts with all the efficiency of the sharpest blade in her new Samurai kitchen knife set.  ‘If I get this right for the WI picnic, I could make it again for your birthday dinner.’

Mike balked.

Something of a Pavlovian reaction, he’d noticed, every time anyone mentioned the B-word.

Because, waving goodbye to yet another decade of his existence could, he’d deduced, well be the reason behind all his erotic cogitations. 

In a few weeks he’d be fifty. 

Fifty!

He couldn’t believe it. 

It seemed only yesterday he’d been a teenager back in the eighties – swaggering about in a denim jacket emblazoned with sew-on patches, swigging cheap cider with his mates in the park, and banging his – usually unwashed – head to Led Zeppelin at the local disco.

Despite the general lack of personal hygiene, and the absolute absence of any haircare products, those had been happy, carefree days, with nothing much to worry about other than substandard exam results and being the last in your peer group to pass your driving test.

Yet, for all the weighty burden of responsibilities that currently resided on his shoulders, he felt no different now than he had back then.  Apart from sliding into a pit of depression whenever it struck him that   a) soon the 1980s would feature in school history lessons; and   b) any anecdotes from his past that failed to include mobile phones, Facebook, satellite navigation systems, or skinny macchiatos with sugar-free vanilla syrup, freshly-steamed fat-free milk, and buttery caramel drizzle, made him seem like a complete dinosaur. 

And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, all the icons of that period seemed to be shuffling off the mortal coil with gloomy regularity, paving the way for the next generation. 

Namely his. 

He couldn’t decide if it was that fact that terrified him so much.

Or that his hair was receding at a rate of knots. 

Or that he’d soon qualify for pre-paid funeral plans, Saga holidays, and life assurance policies propagated by fading celebs on daytime TV. 

It must be all the above, he concluded, because normally he wasn’t nearly so paranoid about significant birthdays.  He’d embraced all his others.  Admittedly with significantly more alcohol each time, but still.  On his twentieth, he’d thrown a beach barbecue – which had, coincidentally, lasted approximately twenty hours; on his thirtieth, Judith had surprised him with a romantic, child-free weekend in London; and on his fortieth, he and the family had hired a Scottish castle and enjoyed a murder mystery weekend with friends – which had been great fun, apart from him being locked in the loo for forty minutes before anyone had noticed.

This next impending landmark, however, seemed so scary he had no inclination at all to celebrate it.  He’d much prefer to let the occasion pass unmarked.  Without a solitary card, cake or present.  Treat it like any other Saturday.  And pretend his age still began with a four.  Which suddenly seemed positively juvenile when compared to anything beginning with a five. 

But he suspected he wouldn’t be allowed to.  A notion bolstered by the sudden appearance of neighbour, Gwen Lomax, at the open back door.

Gwen lived with her husband, Gerry, at The Elms on Lovelace Lane.  And, having recently retired, now crammed so many interests into her day that Mike was surprised she hadn’t employed a social secretary.  With her sunny, helpful disposition she ranked as one of the street’s most popular residents, always bustling about between the houses.  Although not usually at breakfast time. 

‘Morn—’  She broke off, round face turning pink, previously wide smile morphing to an ‘O’ as she spotted him at the table.  ‘Oh. Er, morning, Mike,’ she stammered, shooting a panicked look at Judith.  ‘I, um, thought you’d be at work by now.’

‘He would be normally,’ batted back Judith, with a panicked look of her own.  ‘He’s sampling the mousse I left to set overnight.  It’s for the WI summer picnic, but I thought, if Mike liked it, I could make it again for his birthday dinner.’

A little wink followed this speech. 

One Mike evidently wasn’t supposed to witness.

‘Oh yes.  The birthday dinner,’ replied Gwen, placing slightly too much emphasis on the last two words for Mike’s liking.  ‘Gerry and I are looking forward to it.’

Mike narrowed his eyes as he observed the woman’s flush deepening.   

‘So are we,’ Judith chirped.  ‘Just a few friends and close family.’

‘Lovely idea just having a few friends and close family.’ Gwen began fiddling with one of her blonde curls.  ‘Nice and quiet.’

‘Yes. Very nice.  And very quiet.’

‘The nicer and quieter the better.’

‘Just a nice, quiet birthday dinner,’ Judith concluded, as the two women beamed at him through too-wide smiles. 

Mike’s eyes contracted to slits.  He knew his wife well enough to tell when she was lying.  She’d always been rubbish at it.  Indeed, had there been an Olympic event for the World’s Worst Liar, Judith would be waving from the podium every time.  For all her constant references to ‘The Birthday Dinner’, something in the tone she used each time alerted him to the fact that it was merely a ruse. 

Something else was afoot.

Something he suspected he wouldn’t like. 

 ‘You’re not planning a surprise party or anything for my birthday, are you?’

A wave of horror swept over her countenance, as an alarmed look bounced between the two women. 

‘Don’t be silly,’ she tutted, swiftly realigning her features into an expression of beatific innocence.  ‘Why on earth would we do that?’

‘And as if we’d have the time,’ piped up Gwen.  ‘We’re all far too busy with… things.’

‘Yes.  Far too many things,’ concurred Judith. 

‘Which is actually why I popped round this morning,’ added Gwen.  ‘To sort out a few things.’

‘Yes.  We did say we needed to sort out those things.’

At the congratulatory haven’t-we-dealt-with-that-competently glance that now ping-ponged between the pair, Mike’s suspicions sharpened. 

Over the last couple of weeks – about the same time his erotic imaginings had started – various members of Lovelace Lane had been ‘popping in’ to The Laurels with much more regularity than usual.   

The other day, he’d stumbled across Scary Fiona from the Big House, who’d attempted to hide her clipboard behind her back while fobbing him off with some mumbo jumbo about carrying out a survey on garden birds. 

Then there’d been their cleaner, Desiree, the colourful 1986 UK Latin American Dance Champion, who he’d glimpsed demonstrating something that looked like a salsa to Judith last week. 

And on Thursday, he’d discovered his wife deep in discussion at the kitchen table with Gwen, and Sally Turnbull from Mulberry Lodge – talking about things. 

‘What’s going on?’ he’d asked, all chatter abruptly halting the moment he’d appeared, and the trio simultaneously reaching for a biscuit from the plate in the centre of the table.

‘Nothing,’ Gwen had replied.  ‘We were just—’ She’d stuffed a custard cream into her mouth, sending out a silent SOS to her partners in crime.

‘Enquiring about joining the WI,’ interjected Sally, springing to the rescue as she waved a ginger nut about. 

‘That’s right.  They’re very interested in the… fundraising side of things,’ Judith had added, before snapping off a piece of Jammie Dodger.  

‘Particularly in the rehabilitation of bushbabies in Zimbabwe,’ Gwen had spluttered, crumbs scattering from her mouth as she vocalised her too-enthusiastic reply. 

Mike hadn’t been fooled for an instant.  Something was going on.  And he appeared to be the only one on the street barred from the knowledge of what it was. 

When not concerning his unwanted ‘surprise’ birthday party, that wonderful sense of community was one of the things Mike loved about living on Lovelace Lane.  In fact, with the street’s fabulous setting, gorgeous houses, and interesting mix of characters, there wasn’t much he didn’t like about living there. 

Had it been down to him, however, he and Judith would have missed out on all the above.

Ten years ago, they’d been milling around at a WI drinks and nibbles event in Newcastle.  Mike had been bored out of his tree, on the verge of feigning a headache and suggesting they scuttle off early, when one of Judith’s acquaintances and her spouse had wandered over to join them.  During the polite and mostly banal conversation that had ensued, the spouse had revealed that he worked as a bank surveyor. When Mike had muttered some platitude about how he must see lots of houses, he’d had no idea of the impact the reply would have on his life. 

‘I see masses of houses,’ the man had informed them.  ‘But my absolute favourites are on a street called Lovelace Lane.’ 

‘Ooo.  Lovelace Lane.  What an adorable name,’ Judith had cooed, demonstrating far more interest than Mike was comfortable with.  For the previous two years she’d been making noises about how they should move out of their three-bed semi, into ‘something bigger’.

Mike had been reluctant.  Coming from a family where money had been scarce, he’d never been one to flash the cash, or to waste it on unnecessary purchases.  And he never felt comfortable unless he had a bit tucked away ‘for a rainy day’.

‘One of the houses there will be coming up for sale soon,’ the man had gone on.  ‘The family’s relocating to the States.’

That nugget of information had been as effective as a swarm of midges on Judith’s already-itchy feet.

‘Can’t we just go and have a look?’ she’d nagged. 

So incessantly that Mike had eventually capitulated. 

‘Just a look,’ he’d insisted. 

‘Just a look,’ she’d agreed.

As shored-up as Mike’s defences had been, however, they’d collapsed into a jumbled heap the moment he’d swung the car onto Lovelace Lane.  Consisting of a single row of large Victorian houses, nestled in their own grounds, and surrounded by fields bursting with golden rapeseed at the time, his breath had been whipped away. 

And that had been before they’d taken a good look at The Laurels, the first house on the street - an imposing property with a double-fronted façade, occupying a huge plot.

‘Oh, it’s gorgeous,’ Judith had gushed. 

And, although he hadn’t been nearly so vocal about his opinion, Mike had been of the same mind.

‘Maybe we should knock on the door, say we’ve heard they’re moving, and ask how much they want for it,’ she’d suggested.

He’d shaken his head.  ‘Absolutely not.  We should wait until it goes on the market.  Follow the proper channels.  If we look too keen they’ll—’

Judith hadn’t heard a word of it.  On an obvious mission, she’d already bowled up the drive and was hammering on the impressive front door. 

And the rest, as they say, is history: a long chat with the owners, offer agreed, their little semi sold, and, before he’d been able to catch his breath, they’d become the new owners of The Laurels.

For all the swiftness of the move, however, Mike hadn’t once regretted it.  Judith had been right to push him along.  At the time, his business had been thriving - far exceeding his conservative forecasts; his ‘rainy day’ cushion had been so plumped it would have seen them through a couple of tsunamis and a mini-hurricane; plus, in the more-than-generous garden, there’d been enough space for him to construct an architect’s studio – an addition which, over the years, had more than recouped its initial outlay in what he’d saved in rent. 

Overall, the move had proved a good one and the property had served them well.  Their ‘forever home’ they’d called it.  But that had been before—

‘Oh, Mike, I forgot to tell you that I’m thinking about asking Claudia to your birthday dinner.’

Mike’s doleful musings were blocked as effectively as if a ton of snow had been dumped in their path. 

‘Mike’s new office temp?’ enquired Gwen.  ‘That’s a nice idea.  She seems a lovely girl.’

‘She is.  And very efficient, isn’t she, darling?’

Mike couldn’t reply – the ton of virtual snow also evidently obstructing his vocal chords as an image of Claudia’s sweep of silky long blonde hair flashed before his eyes. 

The same sweep of silky long blonde hair that had featured in his daydreams. 

And all his night-time fantasies, too.   

Which was yet another thing heaped on his rapidly growing mound of worries.