Mike didn’t want to have an affair.

He really didn’t.

In twenty-eight years of marriage he’d never so much as looked at another woman. 

Apart from an Italian tour guide who’d once shown them around Pompeii – on the longest legs he’d ever seen.  And the BBC newsreader he’d always had a bit of a thing for.  But those were perfectly normal reactions to attractive members of the opposite sex.  Plus, those women were out of reach.   

Whereas this Thing for Claudia was most definitely not normal.  And she was most definitely within reach. 

Terrifyingly so, he concluded later that morning, as she bent over the printer in the garden office of The Laurels. 

Mike turned the other way, feigning great interest in the feasibility report he should have completed three hours ago – but hadn’t, because, whenever Claudia loitered within half a mile of him, his concentration packed up and jetted off on a sabbatical.  Staring unseeing at the computer screen, he attempted to figure out - for what must have been the zillionth time - how this obsession (- because he couldn’t think of any other word for it -) had started.

As usual, he concluded it had been the first day Claudia had arrived in the office.  With sixty-three-year-old Norma – his administrator of nine years - scheduled to go into hospital for spinal surgery, she’d contacted a temping agency to arrange a replacement for the four months of her recovery.

‘They’re sending this girl over for you to interview.  She sounds ideal,’ she’d informed him, shoving Claudia’s CV under his nose.

Despite the résumé listing a stream of outstanding exam results, Mike had withheld judgement.  Over the course of the years – and Norma’s annual two-week holiday to Torremolinos – numerous temporary administrators had graced the offices of Hylton Architecture, with varying degrees of capability and success. 

None of them, however, had made the slightest impression on him.  Unlike Claudia, who couldn’t have made a bigger one had he been covered in wet cement and she’d stamped all over him in size sixteen wellies.

He’d been on the phone to a client, discussing some plans he’d drawn up, when she’d arrived that same afternoon.

‘The girl from the agency’s here,’ Norma had whispered, popping her head around his open office door. 

Mike had awarded the information no more than a cursory nod.  His day hadn’t been going well.  Everything that could have gone wrong, had – from dropping his mobile in a bowl of soup, to losing out on a project he’d spent weeks pitching for.  He would’ve much preferred to have knocked off early and retreated to the house to lie down in a darkened room, than make polite chit-chat and wade his way through the usual ‘Have you done this, that and the other?’ and ‘Why do you think you’re suitable?’ carry on.  But that had been before he’d caught a glimpse of her, through the crack in the door. 

Observing her as she’d eased her willowy frame, sheathed in a smart navy trouser suit, into one of the tub chairs in the reception area, and smoothed down her lustrous hair, it had been like one of those scenes from a film, where everything turns to slow motion and nothing in the world exists other than the vision before you.

He had no idea how long he’d gawped at her, his mouth hanging open, but he’d tuned back in to hear the client on the phone squawking, ‘Mike, are you still there?’

He’d made a concerted effort to pull himself together after that.  Which hadn’t been nearly concerted enough.  The moment Norma had shown the ethereal creature into his office, he’d come over all peculiar, hands shaking, heart hammering, armpits perspiring. 

Claudia, meanwhile, had remained the epitome of composure and eloquence.  In a mellifluous voice - which he could easily have listened to all day - she’d informed him that she was twenty years old, had missed two years schooling due to a particularly severe case of glandular fever, and was working as a temp in order to save up a bit of cash before she headed off to Bristol to study chemical engineering in the autumn.

Mike had made a great show of listening intently.  All the while trying not to notice the gleam of her smile, the length of her legs, or the tantalising glimpse of her cleavage whenever she shifted in her seat.  Due to her pleasant speech, very little input had been required from his side.  A circumstance for which he’d been grateful, given his mouth had turned drier than a bumper pack of assorted sheets of sandpaper.

‘You OK?’ Norma had asked, after he’d seen the girl off the premises, muttering something to her about ‘letting the agency know later’.

After exchanging a handshake with her, Mike hadn’t had the slightest idea if he was OK or not.  Conscious of the rate at which his heart pounded, he suspected not. 

‘What did you think of her?’

He hadn’t dared reply.  Voicing his true opinion would have resulted in him having ‘dirty old man’ tattooed in neon across his forehead, and Judith filing for divorce.  

‘I had a good chat to her while you were on the phone,’ Norma had prattled, thankfully, as she’d fiddled about punching holes in a wad of paper, failing to notice his clammy forehead and heightened colour.  ‘She seems perfect.  Very keen, exceptionally bright, and extremely personable.  Plus, she’s done this kind of work before.  I think she’ll do a great job.’

‘Yes.  I’m, er, sure she would,’ he’d managed to squeak, before scurrying off to the bathroom to splash his face – or douse his entire body – with cold water. 

He and Judith had been invited to dinner by Carl and Sally Turnbull at Mulberry Lodge that evening, along with Carl’s brother, Olly, and his girlfriend, Chrissie – who’d moved onto Lovelace Lane earlier that year.  They were a good crowd, full of fun and chatter.  But Mike might as well have been sitting with an order of Trappist monks, eating tropical fish flakes for all the notice he’d taken of the conversation or food.  He couldn’t, however much he’d tried, shift the image of Claudia from his mind – of her endless legs, plump lips, glittering green eyes, and silky long blonde hair, the scent of her subtle, flowery perfume seeming to surround him.  The amount of alcohol he’d imbibed in an effort to dim the pictures, had resulted in him staggering out of Mulberrry Lodge, straight into a rhododendron bush. 

As inebriated as he’d been, however, he’d reached a reassuring decision during the hours he’d lain awake that night, head spinning more than Judith’s spiralizer.  There was no way on the planet he could allow Claudia to work at Hylton Architecture.  Merely imagining spending seven hours a day with her for the next few months brought on palpitations.  He’d tell Norma she wasn’t suitable; invent some reason the girl wouldn’t fit in; highlight a missing vital credential Norma couldn’t possibly argue with. 

But, following an off-site meeting with a client that morning, he’d arrived back on Lovelace Lane to discover Norma had a development of her own to impart. 

‘The temping agency’s been on the phone.  Claudia’s been offered another assignment in Gosforth, but as she said she’d prefer to work here, I had to make a decision before we lost her.  So…’ – she’d beamed at him - ‘… I told them we’d love to have her.’

The same spinning head and thundering heart Mike had experienced in the early hours, made an unwelcome reappearance as he gaped at the bearer of this perturbing news.

‘You did say she’d fit in perfectly yesterday,’ Norma had stressed, smile dimming a shade. 

Mike had screwed up his nose.  Had he said that?

So in a fuddle had he been after the girl’s interview, he could have said anything. 

He’d assured himself that it would be all right.  That he still had time to concoct a reason the arrangement couldn’t possibly work and cancel the contract.  Yet, despite his normally creative mind, he’d reached a dead end.  So, resorting to Plan B as the impending day of her arrival had drawn closer, he’d awarded himself several serious talking-tos.  He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake.  He’d worked with dozens of women over the years and had never had an issue with any of them. 

But, from the moment Claudia had arrived, he’d had more than an issue.  He’d had a veritable crisis. 

One involving several erotic imaginings.

With embellishments such as whipped cream, fresh cherries, and feather boas. 

In the real world, meanwhile, he hadn’t flattered himself for one moment thinking that Claudia might be interested in him.  Not only was she stunningly beautiful, but she was also very nice, extremely clever, and he was old enough to be her father. 

‘I’ve sent out all the invoices,’ she informed him, suddenly appearing in the doorway like a golden Venus, and jolting him out of his reverie with such force that his bottom briefly vacated the chair and he banged his knees on the desk.   ‘Anything else you’d like me to do?’

That question rousing images of satin sheets and chocolate mousse as effectively as a conductor’s baton roused the string section of an orchestra, Mike leapt off his chair and began scrabbling about for anything within scrabbling distance. 

‘Er, no,’ he blustered, knocking over a mug and sending remnants of cold coffee everywhere.  ‘Just nipping over to the house for a spot of lunch.  Then off to meet a prospective new client.’

‘Oh.  Right.’ She produced a packet of tissues from the pocket of her cardigan and began mopping up the spillage. 

Mike wished she wouldn’t.  Her leaning over the desk and filling his nostrils with her glorious flowery perfume, did not help his nerves at all. 

‘I’ll catch up on the filing this afternoon then,’ she said, turning glittering green eyes to him.

‘Filing.  Yes.  That would be… great,’ he bumbled, desperately trying to tug shut the zip of his laptop case.  ‘Fantastic, actually.’

She shot him a questioning glance.  One he chose to ignore.  During the four weeks she’d been at Hylton Architecture, he’d long since ceased to worry about her opinion of him.  Frankly, given the quaking wreck he became in her presence, he’d prefer not to know. 

‘Will you be back later?’

‘No,’ he retorted, a little more sharply than intended.  ‘Likely to be a long meeting.  Very long.’  He didn’t have the faintest idea about the accuracy of that statement.  But even if the meeting lasted no more than ten minutes – which, for other reasons, he sincerely prayed it wouldn’t – he couldn’t come back to the office.  In fact, after the satin sheet/chocolate mousse scene that had caught him unawares only a few hours before, he really should have invented some excuse not to see her at all today.  

‘Just leave when you’ve finished the filing,’ he instructed – through a smile he suspected made him look like he desperately needed the loo. 

‘OK.  Thanks.’ She sounded a little bewildered. 

A state Mike himself had become very familiar with over recent weeks. 

‘You haven’t forgotten I’ll be in a bit later in the morning, have you?’ she enquired - still mopping.  ‘I have a dental appointment.  I told you about it last week.’

Had she?

He couldn’t remember.  Not unusual, given his wayward mind tended to focus on other things whenever she spoke to him.  Like her perfect white teeth and luscious pink lips. 

‘Should be in no later than ten.’

‘Excellent,’ he replied – too effusively this time.  At least that would allow him an hour’s reprieve.  One during which he might actually manage to do some work.

A much-needed requirement given the very shabby state of things. 

 

Having bolted out of the door – and, more importantly, away from Claudia – Mike slowed his pace as he crossed the lawn to the house.  As journeys to work went, the thirty steps he took to and from his had to rank as one of the best.  Particularly at this time of year when the garden, thanks to the handiwork of Dex, the gardener, was in its prime, bursting with hollyhocks, daisies, lavender and roses.  Meandering down the flagstone path, he sucked in the sweet-scented air, attempting to dislodge all trace of Claudia’s perfume, and to slow his racing pulse.  He succeeded in both, although the latter was short-lived, heart rate pepping up again the moment he stepped into the kitchen of The Laurels, where he discovered wife, Judith, sprinkling chocolate flakes over yet another elaborate cake - no doubt for yet another WI fundraising event.  And eldest daughter, Victoria, hovering nearby, wearing a striped apron that suggested she might have been helping, although she appeared far too occupied jabbing at her phone. 

‘Did you see Dex, darling?’ enquired Judith.  ‘I forgot to ask him to cut back the laurel bush at the front of the house.’

‘Sorry.  Haven’t seen him,’ replied Mike, crossing the tiled floor and heading to the American-style fridge. 

Judith finished her sprinkling and wiped her hands on a tea towel.  ‘Oh well.  Not to worry.  I’ll catch him later.’  She strode over to the table and produced a lipstick and compact mirror from her handbag there.  ‘I can’t stay and have lunch with you today,’ she informed him, holding up the mirror and slicking colour over her lips.  ‘Hair appointment with Giuseppe at one.’

Mike furrowed his brow as he threw her a puzzled look.  ‘But there’s nothing wrong with your hair,’ he remarked.  Because, other than its original strawberry blonde colour growing more orange with each ludicrously expensive salon visit, it seemed perfectly fine to him.

Judith snapped shut the compact and gave a dismissive tut.  ‘You men.  You’re lucky you only have your short, back and sides to worry about.’ 

‘If only,’ muttered Mike, head now in the fridge.  What he wouldn’t give to only have his short, back and sides to worry about. 

‘How are you today, Dad?’ suddenly piped up Victoria, dropping her phone into her apron pocket and switching her attention to her parent. 

You really don’t want to know, Mike resisted saying.  Removing the butter and a hunk of cheese from the fridge, he briefly considered informing his offspring of his frequent heart-racing episodes (- omitting the cause, obviously), before swiftly shelving the idea.  She wouldn’t be interested.  At twenty-seven, Victoria wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t concern Victoria.  Or the PhD she seemed to have been working on for the last sixteen – very costly – years.  It involved E numbers – although in precisely what regard Mike still couldn’t comprehend, despite her numerous detailed – and incredibly lengthy – explanations.  During the course of her never-ending study, however, she had mastered one skill – namely how to be nice to her father whenever she wanted something, the something she usually wanted coming in the form of monetary notes never bearing a number below twenty. 

‘How much do you want this time?’ he asked, dumping the cheese and butter on the granite bench. 

A wave of indignation swept over her freckled face.  ‘Huh.  Can’t a girl be nice to her dad without having an ulterior motive?’

‘She’s right, Mike,’ observed Judith, now fluffing up her perfectly fine orange hair.  ‘You shouldn’t discourage the girls from showing affection.  And please wash your hands before touching any more food.’

‘I’m not discouraging her,’ Mike countered, making his way over to the Belfast sink and flicking on the tap.  ‘But after twenty-seven years of living with my daughter, I think I know when she wants something.’

Victoria’s expression turned sheepish.  ‘Actually, I did wonder if you could lend me two hundred pounds.  I need it for a research trip to York.’

Soaping his hands under the running water, Mike rolled his eyes.  He’d lost count of how many ‘research trips’ Victoria had undertaken.  And of how long it would be before she obtained her doctorate and ventured out into the world of work.  Whenever he dared enquire, much mumbling would ensue about theses, lab time and vivas, with Judith chuntering in the background about how he shouldn’t ‘put the girl under pressure’.  Mike suspected, given the paltry amount of work he’d witnessed their daughter undertaking, that Victoria wouldn’t recognise pressure if it hissed from a sealed pan while cooking a load of sprouts. 

‘What are you researching in York?’ he ventured. 

‘E numbers.’

Swiping up the nearby towel from the hook on the wall, Mike dried his mitts.  ‘Why do you have to go to York when there are plenty of E numbers in Newcastle?’

She heaved a weary sigh, leaned back against the bench, and began twiddling one of her brown curls.  A habit she’d acquired at the age of three, and a sure indication her patience was wearing thin.  ‘Well, there are.  But if I did it in York, I could catch up with a couple of friends down there.  In which case, I might as well stay overnight.’

Rehanging the towel, Mike scrunched his forehead, failing to understand how E numbers in York would be any different to E numbers anywhere else.  ‘But couldn’t you just—?’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, just give her the money, Mike,’ interjected Judith, tugging on an orange cardigan which exaggerated the colour of her otherwise-perfectly-fine hair.  ‘If she says she needs to stay overnight, then she needs to stay overnight.  Seamus going with you, darling?’ she asked her daughter. 

‘I think we can assume that’s a given,’ muttered Mike - to the bread bin he now rummaged in.  Seamus was Victoria’s lanky boyfriend, who always made Mike tetchy.  Mainly because he was so tall he made Mike - at six foot one – feel like a shrunken hobbit.  But also because the guy did not a good role model for his daughter make.  At thirty-three he still hadn’t completed his doctorate (- on something to do with mud ponds), accompanied Victoria on all her ‘research trips’ (as well as flitting off on a constant stream of his own), and appeared to have no aspirations beyond hanging around The Laurels and scoffing all the food. 

Victoria tossed him a brief reproving look, before turning her back to him and addressing her mother.  ‘Actually, he is.  He has some work to do down there too.’

‘That’s nice, dear,’ said Judith, scooping up her handbag which, Mike recalled, had cost more than the price of all the other handbags in the world added together.

‘So, are mud ponds in York different to mud ponds in Newcastle?’ he asked, dumping two bread rolls onto a chopping board. 

‘Actually, they are,’ Victoria sniped back haughtily.  ‘There are different micro-organisms in every mud pond.  Honestly, Dad, you have no idea.’

‘You really don’t, Mike,’ agreed Judith.

Oh, but I do, Mike mused, slicing the rolls into two.  He had a very clear idea.  One that became increasingly clear with each passing day.  And one that did not include unnecessary appointments with rip-off hairdressers, an endless supply of cash for his daughters, the continual feeding of Seamus the boyfriend, the luxury of a gardener, or even The Laurels. 

Because, if he didn’t take action to revive his failing business soon, all the above would be unceremoniously dumped in the same dog-eared memory file as his denim jacket and head-banging days. 

And there wouldn’t only be an overgrown bush outside The Laurels.

There’d be a whopping great For Sale sign.